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Thank you, THANK you for all the comments yesterday! Really. Sometimes I feel like I have access to this small private wishing well, that I have the ability to reach down into the water and draw up just what I need. I swear, that’s what you all are like. You do my heart (and legs) so much good.

Let me catch my breath. Whew.

I just got back from Orinda, from a meeting with my realtor/broker/whatever-the-hell-she-is.

She’s the type who knocks the breath out of you with her industry. She’s on two phone lines, yelling things at her two assistants, crunching your numbers, and still having a full conversation with you. As I am MultiTaskerExtraordinaire, I appreciate this, and it doesn’t freak me out. But her manner does, somehow. She makes me very, very nervous, and few people do that. She’s about five foot one, maybe a hundred and ten, no more than thirty-one years old, and smart as a whip. (Why are whips smart? Or is it that they DO smart? Hunh.)

Again, for the second time, I felt like running out of the room or diving out the nearest window when she was reviewing my personal finances. She’s not rude, she’s just honest. But by the end of the meeting, she had warmed up to me, I think. (I also think she was still pissed off at me for something that happened last month. I had seen her on a Thursday, at 4pm. At that meeting, we said we’d get together again in a month. The very next Thursday, I got a message from her at 4pm, wondering where I was. I got another more annoyed-sounding message an hour later. When I called and reminded her that I had met her the previous week, and that her assistant must have made a mistake on her calendar, she was nice enough, but I could tell she didn’t believe me. I hate it when I feel like someone wants an apology for something that I didn’t do wrong. I’ll apologize up and down for something I screwed up, or even MIGHT have screwed up, but that one was so not about me. I think I ended up apologizing anyway, blast it.) We parted today with her giving me an almost-real smile, and I’m happy to work with her. I know I could easily find someone with a better bedside manner, but this woman is legendary in her ability to create fiscal miracles with her thin, bejeweled hands. I need a goshdurn miracle.

And people, I think I’m looking for a place to buy. Really. Okay, I don’t actually believe that all the way myself, but she actually printed out listings for me, and there’s one that sings to me. I might take a wee drive to see it in a few minutes. Lord’a’mercy. I am SO scared, but SO happy that I even have any kind of ability to dream about this.

Dang. My mind is whirring too fast. Little sleep, but for a really good reason. And I have fresh, red tomatoes in my back yard. Adah is sleeping in the middle of the bean bag. Digit is drowsing in the sun on the kitchen table. My laundry is almost done. I have a red colander in the kitchen, and birthday fruitcake on top of the fridge for a snack later. Life is good. Mwah!

I am lazy today. Lay-zee. I think some of my motivation was stolen by a small person with big pockets while I slept, because I can’t seem to find any extra lying around the house today. And there are a LOT of things lying around the house, things that need to be cleaned and tidied and straightened up, but without that motivation, they’re just going to continue lying there. Taunting me.

I’m okay with it.

I need to tell you about the run yesterday. It was a fourteen-miler, and I wore my orthotics for the first time (I had been wearing them constantly to walk around in, and had worn then on one short run). I don’t know why I thought they wouldn’t be a problem. I’m a smart gal, but I am very good at overlooking the obvious when it doesn’t suit my purposes.

I had a blister on the instep of each foot by the end of mile one. By the end of mile two (a run from the beach straight up the Great Highway past the Cliffhouse and into Sutro Heights—nothing like running uphill in the City), I was in serious pain. By mile three, I just wanted to make it to mile four.

At mile four, the shin splints were flaring, and I felt like I had never run before. The blisters under both my insteps were huge and almost unbearable. And you know what? I kept running. It’s not even something to be proud of—it just was. I decided to see how much pain I could put myself through, how much I could stand on a sunny Sunday. Written like that, it sounds horrible. But it was more a mind-test than anything. I knew my shin splints weren’t TOO bad; it was the blisters that were killing me more than anything. And I knew people don’t die of blisters caused by orthotics. So I kept running.

It was interesting. For a large part of the time, I could talk myself out of the pain. Rather, I could feel it, but I convinced myself it didn’t matter. It was painful, but it didn’t hurt. I didn’t let it hurt.

And then, suddenly, I let it hurt. At mile eight I lost it, and told my group to go on without me. I decided to walk to the next water stop, only about half a mile away, and from there the organizers would come pick me up. The blisters by this point were more than an inch and half across, and had blisters on TOP of them. (I was using the Band-Aid blister thingies, and Body-Glide, and double running socks.)

I cried and cried and cried. I leaned on a bike rack and let myself have a really good big sob before pulling it together and starting my walk. Of course, right before the water stop, my training partner and favorite gal Marama ran up behind me and got all concerned, making me bawl again.

I was just so frustrated and angry with my body, and angry with myself. I wanted to do the fourteen. The twelve had been no problem! And now I can hardly make it to eight? I’ve decided I hate the orthotics, and that I need a referral from my doctor to a real podiatrist. I need the help of a specialist. Doy. You would think I would have figured that out by now, but no. Sheesh.

It is a testament to how painful the run was that getting home and sitting in an ice-cold bath of water and Epsom salts felt great.

Bah. Yesterday was one of those days that I realized the sheer hugeness of what I’ve taken on. I might, actually, be crazy. Bah, bah, BAH. I still believe in myself, and in Marama (who did the whole 14! Go, Marama!), but I know it’s going to be fucking HARD. (Again, doy.) God, it’ll feel good to actually do this. And yes, I’m proud of myself for getting to mile eight. I know it was an accomplishment. It’s just not the accomplishment I was going for. Sigh.

Next time.

Atomic Fireballs at four in the morning are really fun, I’ll have you know. Just for the record.

Many things to cover today, but most importantly, I have to point out that August 20th turns out some pretty great women. What an auspicious day to be born.

First, there’s Lisa, one of my very first blog-friends. Her pups keep me entertained and her incredibly detailed, intricate knitting keeps me amazed. She’s sweet, and smart, and she LOVES her sister, something I totally understand. I haven’t met her yet, but I fully expect to do so someday. Blog, dog, blog. Snaps to you.

Then, there’s Cari. Sigh. How much do I love Cari? Incalculable. We met for the first time in a coffee shop in Brooklyn. I remember catching sight of her sitting on a hassock in the rear of the huge room, looking as gorgeous as a woman can look. She saw me, and we raced at each other, hugging and holding on and laughing. People looking on would have assumed we were the oldest friends, parted by years of circumstance and distance. Perhaps we were. As we sat at dinner that night, she looked at me, touched my arm again and said, “You’re here. Hi. Oh, hi!” It was so right, so natural and perfect for me to be sitting there with her and the Divine Ms. Em and Bethany. She is real, and honest, and lovely in all ways. I miss her when I’m not in Brooklyn (which is, strangely enough, like, ALL the time).

And Greta. Oh, wonderful, darling Greta. This is how we met for the first time: She and Daughter Bird were coming to stay at my house. Sight unseen, I was going to pick her up from the Amtrak station in Oakland at 9pm. Of course, they were on the Coast Starlight, which is always delayed if animals like cows or seagulls or stray snails wander too near the tracks, so the train eventually pulled in about three in the morning. I was waiting on the platform, wearing Orange Alert (wanted to make sure she recognized me). I saw them coming, DB grinning her trademark ear-to-ear grin. She waved. Greta dropped her luggage (in Oakland!) and we raced at each other, hugging and holding on and laughing. I hadn’t quite planned for the amount of luggage the two of them had managed by that point to accumulate, and we had to put the top down on ole Petunia to cram it all in. Poor Daughter Bird was relegated to the back seat, and then covered with suitcases. From the front seat, we literally could not see her. We drove the deserted highway home, the wind in our hair, laughing about how ridiculous the world might think we were, strangers meeting for the first time at an Amtrak station in a town not known for its relative security. I yelled, “Are you okay back there, doll?” Daughter Bird said, “Yes!” Greta and I stayed up almost until dawn talking. We couldn’t settle down. And know what? We haven’t yet settled down. Nor will we.

(While I’m talking about people I love, let me just point y’all to the Divine Ms. Em’s new homepage, if you haven’t already tracked your way there.)

Okay, those were the most important things to remember. What else? Oh, yes. I got the best email from Lizzi yesterday, with an attached photo of her scarf that she made based on my pattern. Remember how I said if you could rope a steer with it it was too long, and if it wouldn’t go around your throat it was too short? Well, she proved me wrong, because her new wallhanging is JUST the right length.

This is what she says about it:

I was going out to dinner with my parents a few days ago, when I realized that all of my WIPs were too large and complicated to take with me; so I hopped on your blog, copied your pattern from the screen straight into chart form in my little graph paper book, and grabbed a leftover ball of wool that I assumed had enough left in it for a short scarf. Oh, I was wrong. But it was so pretty, I couldn’t bear to frog it when, later that night, I came to the end of the ball at only 15.5″ of scarf. Which, by the way, is my exact collar size–I know this because I went through a phase in high school where I wore men’s dress shirts, unbuttoned, over tees and tanks. It was sort of a post-grunge flannel equivalent. Anyway, point being, not a scarf. So look what I did with it instead! It’s like a Chinese scroll painting, except with more knitting and less ink.

I adore that.

And I adore my wireless. Look, here’s a phone-snap of my foot (one of two which are going to run fourteen miles on Sunday) up on the couch (see? I’m elevating!), computer on my lap. Look Ma! No wires!

And one of Adah, who thinks I’m ridiculous. No, she KNOWS I’m ridiculous. But so’s she, so we’re even.

Happy weekend, all. And happy, happy, happy birthday to my girls.

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It’s an in-house day today. Determined to cook a chicken for my work week, which starts tonight. The cooking isn’t the hard part. It’s getting my ass out the door and into the grocery store (which for god’s sake is about four blocks away). I’m just so sleeppyyyy. It’s not like I didn’t have enough sleep. Sure, I didn’t go to sleep until about 0400, but I slept till NOON! On a day off!

And of course, the reason I overslept is Mr. Potter. Yep, I’m a little slow getting there since Mom and all three sisters kicked in a fiver and we’re sharing the book (I’m number three on the list), but now that I’ve started it, I’m well irritated. Books don’t keep me awake. I chuck down a sleeping tablet or two, read for a while, and go to sleep. Sometimes, sure, it’s hours and hours after I get in bed, but I don’t stay up to read. I stay awake because I can’t shut the brain off and I get involved in knit- or web- design ideas that I CA’T STOP THINKING ABOUT, or because I start to worry about just how hard I’d have to hit the window next to the bed to get out in case of a fire. Just how many spiders I’ve eaten, cumulatively, while sleeping, in my life. Where to buy the best honey.

Last night, though, was all Harry Potter. What IS it about her writing that makes it so quick, light, and interesting? (another question that was keeping me awake.) It’s not that she leaves us constantly on cliff-edges, plenty of authors do that. It isn’t that she’s a sublime writer, god knows I can find plenty of sleep next to that kind of writing. It’s a mix, I think, of fondness we’ve built for the characters and the rapidity with which the scenes shift. Never in one place too long, always a small but important conflict brewing (so to speak).

But it’s enough to say that hey! Hermione knits! I adore the images of her knitting for the house-elves, enchanting the needles to click away by themselves (although the description of her using a ‘pair of needles’ to make socks…. either she was using a set of dpns (not a pair) or two circulars (doesn’t seem like a pair) or one circular in the ‘magic loop’ method ‘ of course, I think it was the last).

Yep. That’s what keeps me awake. AND I had to share my bed with the beast shown to the left.
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This is as scary as knitting gets. Thanks, Rob.
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So I’m driving home from the City last night. Wait, let me set it up. I had only driven TO the City because I wanted to drive to the City. Well, that and there was a knitting group at K and R’s house, and I wanted to work more on another ChicKami that I’d started. But really, it was because it was getting foggy across the Bay and I wanted to put the top down and just drive, cross the bridge, watch the damp drip down over the hills.

I have to admit that I’m a HUGE idiot when it comes to getting around San Francisco. It’s finally hitting me that I’ve been in the Bay Area for six years, and I won’t ALWAYS be dating someone who will drive me around the places that I don’t know. I have to learn the streets. I have to find the secret parking areas and the side alleys that cut through and out. I love and adore Oakland, and I know most of its secrets. For six years I’ve been doing that whole ‘San Francisco, p’shaw’ thing. What do they have that we don’t? I certainly don’t need to cross that silly ole bridge.

But I do. It’s so fine there, and I’m making, finally, my own way around. Getting myself good and freaking lost and then getting myself back to where I’m supposed to be. I have to admit another thing about myself ‘ I’m embarrassingly rote. On my way home from work, unless there’s a rig going thirty miles an hour and I simply MUST pass or lose my mind, I stay in the same lanes. I know where the potholes are. I’ve spent time thinking about which are the most time-efficient exits and know how hit the streets with timed lights.

It’s a little compulsive, yes.

All this to say, I’m cruising down Oak Street last night and I pull over. It usually takes a lot for me to pull over. At least a flat tire or a whole lotta nudity. Or both. When I’m on my way out of the City, I have a mission. Lookin’ for those green freeway signs. Yep. Now right. Now left. Over one lane. But last night I was heading downhill, right about Buchanan, and the sky lights up in front of me. I mean UP! I pull over (totally blocking a driveway) and put the top back down. There are FIREWORKS right in front of me. The big ones, the ones that show off. And I had the best seat in San Francisco. Me in my car, Dar Williams singing ‘It really was about driving, not fame, not wealth, Not driving away from myself, It’s just my self drove away from me….’ That was seriously the song that was playing. I know!

My self didn’t quite drive away without me, I got myself home in one happy piece. I have no idea why there were fireworks, maybe a Giants game, who knows? Who cares? The point was I was there.
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I knew all that Amazon wishlisting was getting out-of-control, but now Bush has his greedy little hands on the web. Check it out HERE. Thanks, OutOut.

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Well, I’ve decided that planning to do nothing gives me a headache. I got off work yesterday morning and had high hopes that I would have a Bed Day. I’ve heard of these ‘ a day or days spent doing nothing but reading in the bed (and occasionally eating, also in the bed). I have the new Harry Potter, and I planned on getting it read. I got in bed, read the first ten pages, and conked. Woke later to the phone ringing ‘ I had asked a friend to go with me to the City to see a concert. I begged out, saying I was exhausted. Needed to stay in bed. Or she could come over and we could get a burger and a beer? Yeah, that. So I had to get out of my pyjamas. ‘Course, I planned on going BACK to bed but that didn’t happen until normal Bedtime Hours. At which point I only got another fifty pages under my belt and I crashed out again, the headache I got from trying to stay in bed in the first place notwithstanding.

But I woke up in the middle of the night to a spider dream like I ain’t had since I was a kid. In the dream, I’m in bed (even wearing exactly what I wore to bed) and I’m looking up and there’s a spider dropping down, spinning a huge web over my head. It’s moving fast, and I’m trying to duck under it to hit the light. I knock everything over and off, trying to dodge that horrible spider (in real life I don’t even mind them), and I get the light switched on and sit there, horribly confused. Where did it go? Why am I panting?

Ew.

Em has done the impossible: A Rock On knitting swatch. Go see. It really does rock. And on.

Stitch’n’Bitch at the bar this afternoon ‘ and a couple of the gals are meeting me at my house first and we’ll walk to Ethiopian food first. Kewl.
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I went to Pamie’s book signing last night. She’s the one, you know, who as well as being a great, funny writer, started the Oakland book drive, which is how I heard of her in the first place. Her new book Why Girls Are Weird just came out, and I had put off buying the book until the reading. I’ve been following her on-line for a while now, and I was so excited to see her in person!

Actually, that’s bending the truth a little. I hadn’t slept very well that day, and I was soooo tempted to just sleep a little longer instead of making my way over to the Barnes and Noble (ew) in Jack London. But I did, I dragged my tired ass over there, wore a sweater I had made a earlier this year ‘cause somehow it seemed appropriate. Someday I want a girl to put on a too-big sweater she made for herself and kick herself in the ass to get to MY book signing. I hate to admit that I went partially for the karma points, but there it is.

Her audience was exactly as I had pictured it would be. Twenty-five or thirty girls, most with well-streaked indie hair, wearing those little retro cat glasses, most in either short skirts or tight tee-shirts with curse words. Great shoes. There were a couple of sensitive looking fellows and one guy that looked like a stalker. When Pamie came in, she was just like I had pictured, not-to-tall and cute as heck. On the outside, she didn’t even quite look like she would be as clever as she is, but as soon as she started to read, it was evident that she was.

She read from the book (including her famous Barbie essay), lots of swearing, fabulous as we were right over the childrens’ section ‘ made it feel naughty. She was a good reader, giving sly sideways glances that made us feel like we were in on the joke. Then she gave out presents, which was silly fun. I got the tiara, since I had to go to work, and she signed my book in front of everyone, using me as the ‘How to Sign a Book’ portion of the evening.

‘See, you have to turn to this page, didja know that? The title page. And then you ask the name,’

‘Rachael.’

‘Then you write it here, unless it’s spelled funny,’

‘Like Michael.’

‘Unless they say something like that. I have no idea what she means by that.’

‘AEL.’

‘I don’t think it’s really spelled like that, doesn’t look right, but okay. Then you write a little something like this, ‘You are very pretty’ and sign your name under it all. See?’

She wrote that! ‘You are very pretty’ in my book! Whee! Minor brush with stardom. Okay, new-book star, but that’s the best kind of star, innit? I left clutching my kid-sized tiara and her book ‘ I waved at the audience as I left, early but so happy. Someday I’ll give a girl a tiara on her way to work and tell her she’s pretty, too.
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Okay, so now I’m interested in flash mobs. Anyone heard of these/done one? A group of people are alerted by email or phone text, told when and where to mob. Thousands of people converge on the chosen site (a bookstore, a shoe store, a random corner near a mail-box), they are told what question to ask (ask the clerk if they have the brown in size sixteen), they mill about for ten minutes, clap for fifteen seconds, and then leave quietly and peacefully, not discussing the event.

People flip out. They have no idea what to think about this inexplicable horde that does something offbeat and then is gone, like a wave rolling back out.

I’ve watched (online) flash mobs unfold in Paris, Rome, and New York, and I’m signed up for a notification list in San Francisco. With my luck, I’d go, something would turn ugly, I get arrested with the masses and lose my job because of it. But it’s such a wicked fun idea I’m still tempted. I feel a low-grade disgust when I realize it’s just a protest without a cause, but that’s also part of the attraction. Mobs, deconstructed.

There’s a nice little description here of the first flash mob that was attempted in SF. Yeah, or THAT would be the mob I attended. I’d probably know a couple of the seven people who would show, and we’d up staying at the bar (or yarn shop’yeah!), drinking (or shopping) the night away.

No knitting went on last night. I forgot my yarn. Gawd, I hate it when I do that. The long shift wasn’t that bad. I had one dizzy moment when the sleepiness hit, but it went away quickly’it always does. Only a ten hour shift tonight, a twelve tomorrow and then the weekend.

Flash this. Yup.
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Time for a new Venice pic, I think.

Look what I made last night! It’s out of Bernat baby yarn, and it’s pretty soft, but the pattern calls for size 10.5 needles, and that’s just too large for a baby item, I think. This one is for my cousin in New Zealand’s new son, and I will send it (after I add a few yellow buttons), but I think I’m going to play around with the pattern tonight and see if I can bring down the needle size. I just love making the wee little items, thinking of their wee little arms poking through the wee little sleeves. Can it really fit a person? I can’t WAIT for the sisters to start popping those puppies out. I’ll be the best aunt EVER. And they’ll have the most incredible layette…..

Have to work a 14 hr shift tonight, so nothing more now. The only perk about a 14 is that we get meal allowance (an extra eleven dollars) so I usually splurge and eat out (which means ordering something on the phone and then whinging until one of the officers feels sorry enough for us to go pick it up, since we can’t leave the building due to lack of staff). I’m cheap enough to sign up for those 14s just to get the meal allowance.

Could I possibly be more boring? I think not. Still sleepy….. Only this: A guy called 911 to request police to come out and get his girlfriend to stop playing her flute so he could sleep.

I LOVE that.
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Check out Kitty Planet’s collars! I particularly like the Harley Hard-Core studded one and the little Cabaret frou. Digit may be looking good soon.

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I’m in a strange knitting place. I started a baby sweater and hated the pattern and how the colors were working up. I won’t even bother frogging it; the yarn is inexpensive and I don’t feel like working with it anymore. I’ll just put it into the trash bin. That’s so satisfying sometimes.

I want to do Bonnie Marie’s LoTech Sweat hoodie, and I’ve bought the cotton I’m going to work with, but there are, count ‘em, three baby sweaters I have to make, and fast. I’ve got Wendy’s toe-up socks on the needles, and while I love the way they’re working up, I have to admit that size zero needles are SMALL. Feels like I’m knitting with long toothpicks. Toothpicks might, however, be a size or two bigger. And yesterday I received some more Fortissima Colori in the mail for some more fab socks that I’ll actually keep for myself.

So while minor knitting is going on, I have nothing big on the needles, and I hate that. I like to be working an adult sweater at all times, I think. I realize this is a liability.

And I just this very moment realized that while I’ve been focussed on my own knitting, I had forgotten that this Sunday will be the first of the month, and therefore my Stitch’n’Bitch day. I have this fear that some day I’ll forget completely. I should have made it the third or fourth Sunday, rather than the first. It’s going to sneak right past me one of these months, I know, and there will be a clutch of angry women at the bar, pissed off that I haven’t brought the portable light….

A clutch of knitters. I think that’s the plural form, right?

Anyone in the Bay Area wanna come knit on Sunday? Email me!
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Making socks from the toe up, a la Wendy. ‘Bout all I’m good for right now. Oh, but I like that pattern! Short-row shaping rules!
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I am such a jerk.

I have a friend who was recently driving down a narrow street. He watched a woman precariously pass all the cars in front of her so she could turn left into a convenience store parking lot. As he drove past the lot, he looked left to glare and mouth, ‘What an IDIOT!’ He stared at her. And whoomp! He hit the car in front of him.

That’s the way I feel.

My friend T asked me to help her feed her cat and water her garden while she was gone for a week and a half. She has roommates, but for various reasons they’re unreliable, and I was the backup plan. I wasn’t sure if they knew I had a key or not, and I didn’t want to dissuade them from feeding Kitty, too, so I snuck in and out of the warehouse loft, feeding and petty Kitty, loading him up on love and brushing and talking. We bonded. I felt pretty good about myself. I never saw the roommates, and I was a terrific catsitter.

But I forgot ALL about the garden. It didn’t cross my mind, not even once. How is that possible? She had (emphasis on the past tense) a wonderful roof-top garden, with tomatoes she had grown herself (she had told me they were almost ready ‘ I could have the very first ripe one) and basil and peppers and all sorts of things she was excited about. It was her first garden. And now it’s totally dead. The roommates blew it, and that’s bad enough. But I blew it, too, and I feel terrible. I had been so righteously proud of myself, thinking, ‘Gawd, they don’t do ANYTHING for Kitty. Good thing T has me around.’

Sheesh. Maybe not. I killed her happy garden, and she’s so sad about it. I would be, too. She tried to make me feel better about it, and that made me feel worse. Ugh. I feel like such an asshole.
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Well, Alison has thrown down the challenge, I suppose. (Tagboard: ‘I know you’re not actually going to tell us.’)

Draw your own conclusions about the date: Great dinner. There was pool-playing. B and I BOTH kissed a sweet man named Billy. We closed the bar. I went to sleep around 6am, and had to get up at 730. I couldn’t find my ring. But I managed to round up everything else and cross the bridge and take a shower, pick up my mother and get her to church on time. I could have wept with exhaustion, but it was worth it. (Alison, whatcha think?)

Oh, wait, I did weep later. We saw Seabiscuit this afternoon, and when I’m sleepy I tend to move to tears quickly. I was welling up at the opening scene, just seeing Tom Smith ride the range. Please. I was pathetic. I was more impressed with the movie than I thought I would be ‘ I thought they’d take great liberties, but instead they kept it extremely true to the book. I only noticed one difference, and it was very forgivable. ‘Course, I’d forgive anything today.

Know what? I’m too tired to type any more. I’m just waiting for Digit to come home from wherever he’s carousing so I can feed him and sleep.
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I’m such a lazy ass. What happens is: On Saturday mornings, I’m done with my work week. Don’t have to go back till Tuesday night. I like to go home on Saturday morning, take a brief nap and then force myself to get up and go play so I have a half-way decent shot at falling asleep that night.

Today my nap was six hours long. (This is after I boasted to my friend Brandy, ‘Sure, I just sleep for a little while, then I’m fiiine, tra la la.’) I could NOT get up, not even to see my little Mama who’s only in town for a few more days. Course, she and my sister were busy, what with museum-hopping and shopping for the dee-luxe dinner they’re whipping up tonight, but I feel badly. Tomorrow, I’ll go to church with her and hang all day. Which means I must sleep tonight.

That’s gonna call for a couple of Tylenol PM. Oh, yeah. (That bottle says they’re non-addictive, but I sure like ‘em. Huh.)

And I have a date tonight. One of those bona-fide out-to-dinner, let’s-make-nice kind of things. I’m not as good with those as I am at just hangin’ in a bar. Tend to order the wrong thing and slop my wine and grin too widely. I make waiters happy and the people seated around me nervous. All those things that you know you shouldn’t say, that your friends tell you not to say, I say, clapping my hand over my mouth afterwards. And I have the most annoying habit of covering my face with my hands when I laugh. Only on dates. Why the hell do I do that? I never do that. I’m not bashful. It just happens. Oh, damn it. Haven’t had ANY nerves about it till right now. Crap.
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It’s late (your early) and I’m sleepy and can’t wait to go to bed. In a few minutes….. But I want to quickly post the pictures of the Mindless Raglan in all its low-level glory.

The little Mama’s coming in to town this weekend (yay!), so I prob’ly won’t be posting much.

Will just leave you with this antidote to Raglan-Cheer: “The terrorists intend to strike America again,” Cheney said yesterday. “One by one, in every corner of the world, we will hunt the terrorists down and destroy them.”

!!!!!!

Does he listen to himself? Do statements like this haunt him in the middle of the black night? Or does he just fix himself a little sammich and then nod and trundle back off to bed?

Okay. I just can’t leave you like that. Although they didn’t make it, the picture of the 51 Chevy driving over the waters between Cuba and Florida is enough to brighten any day. Gawd, I with they’d made it. Don’t they deserve to? Isn’t it gorgeous?
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Thinking non-stop about moving my website to a more Blog-friendly environment. You know, with comment and trackbacks and the like. (And I do mean non-stop, since I couldn’t sleep today for thinking about Movable Type’s new platform I’m beta-testing.) The only thing I can’t quite get over is that I have friends here! Would they come with me? And I’ve been here for a year now, do I want to start over? When did blogging become an emotional dilemma?

It’s ridiculous.

Will finish the Mindless Raglan tonight, probably. I can safely say this is the fastest sweater I’ve ever made, done in less than two weeks. Says something about (to?) my obsession. Then ‘ BABY STUFF! Got some babies coming, and one little boy cousin just born in New Zealand, so I’m gonna whip up a couple of Mama Kate’s generous designs.

I went to yoga last night, for the first time in over a month. (Yes, Anna, I was safe! No bathtub tricks! Your signs help!) I forget how grounded it makes me, how much it helps with remaining in the moment, and more, with enjoying the moment. It’s a little strange, though, how anonymous it is. There were only four of us in the class, another woman and two men who didn’t come in together and never said a word to each other, but looked startlingly like the same person ‘ tall, gangly, oversized hands, scrubby goatees. None of us made any contact with each other. With the teacher, yes, eye communication and smiles while she talked and made her soothing noises. But with each other, no. It was as if we were trying to practice in private, and the small sounds of feet being peeled from the sticky mats felt too intimate. I felt jarred when, at the end of class, I asked one of the gangly men if I could borrow his pen to write out my check. Still no eye contact, just a silent pen-passing. I’m not sure I yet understand yoga-class etiquette. I’m a yoga boor.
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I am SURE that someone’s already working on it, but there needs to be a book on the best Googlisms. The way people hit my site accidentally is getting a little alarming.

Most recently I’ve been hit by people searching for:

*Pictures sweater short skirt (I’ve got lots of pictures of sweaters, though!)

*Got tattooed pierced yesterday (No, I didn’t, but thanks.)

*Kobe Byrant victim’s pictures (Just ew.)

We could chart the frightening course the contemporary American lifestyle, just by observing who googles what. (I know, it’s irritating, but it’s now a verb. I have to accept that.)

But I have to admit I’m very proud of something I have absolutely NO control over. If you google simply the word ‘Rachael’ I’m the eighth hit. Eighth! My parents did me right by spelling it the old-fashioned way. And I seem to be something of an anomaly ‘ I’m a writer, not a singer like Rachael Lampa (Christian pop), Rachael Sage (a scary cross of Ani di Franco and Kate Bush), and Rachael B. Davis (actually quite a fine folk voice, may have to pick it up). And of course, there’s Rachael Leigh Cook and she’s sixth! I’m eighth!
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Picture of Mindless Raglan’s progress on Knitting page.

Just cleaned the apartment thoroughly for the first time in months. I’ve been spot cleaning as I go, of course, but it needed some serious scrubbing in the usual places. I had forgotten how filthy a tub can get. Is that all me? Disgusting. 409 and Scrub-Free didn’t even cut it. Only baking soda got it all shiny-squeaky-clean. Now the scum is all on me. So I need a bath. THUS MY PROBLEM.

I think my links and italics and bolds are slipping down below again. I hate it when they do that, but I’m too lazy to fix them all.

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So much drama, and in an AP story! Go Lance! I feel like I’m still reading Seabiscuit.
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Worked on the Mindless Raglan last night at SnB in the City. Small group, but we had fun. I love being there, a block from the park and two from the ocean. I finished one sleeve, one to go and the then just the rest of the body.

I met up with B afterwards, and we went to the Lexington. Not her first pick of bars (actually she hates the place), it’s one of the few places I can find in San Francisco. We chose an interesting night to attend. Yesterday was the 8th Annual Drag King Contest, and apparently the Lex was the place to go for the afterparty. As we had scored a back bench spot (which was hard to hold onto, let me tell ya), we had the perfect view. Even more interesting to me than the kings were the groupies. There were girls in red sequins (were they presenters? Envelope passers?) girls who only had eyes for one boy, girls who had eyes for EVERY boy, and several who just looked shell-shocked.

One cute little gal was sitting next to me ‘ I think I jostled her and turned to apologize. I then had to compliment her lipstick, which was divine on her otherwise scrubbed face, and we got to talking. Turns out she was just twenty years old. She touted the powers of Covergirl Colorstay (I KNOW, I was wearing the same, albeit a different shade ‘ love that stuff), and she said it hadn’t come off after two hours of kissing that afternoon. Well, we thought. How cool. You go, girl. And then she told us it was nice to kiss and get paid for it.

I have to confess my every-once-in-while-shockingly-innocent mind jumped straight to kissing booths. I actually had an image of her being at some gay fair (wait, Pride was weeks ago) getting paid per kiss.

Nope, turns out she’s a sex-industry worker. A porn actress. She was so freaking young! What is she going to look like, feel like, at 30? I have no problem with those women who boldly turn the exploitation around, kicking mores and tradition to the side with some knowledge of what they can do, and what they can’t. This girl, could she see any of it? She seemed brand-new at her job. Not jaded yet.

She asked me how old I was and when I said forty as a joke, she didn’t blink.

No, said B, she’s thirty-one.

It didn’t make a difference to her. Old is old. Old is over twenty-four. Her lipstick was just right, and she’d kissed a pretty girl all afternoon, and she’d been paid a hundred dollars an hour for it. Why did I feel a little sad? Nothing much I could do or say, nothing I wanted to do or say. We had another beer.

Oh, but my lipstick stayed on, too. This could be a new Covergirl campaign! What do you mean, doesn’t come off on him? How ’bout on her?
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So I’m cruising Salon and I see a headline that shocks the hell out of me. Totally. Took me a while to get over it, to figure it out. To work past it. I’ll get to it in just a minute.

First of all, I’m on Salon because I’m looking for more info on the body found in the woods southwest of Oxford. Of course, I could go to the real media clear-channel type of news crap, but I’m hoping for an outraged editorial or two. Salon’s sometimes good for that. You know about this, right? David Kelly, the British weapons adviser (and a former UN weapons inspector) is claimed to be the media source that set the nation buzzing over possible government hype and ‘sexing up’ of the war. He had denied this, and then went missing last Thursday. A body matching his description has been found a mile away from his home, dead of a slashed left wrist. Possible suicide, yes. And David Kelly was depressed about the furor, so this isn’t too far out a speculation. Other, wilder rumors fly, and that’s to be expected.

A couple of things have struck me: One, a reporter this week yelled at Blair, ‘Have you got blood on your hands, prime minister?’ Well, of course he has, you moron. He’s in all this with America, and Kelly or no Kelly, he’s got quite a bit of washing up to do.

Two: My heart hurts for the Brits. When I was in Italy in March, the week the war started, I met the English everywhere. They were just about the only ones still traveling (and the Germans of course, but they’re always traveling). And as a group, they told me the same thing over and over. They thought Bush was a terrifying idiot (well, duh) and that Blair was letting them down by getting involved, but they had, to a person, something else to add. They said that Blair must know something no one else did. He WOULDN’T just jump into a war blindly. He had to have good information, substantiated and real, to place his country into a war. While Bush was distrusted by the world, Blair had at one time possessed some smarts upon which his constituents were relying. This scandal must be rocking them to the core, in a very personal small-town way. At least we weren’t surprised by Bush. Horrified, yes. But it was to be expected. The British are let down, and I think of the ones I met in person, especially Ruth on one of the vaporetti. ‘At least we have Tony Blair to believe in,’ she said. Sorry, Ruth.

Which leads me back to the real shocker of the day. When I opened Salon, I saw the first headline: ‘Sex change clouds Kobe Bryant’s future.’ My god! Who knew?

I read it two or three times quickly before I realized it was charge, not change. Now I’M the one let down.
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Got this message last night, and with permission, I’m reprinting it here:

‘I followed the link to your website from Christy’s blog. I’m a pal of

Christy’s. 🙂 I enjoyed looking around your site. I especially liked the 100 things list and the photos of Digit (I adore tabby cats!). Mostly, though, the fact that you not only knit, but that you’re TOTALLY INTO KNITTING, cracked me up. I don’t know why.’

I think this fact about me cracks a lot of people up, including myself. I just loved her succinctness.

Not writing about the date last night. #1: She knows about this site (why do I DO that?) #2: Not sure what to say anyway. It was fun. Very odd, but fun. I had a GREAT tamale. Played a game of pool where Time Stood Still.

I’ve totally flaked and I’m not going out of town today. I couldn’t even get out of bed…. Tried from about 11am until 2pm, kept getting up and then giving up. And then Digit came in from outside (not a common occurrence during the day) and crawled in bed with me. How am I supposed to leave the bed when he puts his paw into my hand and falls asleep? You’re doomed at that point.
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Good freaking lord. The number of hits I got yesterday was six times more than what I usually get. All from ChicKnits, bless Bonnie-Marie’s heart. But of course, with my luck, it was the day I mentioned toilet paper. Or the lack thereof. Goes to show you ‘ stock up on your personal products.

I used to be one of those people who wouldn’t be caught dead without at least a hundred extra rolls of TP, seven boxes of tissues and twelve rolls of paper towels. Extra deodorant and tampons under the sink, extra toothpaste, always an extra toothbrush around for that unexpected guest. I think I had more money then. Or less debt. Or perhaps the debt I am now paying on is a direct result of stocking my Ark. Nowadays I’m lucky if I have an extra toothbrush when I drop mine in the toilet. Luckily, the other day I did have an extra. If I hadn’t, I’m scared to think what I might have attempted with boiling water.

Put some pictures of the Mindless Raglan on the Knitting page ‘ It really is mindless knitting. I love it. Don’t care if it looks good, don’t care if I work on it a lot or a little, it’s just available to be knit upon. That’s all that matters right now. Not feeling very creative this week.

Tummy back up and running. Mostly. Have a date tonight and I’m willing the stomach problem into submission. We’ll see how it reacts after a martini or two. Yipes. Wish me luck. And this weekend, I think I’m going to go home. I’m still deciding, based on how my body acts. But the family is having a bonfire tomorrow night and I don’t want to miss that….. Happy weekend, all.
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Holy CRAP! I got the well-wishes about being on Bonnie-Marie’s excellent site, but I thought she had just put my picture on her completed gallery page. Not on her Post Of The Day! I feel like a rock star. Or a little knitter being noticed by a rock-star, just as good. I can’t bear it. Go to ChicKnits to see what I’m going on about.

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Absolutely exhausted. I realized that the sum total time I was out of my apartment yesterday was for the fifteen paces it took for me to get to my mail. Don Perata sent me a potholder (which I actually thought was kinda cool). I’ve slept all day today, too, but I promised I’d go in to work tonight, so I’ll be there. I’m feeling much better, but rather like I’ve been kicked in and around my midsection by a large horse (reading Seabiscuit, thinking a lot about horses crashing on the racetrack).

And it’s imperative that I get my ass out of the house and over to the grocery store because I’m out of {ahem} toilet paper (that tells you way too much about where I’ve spent most of my recent time). There are many things in life I can do without for long periods of time because I’m too lazy to go to the store. That ain’t one of ‘em.

Don’t want to do anything. Did I already say that?

Working on a new sweater, a mindless raglan that I’ve already knit down to the chest and divided for sleeves. I’m too out of it to post pictures, but maybe tomorrow.

Seabiscuit: I’m three-quarters done, and it’s riveting, just like everyone says. I had put it off for that very reason, but my reading pile finally opened and let it through (everything’s an echo of the book’s racing terms), and I’m loving it. I think the latest New Yorker (I’m only two weeks behind right now) has an article on the author and the chronic fatigue syndrome that she battled while she wrote. I’m a weenie. I’m battling NOTHING like that and it still takes, well, wild horses (!) to get me to the page some days.

Listen: She calls Tijuana in the 20s an ‘exuberant, swaybacked little town.’ She described a three-legged cat who lived in a stable that the stable-hands fitted out with a wooden leg. It blackjacked its little victims to death. She makes me laugh out loud while I’m reading, and I’m caught wondering why that is. I have a sneaking suspicion that it’s been too long since I read non-fiction. Sure, this is creatively written non-fiction, but it’s still based strongly on fact. Is that why I’m surprised into out-loud-laughter? Have I become too accustomed to fiction, so accustomed, in fact, that it takes a boy in a life raft with a Bengal tiger to wake me up and catch my interest? Well, that’s an overstatement. I still love and enjoy fiction but I’m so seldom surprised by it. It’s as if the authors can’t jolt me anymore. I expect them to cross over the border of the fantastic, the unbelievable. That’s their job. It’s nice to read something that crosses that border that really happened. It’s novel. So to speak.
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Feel like crap. Ate something I shouldn’t have (that Indian food last night out of squeeze-pack heat’n’eat box?) or I’m fighting a stomach thing, but I’m out of it. And in pain. Called in sick to work so I feel even worse.

No fun here. The fun’s over at my sister Christy’s new site: HERE. Go visit and read her bus-survey answers which are hysterical and FREAK her out by leaving a comment (how did all these people find me? OMG, this blog things is GREAT!).
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You must view the Kid in Market Video at OutOutBlogSpot (071503). Work safe, and should be required viewing for some. Hee!

And the Billboard Liberation Front struck in San Francisco at Hiway 101 and Cesar Chavez: see Banana Republic’s new Sappho Collection. (courtesy of BoingBoing).
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Check it out: my sister Bethany made me a SWEATER for my birthday! Now, really. Can you believe it? Prior to this attempt, she had made several scarves, some beer cozies, and two hats which were too big to fit on a human head but just right for gathering apples. Then she sits down, less than a month ago, decides to start a sweater and then GIVES IT TO ME! It was the knittiest birthday ever, my fabulous Jordana Paige purse, a gift cert to my LYS from Mom, and my sweater.

How cool is my family? I ask ya.

Pop culture question: Did anyone notice Carrie’s stockings on Sex and the City? For two, perhaps three, seconds, as she’s walking into her apartment, she’s shown in a short skirt and stockings. Nothing special there. But the stockings are pale, almost white (the red flag lifts) and on her knees are two large black circles (red flags everywhere!). Are we being inoculated? Seriously. First they show us a little shocking something, we get used to it, they show us more. Since there’s been NOTHING shocking on the show for a while, is this it? The ugliest stockings in the whole wide world? They were shown so briefly they were like a small hallucination. Can’t quite believe I saw them.

Finished Life of Pi this weekend for knitting bloggers’ reading group. Can’t wait to start discussing. I had no idea what it was about when I started reading, hadn’t even looked at the back of the book. **Spoiler** (unless you’re READ the back of the book, then the next comment doesn’t matter, you already know) ‘ It’s about a 16 year old boy living in a life raft for seven months with a Bengal tiger. As this doesn’t happen for almost half the book, I was under the impression that it was just a nice religious Indian emigration story. Then he’s in the raft, on the water, and I can’t EVER look at that Finding Nemo billboard without having violent thoughts about that turtle again.
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Blogging becomes a way of thinking after a while. I’ll lie in bed and I’ll notice that I’m thinking how I’ll describe something. Last night it was how I would describe Being Unable to Sleep for Two Days.

Nothing like tossing and turning and repeating as needed for four hours. Or five. Or six. My back hurt, I moved around so much. I canNOT sleep at night during full moons. Haven’t been able to for years. During the day, that’s fine. But I can’t seem to fall asleep until that ole sun is up and I’ve fed the cats and let Digit out for his daily ramble. That would seem to raise all sorts of vampirish conclusions’I like to blame it rather on the fact that I’m just sensitive to the moon’s light. This is no consolation at five in the morning when I’m standing in the kitchen (again) making valerian-enhanced Sleepy-Time tea and eating a banana. I walked around my apartment all night, muttering to myself about how when I’m at work and people call at four a.m. to complain about abandoned vehicles, my one comment is: ‘If I were at home, I’d be ASLEEP, not concerned with AVs.’ Apparently this is not true. Maybe they work midnights, too, and they’re as upset by the moon as I am. Never know. I have to have more patience with people.

It’s just initial-onset insomnia. Once I fell asleep this morning, around six or so, I was up and down for the next six hours, waking to let the cat in and out, checking on the tree trimmers who were banging on my window, but I went back to sleep every time, easily. Once I get there, I can go back. It’s just the getting there the first time that is SO frustrating. This was after two sleeping pills taken at midnight. Aargh. I made myself get up at noon so I’ll still have some kind of shot at sleeping tonight.

Lots of knitting-thinking time, though. Now that I’ve finished the ChicKami, I’ve started a new raglan sweater, using the Incredible Raglan Generator, and I’m zipping along. I’m using that inexpensive blue denim acrylic stuff’I’ve been broke lately and I’m not succumbing to high-art-fiber lust. Any kind of fiber keeps my hands happy. I’m a snob, but not so much of a snob that my innate thriftiness doesn’t take over sometimes.

Christy’s coming over and we’re walking to Barneys for some killer burgers. It’s a gorgeous, warm summer day. Can’t wait. But man. NOW I’m sleepy. Shoot.
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Felt completely anti-social today – and I had cramps, so I cancelled out of one party and only went to the second evening one, just around the corner. It was very nice, and I got to watch an ex-g/f dance to MC Hammer. That shouldn’t be missed, ever. Drove round the local bar on the way home while blasting the Hives, but I couldn’t go in. Too scared to park my car and walk. Not scared of entering the bar alone. Scared of leaving it alone. You know? There were frightening people about, and I’ve known two people beaten up just outside the White Horse doors. I was tired, don’t even know why I felt like going in the first place – something about the music made me feel social again. Good to remember.

But the only big news is:

I finished the ChicKami! What do you think?
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I’ve had good sleep all week, surprisingly enough. But today when my alarm went off (at 5pm, how odd does that still feel, after four years?), I was in the middle of a dream where I was trying to kiss an unknown person, but the person only wanted to suck on my teeth. And yes, it was as disturbing as it sounds. I wonder what the hell I was sucking on in my sleep to kick-start that dream.

Ugh.

My front teeth still feel funny. Kinda mushy.

On my way to work yesterday I saw a great piece of political graffiti on a wall near my house. It had originally been a poster for the Charlie’s Angels movie, and it was a picture of Drew Barrymore popping a wheelie on a motorbike. All the ad copy had been torn off and ‘Lick Bush’ was written in large black letters. Just so funny to see it next to her on the bike. I hope to grab a picture of it, but I’m not counting on it being there for long. I think that really should be Howard Dean’s campaign slogan. I’d vote for him.

Tonight’s my Friday and I’m hoping to finish off my ChicKami so I can wear it to the two parties in two counties I have tomorrow. Busy little weekend coming up. I should have a busy little tank to wear, eh? Went a little crazy on the striping of it. You’ll see.
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Added a photo to the ChicKami WIP, it’s zooming along. I’m trying to incorporate some stripes, not sure where they’re going to fall on the bust line exactly. Should be interesting. I hate cotton yarn, though, that much is sure. It just doesn’t look as neat, does it? Wool is so much more forgiving.

On writing: My goal used to be a thousand words a day of real writing, four days a week. That was an excellent goal, and I wound up with about sixteen pages a week. (That’s a whopping 832 pages a year. There has to be a book in there somewhere, doesn’t there?) But I wasn’t keeping up with it, and I was feeling guilty a lot of the time. I refuse to feel guilty over my writing; it’s something I can feel proud of, or worried about, but I make myself do the work, and I won’t feel guilty. So my new goal, which has been working out just fine, is to do five hundred words a day, five times a weeks. A goal of 2500 words a week. And that’s 520 pp a year, more than enough, don’t you think? There has to be a book in there somewhere.

Actually, there’s a book on my computer. I’m up to 378 pages, and still not sure exactly where it’s heading. I know that crisis point is coming, but I don’t know that my character can handle it. Or is that me?

I’m also feeling like I’m going to be editing out a LOT of pages when I’m done. Perhaps I’m writing too much about things that don’t matter. I’ve been reading The Life of Pi with the knitbloggers’ reading group, and I’m stunned by his use of language. Economical, yet fluidly beautiful. My book ain’t like that. My book is more like I talk’a lot of words that can be pared down to simple, childlike ideas. One of my professors once said I was scared of the real, messy, scary emotions. Hell right. I still am. And so are my characters. And I don’t want to FORCE the emotion on them’that won’t ring true. I just want my character to move from alone to not so alone.

Wait, that last sentence. I think that’s what I’m writing about.

Holy shit, I know it means nothing to anyone else, but I just got the theme of my novel. Shit. Almost done, and it comes to me.

I feel like having a party. This is what I started this blog for! To assist in my creative process, and hot damn, it just did. Hey! Thanks!
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I had such an unexpectedly great afternoon yesterday, and it was all about moments of Regular Joy. It started out with me going to Rasputin Records on Telegraph in Berkeley. Normally I avoid that area like the plague’there’s no parking, someone always yells at you in a language you don’t understand or a fit of rage that you didn’t mean to spark. It’s crowded with tattooed pierced locals that are trying to blend in and tattooed pierced tourists that are also trying to blend in. I’m tattooed and pierced, too, but in the regular, sedate places, so I just don’t fit.

I’ve decided that one of my reasons that I got so hung up on T so quickly was that I was vastly intrigued by her innate punk-ness. Now that were Friends, I realize I’ve neglected my own punk self, and that’s a side I like! (I don’t think punks would say that, would they? No Mr. Rogers crap. Okay.) So I drove my happy self down to Rasputin and picked up the Hives Veni Vidi Vicious, which is the best album I’ve heard in forever, and the Vibrators Pure Mania. I love that I walked to the shelves and picked up the only two albums I went in for and bought them at the (locally owned) counter. No hassles, no problems with surly underpaid staff (hey, if you work at Rasputin, you’re a serious music geek and you live for your job), and no one grabbed my ass like the last time I went in there.

Then, get this, I cranked the Hives and drove over to:

The Car Wash.

I had no idea. Really. Why didn’t anyone tell me about this?

I’m thirty-one years old, and I had never paid anyone to wash my car, citing either independence or lack of funds, depending on who was listening. But seeing as I’ve been holding onto a PACE rainbow sticker since I got back from Italy, promising myself I’d put it on my bumper as soon as I washed it, and seeing as I got back in APRIL, and it hadn’t been washed for months BEFORE the trip, and seeing as it was in perpetual danger of being called in by a neighbor as a black abandoned vehicle (and it’s a white Nissan), I figured I’d just pay someone real quick to do it for me.

Did you know? Oh. My. God. They not only washed the outside and the underbelly and the tires (a team of about six men moving at once), but then they shot me through a spray wax tunnel and I came out on the other side where a group of women (gotta wonder about that separation) rubbed me down (stop it!) and asked me to get out so they could vacuum the interior. That would have been enough to send me over the moon, but get this: They dusted in the interior of the car. I hadn’t been able to read my speedometer in months (just as well). They lifted the mats and vacuumed UNDER them (I’ve never done that, I’m pretty damn sure). And wonder of wonders, I saw one of them shaking my garbage bag out over a trash can and reinstalling it.

Can you believe this?

All for $19 plus a whopping tip that I felt the entire crew deserved. In less than ten minutes, I had a brand new car, and I wasn’t sweaty. I HATE washing my car, always have. Why didn’t anyone ever tell me? (In case no one told you, either, you should also know that you should hang on to your receipt, because the scrupulous workers won’t let you drive away without showing them said receipt. Even though you’re the one with the keys. You’re just gonna have to go back and beg the clerk to write you out another one, ‘cause somewhere between staring in awestruck wonder you managed to lose it. Just a heads up.)

I’m so excited. The Hives sound even better with the top down and a sparkling hood. I put my PACE sticker on the bumper, too. Aaaaahhhhh! (punk scream, can you tell?)

P.S. ‘ I’ll never make a good punk, I’m way to straight (so to speak). And just too old. And I knit WAY too much (seven inches up on the ChicKami). But I like trying.
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I put that Advantage on the cats yesterday (actually my sister Bethy-the-vet-tech did it for me, I’m such a lame-ass), and I am amazed. As I always am. I have this (wrong) idea in my head that while I know you’re supposed to treat them once a month, I think that my cats can go more like two months. Or six. Without any treatment at all. Oh, please don’t mind that they scratch and that Digit smells funny (ew!) and that you feel little nips while sleeping, I’m sure it isn’t fleas doing that. Must be the weather.

Nope, it was fleas. In just one day, I have new cats. They’re content and Digit doesn’t yell as much (although he’s still hollering every once in a while), both are trying to wash the stuff off so they’re clean and I’m a Very Bad Mother. I just hate putting that stuff on them, and I hate not touching them for a day. With some cats, not touching them for a while would go over well. Not with these guys, especially needy drooly Adah. She thought she was being punished for something yesterday’she lives to be touched There’s nothing else in life for her, except food.

Advantage. Once a month. I promise. (and that stuff is expensive! said the obsessive yarn purchaser, righteously.)

I’m adding a picture of the ChicKami in progress to the Knitting page. I’m disappointed with my Denise needles for the first time. In order to get gauge, I was using the smallest size (5) and pulling more tightly than usual, which led to the needles separating when I scooched the stitches around the rather sticky plastic cable. They must have separated six or seven times, dropping at least ten stitches every time. I finally put it onto a regular ole circular needle. I have irregularities in the knitting, and I HATE that (but not enough to frog back, I rarely hate anything that much. I’m way too lazy). I’m making it (first) in Lion’s Brand Cotton-Ease Really Red (that’s not the name but that’s what the color looks like) with a stripe of Really Yellow and one of Really Orange. Whoo hoo! Love a tank. After this one I might attempt it in that expensive alpaca/angora blend I bought but I’m glad I didn’t this time. Ooh, I’d be PISSED ’cause then I would HAVE to frog.
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Time for new pics. I am crazy about old ladies in Venice, especially their legs, so here you go. Also more under Recent Fun.

I know I shouldn’t consume as much as I do. I should restrict my spending. God knows I’m always broke. But when I found the devil duck with hot-rod flames this morning, I couldn’t walk away. (It was only four dollars at Dark Carnival.)

I have nothing to do today. Or rather, I have a million things I SHOULD be doing, like getting an alignment and my oil changed and doing laundry and paying bills. But I have such good books next to my bed, and I got the Jordana knitting purse for my birthday from Christy and it’s filled with my ChicKami project. I want to kick around and surf the web and knit and read and watch last night’s Sex and the City. And avoid both my newly-Advantage-d cats who are slimy with flea poison.

Saw the new Charlie’s Angels yesterday after my Stitch’n’Bitch (which was surprisingly well-attended, nine or ten people showed up and we stayed three hours!). The movie was everything I expected, fun action with achingly poor dialogue. If I had to watch the three of them bond one more time, I was going to chuck Mike’n’Ikes at the screen. But the clothes were hot, and I loved the young-punk Drew Barrymore.

Maybe this: I will clean my house. I will start some laundry. And I will call it good. No writing today. Back to writing tomorrow. This is my weekend.

Where do I get this must-work-ethic? How do I heave it off a cliff?
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My birthday was great. I’m so relieved. Nothing worse than getting your hopes up about the day and having them dashed. That only happened to me once, years ago, but I ended up closing a bar down with my sisters who then had to pour me into bed. Not a healthy way to spend your day.

Do I talk about drinking too much? Perhaps, if I talk about it so much, do I do it too much?

Let me think.

Nah.

Anyway, we went to Buca di Beppo, which was awesome food, too much of it, just the way I like. It was an odd bunch of eight, some work, some family, some not related at all, and my next door neighbor, but it seemed to work well. And we DID roll down to the beach after that and have a little bonfire, something I wasn’t convinced was actually going to happen.

Bonfires ROCK! I think I’m going to make it an annual RachaelTradition. That smell of creosote and burning Peeps…. Oh, yes, you must barbeque Easter Peeps in the summer…. The way they melt and slide down the stick and drip into the fire if you don’t pull them out’they don’t burn, which is rather alarming, but they morph into strange liquid-y aliens that are totally fun to play with (and taste great, if you dare). We saw the sunset. Bethany made the four-hour drive and met us there, and more people that I had invited (and some I hadn’t) cruised up yelling ‘Rachael’s party? Rachael’s party?’ (There were a LOT of bonfires.)

I have had enough of being Shapely (tank) on the first page. I’ll leave my boobsey self on the knitting page, though. New picture is of my rad Beach Princess necklace that T made for me. Hooray for birthdays!

Today is my Stitch’n’Bitch at the White Horse (see Craigslist for more) and then more knitting tonight. And I get my sisters…. and and and…… It’s a good day.
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Quickly, because it’s my BIRTHDAY and all, I just have to write about one gift. I got the sweetest gifts (okay, I keep typing girls instead of gifts…. hmmmmm) from my friends: a CD I wanted, a cat book that looks wonderful (along with a bag of incredible goodies that I can’t even describe, ’cause you’d be too jealous). Oh, I’m spoiled and blessed. I don’t deserve ANY of it.

But this one: A friend got me a pair of duckie pants. The bottoms (yes, only the bottoms) of a pair of pyjamas. Months ago I was talking about a little something I’d won – it’s here. Then I wrote about horrifying things, like leaking black battery-acid water. Take my word for it. That shit ain’t waterproof. I’ve got my ducks on now, and these don’t require batteries, and I’m off to take a nap. Then up again to celebrate my day. Whee me!

ps: No matter what anyone says, birthdays are very special days.

070403 1730

Great sleep today, just OUT, but right before I woke I had a TERRIBLE nightmare. I dreamed it was pouring and they were going to cancel the fireworks.

Oh, NO!

I love fireworks. I LOVE fireworks. When I was little, we had a 4th of July tradition: I’d invite all my little grade-school cronies over for a birthday party, and we’d light fireworks (the tame ones, but they seemed SO cool) and make vanilla ice-cream in the old salt’n’crank machine. Every year I’d get excited about making the ice-cream to go with my cake, and every year I’d be just about done with the whole ordeal after two or three difficult turns of the handle. Oh, I was such a whiner. I always tried to make Christy do it, or whitewash my friends into it (‘this is SO much fun, I don’t want ANYONE else to turn this crank, ever! All mine!’). After what seemed like (and probably was) hours, we’d have that extra sweet, sloppy white ice-cream that melted the second it hit the plate (NEXT to the cake, don’t let the two touch, I was a finicky child), but it tasted so good.

Today, on the 4th, I gotta work. But Brandy is working the early hours for me (yay!) so I can watch the Oakland Jack London fireworks from the old Navy base across the water. I can’t wait.

It had better not rain. That was an awful dream.

Knitting: Finished another hot-water bottle cozy, this time in blue, so it’s easier to see on the computer. Oh, and I joined the ChicKami knit-along. I had already bought the pattern and the yarn. My problem is that the yarn I bought is incredibly expensive soft angora, and I’m scared to start it. I never work with such fine yarn. Makes me very nervous. I’ll actually have to swatch, goddamnit. I SO don’t believe in swatching…..

My birthday is tomorrow!
070303 1715

I am a total product of Mr. Rogers. I mean it.

There was a thread back in April on whether or not it was okay to leave lots of ‘Me, too! That color looks great!’s in comment boxes on blogs. I say, Oh, yes. It is. It’s very okay. I LOVE to have people say hello in my tagboard or that they like what I made…. It makes me feel proud of myself. Yes, I just said that. I’m a GEEK!

I often think that I was incredibly blessed (others might not agree) to have had parents who agreed with the Mr. Rogers Childrearing Program. Everything I did, from my mudpie in the backyard to putting my toys away without hitting Christy even once, garnered an ‘I’m proud of you. Aren’t you proud of yourself, too?’ I was actively encouraged to say it out loud. ‘Yes, Mom. I’m PROUD of my dyed macaroni necklace that’s leaving green and purple bruise-like marks around my throat.’

This carries on to today. I’m sure people HATE that about me. Didja see my new tank top I knitted? I washed my car, isn’t it shiny? I made this get-well card out of dryer lint and felted hemp, how cool is that? I remembered to cut my toenails, aren’t you proud of me?

But it’s nice that we recognize when we’re all right. And I like recognizing that in other people and leaving them little ‘me too’ messages. (and gosh darn it, people like me!)

All this to say I appreciate the comments, wonderful people. (And to say that I know I’m such a geek, I really understand that about myself. I do.)

And I’m proud of YOU! Or as He says, ‘It’s such a good feeling, a very good feeling. The feeling you know that we’re friends.’

Oh, and your toy for the day:

Go to Google and type in (but don’t hit enter): Weapons of Mass Destruction. Hit the ‘I’m Feeling Lucky’ button instead of the normal ‘Google Search’ one. Read the message.
070203 1700

Three days till my birthday! Just so’s you know.

Man, I hate the system of archiving that I use. I might move to that new beta blog-thing Moveable Type’s coming out with, when they do. I’d love to be able to have trackback features. Right now, I just have long monthly entries, almost unsearchable. Well, I suppose that could be a good thing.

I have yet another idea for Squib’s book o’patterns. Also silly, also off-kilter, but I think I’ll try to make one up and write a little pattern. If she doesn’t like it, you might!

I’ve reloaded my NO YOGA ZONE signs from Anna. And I’ve printed them out in full color and have hung them in my bath, just to remind me. She is the COOLEST, ever! But I have to admit, it hasn’t taught me yet about yoga in odd places.

I’m one of the few people at work who regularly take their break. For me, it’s a great way to get away from the chaos. I slip off to a quiet dark corridor space where there’s nothing but an empty desk and a chair, and I do some real writing with no noise and no distractions. It’s better writing space than I have at home, since here there’s always a cat whining or a neighbor needing sugar or antibacterial soap (I don’t ask). Every once in a while, the writing just happens, I reach my quota quickly, and I have time to kill. So I do yoga. (Not supposed to do this on the job, might hurt myself. Please! You can’t hurt yourself with yoga. Unless you’re in the tub, ahem.)

So I’m in the dark last night, doing some stretches and breathing, thinking to myself how handy it is that no one ever walks along this corridor so late at night, even though I’m near the elevator, and I hear footsteps. I have only time to swing myself up and lean against the table rim before one of the new trainees walks to the elevator. I grab my coffee cup and nod. Nonchalant. She keeps her face expressionless. I will the blood to drain away from my face. Yep. I KNOW she saw me swing up from downward dog. She’s too new to really say anything. I was horrified.

I have to go to a real yoga class soon. I think I need a spotter. Or some common sense.

I WILL write today, I will. It’s been difficult lately. I’m at a spot in the book where I’m actually seeing (perhaps only feeling) that the end is somewhere within reach. First time in a year that I’ve felt this. It’s beginning to take a definite shape, instead of just being this ever-expanding circle of characters and happenings that I felt I had no control over. It’s starting to make sense, I guess. And therefore it scares the shit outta me. I know the real hard work of editing is still coming, and I dread it. But I’ll keep writing. Oh, I’m terrified. Good-scared. I love being good-scared.
070103 1215

Happy July! Be advised, my birthday is 4 days away!

Knitting news:

I finished the Shapely Tank! Click to go have a look.

And the next project is courtesy of ChicKnits, I wanna do the ChicKami. Got the pattern yesterday and I’m off for the yarn this afternoon. I love my LYS, Article Pract on Telegraph in Oakland. Also, I want to make another Hot Water Bottle Cozy this week. Hee!

Otherwise, quite grumpy that the weekend is over and I have to write today. But that’s the deal. If I don’t write on the weekend, I’m duty-bound to write the other four days. Sigh. No motivation. Just have to get to the page. That’s all. Why is it so hard? Whine, whinge. I’d rather be knitting. Or napping. Or frikken cleaning the tub, whatever.
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Just a quick note – the lovely Anna gave me these images to the right. My own little public service annoucements to hang above my bathtub.

What would I do without people like this? I’m dying over here.

PS: Finished the Shapely Tank. Check later for pics. Going to bed. After a SAFE tub experience. NO yoga, repeat after me, It’s a No Yoga Zone….

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Pride Weekend’s over, and I’m done, anyway. Over the whole gay thing, at least for a while. Too much pride, does that make sense? I’ll be happy to see the rainbow flag in maybe a week or so, but right now I’ve had enough. I had long, rambling dreams about naked men dancing all around me and bad, bad music playing. Oh, wait. Oh, yeah, that wasn’t a dream!

It was great, though, to be in the parade. And I saw everyone that I wanted to see, which I didn’t think would happen in that sea of people. It’s overwhelming’they say a million people converge on the City that day, and it felt like they were all there along the route, cheering and yelling. Or, oddly, some were just standing and watching without smiling, which is hard for me to fathom. That’s like not smiling at fireworks! Such a display of colorful energy!

The Aids Emergency Fund float had Val Diamond singing ‘San Francisco’ in the front of Beach Blanket Babylon set. In between her repeating the song over and over, our KISS 98.1 FM truck that was towing the float was playing old school, which at least you can dance to as you walk. I’ve never seen a more bored guy driving an SUV, though. As a wheel monitor, I just had one job: Walk next to the wheel. I handled that pretty well. Every once in a while, I’d see J leaping up and down in the crowd waving, or C waving the PACE flag (how cool is it that she brought that?) and I’d lose track of my wheel and veer away, but otherwise it was the perfect non-thinking job for me.

Afterwards, T was pretty overwhelmed by the crowds, so we went to Jes’s house in the Mission and drank some Jack which calmed us all down. Oh, yes. Then back to Civic Center where we watched the after-party, which mainly consisted of us standing on a pedestal and watching the crowd flow past. Best entertainment in the world. Two pics under Recent Fun (I have so many more, but they all have people in them who would probably rather not be displayed on the internet’that’s what sisters are good for’they don’t get to tell me they don’t want to be on my site). I forgot the cowboy hat, damn it. But I had pride. Now I have exhaustion, but it’s the good kind.
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Just a quick note before I trot my gay ass over to the City one more gay time:

The Dyke March is one of the coolest things in the Whole World. And I mean it!

I met up with some friends at a barbeque where all we talked about was how fun it was going to be, then I went with Karen, a new friend, to the park where we lay in the sun with beers in paper bags, surrounded by thousands and thousands of women doing the same thing, and listened to people speechify and sing. Two friends were riding a motorcycle in the front, so we went and watched the bikes line up, rev in place, and then roar away. Fevered women, everywhere, excited by the noise alone!

Then four of us walked AROUND the march, bought more beer and met up at Geena’s truck, which she had quite splendidly parked right on the route. We cranked the dance mixes, and danced in the truck bed. We cheered and waved and hollered and felt the world was pretty dang all right.

It’s a safe feeling, you know? You know you won’t get hurt, not then, not there.

Now I’m off to wear B’s cowboy hat which will make me look MUCH cooler than I actually am, and I’m gonna march with the Aids Emergency Fund, the whole route. I’ve never done it before, and I’m totally excited. A friend of mine has never done it before, either, and she’s scared. I’m proud of her. It’s hard, to be out there for the whole world to see. But we have to be out there. Someone has to be, and we’re gonna look GOOD doing it. Uh huh. I’ll wave to you on channel 4.
062703 1700

I have a tip for you, gentle reader, one you’ll appreciate and thank me for, I know.

Don’t do yoga in the bathtub.

I know, it’s an obvious thing to want to do, but don’t! Lying there in the warm water, you know it’s an easy thing, while this warmed up, to do a couple of good, deep, forward stretches. All well and good. It’s when you get ambitious and do that pose you can’t remember the name of but it involves lifting the arms and legs while seated and grasping the ankles and achieving a state of seated balance that your ASS flies RIGHT out from under you and go sliding with a large whump under the water.

Water up the nose does not make for good yoga.

Just thought you should know. You’re welcome.

In other news, almost done with the Shapely Tank. Ooh, just realized it would be nice if I finished it in time for Pride this weekend, hmmmmm. I adore the orange color, but I’m just hoping it fits. Might be a leeetle tight. Well, it’s summer, ain’t it?

Thinking of yoga, which I really do practice, mostly on dry land, I have to admit I have Very Bad Posture a lot of the time, especially while writing and while knitting. Also while at work in front of the computers. So, yeah, pretty much all the time. Need more yoga. But for that, I need more money, so it’s a class at a time.

Pride Weekend starts tomorrow! Dyke March tomorrow night! You want pics? I’ll bring the camera. Mwah! Oh, and speaking of Pride, you know that Portia de Rossi (the blonde reason to watch that stupid Ally McBeal show) married her girlfriend Francesca Gregorini (daughter of Bond Girl Barbara Back) last week? You go, girls! I want to see the dresses.
062603 1700

It’s too damn hot here. Oakland doesn’t fare well in the heat, and it makes for really busy nights at work. Everyone’s drunk and stupid (well, I can empathize) and they fight a LOT.

I have to write out a tiny secret desire: I want to submit an idea for the amazing Squib’s new knitting book (which in itself is just so exciting!). I’m ninety-nine percent sure it won’t be accepted, but I’ll be proud of myself if I do it. Just submit.

This will be a disjointed post ‘ I didn’t sleep well today for the heat, and I’m going in to work for more overtime tonight, so I’m in a hurry, but I have to mention what one of my friends called my Denise interchangeable needles. She called it my MacGyver set. Yep, add a match, a rubber-band and a stick of gum, and I could dismantle a bomb and exit a sewer grate, all while fleeing a melting-down nuclear reactor.

Well, considering that I spent an HOUR this weekend just trying to repair my clothes rod that had crashed to the floor with all my clothes on it the week before, I probably couldn’t do much with the Denise needles. But I like the idea. The clothes rod, however, UGH. Two friends had kindly offered to help me with it, and in my standard stubborn way I refused them and did it myself. Shoddily, I might add. I was told I needed anchors. So I walked to my little local hardware store in Elmwood and the guy showed me what I needed. I bought four screws and four anchors, total of fifty-two cents. Just my price. Got home and had NO idea what to do with them. Dude at the store had told me to start the screw a little way, pull it out and then tap in the anchor, then add the screw. Yeah. Whatever. That didn’t work.

Part of the metal hanger that I was reattaching was over a stud, so after sweating and cursing for a good while, I said fuck it and screwed the puppy right back in again, new holes this time. It lasted for years without falling with no anchors, hopefully these holes will hold a few more years. I’m so freaking bad when it comes to hardware repairs. Give me yarn any ole day.
062403 1225

(My stupid internet connection’s been down for a day, don’t know when I’ll post this, but I’ll write it anyway:)

I have no one to blame but myself. I went from having the flu to going out and getting WASTED in the old college way in less than two days. I’m only now on Tuesday beginning to recover from the weekend and feel human again: Yesterday I was worthless, hung over to within an inch of my life, feeling like crap and remembering all the old days…..

But it was worth it. Sometimes you just have to shake loose. I had a fabulous time at the Lexington in the City-bought a black hooded sweatshirt with “Every Night Is Ladies’ Night” and a devilishly naked mermaid swimming in a martini glass on the back, an olive on the tip of her trident. Yeah, that kind of summed up the night. The afternoon, rather, that stretched into the night. I ALMOST won at Scrabble, only lost by two points. Damn it! Oh, so many happy hour beers. And Fernet. That was the wicked part – that damn Fernet Branca. And we had one drink that was called “Pink Panties.” There’s a REASON I keep my lingerie white or black. Lord.

Why is it that alcohol always leads to kissing? I’m not complaining, just asking. Luckily, not the confusing kind, just the fun kind, but why is that?

Ooh, and before I forget, when we got to the bar, a very pretty lady in a very pretty red polka-dot dress (with black crinolines) was setting up for her birthday bash, a barbeque to which we were cordially invited (by virtue of camping on the bar-stools – we weren’t going anywhere, anyway – she was just being polite). I saw the word “Mel” on her cake, and several hours (and beers) later, I noticed on the chalkboard that right under the “Pink Panties” drink announcement was a Happy Birthday message to Mistress Melanie.

Shocked, I turned to T. “Could that possibly be THE Mistress Melanie? Founder of the Crafty Bitches?”

(They’re the (large) group that meets at the Lex every Wednesday night to stitch’n’bitch. Well established, well known, they’re the group that I’ve dreamed of rivaling in the East Bay with my little first-Sunday-at-the-White-Horse gig. Mistress Melanie is the guru of the Crafty Bitches.)

T just shrugged, how could she know? She told me to go ask.

“Are you the Crafty Bitch?” My heart was pounding.

“Why, yes! And you are?”

I told her, and she laughed and hugged me. Me! She said she’d been wanting to meet me. I just love it that there’s this small, odd community out there of queer knitters. There aren’t that many, and they’re all a little off, but that’s the good part. I told her that sometimes my group is eight or ten strong, and sometimes it’s only two or three (including me). She just cocked her out-curled-platinum-blond-bob to the side, smiled through her brilliant red lips and said, “Oh, darling, you don’t know how many times I’ve wanted to quit.”

Ah. It’s like a brush with a star in my little crafty universe…..

I’d tell you more about the night, but it hangs under a cloud of beer haze and barbeque smoke. I believe I called people I shouldn’t have on my cell phone. I know I lost at pool, quite a bit. I know I told some guy that he wouldn’t get any play, and he said he only wanted to watch anyway. Ew! Straight men in lesbian bars are odd. Not like we wanted to kick him out (no one cared enough), but it’s just odd. Do they not get it? Is that it?

Also on my weekend saw Whale Rider. Go see it. One of the best movies I’ve seen in ever so long; I adored it. Tears started toward the beginning and didn’t stop till the end. Either it was brilliant or I was seriously PMSed, but I don’t really care which. It was wonderful.
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Lord, internet connection irritatingly down at home, and immeasureably slow at work…. Hopefully will post tomorrow. I’ve finished the back of the orange Shapely Tank, and I’m feeling better, over my cold (but not my hangover). Hee!
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I finished the Boxy Cable Sweater! Look!

What do you think? I’ll add some outside shots this week, as soon as I feel well enough to go outside. I’m starting to feel better’I just don’t WANT to go outside, I think that’s it. I don’t want to do the whole put-on-nice-clothes-and-do-my-hair thing. I love just lounging in the house in sweats and a Mills College hoodie and slippers.

AND I’ve finished the front of the Shapely Tank. I guess having the flu is good for something. I sat and drank tea and knitted for HOURS.

Now I’m BORED. Just added a couple more pix to Sisters page and made a new one, Recent Fun.

And hey, do you think I should write out the pattern for the Hot Water Bottle Cozy? I wish I had better pics of it’it really did come out lookin’ so cute. If anyone would like the pattern, I’d be happy to transcribe it.

And dig my happy scrolling buttons, code courtesy of Anna!
062003 1440

The word of the day is still Bleah, heading towards just a simple Blah. Still sick. And added to the fever, now I have a tummy thing that’s keeping me out of the bed I want to be in.

I have the patience for this for about another 24 hours. Or less. Then I’m done. Sick is not okay. I have way too much to do. I called in to work, and I feel even crappier for doing that, but I’m trying not to think about it. First time all year.

But I do have one cool thing to report before I make another run for the porcelain goddess: T is volunteering for the Aids Emergency Fund float for Pride next weekend, and she’s got me a placement as a monitor (I think that just means I have to be conscious that no one falls off the float and down a sewer grate and that no one gets run over by rogue Dykes on Bikes).

I’m going to be in the Pride Parade! Walking right out there, people waving, right smack in the middle of all that excitement and joy! The float is #25 in the queue, so it’s nice and early, not four-exhausted-hours-later, and I can’t wait!

So now, back to bed (oh, wait, I’m already there, love a laptop) and more sleep. My throat hurts. Blah.
061903 1700

Bleah. Sick. But just a hair not-sick-enough-to-call-in-to-work. If I felt just a bit worse, I would, I swear I would. But as it is, the guilt would outweigh the pain of the sickness. It’s a fine balance. You have to feel just bad enough to be able to lie in bed and feel vindicated for staying there. If that ‘I should have gone to work’ thought is able to flit through your mind, you’re hosed and even NyQuil won’t help with the guilt that’s worse than the flu.

Not that it helped today. It made me feel funny. I tossed and turned and answered calls, I moved my hands a lot. I was conscious of being in bed and that the people I was talking to weren’t real, but that didn’t stop me from talking to them, out loud, using my hands for emphasis. I slept WORSE for having taken it. Again, the word of the day is Bleah.

Finished the Suki bag handles. Started a Shapely Tank in a great soft orange tweed. Tried not to cough.

Bleah.
061803 1615

Totally feel like I’m getting a cold. And as I haven’t been sick once since I got my tonsils out last year, I’ll be very disappointed if this is true (although what was I thinking? I’d never get sick again? Sure! Why not?). I’m drinking Echinacea tea and overdosing on vitamin C, things that health professionals say really don’t work, but they do for me. Or so I tell myself.

While my tea was brewing in the kitchen, I stood next to the fridge, like I often do, staring off into space. I realized I wasn’t really staring, I was actually reading the little City of Oakland magnet that got mailed to every household when they installed the sirens a few months ago, the sirens that alert you that there’s been a nuclear/chemical/biological/rabid-pigeon attack.

Two things struck me:

One: They’re called ‘Safety Sirens.’ Nice euphemism, eh? {Ew, bad tea, gross tea.}

Two: It reads, under the instructions (seal doors and windows, tune am radio to 580, yadda yadda), Do Not Call 911.

Are you kidding me? People call 911 for the time. They call when their power goes out. They call when there are fireworks at the Coliseum. They call when there’s an earthquake (that’s actually my favorite dumb question: ‘Did we just have an earthquake?’ ‘Well, idiot, I felt the earth, too, and it seemed to quake, so I’d say yes.’ ‘How big was it?’ ‘Felt like a four to me, what do you think?’ Thus the earthquake link to the left’at least a few minutes after a shake, I AM able to tell citizens how big and where it was, but it’s not instantaneous.) If there were an attack of any kind, all 911 lines would light up, and fast, and it’d be pretty darn impossible to get anyone any kind of real help.

Safety Sirens. Sheesh.

In knitting news, I finished knitting the Suki bag (link and scroll down). I made one handle last night and will make the other tonight. Then I just have to find a washing machine with hot water so I can felt it. Totally excited about that’I’m joining the felting revolution! I messed up with the pattern last week, and the stripes are off (I was using the main color as if it were a contrast color) but I figure no one will notice, let alone care. Design detail. The color in the picture isn’t good, it’s really more purple and yellow. I’ve decided I want a gaudy sweater in those colors too. I stay so far away from color usually, and I want more of it in my life. And wardrobe.
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Here it is! This is the super-secret project I wrote about: I was making it for T’s birthday, which was yesterday:

It’s a hot-water bottle cozy!

in the form of a mini-turtleneck sweater! Geek-o-rama! But it’s the first thing I ever designed right out of my own head with no other inspiration, and I’m proud of it for that reason. I’ve never done anything without a pattern before. I’m going to write out the pattern, and post it here soon. I love knowing I can have a free pattern on my site! Whoo hoo! I made it out of Brown Sheep Naturespun and it’s so soft and warm’.. (One more picture linked on Knitting page) Whatcha think?

Last night went out on the Friends outing with T. And it was great. It didn’t feel funny or odd or strained, nothing at all like that day last week when we sat in the barbeque place and looked everywhere but at each other’..

We went out for beer at a little bar I had heard about’Johnny Cash records on the walls, a line of lava lamps over the bar mirror, good mix of punk and rock in the jukebox, new felt on the (expensive: a dollar a game!) pool table. The bartender had hot-rod flame tattoos. There were pin-up Varga girls and fuzzy leopard-print paper-towel covers in the bathroom. Nice pool sticks. The bartender not only knew what Fernet was but also knew how to pour it. We had a couple of Guinnesses while the sun shone outside; we established that he did have dice behind the bar, and said we’d come back after sushi, which we did, full and happy. I beat her at dice! Finally! Something I’m better at! I’m sure it’s only a matter of practice, though, before she’s better at that, too. S’all right.

The bar filled with good people as the night wore on. Red-red lipstick on everygirl and no one gave a FUCK about anything but the music and a little pool and the occasional cigarette (god, what I wouldn’t give).

And I think it was a success. There was a sad moment, when neither of us had picked the Coldplay ‘no one said it would be this hard’ song, and it played anyway, and we looked at each other and resolved’. What did we resolve? Dunno. Honesty? We can try for that, but, come on, who’s really honest? Even with ourselves? I get better at it as I get older, but I’m still a pretty good liar, especially to myself. I’ll try. Friendship? Sure, but we’d already agreed to that. We just’. agreed. That’s all.

And she’s got a hot-water bottle cozy, so who could ask for more?
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Just blew off the road and into my little apartment. I’ve spent what feels like days (but was only really about 4 or 5 hours) in the convertible, top down, hot wind scorching the life right out of my body. I LOVE my convertible. There are a few days, however, that I would give my left nut (if I were a generous boy and not the selfish girl that I am) for air-conditioning, instead. It was ninety-seven degrees driving through scenic towns like King City, Soledad, and Gilroy. Those places are truck stops, not towns. I have a triangle of odd brown/red color on my neck’I think that’s from the seat-belt strap.

I love Oakland. It’s cool today, and sunny, just perfect for a nice walk, which I’m NOT going to take because I’m still so overheated.

Going out tonight with T. Our first outing as Friends. For some reason (and it may be because my head is SO far under the sand, but I hope not), I’m not worried about it. I’m looking forward to it. To seeing her, to talking with her. I THINK I’ve pretty much talked myself out of her. Gawd, I’m convincing. Sometimes I scare myself with what I can talk myself into or out of. Of course, the brain chit-chat only extends so far. When I see her, when we play pool, that’ll be the test. Okay. My stomach just got a little tight. Breathe. She’s a friend. She’s a friend. Say it with me.

Anyway, it’s her birthday, and I’ve made the COOLEST gift for her (okay, it’s a nerdy gift, but I designed it myself, and it’s been killing me not posting it here, will post tomorrow).

I HAVE to shower’I feel like most of the grime and highway salt in Salinas ended up embedded on my face and shoulders. Good driving, though, singing with Christy to Alison Kraus and Slaid Cleaves’. Drinking lots and lots of icy Coke to cool down, ending up with a caffeine head rush, hopping into the carpool lane in San Jose, just ‘cause we could’. I love driving with someone; the ride zooms by.

I think I’ll take a nap on the floor first, before the shower. I’m too dirty to lie on the bed.
061303 1915

The thing about working an essential job (9-1-1/police dispatch) is that you can’t leave it unstaffed. That means, when someone’s sick, your time off gets cancelled. It’s expected, and you can’t be annoyed with the person who’s sick (who is apparently VERY sick, poor thing), just with the circumstances. I was going to have tonight off so I could sleep and get on the road early in the morning to go home for Live Oak Music Festival. This is a family tradition, Dad’s a site coordinator and we can’t NOT go. But I have to go in tonight, and worse, I’ll have to stay late in the morning.

This means getting on the highway at 11am, driving for five hours and being sparkly when I get home. Or if not sparkly, at least not-a-tired-bitch. Sigh. It’ll be a short weekend.

Tuck and Patti are the closing act on Sunday night, and I’m looking forward to hearing them again, if only because they’re my closest brush with singing fame. I can say ‘I opened for them once.’

Okay, I was in a college jazz group that opened for them at a winery in Paso Robles. A small winery. The crowd wasn’t more than a thousand. And there were eight of us in the group. BUT I had a solo. And they came on afterwards. Sure. I opened for them. Yeah. Tuck and Patti who? (We had to wear the ugliest lime green shirts.)

I can’t wait to see the little Mama. Bringing presents for her (it was her birthday last week) and a catnip mouse from the mouse-along for her babies.

Oh! I got the best email this morning from a woman who told me about her daughter, who writes and sounds like me, and who goes to the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival (uh-huh, it’s like that). She told me she likes to read my site because it reminds her of her daughter. That is sooooo flattering. Made my whole day. And to be compared to the person she probably loves the most? How wonderful.

Moms who love their daughters. Hey, I got one o’those.

I’m almost done with the Suki bag, I’ll finish it tonight and post pics on Tuesday when I’m back from Mom’s house. Almost almost finished with the Boxy Cable.

But I HATE finishing! I’m a starter. Not a finisher. (Hey, that says a lot about my relationships, too….)

Happy Weekend!

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Relationships are the funniest things. They can spin and throw you off balance in an instant, leaving you sick at heart and sad. And then they can shift and become new and different, and totally awesome.

T and I are not going to try to be anything more than friends. Which is what we probably should have been doing from the very beginning. But we both thought the other person was so fabulous that it just made sense to try to make it into something big. That’s a lot to live up to. Just her being her and me being me is as big and wonderful as anything I could imagine, and I’m so thrilled I get to keep her as my Friend. Capital F. She is stunning and funny and a kindred spirit, and I get to keep playing pool and drinking beer and playing Scrabble with her, and I’m so happy I could cartwheel. But I just had two pieces of sourdough toast with peanut butter and honey, and I think that would make my tummy feel funny.

Get this: I still get to sleep alone, which is one of my favorite things in the ENTIRE UNIVERSE, and I get to be single, which I adore, and I get her, too!

Happy happy happy.

I love being happy. Duh. Or, as I heard someone say last night, ‘Doi’ (must start using that phrase more). Of course I love being happy. But having three days of not happy further reinforced how lucky I am that happy is where I naturally reside. I’m lucky, and blessed, and if one day my body chemistry changes and I crash into depression, I know that I’ll be the first in line at the pharmacy, hooking myself up with whatever drugs are available to help with a chemical hand.

People deserve happiness. I know I do, and I know the people I love do, too. Even the people who severely annoy me at work deserve contentment. Life is too short not to share it with people (like T and J and my sisters) who make your heart bigger and sweeter and increasingly more beautiful. You know?
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Don’t feel well, heavy and ponderous in body, mind, and heart.

When I was learning to drive (at fourteen, in the Jeep on Saipan, skidding on the slick coral roads), Dad had a method of teaching emergency braking procedures. At any time, at any speed, he’d yell, ‘Panic stop!’ I had to slam and pump the brakes and try to regain control over the vehicle while stopping in the shortest possible distance. My sisters would bounce against the roll bar and throw candy at the back of my head.

It was a good lesson to learn. Doesn’t help with the shock of it, though, from moving along a highway at a comfortable, pleasurable, understandable speed, and then having to stop, suddenly, screeching and burning the brake pads.

And it doesn’t help telling yourself you have to stop. Even though you could have probably just veered around the traffic hazard.

Guess I’ve pushed that metaphor to its limit.

Working on the Suki bag. It’s relaxing to be working on something that just goes around and around and around. I’ll post pictures tomorrow. I was so flustered last night at work that I TOTALLY screwed up the pattern, and instead of working my main color in rows of three and the other contrast colors in rows of eight, I did everything in eights. Gonna be a long bag. I’ve adjusted it back to the pattern instead of ripping it out (just too darn lazy), and I’m just going to call it a Design Detail. Won’t nobody have a bag like that, nosiree.
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I spent the weekend working and not knitting enough. I’m in an awful kind of mood–restless but tired, not sure what I’m thinking except that I’m thinking waaa-yyy too much.

How do you turn the brain off? Apart from working to exhaustion or drinking too much (and neither of those really work), I think too much. I beat dead horses till there ain’t even a carcass. Just bones, picked clean. A few flies, buzzing impatiently. And my brain. Still a’whirrin’.

Yoga tomorrow. That works. Watching the breath.

Work tonight. And knitting.

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The people upstairs are so loud. SO freaking loud. Someday, I’m going to live on a top floor, and I’m not going to care one little bit about how much noise I make either. I’m going to jump up and down. I’m going to raise the bass on my TV so that I can hear it while standing outside.

When they stomp, my metal heater shakes and rattles on my wall. The glass panes in my windows rattle like they’re going to break. It isn’t even the stomping that’s that loud, it’s all the noise the glass and metal makes shaking. If they’re still doing it when I get out of the bath, I’m going upstairs and asking them to turn down their television. It wouldn’t even be that bad if they weren’t playing what is apparently a prerecorded George Bush speech. They probably Tivo-d it. They’re so white collar Berkeley Republican.

Aargh. I hope I sleep. I hope I REMEMBER how to sleep.

I’m off for a little trip with the girl I have a crush on. I’m going to put the top down on my convertible Petunia and cruise down the coast, blasting whatever I feel like playing on the CD player and meet her in time for breakfast. Then I hope we’ll walk along the beach and do nothing in particular with the rest of a lovely foggy day.
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Well, I got three hours of good sleep, from 9pm till midnight. Now I’m up again, reading and tossing and turning. Digit’s gonna claw me right out of the bed.

I’ve tried:

Bath

Sleepytime tea

Valerian

One sleeping pill

Still time for one more pill. Not the hard stuff, never tried any of the prescrip drugs, but I usually do pretty well with plain old Tylenol PM. Not lately, though. I might try some melatonin, although I always feel if you miss the melatonin “sleep window,” you’re completely fucked. Once that train done left the station, you done missed yer ride.

This sucks.
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Happy Birthday, Mom!

I’m probably the last to see Rob’s Amazing Poetry Generator, but it looks at websites and creates poetry, randomly, from the words it sees. Here’s a poem it wrote from my site:

**********************************************

Italy the first time,

Dad appeared to take brief encounters, good exchanges

with Ginsberg. Huh! Oh, but

sleep. For those Tintorettos and certainly the girl

talking on. Bit

of those slinkyshapes and finished MOST wearing

headsets to play

in lots of wine Again. And see

Things must end, all

over and Muhammad

is. And when the

sidewalks,

will linger

in your mind; After I was after;

this is squid, cooked

in the GiottoChapel and I suggested

such a Worth it.When I can

you ready? for Greece….

***********************************************

Hee hee.

Tired, so tired. Thus, no writing. Yesterday, I forgot how to sleep. Entirely. Two sleeping pills and a shot of Slivovitz later, I managed to get an hour and forty-five minutes in. I really, truly thought I had lost the technique for doing it. I would get so close, and then I would think: ‘I’m almost asleep!’ and I would shoot right back to full and panicked awareness. Then a ten hour shift at work, followed by a four hour nap, and up for more.

Went to a barbeque at Y’s house, out on the water. Lovely place, great food. But I was an idiot, sleepy and stupid. Hate being stupid. I wore my PW Damned Fair-Isle sweater, though, first appearance in public, and it was acceptable. It was really too warm for it, so I had to take it off almost immediately. That’s perhaps the way it should be worn.

Finished my secret project. Will post pictures of it later. It’s the first thing I’ve ever designed myself, and I’m quite proud of myself.

I am too tired now to sleep.
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Found Live365 radio (courtesy of Amy, who has her own station), and it rocks. Call me backwards, but I had never tried online radio (never had a computer until now that would support it). Amy’s station is chock full o’Indigo Girls and Dar Williams. And I’ve seen (but haven’t yet tried) a bluegrass channel, and a rockabilly one. There’s just too much out there. I love it.

Also love what I saw two days ago driving down San Pablo: A PACE flag hung in a martial arts studio window.

Think about it. It’s gorgeous.

Knitting a super secret little thing, actually designing it myself. Thus, I’m totally unsure how it will turn out. I’ll post pictures when it’s done. I hope it works. Haven’t made any more progress on Beth’s Boxy Cable, but that’s only because I’m working on the surprise.

I dream about knitting. I dream I make incredible things from my own designs, and that they just fly off the needles without effort. Never any finishing involved. Never any bloody dropped stitches.

Went to yoga yesterday, and I’ve found my new teacher! She dealt with breath almost exclusively, using the breath as the base of every pose (duh, I know, but it’s amazing how people forget it, me most of all). Breathing is why I got into yoga in the first place when I quit smoking. I never knew how to breathe. A year and a half later, I’m still not much better at it. But the teacher was excellent at using language to instruct us in what the breath was doing and where the breath was going, and I got it. I’ve found that in yoga you have to speak the same language as your teacher’some people use the phraseology that makes sense, that instantly sparks awareness in your mind. Others say things like ‘feel your sacrum open like a spring rain.’ That’s not my language, pretty as it is. I get all concerned with how spring rain might open (?) and forget to breathe.

Off to write. And breathe.
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Both my cats are droolers. And I mean drool tide. If Digit sits next to me and cuddles and kneads for just a few minutes, I’m left with a drenched spot that doesn’t dry for hours. I’m used to changing shirts. Adah doesn’t actively salivate as much as drips. Just petting her sets off a line a drool that hits the floor under her chin. Most disgusting is when the saliva tickles her (often) and she shakes her head, sending a fine mist of drool to cover the victim and her magazine. At least this usually happens the most while I’m in the bath (Adah’s favorite position is perched on the edge), so I can just slide under the water for a dunk. (At the shelter, where I met her, I actually identified her as my new cat by the drool-string. Ah, she must be a Herron.)

Ick.

Had the variation-on-a-theme nightmare today. This time, I was traveling with Christy and Dad to Paris. As we ran to catch the Amtrak that would get us to the airport, I realized I didn’t have my passport. Back at my house (where I slept in a waterbed in the garage), I sent Christy in to find the passport while I rummaged through all my knitting stuff for a set of double-point threes. I HAD to make socks on the plane, as much as I HAD to have my passport. It went on and on, and as the dream always goes, I didn’t ever get to the airport. I knew in my dream that we were already two hours late, but I hoped hoped hoped that the plane would wait for us.

It’s an odd recurring nightmare, since I only have one travel mantra. For days beforehand, and all during a trip, I recite ‘Tickets passport money. Tickets passport money.’ I can get anywhere in the world (that I care to go) with these three things, screw the knitting needles and the right attire. Someday, I’m going to be somewhere, and I will have lost one of those three, and I will FREAK out. Until then, I just practice in my dreams.

Looked at plane fare to Ethiopia. J must be crazy. Three thousand dollars? Uh uh. I have to do better than that, or I’m not going. I can’t even imagine being able to afford a thousand dollars, which is what I thought she said it would cost. Three thousand just isn’t possible. I have nine dollars in my bank account to last till Friday. Sigh. Money.
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Where did the day go? Oh, yes, I know. I learned how to play WordOx with T online. She kicked my ASS at it, but I just have to practice. Yeah, that’s it. Sure.

Went to see Spellbound last night. What a movie! I’ve been fascinated with the Nat’l Spelling Bee ever since I watched Rebecca Sealfon win on ESPN in 1997. The crowd in the theatre was great, too, gasping over the wins and losses. One man, however, was WAY too into it. He moved his hands in the air, as if conducting the letters as they escaped the contestants lips, and would bring them back down and yelp, ‘Yes!’ if he thought they got the word right. Note the word ‘thought.’ Sometimes he was wrong, and he had to do a little body dance to shake it off. He was a good speller, most of the time, only I paid TO SEE THE MOVIE, not him. I had to hold my right hand up for a while, to block him out. Either that or knock him out. But it was an emotional movie’we roared with laughter, and I got a little choked up. Okay, a couple of times. Or maybe more than a couple.

All this leads to banter with T that the winner of the Great Scrabble Match will not be a foregone conclusion. This, of course, is only banter, ‘cause I talk good smack, but I haven’t played Scrabble in a long time. She’ll totally beat me. But she’ll look cute doing it. I blame WordOx for my loss, in advance.

Oh, and I’m published in Islands magazine this month. That is, if you can call winning the stooo-pid ‘Which Island Type are You?’ contest and getting the result published in the ‘Letters’ section. I would reprint the 100 words here, but they really are too smarmy to be believed. Idiotic. Just goes to show how a writer can abuse language to get somewhere they didn’t really want to be. Gertrude Stein only wrote _The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas_ to make money. I only wrote those dum-buh few lines so I could say ‘I’ve been in Islands magazine.’ (Yeah, that makes me feel better, putting myself in the same paragraph as GS.) Only now, honestly, I’m too ashamed even to say that. It’s in the ‘Letters’ section, and it’s ridiculous. They didn’t even send me the free copy they promised, either; I had to pick it up at Longs today. But it has Samoa on the cover, so it was worth buying, I suppose. Ah, well. Nice to know my name is in a lot of stores right now, even if it ain’t worth looking at. It’s there.

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Time to archive last month. And thank goodness. For some reason, all my links and bolds and italics slip to the left after a week or so. Not sure why, but it’s irritating as hell.

Almost as irritating as Adah doing her long-arm reach, claws out, trying to pull my fingers toward her for petting. I’m typing, Cat!

Had Stitch’n’Bitch yesterday at the bar, which was a bust. It’s either just great or just not, and yesterday two very cool people came, my sister Christy and T, because I essentially made them come. The only other person who showed up was a very irritating woman who talked loudly about things NO ONE cares about. Why am I so irritated by the whole Renaissance Faire/SCA thing? {shallow and callous comment to follow:} I just don’t like those people. As a rule. I had one friend I liked, Chris, who was totally into it. But I only ever saw him at Pirates’ Cove (nude beach) and he was way easier to handle when he had no clothes on. As soon as he put clothes on, he started Morris dancing, whether or not there was music playing. Sheesh.

Yesterday T took me to Clement Street, in the Richmond in SF. Her home stomping ground, she really did seem to know everyone in it. And I love learning a place from a local. She walks like I do, into a store, have a quick browse, feel things, pick them up and turn them over, then out and have a little coffee. More walking, browsing, and a quick drink (well, we stretched that out a while). We had amazing sushi, and she made origami for me. Really. Her kangaroo kicked ass! I learned how to make a crane. Hmmm. Must practice that, as I think I’ve almost forgotten already.

Couldn’t sleep till 4am, and the trying made me frantic. I don’t know why. It’s my day off, I should have been able to lie there contentedly, but I was far from content. I just wanted SLEEP, and it was reluctant to visit. Sigh. But that allows me to sleep till noon, always a good thing.

Gonna knit. I’m half-way up the back of the Boxy Cable, almost done.

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Just one more geek note: I’m so freaking happy to be sitting here, right now, on a Saturday night. People are on their way out for the night–my sister’s going dancing–my upstairs neighbors are clanking around, giggling girls filling their computer-fied rooms. And I’ve got Kris Delmhorst playing on the (crappy) stereo, I had a great afternoon, I’m going to have a long bath and some kind of snack (Tofutti Cutie?) and get into my soft bed for a long, soft NIGHT of sleep. I adore sleeping at night. It’s good good good good.

1930

Courtesy of Joz, I found that my eyesight isn’t as good as I thought it was, at least, not when it comes to color. Take this test.

T had to attend a horrendous wedding this morning and I had a messed up night at work last night, so we met for drinks this afternoon. I was just fed the fuck up, and I think she was too. She makes me laugh. She makes me feel good, and fun, and smart, and sweet, and sexy. And she is all the above.

I totally dig her. Obvious, huh?

Oh, and I did the Geek Test. First of all, you have to be a geek to even WANT to do the long-ass test. I scored 32.45% which equals Total Geek. I’m actually kinda disappointed. I thought I was geekier. There should be a Knitting Geek Test. Yeah!

053003 2300

I’m on my break at work and I’m sooo crabby. It’s Friday, that much is sure. I’m ready for a weekend, I’m ready to take my headset off and not have to listen to citizens whining about problems that, for the rest of us, don’t really matter. If my life’s biggest problem was the abandoned vehicle that was parked in front of my half-million dollar home, I wouldn’t harass the poor dispatcher who gives most of her paycheck back to credit card bills and student loans.

And speaking of that, where the hell does my money go, anyway? I have on-line bill pay through my bank, and I set up every two weeks who gets paid on payday. And now, one week to go to the next payday, I have $9 in my checking account. How is that possible?

I’m trying to pay so much to these damn credit cards, to get them out of my life, but it feels like I’m swimming upstream. Never was a good swimmer. Tend to inhale too much water.

And I’m not a big spender. I keep my used cars for years. I buy my clothes at thrift stores. I do spend too much on digital/computer equipment, but I haven’t done that in a while. I do buy too much yarn. But I work hard, and a lot. Where the hell does it go?

Okay. Now to write. I didn’t have time to write this afternoon, and this being my Friday, I won’t write again until Tuesday. I love having a real weekend. The novel is going a little squirrely on me’things keep happening that I didn’t plan. People are saying things that I didn’t intend them to. I suppose that’s a good thing. I think this is the way it’s supposed to work. But it’s scary.

T was talking about a blank piece of paper, and painting the ocean. I balked. She said, ‘that’s what’s good’you might just put two splashes of color, and that would be YOUR seascape.’ I said it would be too exciting and too frightening, at the same time. She said that was the great thing about it.

I like this kind of fear. The fear of the unknown, a new person, a new form of art. I don’t enjoy real fear: that of losing someone you love, or of dying, or being hurt, but that tentative trepidation, that ‘maybe’ fear is awesome. It’s as close to skydiving as I’ll ever get.

(Aside: I typed, first, trepidatious. The state of feeling trepidation. Mighty annoyed when spell check underlined it. Yep. Apparently, it ain’t a word (don’t start with me). This is an awful feeling, as I realize I think I made ‘trepidatious’ up, probably at a very young age, and no one has EVER corrected me. Mortifying. Almost as bad as when I said, out loud, ‘Confisticate.’ I knew how to spell confiscate, of course, but in my own mind, I pronounced it incorrectly, and then one day, I said it out loud the wrong way, too. Urgh.)

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I finished the front of the Boxy Cable yesterday’and I can’t even tell ya how nice it feels to only deal with one strand of yarn at once. I think everything feels easier after the PW Fair-Isle. And I like the yarn on the cable sweater so much, it’s a gray Donegal Tweed, and there are little surprises of interesting color in it: blue, and yellow and a very odd but lovely green. I’ve cast the back on, and only have that to finish. It’ll be the perfect Stitch’n’Bitch work, too, just stockinette the whole way up. Won’t have to think at all.

After that, I’m going to do this tank in a wonderful orange tweed I got from Article Pract. Hooray!

Last night of work before the weekend tonight’have to go in early, and I had to stay late, as well. That’s when the job is hard, when you only have eight or ten hours off between shifts. I actually had ten off today, so it’s not so bad. But it’s still hard to have any approximation of time to oneself when you’re rushing to sleep so that you can get up and showered in time to go right back.

No other news. Absolutely nothing. Been a quiet week. I get to see T tomorrow night, and I’m happy about that.

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Okay, way too into checking blogs on the internet. I’m putting a stop to it today (at least temporarily) so I can write this and then my real writing. Then, if I have time, I can play a little. I must be the parent here. I must be in control.

Some people watch TV. I watch the computer.

And how fun it is! I can queue up my music, sit in my comfy rocking chair, talk with the kitties, drink my espresso, and eavesdrop on people’s lives. Current new favorite is Live@Lakeridge. She’s got the razor-edged humor that I wish for.

Went to sleep so late this morning, way excited about my new button. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? I guess I’m gonna have to start collecting them, too.

There. I just finished my 100 things list. Now I’ll write.

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Check it OUT! I have the best new button anywhere, courtesy of the AMAZING Pioneer Melissa, who cranked it out in a matter of what seemed like minutes. It’s from a photo I took of myself, standing alone on a small pier in Venice, the Rialto behind me. I am sooo excited I can’t even stand it. Please steal my button!

And stop by Pioneer Woman with Cell Phone and see her other fantastic work. I’m so lucky!.

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And this: I just viewed my site statistics: My most hit pages are most often viewed after googling the following terms: “Cutting neck steeks” (good, at least it’s knitting) and “Posters of Spanish monks drinking wine.” Waaahhh!! That strikes me as hysterically funny.

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Wow! Pioneer Melissa just told me that she’d design me a button for my site! I’m so frikken excited! Whatever she does will rock, I know that.

I’m so way deep into this blogging thing. What a geek I am.

Love it.

Started my Suki bag last night. It’s the perfect antidote to finishing the Damned Fair-Isle’just miles of round and round and round. I’m also working the Boxy Cable, only four more inches of cabling to go before I start the neck shaping. Whoo hoo! Light wool, not scratchy, hands not getting tired, just simply knitting. Love that, too.

Also loving Devil Makes Three. I adore that CD. Lines like: ‘I’m just leaning on my shovel in the graveyard of broken dreams.’ (paraphrased from faulty memory, the CD’s in the car) Walking the plank songs. Whiskey drinking songs. Underage-barfly songs. Songs that make you want to dance and kiss yer girl in an alley, a smoke in one hand, a bottle in the other. ‘Course, I don’t smoke any more (long sigh of regret’..) and I’d probably break the bottle on the recycling dumpster….

Feeling oh-so-boring and slow today. It’s beautiful out’going to go for a walk and then do some yoga and THEN do my writing.

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Can it really be the 27th? Maybe it’s the 26th and I just can’t find a calendar. I suppose I could look one up, but I’m too lazy. I’m doing laundry right now. That’s enough work.

Aren’t we spoiled? I know I am I know I am I know I am. And I’m grateful for it every day. I’m not beating my clothes on a rock (although it’s a gorgeous warm day, it would probably be quite nice to do so); they’re spinning all by themselves until they’re clean and dry. Leaving me time to write.

It’s my Monday, so I have to get back into the work mode. I will write today. I will try, at least. I’ve been finding that I have very little motivation to write until I’m actually at work. And at that point, I think it’s the motivation to LEAVE the room that is the impetus to write. After that first little writing session, I can carry the energy through the rest of the week, both at home and on my work breaks. But Tuesday afternoons, when I’m still gearing up, are difficult times to get motivated.

Especially after such a good, busy weekend. I spent yesterday with T, breakfast at the Merritt Bakery and then shopping at Thrift Town and Macy’s. From the sublime to the ridiculous, I suppose. She cleaned up at Thrift Town, scored a fabulous Fairfield baseball jersey and some cool green poly pants, as well as various odds and ends. I only got a book and a sugar bowl. Sigh. She bought me the Devil Makes Three album which I’ve been lusting after’totally rocks.

I’m having a bonfire for my birthday! Yippee! I know it’s more than a month away, but I like to look forward to things.

No other reasonable thoughts to share. Just pretty dang happy. Off to shop for yarn for my Suki knit-along. And maybe for a tank top. Hee!

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Done! With the Damned Fair-Isle

Philosopher’s Wool, Kilim Jacket, Size small. Thank you, Hay-soos!

Picture of me wearing it to left.

052503 2300

Mango was a blast, I’ll have you know. Went yesterday afternoon. It’s a dance/barbeque/thing at El Rio on Mission once a month or so, and I always hear how cool it is. So J and I went, and it really was fun. Mango goes from 3pm till 8pm (I think) and we got there about 3:30. We waited in line an HOUR AND A HALF. In the afternoon! Hundreds of women, dying to salsa and groove, all ready to play in the afternoon.

I think that was the cool thing about it’that it was during the day. Women’s parties at night have that element of debauchery, which, if you’re into, can be good, I suppose. But if you just want to hang out and dance and watch people (and not drink, I had to work last night), the afternoon is a much better time to do it. It felt like a barbeque with a lot of friends, only I hardly knew anyone. It was funny, though. The girl behind me (I had been checking out her AWESOME orange polyester pants) turned out to be Acosia from my Stitch’n’Bitch at the bar, a total sweetie.

The dancing was mostly out on the back patio, and there was hardly room to move on the floor. The DJ was hot, moving from salsa to hip-hop and back, no house, thank god. And the women were so fun to watch’there was every style imaginable on display. Girls in shorts and tanks, girls wearing school uniforms, grrls in combat boots with pigtails, jocks in tees and ponytails, punks, players, and regular ole gals just dancing. Lots of tatts and piercings and way cooler shoes than I own. But it wasn’t cheesy’it didn’t feel like a pick-up joint’people were just there to dance. I’ll totally be back. Just good to feel at home somewhere, you know?

Tonight I did two fun things:

Finished the Damned Fair-Isle at Kira and Rachel’s S’n’B! (well, I still have to add the one clasp, but who cares?) It’s done! And so ugly. Can’t even tell ya. But I like it because it was so difficult, because it’s actually done, and because I don’t have to bother with it anymore. I can hardly even bear thinking about adding the button and blocking it. I should do that tomorrow, just to get it over with. I’ll try to add a picture tomorrow, too lazy tonight.

And after that I went to a beach bonfire. Actually, I just kind of crashed the party’the S’n’B is on 47th Ave and Lincoln, and the bonfire was at Ocean Beach, so I went down to Fulton, found my friend’s car and walked up and down the beach, peering into the fire rings until I found her. It brought back so freaking much’how many times have I sat on the beach in the dark, fire sparking, sand in the marshmallows, beer held between the knees, shooting the shit about things you really don’t care about, you’re just so glad to be right there, right then? That’s gotta be one of my top ten things to do. Made me change my mind about my b-day party’I’m not having it at my house. I hate having parties. I’m gonna have a bonfire for my birthday. That way, I’m not the host. I’m just there, warming my face with everyone else.

That smell! I wanted to take a bath tonight, but I don’t want to lose that smoky smell that’s lodged in my hair, my sweatshirt. I want to take the beach with me to bed, dream about it, wake thinking it’s near. I don’t go to the ocean often enough. The Bay doesn’t count. At all. It’s nice that the Bay’s there, but it so doesn’t count.

052503 1500

Have been working on my 100 Things About Me. (see Stuff to left) I’ve only done 62 so far.

052403 1430

Only a few minutes to write.

First the bad part of last night, just because I want to write it right out of my system: Walking out of Merchants with a terrible man yelling ‘Get the fuck out! Fucking lesbians!’ All the way to the car, ‘Lezzzbbeeeee-yanssss!’ Did he think the word itself was the insult? ‘Cause it’s a mighty good word. I don’t think he even tried ‘dyke,’ but I like that one, too. The insult was this: That was my bar. I loo-oo-oved that bar. I hung out there, day in, day out, saw morning in there, saw nights out. I kissed my girlfriends there. I was protected. I knew everyone. Last night there was just a group of very straight-laced banker types playing pool on one table, and us on another, and a bunch of ugly cretins in the front room. Fuck them. Hurts, though, to be yelled at like that. No one standing up for us. I liked it that T paused, pulled on my hand like she wanted to go back and chat with him. But I pulled her to the car. Sigh. Sometimes the world is so ugly.

But the good part of the night far and away outweighed the ugly: Dinner at Scott’s. Perfect. Drinking and shooting pool at the Lucky 13 in A-town. Watching T kick some ass on the pool table (and I kicked a tiny little bit, too). Smiling at her. Her winking.

Etymological talk later. Seriously! Can you imagine? I have such a fuckin’ blast with her! Enough. 🙂

Only knitting news: I’ve made six mice now, trying to power out a bunch to give as little gifts. The kitties love ‘em. Thanks, Wendy!

052303 1600

Busy as hell last night, huge fire out on the base. Now that we don’t dispatch fire, you’d think it’d be easier, but with a blaze that size in a warehouse where things were exploding, and people calling 911 from San Francisco who could see the flames, it’s all hands on deck. I ran roll-calls every 30 minutes to make sure I knew where everyone was. Insanity.

You know what? I have very little else to say. Tired. Fighting grumpy. Want to knit, but it seems like such a big deal to get the shit out, untangle the stupid Damned Fair-Isle and work on the last button band. I think this is laziness I feel. Want nothing more than to crawl back in bed with White Teeth (which is getting sooo good, BTW). But if I do that, I’ll fall asleep and that wouldn’t be right, would it? Would it?

052203 1700

Not much time to write, got called in to work early’. Sigh.

But LOOK: my kitties are famous. Or at least they are in my mind. They’re six rows down, Adah’s the one next to the books. What fun a mouse-along is! I was telling a friend at night what a knitting nerd I was, and I showed him the mice, and he sadly had to agree. He almost equated it with Star Trek convention kind of thing. But knitters are cuter.

And I got my Denise needles. I’m in looo-oo-ve. I made the mice using them, and they’re easy to use, feel good in the hands, and I have everything I’ll need, any size, any length. It’s a pity (wink) more things in life aren’t like that.

I suppose I have time to write. Damn it. I really want to blame being called in to work early as my reason for not writing, but I can’t. Here I go.

Oh, and: I love this neighborhood, so much. I needed more catnip (want to make one for Trish’s cats), so I just walked out to the nearest pet shop. And I bought a big ole burrito for dinner/breakfast tonight. Life’s good.

052103 1745

I’m so doing the mouse-along with Wendy, button to left. Everyone knits their kitties a few catnip micies, then posts a pic of their pals playing (typo: slaying). Whee! (later, finished one, to left, Digit playing)

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This was in the New York Times three days ago: Dating a Blogger, Reading all About It. Good article on how blogging is changing the face of some friendships’with all these miniaturized memoirists, people have to weigh what they say to whom, for fear they’ll ‘get blogged.’

I wonder if my friends feel like that? It was a criticism once, that I keep my entries too generic, few names, few specific details. I think, though, that I sometimes say too much. I try not to write about work (hello, Internal Affairs) and I try to disguise anger as cynical humor (and I delay it a while, change the details a bit), but I’m sure most of what I write is recognizable.

A blogger-friend sent me the link, and it was weird to note that blogging has become such a cultural feature that it rated listing in the ‘Fashion & Style’ section. It says (can this be true?) that there are an estimated three million blogs on the internet. If so, can you imagine all the junk that’s floating around out there? Me times three million? It doesn’t bear thinking about.

I want to know more about why people keep blogs. I keep mine to kick-start me into writing’to remind me who I am and what it really is that I’m doing. To remind me that I have an awesome life and I am not and never will defined by my day(night)job. It really works, happy to say. It’s also, I realize, completely narcissistic. Oh, well. I write a whole lot more than I mean to, though, and it’s funny when random people mention, ‘Oh, I read your site sometimes, but you always have too much on there to keep up with you.’ Good. Lose them in the details.

Both my sisters have had blogs. Only B lost hers, couldn’t remember the site and never attached it to any search engines, so it swims out there in the night, alone. C’s is cool, but I can’t at this moment remember her site name.

Okay, that was weird. Googled C’s internet-nickname to find her site, came up with not her website, but a list made on Amazon. I can’t figure out if it’s her or not. One of the books on the list is Fodor’s New Zealand, which would imply that it is my sister. But the music listed just can’t be her. I know she would enjoy and appreciate Frank Sinatra, Sleater-Kinney, and X-Ray Spex, but all together on a list? Can’t be her. That’s the strangeness that’s out there.

Reading White Teeth:

‘ ‘I’m as liberal as the next person,’ complained Alsana, once they were alone. ‘But why do they always have to be laughing and making a song-and-dance about everything? I cannot believe homosexuality is that much fun. Heterosexuality certainly is not.’’

052003 1145

So this is what I want to know:

How do you sleep on your back? I just can’t do it. I practice, too. I know it’s the ‘right’ way to sleep, better for your back and internal organs, but I have problems with it. For one, what do you do with your toes? They stick straight up into the blankets! And the heels! They get tired, being pushed into the mattress. And I think I so seldom have my legs out straight that they get confused. Whenever I lie with a leg straight, my toes go right to sleep (leaving the rest of me behind, sigh), even if there’s no pressure on the leg.

Jeez. Does it really have to be this hard? Just give me my three pillows and let me sleep on my stomach.

It’s gorgeous today’warm and sunny (and what just got hit outside? I don’t want to look’okay, not my car) and I should be out in it. Instead, I’m doing the laundry I didn’t yesterday and listening to music. Going to knit a little more this afternoon. Finally finished a button band yesterday (picture to left) and picked up the second one. And NOT following the Philosopher’s Wool instructions made it a lot easier this time. I didn’t ‘knit into the bar stitches’ (which is what killed me and made the pick-up look worse than the one I got the other night at the coffee-shop) but I just went back to good-old using a crochet hook. Zip-zip, picked up, and I might finish the second band today. Then just a little finishing at the bottom, and CUTTING.

Best line on Six Feet Under this week: Claire says, ‘Can you give a me a ride? I need to get an abortion.’ Oh, my god, I love that show.

051903 1355

I’m sitting on my couch (oooh, should be doing laundry, just realized), having a nice afternoon off, cruising websites, thinking about knitting (I will, I will, just after I close this machine and open the washing one), listening to the CD that L burned for me. We had dinner last night, a planned and looked-forward-to night.

She was the Big One. I hate to say ‘the,’ so I’ll correct that to ‘a’ Big One. I had never been hurt before her’my heart had been wounded before, but she was the only one to ever truly break my heart. To lay it wide open to the elements. Before her, I never knew that pain like that existed, and more than that, that the pain could be lived through, with a richer life on the other side. The pain was in direct correlation to the relationship: extraordinary. She moved to Montana last fall, and this was the first time I’d seen her since she moved. She brought for me, with her usual grace, a CD that she made’a compilation of women artists. Interestingly, I have several of the artists included, but the songs she picked are enhanced by their placement next to the others. She chose all the right songs. I don’t have any Lucinda Williams right now, and I just heard ‘Greenville,’ and Lucinda’s backed, she must be, by Emmylou Harris. Sublime. She still knows me.

Standing in the living room last night, she glanced at my bookshelf and said, ‘Oh, I love Tom Gunn! I met him once, you know.’ I told her to pull the book out, she might as well take it, I had gone to a reading by him just before (or was it just after?) we broke up and had him sign it to her. But I hadn’t been able to give it to her, and in the following years, it just became too awkward. It was just sitting there, waiting for her to notice it. I love synchronicity.

I am blessed with such richness in my life.

051803 1615

No, I don’t know why my links in the journal section below have moved over one or two letters. But it’s irritating.

Had such a good time last night. Can I just tell ya? She’s so cute. She cooked dinner, grass-fed filet mignons (I brought those) with a mustard-cream sauce and mushrooms. String beans with tzatziki sauce. It was amazing. Managed to stop talking long enough to watch Psycho Beach Party, a twisted-crazy-great movie I can’t believe I hadn’t seen before. Lauren Ambrose outdoes herself (and several other characters that she plays).

Then we went to the party her next door neighbor was having. The neighbor’s name is Loki (how could it be anything else?), and he’s a left-over goth. It was a goth party like I ain’t seen since just after high school. They might have been the same people, come to think of it. (An aside: Upstairs in the warehouse-apartment was a loft where the real booze was being hidden for the chosen, which we were apparently part of. Also hidden was their WiFi card, since at other parties people have brought their computers, logged into their blogs or livejournals and written about the parties as they were happening. While I was interested in the phenomenon, what then happens to the entire concept of a party?)

T and I were pretty much the only people not in all black. And we went so far past not-in-black that we almost made it over to anti-goth (Thog). We both wore work jumpsuits. Mine was one of her painting jumpsuits, her name embroidered on the chest, paint splatters all over it. Hers was the to-die-for Southwest Airlines blue one embroidered on the front with the alarming word “Crash.”. She introduced me to her roommates as her clone that she’d made, and I think we really freaked them out. It’s uncanny, actually. She pointed out we even wear the same earrings.

I loved being with her, in a jumpsuit, at a goth party.

A friend just called whom I hadn’t spoken to in a long time, and she asked me if I was seeing anyone. I told her a bit about what was going on, and she asked how I felt.

‘Terrified,’ I said.

‘That’s so great!’ she said. ‘That’s the best kind of afraid!’

I had to agree she was right.
051703 1744

So it’s Saturday, practically Saturday night, and have I done any knitting on the Damned Fair-Isle? No. Not a stitch.

I’m sitting (well, lying, god bless the laptop) on my little divan, the windows open, a lovely early evening outside, barbeque smoke from down the street blowing in the window, birds tweeting. It’s an idyllic neighborhood. If I can’t afford to buy a house in the ghetto, I want to keep renting here in paradise.

I went to the little meat market in my neighborhood today to pick up some filet mignon for my date (yep!) tonight. It’s almost a little Stepford-y, the way everyone’s happy around here. Little families, buying the organic produce at the market next to the meat place, lesbians strolling their babies in expensive prams, punky-chic kids eating burritos in sidewalk chairs, everyone carrying cups of independently brewed coffee. Yep, this is Oakland, but it’s Rockridge. Not as enclave-y as Montclair, it’s almost real. It tries so hard to be real.

I adore it. The guy at the meat marke (long sideburns, sweet smile, obviously plays in a band in the evenings) chit-chatted with me about the grass-fed filets, and I knew I wasn’t quite pulling it off. The sweats I was wearing were from Target, not, oh, I don’t know, LLBean. But I like to watch how the people who actually own property in this area act.

The people around here only really piss me off when they feel they have the right to walk their dogs past my house off-leash. Grrrrr. If they chase Digit one more time, I’ll’. I don’t know what I’ll do. I’ve only had the balls to chase one woman down the street and around the corner to tell her to leash her mean dog’and I haven’t seen her walk past again. I always yell at this one horrible black mutt that a shuffling old man leads past twice a day’he hears me yell (as his dog scarfs down Digit’s breakfast) and calls his dog, but he refuses to leash it.

And what am I gonna do? Animal control is too busy to care, and the PD certainly has no time to deal with it. So I’ll keep yelling and I hope that Digit’s medicated food doesn’t hurt the stupid mutt. This is why I don’t like dogs. They’re so’. much. I like a certain dog, every once in a while, if I’m properly introduced. I can admire the idea of them. But running loose in front of my house, no.

Yes, date tonight with T. Happy. I’m bringing steaks, she’s cooking them, and hopefully that’s a fair trade. We’re much safer this way.

I’m so lazy right now!

051603 1900

Dude. This has got to be one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen. And it’s the longest I’ve ever been able to look at the Shrub.

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Haven’t seen the new Matrix yet. But all the other sites are talking about it, so I will put in my sister’s thoughts (she loved the first one): ‘Booooo-ring, It was a computer game filled with stick figures spouting libertarian drivel.’ She said Keanu and Pretty-What’s-Her-Name had soulful lines like, ‘I’m holding you now. I won’t let you go.’ I really don’t think I can bear that. I liked the first because I was forced to. It’s not the type of movie I’d ever go to of my own volition, but I had to admit, it was different and engaging. Now, according to my sister, it’s a soapbox for long-winded existential rhetoric, and the sex scenes, while steamy, don’t save it.

It’s odd. The people that I’ve talked to that have actually seen the movie didn’t love it. But the reviewers are raving. Usually it’s the other way around’the reviewers of a follow-up are overly critical and the fans will take anything; they just want their world to return. In any case, I believe I’m giving it a pass. Gonna see Down With Love this weekend, totally looking forward to that. Still haven’t seen A Mighty Wind, a must.

Let’s see, what now? I want to write about my friend’s Grandfather Rufus, but that would entail posting a picture over the Italian ladies’ legs (above), and I’m not ready to do that yet. Maybe next week.

Might have a date on Saturday night. Unclear as of yet. Hope I do.

Speaking of dating, this weekend is entirely filled with ex-lovers. Brunch with one on Sunday, dinner with one on Sunday night, and lunch with another on Monday. And you know, what? I’m happy about it! I never thought I’d be this kind of person. In the straight world, you move on. You don’t communicate, don’t want to, there isn’t any need. I don’t miss my male exes. I wonder what they would think about certain things or wonder vaguely how they’re doing, but I don’t want to talk to them. Heavens, no! But women, they can slide right over into another compartment, that of Friend. Not easily. Kinda sucks at first. But then, there’s nothing like it. And the whole weekend being centered around eating activities, how could it be better?

Saturday day, though, I have nothing planned, nothing at all, and I am hoping to knit the Damned Fair-Isle button bands. I was cruising some knitting sites last night, and the Curmudgeon had a whole Philosopher’s Wool comment crusade going, mostly lambasting the company. It was interesting to see people hating the patterns (and the wool) so much. I’m glad I’m not the only one having difficulty with it. Totally relieved, actually. Would love to do a Dale of Norway, but I’m getting ahead of myself. Must finish the DFI.

051503 1645

Just realizing, looking at the date, that I forgot a friend’s birthday. I came to that conclusion by thinking that May 15th rings some kind of bell in my mind, what does it mean? Then I remembered that my friend’s birthday was last month and I’m only now remembering it. Apparently I’ll figure out next month what I forgot today.

I have a horrible memory. It’s not just the short-term, it’s the long-term, too. One of the biggest fights I had with a partner was whether or not we had eaten at a particular restaurant. After knowing for absolute certain that I had never set foot in the place, after we almost broke up, oh, let’s say a good four or five months after the fight, I suddenly remembered. Oh, yeah! That place WAS good. It’s entirely selective. I can remember arguments and slights and small turns-of-phrase that affect me. I’m pretty good with remembering compliments, too, thank god. But the every day who-said-what-to-whom, not a chance in hell. I read voraciously. I keep up with the New Yorker. But when asked who’s ruling which country in what way, I can’t place a name or a face to anything, even though I read a sixteen page expose on the same country this morning while lying in the tub. I’ll recognize things, ideas, when I hear them. I just can’t bring them out of my recall-box. I’m terrible at Jeopardy, but I know when I hear the right answer, and I know when I hear a wrong one. It’s horribly frustrating to appear this stupid. Bleah.

Bad sleep today. Dreams of yarn (and those aren’t pleasant, lots of trailing ends, lost needles, patterns working into bilious shades of puce) and dreams of chemical/biological attack (I was reading this morning in the tub about the Department of Homeland Security’s new web page, Ready.gov, which tells you absolutely nothing while scaring the shit out of you at the same time. Well done). Adah was a pest. Thought about locking her in the bathroom, but I was too tired to get up and do it. Besides, it isn’t nice. But sometimes I do it anyway.

Hah! Creepylesbo emailed me from England, asking if all lesbians had to pass a knitting test before getting their license in the States. She doesn’t understand it. Really, neither do I. Cracked me up.

And this: A bumper-sticker I saw yesterday on a walk: ‘Bush: The only dope worth shooting.’ Hee hee. I know, but so funny. My more conservative friends would shudder and want me taken up on treason. It’s a joke!

Did more work on the Boxy Cable last night, coming along nicely. I’ll probably finish both sweaters at the same time. Still haven’t picked up the Damned Fair Isle.

051403 1500

Got a voice mail on my cell when I woke up from J, saying she was mugged this morning in her apartment building. Apparently, she’s all right, that’s all I know. I hate it that she doesn’t have a cell phone and I can’t call her back.

Can you imagine? Walking through your own lobby, picking up the paper, and getting robbed? That area in Oakland near the Lake has been getting rougher the last couple of years, but this is ridiculous. Thank god she’s moving to Ethiopia. I’m sure she’ll be much safer there. I really can’t decide whether I’m being ironic or not.

Speaking of Ethiopia, I have to start saving money! The big travel fund! When am I ever going to have this kind of opportunity again? And hell, apparently the jump-off point (or one of them) is Italy. Pity. I’ll have to go to Italy on the way. Sigh.

Okay. She just called. She got led into talking to the guy: the whole ‘tow truck on its way, car broken down, can I borrow some money,’ rip-and-rup crap. Sheeit. That would just ruin a perfectly good day. She’s not hurt, that’s all that really matters.

I keep feeling like I should put up another Italy picture for the top of the site, but I ADORE those ladies’ legs. I just can’t change it for a while. I love the zoom on my digital. I sat to the side of the square and visually eavesdropped on those three for a good ten minutes. It’s a Nikon 3500 Coolpix, so you can slant the lens so that it appears you’re focusing on the ground and not at anything in particular. Totally sneaky, not very honest, and I don’t give a damn. I get good shots.

Working on ‘Beth’s Boxy Cable’ (not my sister, the name of the pattern) in a Donegal grey tweed yarn to compensate for not being ready to face the button bands of the Damned Fair Isle. Picture here. Sleeves are done, and just started getting into the cable on the front panel. I love it; it’s complicated looking and keeps my attention but it’s not too difficult.

Writing sucks. Stuck stuck stuck stuck. So bored with the sentences that are coming out of my characters’ mouths. Someone has to sleep with someone else (like the mom with the pastor, something shocking) at this rate’it’s the only way to get something moving. Jaysus.

051303 1515

Just did my personality type enneagram thingy on line (see below and to left). Seems pretty accurate. In fact, think I’ll head off for a nap.

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Went to The Game last night. I just like saying it like that. The Game. Yep. Makes me sound like I know what the hell I’m talking about, even though I so DON’T. But I learned a lot last night. We sat down, and I told T everything I knew about baseball (that took pretty much seven seconds and it was me pointing at the bases’that’s first, second, third, and fourth. I mean home. They try to get there. Sometimes they run, sometimes they walk. End of Rachael’s knowledge). T totally knows the game, and even better than knowing the game, she knows the players, which to me is infinitely more interesting. Benito Santiago is my new favorite (that makes it sound like I had an old one). He leaves a ticket for his deceased father at every game and makes a cross in the dirt with his bat before he hits. I frikkin love that. The beer was good (except for the Bud Lite, aargh) and the polish rocked. I ate about a pound of cotton candy. They make it banana flavored! Who knew? I fought what I’m trying not to call a hangover this morning, the pain is finally going away, leaving a dull ache in my temples. I’ll take the dull ache over the stabbing flames any day. T is way, way fun. She makes me laugh.

Today, my normal day to do Stuff, is not going that way today. I’ll probably balance my checkbook, and that’s it. I want to knit in front of the Six Feet Under I taped last night. Yesterday I finally finished picking up the stitches for the right button band on the Damned Fairisle (I’m so sick of that sweater) and I can start working the band itself. I hate it that once I finish that one, there’s still one more band to go. I love the idea of knitting in the round, with the steeks. It made the sleeve setting so easy. But I’d have to go with a pullover next. This is ridiculous. I hate finishing, I hate finishing, I hate finishing.

Oh! Joined the Queerknit blog-ring. Hope I got the HTML code right. I just adore that such a ring exists. There’s a place for everyone in this world, I think.

051203 1414

Poor computer is whining’I’ve been using it for a couple of hours. I love a day with not much I have to do. Plenty I COULD be doing, and do I care much? Hell, no.

Have found some new great blogs, really enjoying being part of the new ring. Makes me feel sometimes as if this little blog o’mine is quite inane. I have to remind myself that the goal of this is not to be cool. For god’s sake, that became impossible way back when I decided I liked Hawaiian shirts and knitting. Don’t even mention the bluegrass. The goal of this site is to be a spot where I ramble back and forth in my mind, teetering between should-I-write today and how-could-I-not-write-today. The latter is winning today, by the way. It’s Monday, a day off. I don’t write on days off.

But Big News:

I hit 300 pages in the novel! Good freakin’ lord. For some reason, 200 wasn’t a big deal. Just a few more than a hundred. But 300 feels like I might really have a book, and the scary thing is that it isn’t anywhere near stopping. I can SENSE an end, but I can’t see it, and I can’t imagine it yet.

I hit the 300 mark on Friday night, while writing on my break at work. I used to sit in the supervisors’ office in dispatch to write, but recently I’ve been asked not to (state secrets, you know). It’s better that way, because my break used to be constantly punctuated with the sound of 911 ringing, the only sound you could hear in there. And if it got busy, I’d feel obligated to run out and help. I can’t sit in the dispatch break room because you can hear actual conversation in there, and that would never do, come on. So I’m now forced to walk down the hall and sit in the Chief’s waiting area. I can’t hear the phones from there and I get a totally uninterrupted break’it’s wonderful. I should have done this all along. It’s odd, though, sitting in a place at midnight that, during the daylight weekday hours, is usually populated with people waiting to be either hired or fired (Internal Affairs is near the interview area). And I sit there and write. I like to think that the creative energy I send out helps during the week. I doubt that it does. But it’s a nice thought.

So, I reached the 300 mark, finished my paragraph and walked back into dispatch when my break was over. I didn’t tell anyone. It felt like too good a secret to be immediately shared. I’m proud of myself. It’s not great writing, I know that. It’ll require (once done) a HELL of a lot of polishing, and I’m terrible at that part of writing. But it’s writing. That’s what matters. That’s what I do.

051103 2335

Busy day’worked eight hours OT and then went to San Anselmo to babysit little 10 month old Winter. I’ve been officially declared his fairy godmother, and I ADORE him. I think he likes me, too. We rolled around on the couch all night. His favorite thing to do is hurl himself off backwards, totally trusting in me to catch him and raise him, gurgling with glee, to the ceiling. Man, they are MADE to be cute. That’s what hooks you, I guess, that’s what makes you love ‘em through the teenage years. I suppose that’s the way it works. No clue, really.

Can’t get an image out of my mind that T told me yesterday while we played pool (she was sick, but still awesome on the table). She said she was beaten once by an old man who bet he could beat ‘em all with a mop handle. And then he did.

That’s so great I can hardly stand it.

051003 2000

Well, damnit. I’m of the mentality that you should know your enemy, so I went to that hateful Fred Phelps (god hates fags dot com) website and looked. I wanted to see what he was spouting. At first it was hysterical. I was sitting in my comfy chair, just roaring over his typos and “facts” and games (tic-tac-toe made with “pink nazi fag” symbols) and hateful slurs on a community he so obviously belongs to (why else would he be so sensitive about it?). But it lost its humor along the way. One of the “facts:” “The median age of death of dykes is 45 (only 24% live past age 65). The median age of death of a married heterosexual woman is 79.” Okey dokey. Excellent reporting is apparently not a goal. I understand that. The whole website is about evil faggotry, something I never even knew was a word. Thanks, Fred. It’s so frightening, what ignorant people can believe. Only very slightly humorous, from my armchair in California. Terrifying otherwise.

I just bought a tee from Teeshirthell. Wah! Now, that’s funny. Even Fred Phelps would agree. Goes with my new shirt–Wait, let me take a digital picture of it: There, it’s below and to the left, under the sweater pics.

Playing pool was fun.

051003 1500

I have a date in an hour, going with T to play pool, and I’m flagging. Post-PMS? Laziness? Dunno. Too lazy to even bother thinking too much. I look forward to the beer and her great smile, and I won’t worry about more.

Last night I made a woman cry. She’s a chronic 911-caller, and a disgusting, sloppy drunk. Almost impossible to understand when she’s in her cups, I had a horrible time just getting two comprehensible words out of her. I was short with her, not my usual you’re-too-nice crap. And then, listening to my sharp words, I imagined me in court, after she jumps off the roof or steps in front of a bus, hearing my rude voice taunting her. ‘Do you need the police? We’re busy. Yes or no! Do you need us to come out? Listen to me! Can’t understand you.’ So I took a deep breath and softened my voice and really tried to concentrate on what she needed. But it was when I said, ‘Honey, I just can’t understand what you’re saying, can you put it into different words?’ that she broke into tears. She sings, sometimes, but I’ve never heard her cry. Turns out she was just saying over and over, ‘Are you an officer?’ but it sounded like shoffsher? Shoffsher? Shoffsher? Shoffsher? Sobbing, ‘shoffsher?’ I felt terrible. Then she snapped out of the tears and went on being irritating, but I entered a call and did my best. I hate it that I was even incidental to her crying (although I hear she always cries when the officers go out, leaning on the doorjamb, bright red lipstick slashed up to her cheekbones). I don’t mind when people yell at me, but I do mind when they cry (again, usually. If she’s crying ‘cause the boyfriend just stole her car because she let him stay the night even though she has a restraining order against him, I could give a shit. ‘We’ll be out, ma’am.’)

050903 2335

On my break at work. Struggling to write. It feels like slogging uphill right now, and I’m sure it’s only because I said earlier this week that it was going so well. It was going well when there was some action. The periods in between the action are killing me. I get one character to one place, and prop another up and make them talk to each other, but it feels false. If it’s not intense, it doesn’t keep my interest, and I can’t imagine anyone else taking any interest either.

It can’t work if it’s boring ME, for god’s sake. But it can’t be high energy at all times, either. I just finished reading a book that kept me on the edge, constantly, and I was exhausted afterwards. It was a slim book’I couldn’t have handled it any longer than it was.

Back to it. I do love my laptop.

050903 1700

Aargh. Running out of time today’I’m going to work early tonight. And I’ve been jumping around, reading blogs, trying to get a little circuit down. It’s silly, but it sucks you in, this reading (eavesdropping) on other people’s lives. I like it. Totally voyeuristic, but allowed. Encouraged.

My friend just dropped off four huge boxes of yarn for me to sort through (his mother died, this is part of her stash). I’ll take what I’ll use, or what people I know will use, and then I’ll donate the rest to Children’s Hospital, where volunteers knit them into blankets and sweaters. It makes me stop and think’they say that when a person dies, there’s always a piece of work unfinished. Going through her yarn, both this lot and the last lot he gave me, I’ve found several little started things, delicate work, things that were going to be perhaps a blanket or a scarf. Hard to tell, the works were only just begun. I feel obligated to honor them’to not just throw them away. I sat in the living room and held them, thought about them. I didn’t know his mother, but a small part of me felt as if I did, touching what she had held. Doesn’t feel morbid at all, just feels rather fluid.

No more’I only have twenty minutes to get some real writing done’. Sigh’.. I don’t like this kind of time constraint.

050803 1615

Apparently Tony, the landlord, has hired a group of men to tidy up the yard. They showed up just as I awoke, so that’s a small mercy. The house is full of the smell of diesel fumes from the lawn-mower (which combines well with the smell of the half-and-half I scalded earlier), and they stood in front of my door for a while with the leaf blower, which forced all sorts of crap through the great gap under the door. Yuck.

Good sleep. Deep sleep. Dreamed a lot, can’t remember what about, but I think I hardly moved all day, not like me at all.

Have been having another good work week. Real work, that is. On my forty minute breaks at the PD, I’ve been getting almost a thousand words right there, and that isn’t including the work I do at home in the afternoon. I’m gonna ride this wave till it crashes on the beach, however long that is. I realize I just hate to finish things. And I always have. When I was last at home, I went through my old yarn. I had at least three very nice sweaters, all in varying stages of completion. Now they’re missing the patterns, or the rest of the yarn to finish, so I should just throw them away, but I can’t bear to do that with the gorgeous Aran that’s three-quarters done. And I’m having the same trouble with the fair-isle. I was gritting my teeth for the half-hour I worked on picking up the button band stitches yesterday. But I sail while I’m in the middle.

It’s the same with writing. I’m sailing. I can’t look ahead to the finishing’it would just freak me out too much. I’m working up the middle, and this is my favorite part.

Thank god, they’ve stopped. It’s quiet again.

050703 1515

What am I doing up so bleeding early? And I’ve actually been up since two-thirty. This is just ridiculous, when I know I have to work till seven, but I couldn’t just stay in bed. It’s a beautiful, sunny day out, and I want to DO something.

And also: I have that urge to get rid of everything. Today would be a good day to clean out a closet, ‘cause I crave the spare look. Of course, every time I start thinking like that, I come smack up against all the little tchotchkes that I can’t live without and get discouraged and end up watching the television instead. I’d love to get rid of some books. Oh, that would be fun, pack a bag and take it down to Gray Wolf books and see how much store credit I could get for it. Hmmmm. Idea. But I have enough books, a problem in and of itself’they’re crawling up the side walls now, faster than I can read them.

I think I’m just trying to avoid knitting the last part of that stupid fair-isle. I tried yesterday afternoon to practice the technique of picking the bar stitches to fit in the button bands, but I screwed up and ending up destroying the tension in several areas. Too frustrating. I hate to be frustrated.

Ah, well. Must write, then walk to the post office to mail Mom’s Mom’s Day gift, and then I’ll attack something, anything. Energy to burn.

050603 1415

Yesterday I called myself Martha. It was quite scary, actually. I had the Monday that I wanted’I did nothing that I had to do, only what I wanted to do. I think one day a week should be spent like that. It should be a rule. Only then I suppose you would HAVE to do nothing that you had to do, and that would negate the whole idea. Oh, well.

I knitted. Pretty near all damn day. I abhor finishing sweaters, and this fair-isle sweater is the hardest I’ve ever had to finish. But I made the first cuts! After two horrific battles with two different sewing machines (I won one, and lost the other), I managed to sew up the steek stitches along the arms, neck and front. (Why is it that I am so comfortable screaming ‘Fuck you!’ at a sewing machine, but I’ve never said it to a person?) My god, I was cast right back to my high school sewing days when my mother would say that HER mother left the house when she sewed, and then she herself would disappear to the back yard to hang laundry or install a greenhouse cover. I am unbearable to be around when the sewing machine jams. And jams. And breaks. And snaps. And jams again. Miserable.

But, I finally triumphed, sweaty and completely stressed out. And I cut the arm holes! I sewed up the shoulders and put in the sleeves. (Pictures to the left.) Not too bad. The neck was difficult and I screwed it up a bit, and oh! I realized that the tops of the two sleeves are in different colors! The edge of one is blue and the other black. I’m sure no one but me will ever notice. I’m stumped on the button bands, though. I’m terrified. I think I’ll just put them off some more. And then I’ll be done, whee!

Then, as a reward for working seven hours on that sweater, I let myself start another, a simple cable pullover in a wonderful dark tweedy yarn. And I made some fudge and watched the first two episodes of Manor House.

A very good, quiet, solitary day. It’s back to work tonight, and I have a ton of things to do this afternoon, so no more.

050503 1200

I’m famous! Or at least my knitting group is, albeit without my trying. Click here: I’m one of the three East Bay crafting groups, the last one listed, and the only one in a gay bar! Whoo hoo!

Had a good weekend’Tammy flew in on Friday night. I picked her up and we had a very good dinner at Barneys. Set her up in the apartment and then I had to go to work. She called me at 7am having an allergy attack (probably from Adah trying to sleep on her eyeballs), and I worried about her till I directed her to some antihistamine tablets I had in the bathroom. Sent her out on a walk in the rain (aren’t I mean?) so I could nap (which I didn’t). Then we just hung out. Just hung out! It was great. We did nothing. Oh, I think we watched a rented movie, yes, and I taught her how to knit, which she is astonishingly good at. One of the naturals.

Then yesterday she got back on the plane (after a nice breakfast at the newly reopened-from-the-car-crash Buttercup) and I went to my stitch’n’bitch (the aforementioned famous one). I worried for a while, as I always do, that no one would show. It was the official May 4th Cinco de Mayo celebration, and the bar was filling up with gay Hispanic baseball players. But then Rosalie came ‘ I had been wanting to meet her ‘ she runs a group on Monday nights at her house. She was very cool’crafts EVERYTHING, from her quilted pants made from a pattern she based on Japanese carpenter (daiku) pants to the commissioned quilt she was stitching’a mosque window filled with hot-rod flames and a diving paisley crane. She told me about her cowboy shirt she knitted without a pattern’I must see it. Jennifer-of-the-lamp came, too, and Elissa. Then the bar cranked up the music and opened the dance floor. Lord. When I noticed that no one had said anything because the shouting was irritating, I invited them all to my house. We walked there, and Kira met us there. Nice little afternoon group and I finished another Marsan watchcap out of soft Rowan wool/alpaca blend. I’m wearing it now’it’s chilly this morning.

I finished knitting the Philosopher’s wool fair-isle sweater last night. I’m devastated, because now I have to work on finishing it, and I’m terrified. I’ll be sewing and cutting it today, and perhaps working on the neckline. I may go to Article Pract tomorrow and try to figure out which size needle will work for the button bands. Sigh. This is the part I didn’t want to get to. I should photograph the steps. And my look of fear.

Elissa had a great story of her grandmother, who was illiterate but an amazing embroiderer. For most of her life she created her own designs, but when she was older, her family bought her the preprinted follow-the-lines charts, easier on the eyes. There’s a placemat that holds the most-coveted title because right below the design of flowers are the words, carefully stitched, Made in Japan. Isn’t that great?

050103 1700

May Day. In all those years of wrapping the May Pole with ribbons and dancing around it, I never really got the meaning of it. What were we doing exactly? Was it pagan based, or religious, or both? Who did it first? I’m sure someone told me and I’ve forgotten.

Getting used to the hair. Made a hat last night, a cute Marsan watchcap in grey.

Can’t freaking wait for the weekend. Tammy’s coming up and we should just have a relaxing time. It’s supposed to rain, and I want to cook and watch movies. Oh! I have all of Manor House taped, can’t wait to sit and knit in front of it.

Good sleep. Odd dreams of Mills, I just remembered. I was returning for another Masters, I think, and I was assigned to live in the dorms, something I’ve never done in my life. I was somewhat happy with my tiny little room, just enough room for my things, if I kept my wardrobe to a minimum, but then I noticed there was another bed in the room. I knew I couldn’t have a roommate. And then I was in the quad, excited about being back in school, and it hit me: How the hell was I going to afford this? I’m going to be paying off the last school-run for the rest of my life, how was I going to rack up more debt? But I went on with the formal orientation, sitting the Asian Leftists section. Dunno. I was happy to be back in school. But in the dream was the recurring sight I have in academia dreams: prowling down long wooden hallways to find small dark wooden rooms, filled with furniture and couches and places to study, creaky floors, high ceilings, and the knowledge that this will be home. I love that feeling.

That’s all. I’m stunningly boring today. Or am I stunningly bored? No, I’m happy sitting in my chair, typing away, listening to Digit keen at the door. He wants to eat, or he wants to fight, one or the other.

1

043003 1640

Bleah. Have woken up to the same hair, it didn’t grow. I’m just going to avoid mirrors and make a couple of hats. I hate hats.

Very grumpy.

What I would like:

The night off

A really super-long bath

Two glasses of wine

A stereo that works

For my writing to be done

A walk

I guess I can take care of those last two. I don’t want them as badly as the others, though. I’m really looking forward to Tammy coming to town this weekend. I like having guests. Okay. That was as cheerful as I get today.

Bleah.

043003 0614

A friend said, ‘Anyone can grow hair long. It takes a real woman to wear it short.’ Damn straight.

042903 2330

Taking a break at work, typing on my computer. I got the haircut from hell today. I look tremendously awful. And I’m ashamed to say that I’m completely upset by it.

I have not been in an accident. I have all my limbs in relatively good working order, as have all my loved ones. No one’s hurt. I have to swallow my pride and suck it up that my head looks like Annie Lennox the morning after a bad concert. But she’s just cuter naturally. I relied on my hair a little, and now I only have a little fringe on top. Call me Surrey.

Sometimes it’s healthy to know just how obscenely self-centered you are. Oh, I’ve hit that self-centeredness today. I’ve never called in sick to work when I wasn’t. But I considered it today. Everyone has lied to me admirably, one friend said I would always look like a girl, no matter what, bless her. And then another friend came in and confirmed, ‘Yeah, you look like a boy. That’s a really bad haircut.’ And I burst into tears. Totally shameful, me. I should take it on the chin and laugh about it. I should be able to grin and say ‘isn’t it funny? Good thing my hair grows fast!’ I should say with a swagger, ‘Yeah, I look like a boy! A cyoo-ute boy!’ And tomorrow I’ll probably be able to say that. No, scratch that. The day AFTER tomorrow I’ll be able to do that, and I’ll probably look okay in a week, when this scruff has grown out a little. But right now, tonight, I hate the way I look and I’m being horribly utterly selfish in my wallowing. Sob.

Stupid stupid hair. Now I know what those distressing feelings were earlier. A premonition of the disaster to follow.

042903 1145

Vague distressing feelings of something’not sure what. Maybe PMS. Maybe there’s gonna be an earthquake. Maybe I’m just still sleepy, although I had a FABULOUS night’s sleep. Tuesdays are just never that much fun, no matter what all I get done. No matter what, I have to go to work tonight. I like work. I like being there, I like the work I do. But it’s the idea that I HAVE to go that’s galling (that and the fact I have to stay up all night).

Have the desire to take photos today. Maybe I’ll pop my camera in my pocket for the walk to the hairdressers; it rained again while I was sleeping, and the sun is out now, shiny and wet and cold.

Digit is a fuckin’ cocklebur. He doesn’t appear beaten up, maybe some other cat just teased him (sissy-girl, mister sister, want some fries with that shake?) this morning because he will NOT leave me alone. One half of him is constantly on the bottom of my laptop, the other half clinging to my chest. No matter how many times I remove him, he leaps and clings again seventeen seconds later. Or less. I actually looked at the ceiling a minute ago and roared, I was so irritated. Definitely PMS.

That’s it. Ain’t got nothing more today.

042703 2300

Just got out of the bath’for a while I had both cats sitting on the edge of the tub. All I can picture is the bloody disaster that will result when one finally falls in and utilizes claws against skin to get out again, but I like them sitting next to me. It’s pouring outside and I’m reading a good book. It’s a night to be close and quiet.

I know now that T has her spies everywhere, and I have to admit I spent some time thinking of ways to freak out my well-intentioned incidental readers, both hers and mine. ‘My god, last night! The roar of the Harleys, the smoke, the tear in my dress, the bruises I’ll be unable to cover.’ Or: ‘T is daring, that’s for sure. I never knew anyone could drink that much and still drive over the Bay Bridge with one eye closed and two wheels sparking on rims.’ Or: ‘We prayed together.’

Good lord. I had even better ones, but I’m kindly editing them.

But I’ll give you this: I like her, I like her friends, and I *really* like the chicken she made, breasts stuffed with goat cheese, kalamata olives, and an herb from her garden (I want to say either lemon thyme or oregano, but I can’t remember). The asparagus rocked, too. There. You ain’t getting no more. Oh, well, I also like the way she Yo-Yos.

I am exhausted tonight’I had to work and I was running on fumes. I struggled with the radio to the point that I was embarrassed. I haven’t felt so foggy in a long time. Of course, now that I’m home and warm and comfortable, I’m sure I’ll get in bed and lie there looking at the ceiling.

Digit is clingy tonight. T sent an offering to them in the form of fresh catmint. Adah enjoyed it in the way she enjoys everything’fun is her due, and she knows there’s more coming. Digit, however, is more of a cup-is-not-only-half-empty-but-the-drought-is-coming-too kind of guy. I gave him a leaf’he lost his mind. He breathed over it, looked at me to see if I was kidding, and then ate it. I gave him another. He ate that too. He was then completely stoned and fell over onto one side and just lay there, looking at me. Legs sticking straight out. Stunned. Totally. Overwhelmed by the gesture and the feeling. There’s more in the fridge, and I’m gonna have fun with it again tomorrow.

To sleep or something like it.

042503 1715

Just talked to Bethany’she not only got a kick-ass job today in the tiny little vet clinic nestled on the hill above the Village in AG, but she went on a Heart Castle tour today that consisted of her as the only guid-ee. That’s a good day.

I’ve been thinking of things I mean to do. Not even mean, really, more like want to do. Things like:

*Go to the Gourmet Ghetto in Berkeley and get things like Maine lobster and orange bread pudding for take-away and have a picnic on the water somewhere.

*Go to the Santa Cruz Boardwalk. I’ve been to Santa Cruz, but the Boardwalk was always closed. I want a corn dog and a ride on the Giant Dipper.

*Plant more flowers.

*Put the top down more.

I’m really not that fond of summer, so I need to make interesting things happen to hold my interest. I was walking last night (a good long ramble, down Woolsey and up into the Uplands where I got a great view of the Bay Bridge) and I realized how irritated I am that I can’t go on twilight walks anymore. Twilight comes too darn late and at that point I’m getting ready for work. When I walked out to my car at 815 last night, it was still a little light. Good lord. It’s only April.

My cats are so pretty.

I have nothing else to say. Oh! Except I’ve done a LOT of real writing this week, so I can relax with flair this weekend. I love feeling vindicated in my laziness. And can I just say that I’m totally taping the new reality PBS series ‘Manor House’ on MTW nights this week? Bring it on. I’m SUCH a geek.

042404 1730

lazy lazy lazy. Don’t want to write, not this silly thing or the real stuff, just want to sit. I don’t want to watch TV or even read. I’d like to just lie in the tub.

But I have shoulds:

Should write

Should walk

Should make a healthy dinner for work

Should feed the screaming cats (but it’s not their dinner time yet)

Should put some lip balm on

Puhleese.

Last night I pulled out the fairisle sweater I’m working on’it’s less than five or so inches from being done, and I get so irritated working on it. Part of me doesn’t want to finish it, and I’m not sure I understand why that is. I have to MAKE myself finish things. It’s only in the last couple of years that I’ve become any good at that. I hate doing things like neckbands and buttonholes. The small, easy, trivial last things annoy me. Like gift-wrapping’the hard work is finding the right present. I can’t be bothered to wrap. Decorating a cake. It’s a miracle enough when I bake one’it’ll taste just fine without frosting.

What does this mean? That I’m less of a perfectionist than I feel I am? Or that I’m so much of a perfectionist that I can’t risk failure by having a completely finished project that is less than perfect? Somehow, I dread that it’s the last. This sweater, which I’ve loved making, is getting scarier and scarier. I’m convinced that when I attach the sleeves, they’ll hang to my elbows.

Not really in bad mood, just an odd lazy one. Dreamed about walking, lots of walking, around the Presidio to the beach, what felt like a short jaunt with Christy to a party, but when I wanted to leave and walk back to the car, I couldn’t remember where it was and I was followed by large men. I found a woman in a backless dress that I loved and didn’t want to leave, but I knew she was dying. Catherine gave me a hug in a bar, after telling me I smelled like the police department. None of the dreams worked together in any way, but the backdrop was the same’wide stormy skies near the ocean.

I’ll work on my sweater later. I’ll write now. Digit’s given up on food and has snuggled on one arm (hard to type), so I don’t have to worry about that. My lips will survive. I have frozen food I can have for dinner, and now I want to walk. The tub I’ll put off for the morning (oh, had such a great bath this morning in the rain. The only thing I miss is music’I can’t play it so early in the morning when the neighbor can hear my every move, and I can’t play it at all since my house stereo started acting up’I’ve been using my computer, but that’s not good for company’.)

What a ramble!

042303 1600

Slow to wake again today. Sleep is one of the best things in life, isn’t it? Somehow I managed to pull a muscle in my neck while lying in bed, though. I never knew rolling over could be so hazardous.

There are tiny little things about my body that tell me I’m getting older’that’s one of them. Being able to drink less in a smaller amount of time. Liking to read at home more than clubbing. I’m only thirty, but for some reason the signs of age are nothing but interesting to me. Not scary (I’m sure I have plenty of time for that). I’ve had the white stripe of hair on my forehead since I was twenty-two (somewhere in a journal I taped my first white hair).

Thinking of my hair, I need a haircut.

Thinking of a haircut, I need a walk. Maybe I’ll make an appt with my hairdresser when I walk by the shop. It’s blustery out, with a rain-approaching feeling to the air. I’m probably wrong, I usually am about weather, but I want to get out into it.

I think I’m losing my spelling ability. I’ve always had great spelling, but this new computer fixes most typos as I go. I see the mistake being made, and instead of just underlining it in red and making me backspace, it just fixes it. Therefore, my fingers are getting the idea that it’s okay to be lazy and haphazard.

I can hear Digit calling in the yard. Silly boy. I have a friend who is giving up her cat that she loves because her fianc’e has requested her to do so. I adore the friend, who is smart and witty and beautiful, but in this I think she is choosing the wrong male. The fianc’e isn’t allergic or anything, he just wants a cat-free home. She CAME with her cat. He knew the cat was her child. Lord. Makes me steam just thinking about it. I hope a random cat pees in his wedding shoes.

Same day 042203 only a little later

Kay. Not only did I write, which wasn’t that hard after I just sat down and did it, I got a couple of words out of the work that promise to be my new favorite words:

Regular joy.

Isn’t that great? THAT’S what my life is about and I want it to continue to be about, now I have a definition. Regular joy. Not the spruced up holiday version, or the falling in love with a new person or a new cheese or a new CD version, but just some everyday plain ole having a good time regular joy. The joy I get from looking at my 2002 calendars still hanging on the walls ‘cause I forgot to buy new ones for 2003. The feeling when you walk inside to smell fresh coffee. Just joy. My phone number for years was joyrach. One of Christy’s middle names. Joy.

Okay. Now I’ve over-said it and it’s getting parched. Add the regular, though, and it’s all right. Quite fine.

042203 1135

Not much in the mood for writing. I’m on writing strike. At least, that’s the way I feel, but I won’t let it be true. I’ll write today, goddammit. It’s not about how I write, I know that, it’s just that I write. That’s a hard one, though. When I write, I want it to be good, I want it to be great. And the unfortunate truth is that I have these off days, sometimes one after another after yet another, where everything I write is crap. And I have to get back on the page and write some more crap. It’s disheartening. The only consolation is that sometimes I go back later and re-read and it isn’t as bad as I thought it was. Still not good, but not burnable either.

I’m doing laundry, ugh. And all I really want to do is hit the thrift store’have a deep yen to go to Thrift Town in El Sobrante. So after I write (sigh) and put my last load in the dryer, I’m going to reward myself with a quick (cheap) trip. Lord, it has to be cheap.

Al and Jenn and I went to Tahoe because we were all feeling the pinch’we were supposed to spend the weekend in Disneyland, but we cancelled that due to (lack of) finances. Sure, the weekend was more inexpensive than Dland would have been, but I still spent too much money. We went to the casinos on Easter afternoon (I once spent an Easter in the bar, from 11am till midnight; I believe in celebrating Easter astoundingly secularly) and I gave myself $20 to lose on the slots. Unfortunately, I had $40 in my pocket. I lost the twenty, then I gambled another twenty. I won the twenty back, and very strongly walked my ass over to the change machines and made those 80 quarters into one soft twenty-dollar bill which I put righteously into my front pocket. Then on the way out, I stuffed it into a Wheel of Damned Fortune game (which all my friends love, I don’t know WHY) and lost the whole thing. Shite.

Had a really good time on the quarter poker machines, though. Those are my favorite. You can prolong the agony quite a while.

So, thus: I have limited spare cash to spend at the thrift store. Okay, none really. What the hell am I thinking? Basically, this: If I go shopping then I won’t be writing which is dogging and nipping at my heels right now.

So write, already! Now.

041903 2200

I was just sitting here in the cabin in Lake Tahoe, laptop on my knees, sitting up in this little bedroom, and I wrote what I really needed to write about last night. I won’t put that kind of writing here. For god’s sake, it’s called ‘My Glass House,’ but I have to pull the curtains at night. At least some gauzy ones.

Suffice it to say: I had a good time with T last night, a very good time. This part is odd, I think: I’ve shown her photo to a few people, and she’s apparently done the same with mine. They all say the same thing: ‘You look alike.’ That’s a tiny bit psychologically scary. A woman last night asked if we were sisters. We laughed and said no. She said, ‘You get that a lot, don’t you?’ I said, ‘Not yet.’

I couldn’t sleep last night’the beer, the thoughts, thinking about how to improve my pool game (she doesn’t need to improve a thing) kept me awake, and I was finally hitting a good sleep round when my alarm went off at 0730. We were on the road from Alyson’s house by 0930, and it’s gorgeous up here. We sat on the back porch in the sun, drinking wine, the snow all around us, dripping from the eaves. I got too hot and had to go inside to NAP on the couch. I never nap. I can’t nap. Man, I guess I’m missing out, ‘cause it was great. Drifting in and out of consciousness when Al and the dogs would ramble by, or when Jenn walked by to change into shorts (!). Perfect, lazy, nice.

I like lazy. I could be really good at it if I don’t take care.

041703 1800

I dreamed today about yarn. I was in a shop, a wonderful old store that looked like a store I used to go to when I was little. In real life, it was a fabric store in the Arroyo Grande village, and the space had been there for perhaps a century, long dark aisles, high high ceilings, extended counters in the middle of the store. In my dream, it was full of yarn, impossible yarn on big spindles, strange colors. And even better, there were samples of things hanging. I picked up a baby outfit, a cream jumper with cables worked in the front. I wanted to make it so badly’. I kept running out to my car, where Mom and Bethany were waiting for me to hurry up and finish so they could go to my house, where they were staying for a while’we went there next, and my house was an old rambling Victorian, curving staircases, balconies, whole wings opening up onto loft-like spaces. I found a box of pastels in a drawer that Mom said Dad ordered on line but hadn’t used’I should take them and do something with them. I knew that I wanted to, but I also knew that I wouldn’t be able to use them well, so I should leave them in the box.

I’m not even going to try to find meaning in the dream. It’s easy to assign symbols, but I don’t really want to. I prefer just remembering my dreams’it happens so rarely now. I think the more you sleep, the more you dream (well, duh), and I (mostly) adore dreaming. Even the scary ones (monsters, bugs, gunshot wounds) aren’t scary to me’the truly frightening ones can’t be described as scary. The only times I’ve been terrified in bed were from the dreams of A) quiet demonic presences only suggested by a noise or a light or something small and motionless or B) ocean dreams, waves pulling someone I love out to sea.

I don’t want to think about dreams right now. It’s windy and cool outside, and the sun is just starting to think about going down, and I want a walk. I’m going to go buy fruit and milk and something for dinner at work tonight. Yep. I love the word yep.

041603 1615

I woke to rain’the best way to wake, I think. I was looking at Roethke’s ‘The Waking’ earlier and remembered how much I love the last stanza:

‘This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.

What falls away is always. And is near.

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

I learn by going where I have to go.’

Yep. Take my waking slow. So far this morning (afternoon) I’ve taken it very slow’have been awake for an hour and have had a nice breakfast (whatever) and a strong cup of Italian coffee; I’ve read on my couch; I’ve listened to the rain; I’ve done some emailing. A friend sent me to the Brick Testament. Very, very funny. And he’s quite adept with not only the translation, but with camera angles. I was laughing, but also thinking, hey, I couldn’t do that. The Reverend is a man who spends a LOT of time alone with his interesting brain, I think.

Wrote yesterday. Getting back to the habit of writing on my work-days. Freeing up the weekend. Made up a character list on the computer’something I should have done a long time ago. I’ve been carrying everyone on index cards, and while satisfying, they’re not easy to shuffle through. It’s easier and faster to read on the computer, and always close at hand. I didn’t realize I had created so many characters! I’m forbidding myself to introduce anyone else (unless they MUST be met, don’t have much say over that).

Kitties both snoozing on the living room floor, both keeping one eye partially open to watch me, see if I’m going to head toward their food bowls. The darkness that the rain has dropped has them fooled’they think it’s later than it is. And so do I. But really, I still have an hour and a half before I have to start getting ready for work’stolen time. One thing about working such long hours is that you appreciate every hour you’re not at work. Or does everyone feel this way? I dunno. Rambling, without saying much of anything. Going to make myself some tea and then write. And then maybe just sit on the couch and read some more. Seriously’after the Six Feet Under season is over, I’m getting rid of cable. I hate that I’m wasting so much money on something I never use. (But I watched this week’s episode yesterday’I had taped it’DAMN, that show is good.)

Phone call interruption, and tea is made. For Christmas my mother bought me something that I don’t know the name of: it’s a painted porcelain two piece dish, a small dish that holds a flat dish with holes’you put your used teabag on it’the tea drains through, you toss the dryish teabag later and clean the whole thing every once in a while. It’s one of those little things in my house that I aDORE’along with the dishwashing scrubby long-handled thing with a sponge at the end, soap in the handle. Apparently, my favorite things don’t have names. Help! Off to write.

041503 1230

I have a comments area, now! To the left. It’s stupidly called guestbook, which in Yahoo I just can’t change……

Did I say that I planted this weekend? After hearing about T’s tomato plans, I realized I was late on the ball (what does that mean, anyway, ‘on the ball?’ Is it sports something?), and now I’ve started:

Big tomatoes (can’t remember which kind, maybe Big Boy)

Cherry tomatoes (Gardener’s Delight)

Snapdragons

Basil

Spring mix lettuce (oh, and some nasturtiums to make the salad pretty)

Catnip, hanging from the outside eaves

Of course, since I started them all from seed, it’s been dark and cold for the last few days. I’m sure the seeds are hunkering under their inadequate beds of wet dirt, saying, ‘you fuckin’ nuts?’ I’ve been talking to them’at least the ones indoors. The lettuce (which I put into a new window box, outside the bedroom’won’t that feel rural?) and the nasturtiums and catnip are all outside. They’re hardy. I trust them. They don’t need encouragement.

Having a hard time getting back into writing again. Why is it that any little waves of ANYTHING make me trip up on doing the real work? Yeah, looking for houses. Therefore, I won’t write. What is that? I’m good at this game. Too good. Master procrastinator. I’ve decided my idea to read over the whole half-novel isn’t a good one, anyway. I was taking too much time doing it last week, making line edits that weren’t necessary yet. Get the damn thing written. Just keep writing. So.

Finishing this cup of tea. Finding my slippers ‘cause it’s COLD. Then, another cuppa and sitting down again to write. Really write.

Aside ‘ just balanced my checkbook. On paper, I was always on to the penny. On this computer Quicken stuff, I was just off by $220, not in my favor. What up? Ugh.

Writing now.

041403 1800

Oy vey. Got shot down today, the offer I put in on the condo near the Lake was rejected. It was expected. And honestly, I was a little relieved. Just a little. It would have been WONDERFUL to have a place like that’but worrisome, too, and expensive, blah blah blah. I wouldn’t have been able to buy any more pens or plants.

Then today, I went with Isi to look at more places’went to the MOST adorable cottage in Oakland, warped wooden floors, wavy windows, big porch, huge yard with a work studio in back, built in 1925. It was $183,000, which is just outside my top range, but we found out it had $30,000 worth of structural work that needed doing. Of course. So I had to walk out without even the dream of it in my mind.

Perfect would be: A cottage in a safe, sweet Oakland spot, with a yard and a porch and a strange bathroom, sun in the bedroom in the mornings, and creaky floors.

What might end up being: A mobile home in Hayward. But hell, I’d be paying myself. Slowly.

Shit.

Why can’t I just rent for the rest of my life? Then I could keep living in Rockridge, where I can walk to my bank, my produce stand, my hairdresser, the movie theatre, the video store’. For crying out loud, it’s two blocks to my doctor’s office. I can walk that even with a fever. There are flowers everywhere. I love that.

A small, minor freak-out is occurring. Wait.

Kay. It’s over.

I love my apartment. Consciously loving it, right now. Cat purring beside me, white twinkle lights on even while it’s still so light.

Going to work tonight, a little overtime. God knows I might need it soon.

I HATE MONEY! but I like to have a little. You know?

041303 1630

Went with Isi this morning to look at a couple more properties. We went to Alameda, of all places, and saw two condos in the Park Webster complex. They were so small! But one was cute, with a patio. But they’re on the outside of my price range, and I’m realizing that I might have a problem with that. I realized that by going to Longs afterwards. My fingers are getting itchy for dirt and gunk under my nails. I have to plant, and then I have to plant some more. I’m heartbroken that I can’t make a real garden, can’t rip up the ground with big tools. I mean, I could, I’ve been given permission by the owner, but I could never leave another garden’it was just too awful last time.

So, I spent fifty bucks at Longs. Not all on plant stuff, obviously; I needed ink for the printer and toilet paper and chocolate (NO Cadbury Cr’me Eggs in the whole damn store, how stupid is that?). But I realized, walking out, that I really like the ability to spend fifty dollars at Longs. The ability to buy two pens ‘cause I like them. If I buy a house at the top of my price range, I will literally be reaching, just to buy groceries. I KNOW you’re supposed to be house-poor, I’ve heard it over and over. But I like to travel, and I like to buy little things that make me happy, and I’m scared of giving those up.

So, mobile homes? Now there’s something I’m thinking about. I think the cats would like that better, too. Sigh.

I had SUCH a fun afternoon yesterday. Went to the Giants game and met T’game got rained out, but we ate burgers and drank beer and watched the rain hit the bay. Then we walked in the rain (when was the last time I really did that?) and ended up at Embarcadero. Another beer, and Bend it Like Beckham, which was one of the cutest movies I’ve seen in a long time. I got teary. Over soccer. Help. So, book-ended by sports (!), we had a blast (well, I did, I hope I hope she did too), and I forgot to get off at the right BART stop on the way home.

And then I took a bath and slept for twelve hours! Twelve, glorious, warm snuggly hours in the rain, so freakin’ happy that I have a down comforter and that I have two warm kitties that really didn’t piss me off much this morning.

Knitting tonight in the City at Kira and Rachel’s house. Taping Six Feet Under. And I have chocolate in the house. Thump. That’s the sound of me hitting the couch and staying there. I aDORE weekends.

040903 1630

I might be losing my mind. I am scraping the bottom of the barrel after coming home from Italy’broke and feeling the pinch, I’ve become a new aficionado of pasta that’s been in the cupboard for more than a year. No more spending ANY money. And so, what do I do? I get back in the housing market.

That sounds big. That sounds like it’s even possible that I do so. Yep. Back in the market. Looking for that big purchase. Yeah, right. What it means is that a mortgage broker (very nice woman named Denise) is running all my embarrassing numbers right at this very moment, to see just how much money I do NOT have. My realtor, Isi, already has something in mind for me’a little condo on Orange near the Lake. My first thought is: The cats! Digit would have to be in a place where he could go outside or he’d get suicidal again. I KNOW this is the most inane cart-before-the-horse idea I could have. Yep, while thinking about mortgaging your life away, worry about the cats. But that’s where my mind goes.

I would hate to move from here. I love this area, so much. But.

But I feel like I’m in a relationship’that’s the best way to put it’I’m in a relationship with myself, and we’ve been standing in place for such a long time. It’s time to take it to the next level. Quite schizophrenic, I know, but that’s what it feels like. I could go along as I have been for years and years and get older and older and have little to show for it but good friends and a bitchin computer. The Cancerian me needs the little home. Something of my own. Something that feels safe.

Anyway, it’s what I’m thinking about. Trying not to think about it too hard. Really. Granted, the thinking kept me awake for about an hour today. But that’s normal. Anything new or strange or even remotely worrisome will do nicely to keep me wide awake.

I want to knit. But first some real work.

Oh, I planted flowers yesterday in my window box. They make me happy.

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I have some kind of cleaning disease today. Usually I like to clean the house on the day I go back to work (today, sigh’.), but today I’ve been doing things like reorganizing the closet and vacuuming the curtains. I didn’t even really know you could do that, but believe me, it’s possible. I’m re-caulking the tub, for god’s sake. The cats are exhausted, just watching me. Adah’s passed out on the couch.

I’m trying to gear up to do some real work, back into the novel which has been put on the shelf for these three weeks that I’ve been traveling and otherwise occupied (okay, that explains the surreal cleaning). I printed the whole damn thing out before I left, meaning to take it with me. Actually, I was really of two minds about it. I wanted it with me, so I could have undivided blocks of time to focus on redirecting, and I also wanted to let it steep at home in the quiet. I just couldn’t make up my mind. Then, when I was on the first plane, I realized I’d forgotten to think about it again, and it was sitting on my desk. So it was decided for me.

I’ve been so busy writing about Italy for the last few weeks that I’m scared about diving headfirst back into the work. I’d like to sit down and read what I have so far, but that feels dangerous. Either I’ll like it too much (fallacy) or I’ll think it just SUCKS (another fallacy). I know it’s somewhere in the middle, and I’d like to get a fresh start. So that’s what I’ll do. I won’t make any promises to myself this week beyond rereading the work and maybe outlining (I hate that word’makes me think of all the outlines kids are forced to do in high school’why IS that?) where it might go next. I honestly just have no idea. Well, that’s not true. I have too many ideas, and they definitely won’t all work.

So off to read a bit.

It’s a beautiful day today. I brought the Italian weather with me, apparently. Sunny, and warm, the flowers just beginning to scent the neighborhood. Makes my fingers itch to get in the soil. Maybe that’ll be my reward. Get some reading done, have a little lunch, and then go to Longs and pick up some gardening tools. I left all my tools at the old house’I was so devastated by having to leave my garden behind that I never wanted to hoe again (no comments, please). But I do, I know I do. Oh, tomatoes! And pansies! And snapdragons! Isn’t this April? Yes. Just in time, too.

040603 1117

Okay, Italy posts and a few pictures have been moved to the left, at the bottom of the Stuff list.

I just haven’t been writing here, have I? Whew. Just wrote that one sentence and took a fifteen minute break to talk on the phone. It’s just sad. Here I go again, describing the circles of my days online, when those circles were just lapping in the Venetian lagoon. Oakland, however wonderful, cannot compare.

Man, rereading some of those letters’it looks like I don’t proofread at all! Typos, comma splices, verb/subject agreement of all things’. Well, actually, I don’t really proofread, that might be the problem. It was too expensive to proofread. That’s not the reason. I just hate to proof, so there’s that.

I’ve been home five days now. The trip back was not bad at all. Made a friend in Zurich, an older woman named Edna who flagged me down and wanted me to help find the LA plane, so we talked in nothing but my poor Italian for two hours while we waited. On the flight, I sat next to Beatrice, yet another Swiss national living in California. She was delightful, and I found that my previous flight partner, Margaret, from the way over was also on the flight. So I bounced up and down the aisles stretching my legs and I had three friends on the plane. It was nice. I knitted a lot. Swiss Air is an economy operation, though. One of our movies was _You’ve Got Mail_.

The day was made longer by the fact that I had been stubborn about not asking for a ride from the airport, so I had to find a bus to BART, which wasn’t as hard as it sounded. Then on BART, the girl opposite me pulled out her knitting. I said, ‘Well, if you’re gonna, then I’m gonna,’ so I got mine out. A flight attendant who had been on my American Airlines flight leaned over and tried to learn by watching. A German woman gave advice. A grizzled SFO employee asked for a camo hat, which we gave serious consideration. I just kept trying to get him to learn. Chick magnet, I told him. So even though the train was SERIOUSLY delayed, it was a fun ride. At Rockridge, I caught a cab driven by Thomas, who it turns out, lives at the Linoaks and told me that it’s going to be torn down and turned into a library. Interesting, the things you learn. And I was home.

The trip with Mom, because it was WITH Mom, was the best. Ranked right after that, though, is this trip. I’ve never been more relaxed, more blessedly content with my immediate surroundings. And I’m not even sad’I know I’ll be back, and probably sooner rather than later. What was sad was going back to work and hitting real life, which keeps me awful busy, it seems. Why is that? Why is it that on a day off I can be busy all day, doing things that support the functionality of my life? Why can’t I just sit and write and knit? It doesn’t work that way. And I guess that’s what’s good about vacation, isn’t it? That you can’t affect the functionality, so you have no damn choice except to sit there and watch the canal slip by.

I’ll start working on getting some pictures up on the site. It shouldn’t take long, but I’m working on an article about the trip that I feel is kind of time-sensitive, so I’ve been spending a lot of time on it. Or at least more than I usually do on pieces. I’d like to finish it today and start shopping it tomorrow. If I don’t, it won’t get done. And back to the running of a life, eh?

Already have almost a hundred photos in an album (god bless the instant gratification that is a digital camera and good printer), culled from over 650 photos taken. Heaven help me. At least I know my requirements for memory. I did a good job guessing’I had room for only 50 photos more. I take about 65 photos a day, I’ve discovered, average. Yipes.

Enough catching up for now. Back to writing. Back to life. Wait, let me quote Henry James:

‘I hold that for the Venice lover, Venice is always in order.’

Yep.

1

022803 0429

Nothing new to report. Have been working a LOT. Went yesterday afternoon to Girl’s Inc. to give the 911 part of a police presentation to a group of little girls. They were wonderful. Kids are so cliched-ly cute. Their eyes really did light up. When we asked them questions, ALL their hands went up. Ooh, me! Pick me!

We were later on the playground, looking at the police car, and they swarmed, all with some story (unfortunately) about how 911 had been used in their young lives. One small person stood near me very quietly, looking up at me. She was so patient. I looked down and said hello. She said, “My name in Kayla.” That’s all she wanted me to know. Then she gave me a hug.

Oh, my. The littlest things that make you happy. And I’ve been writing. Thank goodness.

022603 1716

I’m in my comfortable new chair. It squeaks quite a lot when it rocks, so I think it’s older, rather than newer. How can it be in such good shape, though? The cats are already way loving the tassel fringe.

Haven’t written at all in days. Isn’t that horrible? I was going to yesterday, and I can’t remember what I got caught up doing instead, and then I was going to make it up, like an exam, at work, but I didn’t take a break. Today, as soon as I finish this and make another cup of tea, I will write, AND I’ll write on my break. Why is it that sometimes it just so hard to get to the page? Any small distraction will work to throw me off course. Although, I gotta admit, this laptop sure helps me get there. I’m so damn comfortable here. This chair was meant to be sat in cross-legged, my favorite way.

Got a note off CL from a very sane-sounding crocheting yoga-doing geologist. I wrote back. What the hell am I doing? I just got done writing to JP, telling her I’m effectively off the market. I want to stay off the market. I’m not shopping for a partner, I’m just not! (here I throw a tantrum.) Tried last night to figure out with M why, if I’m so happily single, I still look. I have little idea, but some clues. Either I don’t want to let the Great Love slip by while I’ve determinedly turned a blind eye (which she says won’t happen’the GL find you) or I want proof that relationships and autonomy aren’t mutually exclusive. Is that why I look? I also look for fun, for humor. Going out with a friend on Sat night, gotta fix her up. Now, *that* would be fun. I’d like to see her with someone. We’re going to the _Tipping the Velvet_ underground premier, a night of aphrodisiacal oysters, oh help, then to a party, and then possibly clubbing. We’ll see how old and tired I feel at that point.

Now, to write.

022503 1213

I can’t believe it’s this late into February already. It feels like the new year just started.

Bought a new (old) chair yesterday. I’ve been looking for it with half an eye for a while now, but Bethany and I went cruising yesterday and it jumped right out at me at Urban Ore. I know, overpriced and too trendy, but this piece was more like their old stuff’not too expensive and impossible to gauge the age. I would place it anywhere between 75 and 10 years old. It’s kind of a grandma looking stuffed mauve chair, but the kicker is that it’s balanced on a large spring, so it rocks in all directions. Long fringe hides the spring, and the cats just love that. Actually, I thought it would be difficult for them to get used to it’and they did spend a lot of time sniffing it, but last night Digit just kind of kicked me out when I got up, curled up in the middle of it and went to sleep. I ended up knitting on the couch, like I always doI adore it.

Will write today. I’m on task and on time today. It seems that the last few weeks have just been too busy, and I make easily formulated excuses that I actually end up buying myself, when I was the one to invent them. I end up writing only a little bit, and late at that. I haven’t been happy with the effort put into it, so changing gears again today.

I just found the MOST comfortable position for writing. Chair turned around, feet up on my great bed, computer in lap. I was born to have a laptop. I can’t believe I’ve never had (a working) one before.

Adah is going crazy in the living room, scrolling herself along the floor using her claws and my furniture, having a ball. She stops when I yell and then starts up again. It’s a perfectly beautiful day out there’apparently it rained this morning (I missed that), but it’s sunny now and clear. Digit met me outside when I took my laundry into the back, giving me that delightful yipping greeting that he does’he talks to me constantly when he’s outside, never as much inside. It’s as if he needs to narrate his yard.

022403 1304

I’ve been too busy to sleep, literally’not like me. I am one of those people that turns everything down in order to sleep. People tell me to just get up early and suffer the consequences later, when the fun is over, but I rarely do’preferring instead to get the sleep I need to stay healthy. And sane. But this weekend I threw all that to the spring winds (I know it’s only February, but it’s gorgeous lately).

Saturday, I got off at 0700, asleep by 0900. Up at 1300, and off to Stitches West! The afternoon was my only shopping time. And oh, my, GOD in heaven, I’ve never seen anything like it. The only other convention I could ever picture myself going to and having as much fun would be the ABA. If not books, then yarn. The market filled the entire Oakland Convention Center main hall. I only had a few hours’I had to be at work at 5pm, so I cruised. I had asked C if she wanted to meet me there, which would have been great, but she said she had to study, and I decided it was good’I’d travel faster alone. I had a lot to get done. I planned it out, I went up and down every single aisle, just window shopping, occasionally getting drawn into a stall to touch something, feel something else. I was drooling.

I marked in my mind the most interesting spots, and went back. The Yarn Barn from Kansas, of all places, had a huge and interesting stall, and I bought a pattern and some yarn there, but the only other place I spent money was with Philosopher’s Wool. Incredible Fair Isle technique. I even bought the video. I *will* learn this technique. And the owners were wonderful, soft-spoken, obviously having a ball. I bought the book too, and I’ve already read it from cover to cover. I swear, it’s written like a novel: how they got into farming in Canada, then fell into sheep, then into wool, then into yarn, then into these incredible, thick gorgeous sweaters that are so compelling.

I was so happy. Then I went to work and got stuck until forever, which was awful. I got off at 3am, but couldn’t sleep until 0530, of course, it always takes a couple of hours, and I had to get up at 0700. So I got an hour and a half of really bad sleep. Not enough to prepare for a thoroughly full day, but I wasn’t going to miss out on anything just because work sucked. I went to my class, which was led by David Xenakis, who is something of knitting legend. His mind works in knitting patterns, and the things he taught us to do in 3 hours were amazing. I now get the whole concept of double knitting, really know why it works, which is honestly kind of miraculous. You’re able to work the front and back of the work at the same time, with the same piece of yarn.

I left the class and drove to the City, where I was meeting M for high tea. I was a little worried’being so terribly exhausted and having to negotiate the mean streets that I’m really not used to, but it pretty much went like this: I drove there and parked in front. That easy. Lovejoy’s is nothing but sweet’the cups and saucers don’t match, neither does the furniture, the waitresses wear old fashioned clothes that don’t match their hip lipstick colors, and everything works. We had a truly lovely time, catching up, strolling down a very pleasant memory lane. A little shopping afterwards in Noe Valley, and then finally home, where I was able to nap a very little bit before my date with JP. I dreamed of yarn. Then we met at La Med, and I had a very nice time. I’ll leave it at that.

Now I’m up and planning on having this as my Day Off. Ain’t doing nothin’ I don’t want to. Laundry and shopping can wait till tomorrow. In fact, I’m going to get out some wool, pop in my video and learn how to double-handed Fair Isle. Oooh, I found a knitters blog-ring called QueerKnit, and I’ve ordered a carry bag. How cute is that? I’d like to add their link, but the hypertext commands are a little beyond me. Plus, this isn’t strictly a knitting blog. It’s a blog that addresses knitting quite a bit. Quite a lot, actually.

022103 1700

There. Just finished a small piece that had to go out today’just a little nothing, but I emailed it out and hopefully it will land in the right spot, on the page. I had to make myself do it’today was the deadline. And all I really wanted to do was get my ass over to Stitches West, the HUGE west coast knitting convention that’s over at the Oakland Convention Center right now, as I write. And this weekend is so jacked up that I’ll have a couple of hours there tomorrow before work, and that’s it. I can’t go at all on Sunday, except to my class at 8am. Ah, but that’ll be nice. I’m paying a lot to learn double knitting’something I believe I should be shown how to do’I’m not going to get it just by reading something printed off the internet.

Cats are romping right now’Digit’s howling, but I think he’s just trying to get Adah’s attention so she’ll play. Humans, when they’re stuffed with food, don’t romp. They don’t, typically, run. But Digit does. He just romped right over me. He’s a little heavy for that. I’m reading _The Cat Who Went to Paris_, somehow it got by me all these years. It’s wonderful. Norton is a typical example of an astonishing cat. He waited for Peter Gethers wherever he was placed. If Peter left him in a garden in Paris, he’d play in the bushes until he came back for him. He went on long walks. He tunneled through snow for fun. He followed behind on a cross country ski run. I was going to write something like: ‘now where do you get one of those?’ But then Digit put his nose up and touched mine’the cat kiss that I always want but have to take. Digit voluntarily kisses me about once a month. So I don’t need a Norton. A Digit is sublime.

Did I mention I think Bethany liked her sweater? It was rather big on her, but I knew it would be. I even took it down from the original size I had made mine. I hope she wears it sometime, even if only in the house when she’s cold. Now I can start another sweater. Hopefully something from Stitches tomorrow. Yippee!

022003 1600

Happy Birthday, Jennifer!

And now, did I mention, all these other women are writing, too? Asking for dates. And it’s kinda awful, ‘cause I’m not sure I even want to date ANYONE. It’s the word: Date. Ugh. And even worse is knowing how very shallow I am, and I’m easily rejecting everyone’oh, this one spelled something wrong. My god, look at her punctuation. SHE wants a photo, how vain. She SENT a photo, how needy.

Instead, sending that photo must have been terrifying. And the bravery should be applauded (as I’m going to do as soon as I send this out’I’m going to get back into my mailbox and respond to the woman who sent a pic). And wanting a photo, that’s not stupid. You can learn a lot from a photo’I think. I’m not really sure about all this. And rejecting on the basis of language used’that’s just elitist and snobby, and I don’t have that right.

Doesn’t overcome the right, though, that I have to freak out and not want to go on any of these blind dates that have somehow, through my own fault, risen up to smack me in the head. I swear, I was ONLY posting to whinge a little, to feel sorry for myself a little, but in a lighthearted way, and make anyone else sitting on a couch on Saturday night feel like they were part of my night for a few brief and light minutes. I did not post for dates. I don’t NEED them. But now, I have them. One of my friends said, don’t limit, just go. I’m following her advice, god knows why. I’m nuts.

On a more important topic, I’m also going to write right now. I will. Another quick turn-around, and I want to see Jenn to give her her gift, so I don’t have time to do much. But even a little is good. And more tonight on my break.

Off to answer some brave responses now.

021903 2258

I’ve been very bad about my real writing. Took the weekend off, because that’s what I do. Then on Tuesday, didn’t write. And today’s Wednesday, and I haven’t written. I have a lot of catching up to do, and I plan on starting that tomorrow. I won’t get discouraged. I’m at a sticky part right now, and I’m struggling to maintain a focus and direction of the work: I could potentially, at this point, go in so many different directions, and it’s difficult to narrow it down.

Went out with JP yesterday. I know! I was a bit terrified. I’ve never in my whole life gone on a date with a person that I hadn’t met. We had been writing, sure, but I didn’t know her. And I was surprised’I didn’t know that I had an expectation in my head, and I’m still not sure what it was, but she didn’t match it. But she didn’t NOT match it, either. It was odd, I walked to the coffee shop I had suggested, and as I walked, I looked at the women who walked past me. What if she was like that? Or could she look like that person? I was much more comfortable when the confident, aggressive JP was a figment made of my imagination and her stable words, frozen in time and place. When she turned into a woman, flesh and blood, and had three dimensions to encapsulate the words she created, I froze. I sat on the couch next to her and told myself not to bolt. I was flustered beyond fluster’flushed and nervous and totally out of my element. She was not, as I *think* I had imagined, short and butch and possibly bleached blonde crew cut-ted. She was tall, and thin. She looked rather breakable, and that didn’t inspire immediate confidence.

But I didn’t bolt, and I was delighted and rather chagrined to learn that she’s probably one of the most intelligent women I’ve ever met’not that I didn’t know it already by the quality of her writing: for god’s sake, she wrote the plural of grade B as Bs, bless her’and that immediately made me nervous all over again. I’m not quite sure of attraction yet. And I’m trying not to worry about it (of course, I am, but I’m trying to keep it at the subliminal level where it needs to remain). But I know that she made me laugh. I laugh easily, and a lot. But I’m not often jolted into out-loud surprised laughter, not usually caught that off-guard. She did that. So we’ll see. The immediate dangerous obsession with checking my email is over, and I’m not worried anymore. I’m not flustered and stomach-knotted anymore. Thank god. I’m not good at this! I’m good at single and alone and happy. I’m scared of anything else. Damn fear. Gets me every time.

021803 1201

Happy Birthday, Bethany!

The below post has been totally eye-opening. I didn’t post it with any sort of intention of getting a response. I swear. I posted it in the spirit that I post here–a journal of sorts. I had been out, and I wanted to share that with someone, and everyone else was asleep. I thought I’d get a few males-posing-as-chicks “you wanna have fun, i’m hot, send me your pitcher” and I did, and I thought I’d get advice, “call this dating service, they found me the love of my life,” and I did, but what I didn’t anticipate was such kindness. Women, very nice women saying, You made me laugh. That’s the way *I* feel, too. I would have talked to you. I’ve been there before. I actually got one from a woman who had been across the street at the same time–she heard the same sirens.

And I got one from a woman who, so far, has only identified herself as JP, but I trust that she is who she says she is (my ears have to be good, and my eyes sometimes read in the same way that I hear), and that she means what she says. I’m very interested. In what? Everything about her. She writes better than anyone I’ve known in a long time–she reminded me so much, in fact, of L, that I worried it was her.Until she revealed that she’s 28, which eliminated that fear. Two years younger. Hmmmm. We’re fixing to have a something-of-a-date. And I’m really rather embarrassingly excited about it. Not because it’s a date–god knows I don’t get excited about those, as a rule. But because this one is just more interesting than anything else that’s crossed my page in a while.

I have to remember: I could arrive, and she could be an ogre. With bad breath and a GWBush tee shirt. Wearing pink flip flops and a neon orange sweater. Would that matter? With the words she strings? Only the tee, I suppose. That, I couldn’t overlook.

021503 2330

[This is what I posted when I got home on Craigslist. Don’t know why I did, but I’m glad I did.]

I went out tonight, by myself. A kind of date with myself. Of course, I was hoping that the perfect girl, white tee, solid eyebrows and clunky boots, would sidle up next to me and say something stunning. I went to the Kitchen-Sink magazine party because I had read on CL that that’s where the girls would be. They were there, all right, but with other people. They weren’t talking to the wall-flower who wore her lipstick dark and tried to read the magazine with one hand while balancing her glass of wine with the other, the wall-flower who was trying to seem independent, rather hip, and kind. All of which she is, but she’s also quite timid and the hip part is an act.

So then I went to the White Horse. A guy was hit by a car outside, and the only girl (and oh, so cute) who talked to me was commiserating with me on the state of crosswalks today. I felt stupid and trivial, sitting inside, nursing a beer by myself, while a guy lay in the crosswalk outside, bleeding in the rain, waiting for the paramedics to arrive.

What was I thinking?

It’s hard (but fun in its own I-can-do-this way) to go to the bar by yourself, hoping a group will pull you in, will say, “Hey! You look fun! Come, meet all our friends!” Hell, if I was with one of the groups, I wouldn’t pull the single girl at the bar in either–she might be crazy, or an alcoholic, or just too shy to know how to say hello (I’m the latter). I have no idea how to approach the girls I like–the ones who wear their jackets over jeans with a-whole-lotta pockets, whose hair is short and whose bodies require a double take–girl? boy? Whatever, damn, you’re something. You’re _Tipping the Velvet_ Nancy and I’m Kitty without the Walter or the hangups, but how does a girl like me approach a boi like you? I haven’t the foggiest.

So now I’m home, in my little warm apartment, two cats snuggling, and it’s raining, and I don’t know why I’m writing this, except that I’m happy I went out alone tonight. I’m happy I saw grrls tonight, laughing and giddy to be out in the weather, having a beer or two, loving on their friends. Even if I was too shy to say a word, and kept to my beer at the bar, smiling at the gay boys ’cause they’re so much easier to flirt with, I had a marvellous time. And I hope I saw YOU, and that you were shy, too, and needed this post to nudge you into saying something back to me, the writer with the night-shift-day-job, the shy femme with short hair at the bar. And if you weren’t there, maybe you should have been. Maybe you would have approached me and said “Hi. I’m [fill-in-the-blank] and I think I’d like to talk to you for a minute.”

021503 1310

A long time ago, I had a Valentine’s Day dinner with N at Nikko’s Catacombs, a three hundred dollar dinner (which I think I paid for, looking back) with a bouillabaisse that was amazing and Nikko himself waded through the expensive coats to say hello. That was a good VDay. But last night was my best Valentine’s Day ever, no disrespect meant to anyone else.

I thought about making a road trip. But I had to be back today for errands, so didn’t. Instead, I stayed in, doing laundry. How can this be good? I don’t know. It was. I had two beers, which knocked me on my ass (rather sad, but true). Then I started to have some real fun. It got later and later, the real night hours were leaving and the wee hours rolling in. I made chocolate chip cookies from scratch and ate a whole plate of them, rather drunkenly. I watched about a million episodes of Sex and the City, which were playing in marathon style on HBO. I knitted up a storm. I went cruising the internet, with my laptop on my knees, whoo hoo!, and found fun things to do, including a screening of Tipping the Velvet on March 1st’ they’ve made it into a BBC movie! I’m LOVING the book’haven’t been this engaged in a book forever. Oh, yes, got into bed after a bath at about three am, and read for two more hours.

So many times, I’m alone at home, thinking I should be out playing somewhere, or I’m out playing and I’m wishing I was at home. Last night’I only wanted to be one place’home’with one person’me. It was one of the best dates I’ve ever had.

021303 1607

Oh, bad sleep. NOT a cozy day in the bed with the kitties. The damn kitties woke me up, at least once an hour. It was raining, and Digit either wanted desperately in or desperately out. Even through earplugs, I could hear the wails and I would get up, let him in, dry his reluctant feet on a towel and dry his fur. Until he wailed again to go out.

They’re great, but they have brains the size of walnuts.

So. I’m not ready to be awake. The tea is helping a little.

Oh, did I mention I’ve gone crazy? In order to buy the computer the second time, after they lost it, I had to put cash in my account from a credit card and then pay them over the phone. After they received confirmation that FedEx had lost it, they credited my account. So I have all this money sitting in there, money that needs to go back to the credit card. And last night, ignoring that completely, I bought the battery and camera memory stick that I still needed. I’m tempted to buy the hundred dollar computer, too. Help me! I’m going to open Quicken (which is all backed up, thank you) and transfer it back. I think. Yipes. Wouldn’t it be nice to always have an extra thou in the account? I could get used to that.

Last yoga class tonight, and I have done NOTHING this week to practice. I’m sure it’ll kick my ass, in a polite, yogic kind of way.

Nothing more to say. Sleepy as hell. Sweater coming along nicely.

Oh, and I like the human shields that are going up in Iraq.

021203 1530

The day is already better than yesterday, because my computer works. Had a great sleep, as I always do after my Monday, and it’s raining, so the cats were both inside, close and warm. We slept in a great soft heap. There are some things that only cats will do for, and warming your legs on a cold day is one of those things.

Frustrated about my work. I only lost about a week’s worth, maybe even two, I can’t remember. And I hadn’t been very happy about that work, but that’s not the point. It doesn’t really matter, I tell myself, whether I’m EVER happy with my work, it’s just that I do it. That it gets done. And if I don’t like the shape of it, I can change it later. But a whole bunch is gone, and I could rewrite it, but that would feel strange and possibly forced. I hardly even remember what I was doing in the first place.

What I would like to do, but I’m not sure it’s a good idea, is print the whole damn thing out and read it. But that would take hours and hours, and what if I got discouraged? I cannot afford to get discouraged now. This is farther along than my last big piece, and I’ve passed the place I opted out then, but I’m terrified I won’t finish.

I’m getting better about finishing things. I used to never finish anything, case in point: my knitting. I would start this and start that, I’d have sweaters in all states of non-completion. I’m sure I have a closet-full at Mom’s house. But now, I start, I work, I complete. That’s what I’m doing with this work, too. It just takes perseverance. Man! It took perseverance to spell that word right. My mind went blank for a minute.

Going to take my uniform out of the washer and place it in the dryer. Then I’m going to make another cuppa and sort the mail. Then I’m going to write a thousand words. Then maybe some TV. And C’s coming over to show me her new (to her) Volvo. Very exciting. And so the afternoon goes, and the work gets done. There, isn’t that easy? Good lord, I need to hire myself a cheerleader.

021103 1539

Whew. I’ve had a day already. It started last night, actually, as I realized I couldn’t turn my computer on. It was locking at the Windows XP window. And I don’t know WHY (that’s so frustrating). Bethany was sleeping on my couch, since we had arrived home late from Mom’s and she didn’t want to drive to the city. I spent half-an-hour on the phone with an HP tech who helped me restart the computer. I had to reformat the entire hard drive. And I lost everything I had on it. Aargh! It’s a new damn computer! Had I backed anything up? Of course not. BECAUSE it’s a new damn computer!

The biggest pain was the Quicken files. I swear to god, if they crash again, I ain’t willing to do it all over again. At least this time it was faster, since I knew what to do, but I was still starting from scratch: the look of the windows, the screen saver, the desktop. I lost all the photos I had put on it, thank god they weren’t valuable at all’just crap test pics from work. I had to reinstall the camera software.

But this time, I’ve already done a Quicken backup disk. Not that I would know how to use it. And I’ve saved the pics. I’ve lost some of my real work, but I hadn’t felt that good about the recent work anyway, and I never had managed to get a full file transmitted from my old files, so that’s no huge loss. It’s an icky feeling right now. Later on, it would have been a terrible feeling, so I’m glad I was taught my lesson this way.

The new picture up top is me at my favorite lunch place – Splash Caf’ in Pismo Beach. The BEST clam chowder in the whole wide world. You eat it in a buttered bread bowl, with a little splash of tabasco to spice it up. We always take it down to the beach and eat at a picnic table, looking at the surfers. It’s incredible. I’m kicking myself for not bringing home any frozen. Dang. And in the picture, I’m wearing the sweater I made myself. Looks all right, huh?

I have no motivation to do my real writing today at all. Especially since I don’t really know where I left off. I can figure that out tonight and email myself the old stuff, but I have nothing to go on right now, so I’m just going to be lazy.

Man, that loss is irritating. Almost as irritating as the fact that someone’s left things in the washer and dryer, and I can’t wash my uniform. Wearing an old one tonight, and I hate that. It’s not that it’s really dirty, it’s that it’s been sitting in the laundry hamper all weekend and is wrinkled beyond repair. It’s an irritating kind of day today. Must think of the Splash Caf’.

020903 1645

I’m at Mom and Dad’s house, sitting on the couch, sipping a cup of rapidly cooling tea. It’s cold here. Actually, it’s probably warmer outside than it is up north, but the house is less insulated, and I’m less active. I feel the cold more here.

Bethany and I drove down yesterday. I was exhausted. Usually I’m okay with a couple of hours sleep after I get off work on Saturday morning, and I get up and have a full day. Yesterday, I was toast. I actually let Bethany drive after we hit King City. I never like to let anyone drive. She is one of the best drivers I know, but I was still monitoring the road. A little. I was kinda too tired to care. It was a great ride down, though. Top down most of the way’until Bradley, where the sun went behind the mountains and the chill kicked up’and clear for days and days. We rounded the curve and hit the ocean right at sunset’a brilliant fish-scale red off to one side of the sky, over by where the lighthouse is, and we could see all the to Oso Flaco and beyond.

I had brought a video-tape with me that I had made for Mom, and we watched the last thing I put on it–episode of Globe Trekker where Ian Wright goes to Tahiti, Rarotonga, and Samoa! It’s hard to remember how beautiful Saipan was’we just lived there. And it’s hard to realize how gorgeous these places still are, so clear and warm and perfectly like paradise. And we can’t afford to go there. I can’t, at least. But it was fun to watch, to have Dad narrating in the background, giving the proper Samoan words for things.

And then we gave Christmas gifts, the things we had found that we had forgotten to give. I’d forgotten to give Mom a CD I’d bought for her last Strawberry Festival. The band is called Red Wine, and it’s the ‘Italian Cats’ CD. It’s Italian bluegrass, who knew? And they’re great (they have a cover of Kate Wolf’s ‘Great Divide’). And Mom gave both of us a framed copy of a photo that Mom and Da d had taken for us. Isn’t that wonderful? They look so good, and Mom’s wearing the cross I bought her in Siena (and had the priest bless near the mummified head of St. Catherine). Christmas all year round.

I’m wearing my new sweater today. It makes me happy to have on a sweater I’ve made, as well as socks. It’s cold, so when we go out to dinner tonight, I may have to wear my scarf, too. Silly. But at least my hobby sometimes comes in useful.

Tonight we’re celebrating a year of my being quit smoking. I think my anniversary isn’t actually for another week or two. But goddammit, it feels like a year. I’m going to have crab. I’ve been dying for crab lately (and oysters, but that’s only because I’ve been reading Sarah Waters’ Tipping the Velvet. Hooraddy. And then we’re off to see Chicago, which somehow we’ve all missed, which is odd since we’re such a movie family. Wish Christy was here, too.

020803 0029

I’m at work, in the back, on my break. I’ve done my writing, and I’m just holing up back here for a few more minutes. It’s not like I mind being at work, I don’t. But I don’t feel all that well, very tired, and I don’t have quite as much energy as I’d like to. And it’s so flipping hot. I need the air to come on for just a second.

Going to see Mom tomorrow. I’m so happy that I’ll be getting out of town, even though my house needs some serious cleaning, and I have a million little things that need to get done. I will have Tuesday at home, since Bethany has to come home on Monday night, so I’ll get a few things done.

My god. I’m so boring. I can’t even bear to keep writing this. I’m in a MOOD! And I hate to show my moods at work (this is PMS from hell, I know it), so I’ll have to keep a lid on it. Yech. Enough.

But I love my computer. And oh, hey, my camera, too. Just thinking about those two little digital items just made me feel better.

020603 1615

I adore this new computer. It does everything, and fast. I love the way the keys feel, so slight and delicate. I’m used to pounding on my old keys, and the ones at work, and I have to lighten my touch here. I’m still getting used to setting it up. I find I still do all my work sitting at the desk’kind of silly since I can move it around. But I’m not very adventurous that way. I like my tea right at hand.

Got into a good talk with C last night about loneliness. She had been talking to her crazy neighbor (whom I know from the police department) who had told her, ‘Have some children. I have none, and that’s why I’m alone. No one to take care of me.’ It freaked her out a bit, as I can imagine. I’ve had those three am (or three pm) lying-in-bed fears that I’ll die alone and the cats will eat me (Adah would go first, and Digit would reluctantly join in). I did my normal assuaging, that J has always told me I do too much of. I don’t have to make everyone feel all right, all the time. I have to admit some of my fears, too. I hate admitting I have any. So I actually called her back, and said, hey, don’t let Sally scare you into having children. It’s no guarantee of anything. You could have kids and be an extremely responsible, caring parent, and they’ll turn out like shit, and you’ll still be taking care of them when they’re sixty and you’re ninety. Cleaning up their messes. Or, what I had been really thinking about that day, you could turn out like an old man in town the other night, who was 91 (and had my birthday), whose house caught on fire. He called and talked to Gina. I heard the playback a couple of times. She asked him if he could get out, and he said yes. She asked, ‘Is anyone with you?’ He said, ‘No, I’m alone! I’m all alone!’ And you can hear the terror as it sinks it to him that his house really is on fire. When he first calls, it’s unbelievable’it’s audible in his voice that he hasn’t realized yet what’s happening. And then he gets it, you can hear it. He didn’t make it. He couldn’t get out in time, and died at the hospital of burns and smoke inhalation.

And that guy had family. He had children, who lived close and came to the scene quickly, and were devastated that their healthy (for 91) father had died so horribly.

Having children doesn’t protect you from anything. For that matter, not having them doesn’t protect you from anything either. You might still be alone and lonely. Or you might not. The only way I can see myself being lonely is not having my family (god forbid!) and not having the heart to make other friends. Not feeling like it was worth it. But I’d live in my little house and knit and feel sorry for myself, and probably prefer that company to any other.

Funny. It’s more terrifying when it’s just a feeling in your heart, a dark quiet feeling. When I write it here on the page, it’s small and in the open. Ain’t that big a deal. I’m never lonely now. That’s what I have now, and that’s all I can ever be sure of, anyway. So I enjoy today.

020503 1800

I’ve been sitting here at the computer for hours, and I can’t believe I have to go to work and sit in front of MORE computers for MORE hours.

Came home this morning to find my digital camera on my doorstep. So now that makes it a plane ticket to Italy and a digital camera that UPS has just left outside, all night, at my front door. Thank god I live in Oakland. At least you can trust people around here.

But how excited was I? I swear, in these last few months, I’ve become a techie from hell. I have a new cell phone, a new computer, a new camera…. Wait, there’s something else. I can’t think of it. And of course, I need a new printer to go with these goodies. And I need more memory for the camera….. Aargh! What’s a poor girl to do?

The camera is wonderful. It takes a little getting used to. I think I’ll have to do an all-day jaunt with out, take it out and try out all the bells and whistles. I like how well it does indoors. And I love how easy it is to download into the computer’one USB snap and a button pushed, and all the photos are in front of me. Every trip, every year, I spend at least three hundred dollars, just on film and processing. That’s not even including blow-ups and reprints, which can go a hundred more. This is justified (and paid for, thanks to OT), but I’m a little worried that it won’t take the amazing pictures that my old SLR does. I really have to practice with it. No messing around. Maybe I’ll do that this weekend when I go home to see Ma.

Which I’m gonna do’going to load up the kitties and hit the road. I have a yen to see the folks. I miss being home. And I want an excuse to knit a lot.

My mind is leaping and rather frazzled. Technology can take a lot of outta you. Ready for a nap. But I should do just a little real writing first. I loved being at work last night on my break in the back room. I wrote right onto the computer. Whoo hoo! No email transfers, no floppy disks backfiring in plumes of smoke. Man, it’s late already. And I have to get something to eat. And take a shower. I’ve lost the whole afternoon in learning my new toy, but it was fun. Yippee!

020403 1130

So I went to the bar on Sunday, got there right at two. Smiled purdy, bought a beer, grabbed a table near the open door for light and started knitting. Granted, it’s a gay bar, and thus, theoretically is more everything-goes. But I did feel odd, all alone. I think there was one chick there when I got there, seated at the bar with the boys. She left pretty soon after, and it was just the guys, giving me funny looks. The bartender was very sweet, though.

And guess how many people came?

Me. That was the only person who showed up to my stitch and bitch, after I had six last time, and the promise of many more. I had received a bunch of ‘I’ll probably be there’ emails and one ‘I’ll be there.’

It kind of turned into a game. How long could I stay without dying of embarrassment? That’s overstating the game a bit. I wasn’t embarrassed. I was self-conscious. And I would have moments where I was sure the new guy at the bar was leaning in and asking Danny the bartender about me. I would squirm and then sit up straight and try to look confident, and then Danny would squeal, ‘He didn’t!’ and I would realize again, for the umpteenth time, that no one cares about me, that no one’s looking at me. It’s really the most reassuring thing. After all, I don’t give a shit what people are doing around me. If I saw someone doing a crossword puzzle at a bar (much stranger than knitting, I think), I would look, and my silly head would go right back to thinking about ME. And that’s the way everyone is. I lasted 45 minutes before I thought that was good enough’if anyone was going to come by, they would have, and I could leave. But I finished my good beer first and chatted with the boys on the way out. I pouted, and they consoled, and they said they were sure more would come next time. They made me feel better.

So then I went to a yarn shop that Christy had swore she had seen a week before, just around the corner from my house, on Telegraph at 51st. It’s called Article Pract, a play on words, practical art. And it was wonderful. I couldn’t stop from drooling and had to talk with the woman working. Her name was Rachael (!!!) and she runs a knitting group that meets on Monday nights at Jack London Barnes and Noble. I went last night, and it was just such a refreshing change from my Sunday night group. Sunday nights tend to be very young, very loud, and very political. Fun, but you have to be on your toes. I almost got into a yelling match this week with someone over the right men have to wear women’s clothing (she thought men in skirts were somehow wrong. Hello, utilikilts! (and funny article here)). Last night at East Bay Knitters, there were all sorts of people, a sixty year old woman from Bolivia, a forty-five year old Hispanic woman from the Bronx, three or four mothers, an older woman who runs a knitting guild, and Rachael, an extremely nice woman who has two kids and an overabundance of energy. It was fabulous. I know it’s in a chain bookstore and I try not to patronize such things. I can’t remember the last time I did. But because it’s a group, everyone’s getting educator discount cards. Hello, mama! Love that. And there’s a Starbucks inside, just to make the remaining left-wing people cringe. I’m a lefty, but I’m a Starbucks drinkin’ lefty, sue me. (Oh, jeez, to admit that in the Sunday night stitch and bitch, that could get you lynched.)

That’s all. I need to do laundry and go out and see my friend Steven for lunch, and go get an annual afer that, and then work. Ugh. I had a dentist’s appt yesterday, and I told Carol that I wished I could get the gas that I get there at the doctor’s office for this afternoon’s type of visit. She loved the idea, thought we should just incorporate everything: Have an all-points checkup, up here and down there, drive in, drive out and go. I love that gas. I understand why Hell’s Angels abuse it.

0200203 2301

Check this out: Police capture knitter.

020203 1315

Just writing for a moment’doing my first little on my NEW COMPUTER. It has to have a name. I love it. It was worth waiting for. I think I’ll call it Ducky. I chose a yellow rubber ducky to display when it opens. I know, too cute. But that’s what this is. It’s strong but oh-so-cute. Tomorrow I think I’ll take it down to the coffee shop to write. Just ‘cause I can. I need to get an external floppy and possibly a new mouse, an ethernet hub, and maybe a carrying case. The possibly and the maybe can wait.

It’s so nice and quiet. And it’s astounding that such a little thing can be so much stronger and more powerful that the computer I’ve used for years. I was really excited about sharing the DSL line with the neighbors, but now I wonder if I even need it. The internet connection that I have with a faster modem is such a vast improvement on the old 28. I’m already hooked up to Yahoo Geocities, and it only took a couple of minutes. To me, that’s lightning speed.

Off to s’n’b at the bar this afternoon. I have to jump in the shower. I’m worried that no one will show again, I guess I’ll never get over that fear, but even if they don’t, I’ll have a nice beer and get some knitting done. I’m gonna wear my new sweater, the grey one that actually turned out well, so I can be proud of myself, even if I’m sitting alone. I’m brave, but I hope I don’t sit alone too long.

This was a good investment. Damn. I love it. I can play CDs! Oh, yeah, I need to buy some blank CDs. Whoo hoo!

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I just don’t have enough time off work. And I have too many things to do. But I manage to cram a lot in. I’ve already been to the Knitting Basket today, and I’ve done my longhand work. Now a moment to write here, and I’m off for work early again. But it’s Friday! Praise the Lord. Couldn’t come at a better time.

I need to make another sweater, and fast. Bought some lovely red/pink yarn this morning at Longs (I know, but it’s soft), but I needed a circular 7 14in needle to do the neckline’I do NOT like doing necks or sleeves on double-pointed’at least, not the whole thing.

FedEx lost my computer’but I was helped by a wonderful little person named Olivia at HP who told me about the snowstorm that’s boxed in Wisconsin while she set me up for overnight Saturday delivery and gave me $50 bucks off for my trouble. I’m writing her a commendation tonight and emailing it to her boss. She was great.

And I’m not leaving the house tomorrow at ALL until the damn thing comes in. And I’ll be devastated if it doesn’t.

Adah, pain in the ass that she is, can sometimes be so very sweet. She just jumped into my lap and curled herself between my typing arms. And she just gave me the tiniest little nose-kiss. She’s not being needy. Oh, there she goes. Damn. I’m done here.

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Am in a rush again today, this time ‘cause I’ve got yoga before work tonight. Ooh, slow to move. Had bad sleep, tossing and turning, going to the bathroom and back, whuummphing into bed onto my back with a huge, pathetic sigh for how pitifully little sleep I was achieving. Poor little me. Whatever. Suck it up. Tough love. Move the hands, write the words, and go do some inverted poses. Yipes!

I didn’t write about what I made over the weekend. I actually claimed two, count ‘em, two nights at home (one out at the Lucky Lounge in Oakland, drinking the best martinis I’ve had since Lynn) alone, to knit. I finished the sweater! It’s a wonderful soft grey, and it’s all mine. I’m keeping it. I wore it on Monday to pick up Christy, and I wasn’t sure if she would notice it, and I made myself be okay if she didn’t say anything. Bless her heart, she got in the car and her first words were, ‘Hi! Where did you GET that SWEATER?’ I was giddy. Makes me want to start another one, though. Maybe I will’. I also made two hats, from the redlipstick lady, love her. Cutest hats. Easy as pie. And I finished the Ugliest Socks in the World last night at work, so I’m starting on some more. I’m sure, with B’s bday coming up, she’ll get at least socks and a hat. People must get tired of handmade gifts.

I’ve found out where my computer is: It’s been sitting in Oakland FedEx since last Friday. Aargh! This is Thursday! What the hell is the problem? A computer is never as slow as when you know you have another one coming that will fly. I think they’ve lost it, which won’t bother me as long as I get another one soooonnnn. The magic is dying. I’ve paid for it. Now I just want it. And I thought of another way to justify it to myself (I know I don’t have to, I just do it anyway): This year of not smoking has more than paid for it already. Man. I could have had a ton of computers over the years.

Off to get my ass kicked by a strange little person with long hair which she keeps in a bun until she lets it down late in the class for effect.

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Why did I not know about hillgirlz? How cool is that? And they have my White Horse Stitch and Bitch up on their calendar. I appreciate not only them doing that, but letting me know about it.

Am running against the clock today. Agreed to work an extra four hours today for a good friend, but that means that much less time to write. Have done my longhand writing, now this, then the real work, but I would be surprised if I get 500 words done, let alone the 1000 I’ve bumped my goal back up to. It wasn’t a challenge (usually) to write 500. It was so easy that I got lazy about it. Oh, I’ll whip them out later. Later. Maybe tomorrow. Or the next day. Writing a thousand words a day is like what being on the quarter system was for me. On semester system, I got behind. I have forever to do that project. Thus, due to procrastination, it never got done. Quarter system, you have ten weeks, and you better be on the ball. You had better own that damn ball, or you’re s.o.l. Hello academic probation. Voice of experience.

Just glad it’s such a lovely day, and that Digit has come inside easily, and that I have a life that allows me to do what I want to do, and that I’m flexible enough to bend out of my hips. My yoga teacher says I’m too flexible and thus don’t do some of the moves right. But it feels good to be cross legged and lean way forward, like I just did. The little happy things.

But WHERE IS MY NEW COMPUTER????

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There. I’ve done all the ‘work’ I want to do today’filing, paying bills, mailing things and now I’m ready to write. I’ve already done a little writing today. I’m going back to Morning Pages, not just this little on-line version. Even knowing this is a blog, and form and content don’t matter, I still proofread. At least once. I’m sure I miss a million things in each post, but I need at least one place in my life where I don’t have to make sense, where I don’t proofread at ALL, where I can just be on the page. And that place is the original morning pages, written on the couch as soon as the eyes open, before anything else is done in the day, before the first cuppa, before the dreams get lost in fog. The handwriting is terrible (especially after such a long MP absence) and the prose is non-existent, but it’s there. I chose to write here, on-line, because it could be safeguarded’I wasn’t going to lose it to fire or flood. But if I lost those papers that I store here at home, I wouldn’t lose myself. I’d just lose some morning ramblings, which comprise part of me. It ain’t that big a thang.

Morning pages, and these entries, are not writing to read. They’re writing to write. For the sake of the hand moving, the brain whirring into sluggish motion.

Damn it, Adah just jumped on my leg with claws out. She’s a pain in the ass. But a nice slim 9.8 lb pain. She went to the vet yesterday, and both the cats have trimmed down’Digit most impressively from 15.5 to 11.7. My god. Good boy. He brought his collar back, too. He’s been so good about it. He lost this one last week, and today I found it in the driveway, near my door. It doesn’t have anything but my phone number on it, so it wasn’t a neighbor chucking it over. This is the fourth collar Digit has brought back when asked nicely to.

I know it’s nutty. Oh, well.

Weekend good if quiet. Went on a long hike on Saturday with a friend, stretched out all those aching yoga muscles. Got quite lost, and tramped up a lot of hills, but it felt good. It was like being in New Zealand again, somehow. It was a warm, moist day, and we were hiking Stream Trail, which we both misread as Steam Trail. I was able to convince myself that just around the bend we’d come to a pond of boiling mud, or a hissing spout of water. I noticed that there were a million little red berries on everything, but it wasn’t until deep into the hike that we noticed the berries were actually ladybugs. Millions of them. Gajillions. I love ladybugs. Up to a point. There were so many of them that they became bugs in my mind. Too many wiggly legs. It is amazing, though, how driving up behind my house becomes a national forest, how you can hike so far that you can’t hear traffic anymore. You forget how close you really are to nature, to real nature.

But I’m one of those people to whom the knowledge of such closeness is enough. On a daily basis, I prefer to walk the neighborhood. I love hitting the pavement, walking among the gorgeous houses, and coming out onto College Ave, joining the walking shoppers there, and then coming back home. That’s what feels good to me. I only like nature with someone else. Otherwise I get nervous. Too many creepy forest movies when I was young.

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Yoga kicked my ASS last night! We were moving slowly, and I hardly sweat at all, and it felt like such an easy pace, but the some of the positions were difficult, and today I feel like I’ve worked my entire body. Seriously. There wasn’t a major muscle group left out. I love it. My body feels like it went to gym, while I know that I had fun, instead. I tricked it.

The teacher is odd’strange, but good. It’s hard for me to get a read on her. She criticizes for just a sharp second as if it’s personal, but then adds a sweet praise. She stares into your eyes, and you know it’s a test: Meet them, pass, glance away, fail. But I feel awkward holding her gaze for too long. I’m just not that intense. Nothing personal.

But she’s an excellent teacher, gifted with the right words to make my body do what I don’t understand logically. ‘Move your shoulders forward, up, back, and around to forward, up, back and leave them there. This is where they’ll be for the backbend.’ And it makes sense, I feel in alignment, and the pose works, hurts and feels good at the same time. I always hated exercise because it was boring and it hurt. Yoga isn’t boring, and the pain must be that workout pain that everyone’s always rhapsodized about that I never understood: It burns, but you know there’s a point to it.

Still haven’t received my computer. Terribly disappointed. But I slept great, no interruptions that weren’t kitty ones.

Oh, just read on Yahoo that my government is warning American tourists to get ready to leave other countries. Bite me. I’m sewing a Canadian flag to my luggage if I have to.

I think perhaps it’s my fault. I bought a ticket to Italy: September 11th occurred. I still went to Italy less than two months later, but it was a little worrying. Just a little bit, and not enough to stop me. Now I’ve bought my ticket again, and they’re threatening not just war, but big war. I’m not patriotic enough to be not-disappointed if I can’t go. (The only way I won’t go, god willing and the creeks don’t rise, is if the planes aren’t flying, or they say, ‘You can’t go.’)

It’s a terrible feeling, to be saddled by a country in whose government you don’t believe. I love the country itself, the land and the people, and the ideas upon which it was founded (liberty for all, but think about: we’re a land based on hypocrisy. We fought England and won our liberty, and then they laughed their asses off a little while later while we fought each other over whether black men got that liberty, too. And don’t even start with the women’s vote. We’re idiots, always have been, started out and will end that way). And it was odd, last week, at the peace march, to see and talk with all the regular average everyday Joes who are as aghast as I am that my money and my safety are being used to fight something that I don’t believe in. The people marching with me were, for the most part, 30-somethings with children. There were the flower children and the old ex-hippies, sure, and of course there were those screwball military men that you don’t know whether they’re protesting or supporting or just along to look at the pretty girls, but mostly, the people were mid-age range, with serious jobs and nice houses in Lafayette and Danville’just the kind of people who would agree with a war that helped free a ravaged country of starving people fighting to keep their fields. This war is just creating that kind of country, for few (I’ll allow a gray area) good reasons.

Enough soapboxing. I’m going to stretch out these muscles and enter more numbers in my cool new phone.

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I had really bad sleep last night (during the day, whatever). I’m expecting my computer any minute, so I left a sign on my door for deliveries to knock on my window to wake me up. I got one delivery, but it was my cell phone instead. It was raining, and of course I have to pull on sweats before I answer the door, and the little delivery person seemed so thrilled that I had been sleeping. He just couldn’t stop smiling and had all sorts of psuedo-creepy questions: ‘Don’t you get cold with just the security screen door closed?’ I didn’t even have answers. ‘No.’ I don’t know why I don’t get cold, I’m just never cold. I told him that I was hoping for a computer and he went and searched his whole truck, which I didn’t quite understand. I said, ‘Maybe I’ll get it tomorrow.’ He said, ‘I have tomorrow deliveries in my truck too, hold on, I’ll go look.’ Then I could hear thumps as he crashed around. Now, why would he have tomorrow’s deliveries in there? That doesn’t make sense. But he was nice, although I don’t know why. I’m no princess when I roll outta bed.

Glad to have the new cell phone, glad that I bought the insurance on my old one, since it crapped out’I just can’t hear sometimes in the middle of a conversation. It’s like the back part of it is falling off. This new phone is so damn cute. And it has such a darling little series of melodic beeps that sound when you power it on. My old one just went ‘blaht.’ But I can’t get it activated’they said try again after 6pm. So I’ll go to yoga and then try it. I really want to play with it, program it all up.

I’m such a gizmo nerd. And sleepy. And waiting desperately for my computer. Hoo-raddy.

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Just sitting here doing bills on the computer, realizing that I’ll soon have to start my money files all over again ON THE NEW COMPUTER. (I’m getting jazzed.) I’ve always struggled with the Microsoft Money’s backup files’I think I’m running on such a beta version that it’s a struggle just to save, let alone transfer. I think I’ll have to start them all over again. Which could be good. Erase the old blemishes. There’s something satisfying, though, about the ability to (should one desire) run a total of how much you’ve spent in cigarettes in the past six years. Ooh. I think I’m going to do that right now.

Well, that was an exercise in futility. It says I spent $1660 since 98, and I KNOW I must have spent more than that. A LOT more. But that’s all I kept track of, hiding the rest in cash purchases, which it usually was, or in along with the groceries, which sometimes they were.

But I haven’t had a cigarette in almost a year. I think in three weeks it’ll be a year. I’m so proud of myself.

When I was at work the other night, I asked a coworker if she thought it would be okay if I smoked while I was in Italy. Part of me wanted her to say, Of course! But the healthier part of me made sure I asked that question of the ex-alcohol/drug counselor, with another opinionated person in the back room. They made me see how stupid my question was. Sure, I could smoke in Italy. It’s not against any law. But I had to realize that that would count as starting smoking again. Just because it’s a different continent doesn’t stop that behavior from forming. I would like it if that were true. Oh, lordy, I would like it if that were true.

I just told them, ‘Fine. I’ll just drink a lot.’ Spoken like a true addict. But that resolution actually helped. I won’t smoke. I know that. But I’m bummed out about it. Damn. I was really hoping I could. Stupid.

I’m reading a fantastic book The Art of Travel, and the author talks about how, when planning a trip, you always forget that you’re bringing yourself. When picturing the swaying gondolas and imagining hearing the slap of the water against stone, you can forget that you will be there, and you’ll be just you. You won’t be SuperItaly girl, you’ll just be Rachael, with the same emotions and feelings that you have here. In his book, he means this to say he takes his own grumpy, pessimistic, frightened self along. I don’t bring that anywhere, so that’s okay. But I will be bringing my thoughts of writing and knitting and work and bills. Smoking a cigarette, sitting (I was just struck by brilliance, more in a moment) and staring at the beauty in Venice brings me back into focus. I stop, sit, see. I stop walking to a destination, stop fretting about what I’ll do tomorrow, and just look at the brickwork at my feet, the man sweeping the water from in front of his shop, the older women in black, walking together. Smoking was always a built-in excuse to be totally present in what was before me. I didn’t have to do anything else.

And here’s my brilliant idea. To stop, break, sit, and sketch. Yes. Every time when in the past I would have felt the desire to smoke, I’ll stop and sketch something near me. I have a small Moleskine journal that will fit into my pocket, and I’ll grind down an art pencil and bring a sharpener. That will fulfill my strangely strong need for little beauty breaks. I’m so happy about this! It may seem like a little realization, but it’s huge. I was terrified to go to Italy without a crutch. I just made a new one, and it’s a permanent souvenir. Whoopee!

This is what writing brings me: the chance to answer my own questions, solve my own problems. Julia Cameron refers sideways to this phenomena as channeling. It’s not channeling, just more of opening up to ideas that were already there, just waiting to be found.

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This is gonna be a long entry, ‘cause I ain’t written in a while, and I have a lot to say. Or I just feel like I do. It might be just a few paragraphs. I’m just gonna ramble till I’m through.

I’m in a strange mood. On edge. It could be that I’ve been working a whole hell of a lot, and not writing that much. I haven’t written since last Friday. I feel prickly. If someone were to tease me, I’d cry. Or if I teased someone, and they cried, I’d stomp away, my teeth gritted. Sparks want to fly out of me, but I have no starter wheel. I don’t know what it is. Buyer’s remorse?

I bought the computer. Aack! I think it’s a good thing. But I’ll wait (5-7 business days) till I receive it in the mail to make that decision. I’m just terrified of spending so much money. And to add fright to terror, I bought a digital camera, too. That one isn’t so strange. I worked 8 (=12) hours of OT last night unexpectedly, and I told myself that by working it, I’d cash out the money made and buy a digital camera. I’m happy and excited about both purchases, and feel out of my mind at the same time.

Why is it that I get so guilty about spending money? It’s only money, after all. Both purchases can be easily justified, the computer is for my work, and the camera is for my travel photography (and will pay for itself in printing costs in two trips). How is it that I have NO guilt over spending money in travel, and so much making purchases that should last a good long time? At least I know I feel this way. At least I know it’s irrational. I don’t shop much’I never buy new clothes. I don’t have an expensive car. I live (rather) cheaply.

Oh, I’ll love the new computer, I just know it.

This weekend was busy’Saturday morning found me walking to Bart to catch the train to the City and the peace march’little did I realize that I’d be IN LINE at Bart for 45 minutes, waiting to buy tickets. Every Bart was the same. It took a good 10 minutes just to exit at Embarcadero, Market Street was so jam-packed with bodies already. My favorite signs: ‘I’d prefer not to,’ and (next to a picture of the US flag ‘These colors don’t run (the world)’, and ‘Go Raiders.’ I got to sing a little of ‘We Shall Overcome’ but no one else seemed to know the words, so the song died quickly. Much more chanting: ‘One two three four, we don’t wanna go to war.’ Singing is so much more inspiring. We shuffled at a heart-breakingly slow pace, and I only made it as far as Powell, 2 hours later, where I ducked into the mall and did a little browsing. I did make one little purchase, which I had been wanting, The Art of Travel, by Alain de Botton. It’s a little hard-cover philosophy book, ostensibly about traveling, but covering loneliness and togetherness all in a tongue-in-cheek voice, with plates of photos and artwork sandwiched between the pages. Rather in-your-face old-fashioned. I love it.

I just adore it that I can leave my house on foot, go enjoy myself in the City, and come home, never having been in a car. Then I came home and drove to Longs. Huh.

Sunday was more City fun’woke at 1145 to realize that my alarm hadn’t gone off and I was due for lunch at noon. Mascara, lipstick, and deodorant, (I was going to brush my hair, but I whacked my forehead with it and gave up) and I was driving (sigh) over the bridge. Fog turned into sun near the ocean, not the usual turn of weather. Kira had made incredible pesto gnochhi, all handmade, all vegan. And she had managed to come up with tickets to Buckminster Fuller, so Rachel, Beth, she and I enjoyed a $120 value show for free. Wonderful show, deep, thoughtful, but it was after the wine with lunch, so we left at intermission, barely able to keep our eyes open. Went to Herbivore for dessert and coffee, then shopping at little stores in the Mission, sitting in forties aluminum chairs that felt great and cost $750, drooling over lime green velvet loveseats. Then went for a drink and some pool at the Lexington’always nice to be around a bunch of like-minded women. And the bartender was beyond cyoo-ute. Then back to their house for knitting. Beth and I both got crabby’I hid mine, she went to bed. Voices and opinions were loud, and I just didn’t feel like thinking. You know? When you have an opinion yourself, and you value and believe it, but you don’t have any energy left to even open your mouth to make a stunning contradiction. All in all, though, a very satisfying day.

Then Beth came over yesterday, Monday, and we went shooting. She had never even shot her gun. I put my fear on hold and fired it first both because Uncle Jack had procured it for her and the fact that it’s an old Norincko. I really tried not to wonder if it was going to blow my hand off. I didn’t think it would, and I was right. It’s rather a true little shooter, only a nine, but sturdy. Only misfired once, just after I had explained to Bethany what that meant, and it was an easy clear. She was a great Herron shot, too. Runs in the family, I suppose. Christy can kill some skeet, I tell you what. B told me, and I refused to believe until I called home and it was verified, that Mom was on a sportsman (woman) team in college, specializing in rifle. If I knew that, I had forgotten it. It doesn’t surprise me, though. The girls in our family have all sorts of weird talents.

There’s something so satisfying about going to a range, though, and not being bothered at all. We went to the one near the San Leandro dump, and the old man that takes your money is deaf as a post (go figure) and looks like he just stuck the Jack under the counter. Even though it was a Monday holiday, there were only two men in the indoor range, and they pulled none of the usual ‘what gun you got, little lady? Need enny halp? Lemme show you how to pull that there trigger.’ No, thank you, I’ll show YOU how to pull it if you get any closer. We had none of that, and a lane each, and just had fun. I did remarkably well for not having shot in over a year, grouping most shots into the black. Beth’s shots wandered on the target for a while, but then she got the hang of it and most were near or in the black. She rocks. And there’s just something so satisfying about the flare of fire from the muzzle and the actual smell of hot gunpowder and lead. Something toxic, unhealthy, and good.

Then I went back to work and earned my digital camera money. And now, Tuesday, back to work, the real work week. Which means real writing. Excited to get back to it.

Ah, I feel better. They say on short sleep you build up a REM deficit. I think when not writing, I build up a word deficit, and I don’t feel better until I catch up, either here, or in the novel, or in my personal writing. I have to get the words out. They’re out, so there. There. Hah!

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PEACE MARCH ON SATURDAY!

Join with the rest of the nation…..

International A.N.S.W.E.R.
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I bought a new phone cord to replace the one that Adah ate, but I’m loathe to crawl behind the computer and plug it in. It actually feels a little nice, to be away from streaming media hitting me at the Speed of Snail. I love the internet at work’it’s mostly on-demand, the page comes up when you click. Here, the page comes up a couple of days later, and I’ve meantime wandered away.

Oooh, a friend yesterday gave me a critique of my website, of its content. Said that the writing wasn’t specific enough. My feathers got ruffled, sure enough. It’s kind of amusing how annoyed I was, and for once I actually said, ‘But I didn’t ASK for criticism.’

Of course, now I’m thinking that I’m not specific enough. Basta! It’s why I don’t show the real work to anyone’I am hopelessly codependent when it comes to my writing. Oh, you like that? Should I write more of that? You don’t enjoy this? I’ll stop, then.

My friend was very sweet and I know she supports me in my writing, and told me later that she did like the site. All she meant is that she thought I don’t tell enough stories, and people are seldom named outright. It’s usually ‘a friend’ or ‘a coworker.’ And it’s true: I maintain the anonymity of people who might like to stay unknown, and I don’t tell stories as much as telling the contents of my mind (as this entry is doing).

It comes back to the question, why do I even publish this on-line? I publish on-line to make myself write. Because it’s fun for me. Because it gives me a goal. Because maybe there’s one writer out there who likes to read what my head is doing, and because now I’m not filling up boxes and boxes with paper anymore. This is a storage mechanism. And yes, it’s egocentric, but I’m not sure that’s always a bad thing, as people imply. I’m in tune with my thoughts. I write my way through questions. My limited cerebral life is of as much interest to me as are my funny exploits, the things that translate into hysterical stories. I only get those every once in a while. My brain whirs around all the time, bumping off the same bells and hitting the same blocks over and over. I capture a little tiny piece of it here, and I feel more together afterwards.

And see? Meta-writing. I just wrote through the problem of writing through problems. I just like to write. I dump it here. Enjoy. I do.

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Okay. I’m just ‘bout done with this computer. Seriously. Now it won’t connect to the internet. I think it’s something simple, like Adah chewed through the extra long phone line again, but I’ve inspected it and both ends of it, and all appears in working order. Can’t even bring up the most recent installment of writing, since I dumped it into my email for storage. Growl.

Boy, was I grumpy last at work last night. Still feeling a little ogreish. Had a long sleep, but it was hard to get there’kept thinking about yarn.

I’m totally obsessed. I know it.

Obsessions:

Writing

Italy

Knitting

Those three things are what can occupy my mind for a whole entire day. And I flavor one with another. Writing about Italy. Knitting with Italian yarn. Writing about knitting. Can’t knit with Italy or writing, thus the flight of fancy crashes to the ground.

One of the things I was thinking about while not sleeping was this cashmere yarn I was describing to a friend last night. Sixty dollars a skein (gasp), I could never afford it for anything. But to touch it is to get that little drop in your stomach, a loss of breath. Nothing can possibly be this soft. A hat, someday? When I save up enough to have something to splurge? A black cashmere watchcap.

That’s what I was thinking about. Lordy.

Julia Cameron (Right to Write) has been talking about treating writing casually, as just another part of life. I love that. She does so well at taking the mystique out of writing. The have to do it right, look the part, talk the walk crap. One has to suffer. One has to be alone and lonely, staring for hours at the fine cracks growing across the white wall (I have one of those cracks, but I watch it out of self-preservation rather than pathos). Julia says, nah. Sit down, write some, have some tea, talk on the phone, go out to lunch, write a little more if you feel like it.

So I’m going to go out for a walk on this lovely late afternoon, stop by the grocery store’I know there was something I needed, I’ll remember. Maybe I’ll write a little more. I hoped a friend might stop by, but she hasn’t, so I’ll just relax until I go in to work tonight.

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Someone tried to pull a power trip with me. And for a little while, it worked. I got mad, so frustrating to me. I hate being mad. I’m not good at it. I stutter and cry angry tears which frustrate me even more, because crying should be done in happiness or sadness, not anger. Those kind of tears are wasted.. But just a little later, I got back to me, and realized how very sad it all was.

If a person’s joy comes from pushing another fellow human being down a staircase of frustration, if mind-fucking another gives a sense of satisfaction, how sad a person he or she must be. I’m not even saying it to act grandiose or to appear better-than-thou. I’m not better, only different. But I know that I’m happy, happy to the bone, through all my myriad layers. And this other person isn’t happy. How do people allow themselves to become so ugly in spirit? How do they lose the happiness that I believe every human being possesses as an inherent right? How do they enjoy the little things in life, crunchy toast with peanut butter, the wind in your hair on a day that should be too cold for a convertible but isn’t? How does one go through life relishing another person’s pain? How does one live? I wouldn’t live. If my soul was that starved, the rest of my body would follow, and I feel nothing but sadness that some people live like that (and a little bit of rankling, but that’s going away, firmly and distantly away).

One of my greatest fears is that someday I will walk a path of depression and not be able to find, as a friend says, ‘my happy.’ I know it happens. I read of people who say, ‘I was always a happy person until this happened’.’ Why does it happen? Mid-life crisis? A change of body chemistry? I would be in a therapist’s office so damn fast that I’d be a fuckin’ blur on the way past reception. Shit happens. Life is sometimes too hard to bear. But even sad, you should have that deep body knowledge that there is a core base of happiness that will gleam again someday.

A friend of mine died today, after being very sick for a very long time. I didn’t get to say goodbye. I asked Mom to kiss her for me, and she did. She told me a lovely story of sitting on one side of Katie the other day, while one of Katie’s daughters sat on the other side, both of them holding one of her hands. They just sat and chatted with each other while Katie’s eyes were closed, talked about kids and cats and gardens. Mom said every once in a while Katie would smile, and a couple of times she opened her eyes and added a few words to the conversation. She was enjoying just being there with them. Her spirit was happy to listen, to be there. I know her spirit is happy now, too. Doesn’t it hurt, though, to see her five daughters so sad? I just wish I knew’.

They’re thinking of having a memorial on her birthday. Isn’t that a lovely idea? God forbid, but if I died, I’d want a party for me on the 4th of July. Fireworks and ice cream. People being happy.

I miss Katie. I’m regretting even spending any of my energy mad about the person who upset me. It’s silly, and so trivial, and what I’m really thinking now is that the world is a smaller place now that small Katie is gone, but Heaven, or wherever she is, whatever you want to call it, is so much richer for her radiant smile and wicked jokes. That sly, devilish look that always said she knew the good and the bad, and the bad was way more fun sometimes.

Katie, you’re what matters. I love you.

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I got about 12 hours of sleep, which I think my body was crying for, but it was at a cost. Getting INTO bed, I skinned my knee. Do I get into bed every day? Pretty much. The same way? Pretty much. Last night, I kind of launched myself at the bed and dragged my knee across the edge of the desk. Blood and all. I amaze myself in my clumsiness.

And I had such a scary dream that I have to write about it. Even though it won’t make any sense. Just writing it out will eliminate some of the demons from the underbelly of the dream. It had to with being at war. I had horrible thoughts while falling asleep of a freak nuclear bomb being dropped on the West Coast by one of the many countries that hates us. I think that kicked off my night of dreams. I was a saboteur, running into people’s houses, laying the trip wires, driving holes in their basements so the houses would fall. At one point I was in a river, releasing poison into and swimming upstream as fast as I could to avoid it. I know it was Botox that I was releasing, which is funny because now it doesn’t seem so terrifying. Yes! We’ll have the prettiest-looking, youngest-appearing fish in the WORLD! But in the dream, it was toxic and fast acting. I saw a man come out of the forest dripping a swollen white six-headed baby whose parts were melting into each other. Oh, horrible. At one point, I was Meg Ryan. Oh, extra horrible.

Doing laundry right now, have to work an extra shift tonight. Then C’s borrowing my car, so I’m going to walk home from Bart, which will be a nice change. I wish I could walk/ride more, but my late shift doesn’t really lend itself. Ooh, maybe I’ll try riding the bus. That would be fun.

Okay. Just spent some time looking at the trip planner website for the Easy Bay. It’ll take me an hour to get home on the bus, but it would be interesting, for sure. Must bring: sweatshirt to cover up my uniform, and writing tablet of some sort.

Had stitch-and-bitch all day yesterday. Started at two, where I had set one up at the White Horse. I had forgotten that yesterday were the PLAYOFFS, so I was worried that the bar would be full of people who hated knitting, but we got interested questions at the most. I was there by myself at first, watching the start of the Raiders/Jets game and knitting, then a girl named Amanda came, then a woman named Jennifer and Kristen. Christy and Becky came, too. We had a ball. I was so pleased. They were totally up for coming again, and now I’m up for setting it up again. It takes balls to sit in a bar by yourself and knit, and I’m glad I did it. I was even more glad when people came. And it can only get more popular. Isn’t that fun? I love it.

Then C, Becky and I went to Ethiopian just down the street, and on to Bethany’s where we S’n’Bd some more. There were probably 20 or more people in and out of their house, at least 5 were male. It was like a loud party, only people were knitting and drinking instead of just drinking.

Knitting is just such a fabulous excuse to sit and talk. Works at a bar, works at home. That’s all I got to say fer now.

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I get to the yoga studio yesterday, early, primed, ready for my new continuing beginners class. The woman who takes my money directs me to room one, on the first floor. Room one is packed with people. My goodness, this is a large beginning class. And everyone looks so fit. They’re all stretching. And look, they all have a block and straps and blankets, I better get some, too. Here comes the instructor, funny, I thought it was a female teacher. Huh. He puts us into poses without any preamble. There’s no hello, welcome to my class. Just my foot over my head supported by a little strap that I don’t even know how to hold and the blood rushing to interesting, if alarming, places. Ten minutes in, I panic. This MUST be wrong. But both people, to the right and left of me, have confirmed for me that, yes, this is the continuing beginners class (in Nepal, maybe). In the silence, and over everyone’s prone bodies, I pick my way out of the room to learn that, yes, I am in the wrong room. Damn it. Now I have to go back through the quiet room all over again to get my shit. This is not yoga-like. I smile apologetically to the teacher who strains to stay peaceful with me. My class is upstairs, and there are only 4 other people there. Way to make an entrance.

How embarrassing. I HATE being late, and hate it even more when it’s someone else’s fault. But the class was good and very detailed in its instruction. I never knew how hard it was to stand.

Now I’m a little worried. Has the euro raised hotel prices in Venice? Or was I just very lucky when I booked with Bernardi Semenzato in the past? I’m going to call them in the morning when I get home, but I’m worried they’ll be booked. I think that little room downstairs would suit me just fine again. It’s noisy, but I wear earplugs. And I love the way the window opens to the calle. If I remember right, I got it for about $35 a night. I’ve located another available room for $48 a night at Hotel Antigo Trovare, which is right behind St. Marks, at S. Zaccaria stop, but is that too touristy?

Then again, it’s Venice. There is no Venice without the crowds.

I need to call the Vulcania hotel in Montegrotto, too. That’s the spa town that I’ve read about. I’ve never seen anything about it or the area in any guide book’it’s just something I stumbled across in an article on a woman’s spa experience, so there probably won’t be any American tourists with flat accents there. A load of Germans, sure, they’re everywhere.

Or should I just stay in Venice? If I go to the spa, I’ll spend a lot of money. No matter what part of the world you’re in, spas and massages are expensive. That may be something to save for another time.

Or I could travel, go somewhere else in Italy. Just now, pouring water into my teacup, I was surprised by this idea. I’m not sure I like it. What is it that makes me want to spend all my time in Venice? I’m closing my eyes to the rest of the country on this trip, almost as if I’m putting blinders on, but it’s what feels right. It’s where I need to be. I’m not going to ask questions.

There’s also a place I’m very interested in, called Fondazione Levi, run by a foundation that promotes research on Venetian music. Institutional rooms, but that’s all I need, and it’s just over the Accademia bridge on the St. Mark’s side, and I love that little neighborhood.

What’s fun is reading the guidebooks, and realizing for the first time that I can see the areas described in my head. I know what Campo Manin looks like, and I know I don’t want to stay there’it’s a cold square, with tall (for Venice) buildings squarely roping it off from the canals, something that rarely happens in Venice. There’s a hotel in the square near the Scala del Bovolo, where BrianMark and I found the snail staircase, but I’d end up at the proprietor’s sister’s hotel, I just know it, which is in Campo Manin, so forget it.

Beyond hotel thoughts, I’m a little irritated. Nothing big, and I’ll get over it, but I don’t have enough time, and I overbook, and then I get grumpy. I have to double book movies, so I see everyone. I feel badly for telling people that I’m going to STAY HOME tomorrow night, ALONE but I have to. I simply have to be home alone tomorrow. I will get up and go to the movies, because I need something that will drag me out of the bed I will definitely want to stay in. But that’s it. Then I’m coming home and I’m going to do nothing, just sit on the couch and knit and be alone and quiet. This will be my only night at home in almost three weeks. I can’t stand it anymore. And Sunday is firmly busy, from morning till night, and Monday I go back to work. So Saturday is mine, and I’m guarding it jealously, practically foaming at the mouth. Feeling a little guilty about it, but that emotion last for about fourteen seconds and then I realize how silly it is.

I gotta say, I must be PMSing, ‘cause everything is damn irritating right now. Especially the fact that Orianna next door is playing rap music so that I can feel it in my chest. I can’t write to this. That’s my excuse, anyway. No, I can’t write my real work now. Too much noise. Whatever. She must have her boyfriend over. Luckily, they usually go to his place on the weekends, and he lives in Santa Cruz. It’ll be earplugs tomorrow night.

Wah.

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So this is what I’m thinking: 1000 words per day is a whole hell of a lot. I’m going to lower the bar to 500-1000 wpd. That’s still 10 or more pp a week, and they’ll get done. I think I take more care with words, knowing there are less of them. With the 1000 goal, I’m dashing pell-mell to put words, ANY words on the page, so I can be done. 500 is a comfortable amount, and I often go over it without even noticing. Suddenly I’m at 1000 or more. On those days, good. But then I won’t play the irritating game that I have been playing, which is carrying over. Okay, tomorrow I’ll write 1167. Or 1352. That’s a losing game. I need the goal, to get me to the page. And that’s it.

It’s raining again. It’s irritating to have all rain, all the time, but we haven’t, so this is lovely. I woke to rain and a muddy cat yowling outside. I start a new yoga 6-week course tonight, and it’ll be nice to drive to Piedmont in this. I like short drives, especially if I’m not going somewhere where I have to look nice. I don’t mind being a drowned rat. I’m excited about the class. A friend from work is coming with me, too.

Boring today. Frustrated with the computer. I can’t seem to open the publishing tool I need, so I won’t be able to post this. No great loss, I say. I’ll mail it to myself and try it later, I suppose. I’m going to order that new computer. My life would be so different at home. Oh, la. I’ll never get any knitting done’I’ll be on the internet too much. That’s only half-way kidding.

I’m just finishing up a pair of blue variegated socks that are so cute. They’re my new addiction. LOVE the yarn (Italian, of course) and love how small everything is about them. Did I mention my plane plan? I’m bringing yarn and my little needles (now legal) onto the plane to Italy with me. I’ll be so much happier on a plane if I have something to do. And what could be better than knitting little socks. They don’t get in the way, I don’t have to twist and turn in my seat as I would if were making a sweater and hauling its bulk around, I just knit. And since the yarn is made there, maybe I’ll hunt down some wool shops, too.

AND I need to start studying Italian again. Ah, so many things to do.

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Well, the ear isn’t any better, but I’ve learned to live with it. I can feel my brain has readjusted. I still feel a little dizzy, but my thoughts are almost back to normal (for me, that is). Years ago, they did a study, making people wear glasses that made everything appear upside down. After a few weeks, their brains flipped the image over and they were viewing it right side up again. When the glasses came off, the images were upside down again, of course, but it only took less than a day to readjust to the way they’d always seen. The brain can compensate for a lot of things, and one little old ear being deaf is just a minor game for it.

I never knew, though, that hearing has depth. Just like two good eyes can tell how far away objects are in relation to each other, two ears can tell how far away a noise is. One ear can’t. Lying in the bath this morning, I couldn’t tell if the scrabbling noise I heard was Adah rustling the shower curtain, or Digit scratching the post in the kitchen, or someone trying to get in the front door. I just couldn’t tell. Odd, that.

Okay, perhaps I’m still thinking quite linearly. This isn’t my normal writing style. Having a hard time with my real writing, too. I feel like I have a cold of the brain. My thoughts are all stuffed up. Cotton fuzz is buzzing.

But I’m reading Julia Cameron again, this time The Right to Write, and I adore her attitude. Just show up. Take down some thoughts. It’s not a J.O.B., it’s just putting down words, not thinking them up. Just like I do with these morning pages. God knows I don’t think about them’if I did, I’d probably never write. I can’t think of who might read these (god bless their poor bored souls), or what they think about my babbling. It’s just that. Babbling. I’m putting down some words that my head wants to say. I want to be able to do that in my real writing. Cameron says not to call it that, that the word ‘real’ affixes too much expectation. How can one sit down and write a novel? Lord. That’s why I don’t often call it that. I’m just doing some writing. Some fiction writing. I wish I had a better word to use. I used to call it my ‘project,’ but that made it sound like a knitted jersey or something (speaking of knitting, I put an ad on Craigslist for chicks who like to knit/crochet/whatever to meet on Sunday at the White Horse’whoo hoo, knitting at a gay bar! The boys will be so jealous).

Oh, well, I don’t mind the ‘real’ term, even though it implies this writing is fake. I don’t mind that. Puts even less pressure on me. Pressure is what kills. It’s why no one’s reading this work. That’s why I call it play in my head. It’s like heading out for a walk in order to get some exercise. I’ll never do it. But if, like today, I tell myself I need rosemary at the store, or if I want to see San Francisco from the top of a nearby hill, then I’ll walk.

Eating ostrich at work tonight. I bought it at an ostrich farm near Buellton. Poor things. I happily paid two bucks for a large bowl of food, went outside to the fence and held it tightly way up over my head and fed three birds that could have kicked the shit outta me, and then went inside again and bought some steak. They’re such beautiful birds. And they taste good, too. Going to make a marinade and grill them up on a co-worker’s George Foreman.

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This is such an ancient, plodding computer. I get the Blue Screen of Death more and more often nowadays, and yesterday after writing a spiffing email to deeann, which was brilliant and stunningly funny, cuttingly quick, and oh-so clever, the system collapsed. I got back on the horse, dialed back on the modem, finally got to her letter, and just couldn’t re-respond. I was done. Still haven’t responded to her. dee-lite, if you’re reading, honey, I tried. I did.

I have the most annoying ailment one can have. That’s a grand statement, and I’m sure it’s not true. But I’m annoyed right now, goddamnit. My left ear is blocked, happened when I went under the water in the tub the other day. I cannot hear a THING out of it. A loud explosion, perhaps, not much more. My right ear is okay, but not great. I thought I would be all right at work last night, but I wasn’t. I had a hard time tracking voices, even ideas, on the phone. I couldn’t follow a lot of the conversation in the room. I couldn’t work the radio at all’I just couldn’t understand what they were saying. Went to the doctor today, and she gave me some drops that should work in about three DAYS! That’s too long, and I told her so, but my next option is to see an ear-nose-throat, and god knows how long that referral will take.

The oddest thing is that I realized a separation I make in my life that had crossed my brain before, but I hadn’t paid too much attention to it. At home, I listen to friends and family with only my left ear. Always. At work, I mostly listen with my right ear. If the room is loud, or the radio is complicated, I’ll pull the left earpiece over and use it. But mostly, I use only the right at work. The right ear, like I said, is mostly okay.

This is COMPLETELY a right-brain/left-brain thing. For love and creativity and friends, I use my right brain. At work, for most calls, I use my logical, linear left brain (the ears work with opposite sides of the brain, like the breathing passages and extremities). I realized the only calls last night I had real trouble with were the ones that were complicated, where there was no good answer, where I had to be creative. I would plaster my left earpiece as tight as I could to my head, and I still couldn’t hear with it, and I couldn’t make sense of things without a great deal of effort. I think I’m more creative when I’m on the radio, also, because my brain just couldn’t make clear sense of what was going on the few times I listened for someone when they left the room. It’s hard to juggle and make things work, make things out of nothing, when your creative side has been made deaf.

I know it’s strange. But I’ve always wondered why I can’t seem to hear Mom well with my right ear, and I can’t hear people with abandoned vehicle problems with only my left. It’s not that I can’t hear them, it’s that I’m not as quick. I feel separated, not together, forgetful, flighty. Kinda dumb. I made the silliest mistakes last night, all night, because I just wasn’t all there. Like dialing the page, and then just listening to the silence, breathing, forgetting totally what I had done, and that I needed to page someone. I think I was waiting for someone to answer. Luckily, I realized what I was doing before I said anything, and hung up. Stupid things like that, all night.

And driving home from work this morning: I had the music (Nickel Creek) cranked way up, and I was noticing all kinds of things I hadn’t noticed before. Like the way the guitar part and the fiddle part on one song was playing a harmony line fourths, rather than regular thirds or fifths. It’s the interval my mother always whistles in.

While I was wondering why I’d never noticed it before, I realized it was because I was listening for the first time logically, rather than emotionally or with just the simple pleasure of music (which has to be right-brained if anything is).

I’m just kind of dumbfounded that my body works this way’yes, it makes sense physiologically, but set into practice, it’s fascinating.

It’s still irritating as hell, though.

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Digit’s feeling better, thank goodness. He’s got a scratch on his leg, but it looks ok.

I don’t know what to do with the work ok. Is it ok or Ok or okay? I need to choose one and switch to it permanently. It comes up in my writing all the time, and it bugs me every time it does.

Not really writing today. It’s my day off. But I’m drawn to the pages I wrote last night, and I’m not sure where to go next. The mother just came home, unexpectedly. Kate’s life (and house) is filling up slowly, and I’m learning more about her capacity to adapt. I think my own capacity is struggling to keep up. I get the stubborns quite often’sit just looking at the screen, willing it to write itself.

Honestly, it kind of does, sometimes. As long as I show up, words get written, and they ain’t all that bad. I may not use them all, but I’ll use some and that’s all that matters.

Going to write a little bit more, and plan out the next parts, so that when I come back from my weekend I’ll know where to go, then I’m going to get ready to go see my little boy, Winter.

Speaking of little boys, had one of the funniest calls last night’911, do you have an emergency? Well, he didn’t have an emergency, but he was trying to get somewhere and didn’t sound like he was having much luck. ‘What’s your name?’ He tells me (!) and keeps on working. I hang up because I’m going to laugh hysterically. We send cops to chat with him, and disappointingly, he’s been beaten up and points at another guy, whom they then arrest. He was the VICTIM! No, I was the victim. If I ever get another call like that, I’m going to tell him to at least be a little creative. Man, couldn’t have been a more boring phone call. Sigh. People are so pathetic, sometimes. It’s disappointing. I expect creativity.

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I just got the best haircut. I love it. It’s short and spiky, but soft enough to be feminine, I think. Shades of Winona Ryder, I fear, but I play it my way. I hope it lasts. It’s one of those that will require professional maintenance. I’d rather pay for upkeep and have no maintenance on regular days. It’s a gel-and-go look. Actually, it looks good now, but we’ll have to see how it is after my shower before work. That’s the real test, doing it myself.

Little sleep, got bunned over a couple of hours, so I only got about 4 hrs sleep due to hair appointment. Priorities, you know. Now I have a couple of hours before work, but instead of napping, I’m going to write. At least a little bit. Did good work last night at work, so I’m caught up. Don’t want to fall behind. Want to have a weekend. Why is it that when I’m tired I tend to lose my pronouns?

Babysitting my Winter tomorrow night’it’s the most exciting date I’ve had in a month. Can’t wait. We’re gonna hang out, do all the cool things kids nowadays do. He’s six months old. I’m going to teach him to knit.

Then on Sunday, going to the Hours at the Metreon, and sisters after (and perhaps during). I’m looking forward to the movie, but I’m disappointed I haven’t read the book first. I feel rather obligated to do so, but I’ve never been able to get past the first few pages. Maybe afterwards I will.

Boring boring boring. Boring myself. Tired. I should have more coffee. Poor Digit is on the bed, sleeping off a rough day. He won’t even eat. I think he got the shit kicked out of him, but he thoughtfully lost his collar in the front yard. What a bad mother I am. Didn’t even wake up to the screams.

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Yesterday’s writing, if it had a sound, would be whomp. I sat in front of the screen for an hour and a half and managed to squeeze out 450 words. Not sure what was wrong with me. Then I went to work, and on my break produced over a thousand. That’s more like it. And that was in a half-hour.

I need to re-read The Artist’s Way’I know Julia Cameron made a very convincing argument for quantity, not quality, and it would be nice to keep that in mind. That editor voice keeps whispering to me that the work I’m doing isn’t that good’it isn’t perfect. Well, I should hope not, my challenger answers. It’s just getting the clay on the wheel, we’ll shape it later. Then I shake myself and go make all my personalities a nice cup of tea.

But I do have 226 pages written now that I didn’t have written before. Just because I’m writing. I can shape later. Actually, it’s interesting when I go back and reread, looking for something, a person’s name or occupation, fact-checking. Some pages I haven’t ever reread, and I’m surprised by them. I wrote that? I don’t remember this part. What happens next?

Were anyone to read the above, they would probably seriously entertain thoughts of referring me to a specialist. I think writers have to be, for reasons of sanity, a little whacked out. My world of Duncan’s Beach is becoming real’the characters are becoming more solid. I know what hurts them. I know what the streets look like in their neighborhood. I know where Kate’s kitchen is. Not really sure about Leah, but then again, who is? It’s so exciting, to have a fantasy world crystallize, something that you’ve made, all on your own. And it’s kind of like these morning pages on line. I don’t care if no one ever reads them. A large part of me prefers that no one ever does. But I need to write, and addressing and answering that need in myself is the only way to stay happy.

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HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Well, that was tremendously irritating. I had just spent the requisite fifteen minutes logging in and moving things around with the mouse from hell, just starting to do my writing for the site, off my holiday vacation which has been nice, but long enough, just starting to ramble on the page when I got the Blue Screen o’Death. Nothing to be done but start it all up again. Gave some thought to taking it as a sign from some higher power that I could still be on writing vacation, but I realized it wasn’t God but a tiny synapse misfiring in the Packard Bell that’s been chugging away since the dark ages. I have little to complain about. But it was still irritating.

I really want to get a new computer. But a large part of me is wondering if I really need it. No, that’s not true. A large part of me is TELLING me I don’t need one, since this one still works. And that’s true. It works most of the time, and I’m dreadfully lucky that it does. But I like to imagine a computer that doesn’t take almost a minute just to open a blank piece of paper. I want one.

On to less selfish topics:

What I did with my Winter Vacation

Not much, glory be. A whole lotta movie-going and knitting. My two favorite ways to relax. Left at 3am last week on Boxing Day and drove home, where the whole family was waiting Christmas for me. And it seemed like the whole holiday had really been waiting. We had a real Christmas, with all the trimmings: the two hours of unwrapping, one gift at a time (Mom loved the sweater), followed by loaves of stollen, followed by puttering and napping, some Splash Caf’ clam chowder, and a big old Christmas spread, buffet style to which Becky and Gaynelle came as extended Herrons. We sat in the living room all night, Dad and Becky played instruments, the girls knitted, and we all had fun. The only down part was that Bethany had to leave, but at least I had 12 hours at home while she was there, too.

The rest of my time off was spent lazing about and either working with yarn or shopping for it. I made the best little socks, so cute, and I would use the work cunning for the yarn, which self-striped in grades of green and blue. I want to give them to someone, and I also want to keep them for myself. Since I’ve already worn them once, I guess I’ll keep ‘em. It’s a nice feeling to kick your feet up onto a piece of furniture and catch a glimpse of bright socks, and know you made them yourself. Rather a useless feeling, as the ones you make are much more expensive than they would be in a store, but a nice feeling nonetheless. And now I have plenty of more yarn to start some more socks. Plenty of different colors. And I’m making a dark grey sweater, too, probably for myself as well. Being very selfish.

Am I too selfish? It’s a big possibility. And after the new coat I bought (warm and lined classy-looking London Fog) and the shoes (Birk boots, who knew?) for the next trip to Italy in March (yep, I bought a ticket on skyauction, did I say that?), I’m allowed to buy nothing else for my selfish ass.

Except a new computer? Please?

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A quick catch-up: I have been on Christmas break and too busy to write. Writers get those, don’t they?

Thursday: Cirque du Soleil with a friend, what magic! How they fly and move and writhe and sing (although I noticed it was lipsynching mostly) and climb each other. Very hot, very beautiful, lyrical and on the edge of ridiculous. I loved it.

Friday: Movie, Two Weeks Notice, sweet and funny, not too cloying. Would recommend.

Saturday: Lord of the Rings, Two Towers. Now, how did this happen? I was only lukewarm to say the most about the first movie. It was all right. I liked the scenery. This new one, whoo hoo! I’m now a fan. So grand and large and stunningly romantic, in all the underused aspects of the word. I thought the many closeups were reminiscent of soap operas’’He’s dead,’ pan sweep to full face shot, eyes large, mouth heaving, unstoppable tears breaking loose the dam, but somehow, it worked. And Peter Jackson picked such PRETTY people, I could have watched all night (and from the length, pretty much did). Then on to dinner with friends at a new-to-us Thai joint that was very good, and I didn’t have any MSG reaction, so we can return. Good night.

Sunday: A great day with the sisters. First, church and all the advent-y good tidings that go with it. As I drove to church, I passed a Presbyterian church with a large rainbow flag outside, and I figure that’s the church I was trying to find in Montclair when I ended up at St. Johns, but now I love the sweet little Episcopal place. Maybe I’ll have two. Then to Bethany’s and we put the top down and cruised down the coast in winter sunshine. The Great Highway had just opened, and it was glorious, cold and windy, huge crashing towers of waves. Down to Half Moon Bay where I reveled in and bought too many skeins of’get this’self-striping sock yarn. Damn, life is good. Lunch in a dive across the street from the ocean where we drank beer and ate greasy wonderful fish and chips. Back to Beth’s where we stitched and bitched, Christy came to play, too, and then we piled the three of us back into the convertible, top down, and went looking at lights. Drove most of the City, from the Presidio down to the Castro, saw some wonderful lights, nothing really over the top like we were hoping, but nice. Sang. Ate lebkuchen which Bethany had made herself, brilliantly.

Monday: Rae-day. Rae’s birthday, which we celebrated by touring Oakland, and then, surprisingly Albany, which was sweet. But I realized that the reason I don’t go to Albany is that it’s just like the area I live in, and this is closer.

Today: Going to work early. Have been paying bills and wrapping the last gifts. Realized at 1256 that I had a 1pm appt at DMV to pick up my new plates (WRTRGAL), and I made it only five minutes late, with my old dirty disgusting plates removed and in hand. I was back home in 30. God bless DMV appointments.

Fighting ants, still. Getting to the point where I don’t even care if they walk on the bed. Whatever. I wear earplugs, so they won’t crawl in. What does trouble me is the apparent death vortex on the bathroom floor. Not sure where those ants are coming from, can’t find a trail, and there aren’t too many, but every time I walk in the bathroom, there are 20 more dead on the floor. And I haven’t put any poison in there. I don’t understand it. Makes me worry about spending so much time in the bath, but oh, well.

Then work again tomorrow, Christmas, and then home early the morning of the 26th.

I’m on vacation from real work, and it’s all right. I’ve given myself permission to not-write, until I’m back home from Mom’s. It’s amazing, though, how much I write when I’m not-writing.

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

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Going to write quickly’I have to get done by 630 so I can bid on an Italy ticket, if it’s cheap enough. And I’ve already been running all day, and have all night to work still.

Came home this morning from work to find my bed FULL of ants. Absolutely disgusting. I exaggerate again, I suppose the bed wasn’t exactly full of them, but there were, no exaggeration, at least fifty ants in the bed. Luckily I hadn’t made it yet with the clean sheets, or I would have had a fit. What am I saying? Of course I had a fit. A big one. I took a bath and called a friend at 6am. I slept at her house and didn’t come back for 12 hrs. Now I’ll write this, do my real writing in a flash, then I can Raid the shit out of the ants and wash the wall and wash myself and get back to work. Sigh.

There’s little as disgusting as ants walking on your mattress pad. Boiled ants poured into your tea comes close; just had that happen.

I’m biding my time. When I go home next week for Christmas I’m bug bombing this place, damn the environment and my conscience. When I think of all the little lives I’ve killed today alone’. And then I think of my green tea with little swimmers. Have to buy more Raid.

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I hate ants. I really do. Just hate them. And they’re everywhere, because of this rain. But I hate them the most in my bedroom, crawling on me when I sleep. And because I couldn’t get to sleep last night, only falling asleep this morning about five or so, I just couldn’t care when they DID crawl on me. I’d just brush them off. And the bed isn’t overrun, just those one or two scouter ants. They’re the worst. You have to kill them so the rest of the horde thinks, that must be a REALLY bad place over there, no one ever comes back alive. I’m gonna bite the bullet and put some ant poison near the wall under the bed. I hate to do that so close to where I sleep, but that’s really the point. It’s where I sleep. Not that it’ll help. I put two bait traps out yesterday, a friend swearing by them. I’m swearing by them, too, and over them, and next to them. I actually put a honey trail last night on the kitchen counter leading to the damn trap which is in an open drawer that the cats can’t reach. When I woke up, the honey was all gone, and no one had found the trap. I had to get the smart ant colony.

Travel dreams again. This time a train, and New York somehow, landing (precariously) in New York and the whole family getting onto a train and going north to seascapes and windblown little towns. Stayed in a kind of mansion which didn’t want us to leave the next day. Not good dreams. Too strange for that. Had slept briefly in the night, but woke at two am so jarred and frightened that I turned the phone on, just so if there was an emergency the family could call. I was that convinced that something bad had happened.

Mom’s ring, the ruby one that Frank Scaglione gave her, just broke. The gold, weakened and paper-thin for years just snapped, giving me a little pinch of warning. I never take it off. It’s off now, and will be till I get it repaired, and I don’t like the feeling. My right hand feels too light.

I’m tired, I have cramps, it’s starting to rain again, I have a ton of laundry to do, and a bunch of Christmas things to finish. Don’t feel like writing. But I will. Yes, ok. Fine whatever. It doesn’t have to be good. So, bleah! I hate ants.

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The heavy rain last night made for a horrible 2 hr drive from Oakland to Cupertino, and we barely made it on time. I think we were all stressed on the way down, but we tried not to show it. But we made it! And it was soooo worth it. Can I just say this small thing:

THE INDIGO GIRLS ROCK!

And always will, in my book. I swear. Last night, it was just the two of them and their guitars (or mandos or banjos) and they filled the entire Flint Center with incredible music. They made it sound like the band was there. And Amy Ray’. Sigh. Need I say more? The girl’s getting cuter and cuter. Emily always stays the same, but her voice is as sweet. The audience knew every word of every song (even though Johnny Lang was on after’I doubt that many people stayed) and I’ve decided that Galileo really is my favorite IG song. I never wanted to say it’it’s so cliched. But every word rings true and real and solid, and one of the last lines is ‘I think I’ll write a book.’ When they use that for a closer as they did last night, the night feels correct. I am an official forever-groupie. No signs of them breaking up (always a fear), and they spoke of hopefully recording in June. Hoo-rady.

Digit is determined to be on my lap. He desperately wants out, but can’t bear to be in the high winds. He cries till I let him out and then scrambles back in with the most panicked look. We must have played this game at least eight times so far today.

Didn’t write yesterday’slept too late and then went to IG, so I’ll make up for it today. And I’m paying for it. How much would I love to do nothing? But can’t do that’have to work on Christmas. Maybe start to wrap. Really only worried about Mom’s, so maybe I’ll work on that first today. But AFTER my writing. I guess I’m putting off working because I’m not really sure where to go. These strange characters keep appearing. What am I going to do with an Episcopalian priest?

I’m reading an absolutely lovely book by Joanna Trollope called -The Men and the Girls. I adore her books. This one is very like the others, but it has such an element of surprise. I really don’t know what each character will say, and they say such wonderful, offbeat things. I’d love to incorporate that into my work, but I think that trying to say wonderful, offbeat things would come off as affected and silly. Trollope was born to toss things like that off with grace.

Going to a late movie tonight’Far From Heaven, after meeting C and the boys for a drink at the King’s X. But spending the day with myself, and I couldn’t ask for a better blustery day.

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Digit needs a lot more attention when he’s outside all day and I’m gone at night. For a cat, time in bed sleeping with you counts as quality time, and I, for one, agree. He hasn’t had any of that since he’s been out tramping the countryside, so he gets sticky at night when I’m working at the computer.

I just had the loveliest walk. I didn’t wake up till 4:30, and it was just starting to threaten darkness, but I went out anyway. It was still mostly light, but it was overcast. I think there’s a storm coming tomorrow. It was the first time I’ve walked in about a week, and I’d forgotten how good it felt. It was cool and crisp with a hint of damp. I wrapped up in a scarf and looked at the Christmas lights. The first Christmas tree I saw in a bay window surprised the hell out of me. I had somehow been enjoying the lights but hadn’t seen any trees. And it was just magical. I think I audibly gasped. And then, one after another, Christmas trees were everywhere. It doesn’t hurt that they’re lit up in million dollar homes, and they were probably designed in Florence and shipped fresh and decorated from the Continent (I exaggerate), but they were incredible. I had to actively tell myself to look at the sidewalk, or I would have tripped. I’m certain that someday someone will call the police on me’a suspicious white female wearing ragged sweats and a LOVELY scarf possibly casing houses in the area. I’m not casing, I swear. I’m just nosy when it comes to strangers. A diary of a loved one could be left at my house for weeks, and I wouldn’t crack it. But give me diary of a stranger, and I need to read every word. I love the backs of old postcards and the black and white family photos that end up in sale bins at antique stores. I never buy them’I can’t become that attached. But I love to look.

Man, this computer is goddamned slow. I long, I lust for a new computer and a high-speed internet connection. Something to save up for, I know.

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Well, that was weird. I was just having a dream where I was in a room trying to explain to people like Rosie O’Donnell (I don’t know) what a blog was, and I was using this as an example. I pulled it up on someone’s computer, and tried to explain away the seeming narcissism and explain it as an exercise, my morning pages, a kick start to my writing, but I just felt stupid. But I liked showing them the photos. Then I woke and checked my messages, and Christy had left one regarding her reading the website (yes, there WAS a river behind her apt in Cork). It’s odd. I know that people occasionally look at this, but I can’t keep that in mind. Then I would have to write properly and carefully and use big words. If I manage to keep it out of mind then I don’t care if it’s boring, or if I use the same word over and over, or I don’t proofread or spellcheck. That keeps it real’I can’t stress over thinking someone might take this seriously.

I have two cats at hand. Adah’s on the desk to my left, wishing with her little heart that I was petting her and not typing. Digit was howling outside the door when the alarm clock went off’who knows how long he had been crying? I let him in and out and in and out a million times before 10am at which point I let him out and resolved to ignore him in my sleep. Apparently that worked. Now he’s in, and curled on my cross-legged lap, a purr going straight into the bottom of my right foot which he’s lying on top of. Did I write that I let him out? He won. Six months later, he’s out again, and a much happier cat for all that. It’ll break my heart if anything touches him out there’I would never recover. But it’s a quality of life issue. He’s soooo much happier out. I’m happier, too. Although more worried.

This one thousand word a day five days a week thing has been working out so far. I have a plan (I always have a plan). I’ve been writing the words every day I work. That’s only four thousand. So I make up that other thousand on my break at work. I can easily do 500 words back in the supe’s office, and two nights of that, I’m caught up, and I’m allowed to have my entire 3 day weekend off. It’s the same principle as is in play at work’work harder four days a week so the weekend is extended. And I have to say, I love having my weekend really be a weekend. I’ve felt guilty for years (my whole life?) on my weekends when I couldn’t get motivation to write. I just wanted to do nothing, so I did just that. Now I don’t have to. It makes time off sweeter, knowing I’m not being a slack-ass, but that I’ve worked my way to the time off. A lot of justification? Who cares? Work’s getting done, that’s all I know.

I finished Bulibasha, Witi Ihimaera’s book about a shearing family in New Zealand. Best book I’ve read in ages. Made me cry (or at least well up) three or four times, and sometimes they were happy tears. Now THAT’S a feat. Making a person have happy tears. It’s not a big trick to play on sentimentality and draw out the weepy tears, but happy tears? I can’t remember ever having them in a book, although I must have. Little Women, I’m sure drew some of those out.

One of Ihimaera’s strongest capabilities as a writer is his trust in the reader. I watched it the whole book, and marveled at it. He never explained a hongi, or a haka, or even a Pakeha. Would Americans know what he was talking about? Is that why it isn’t published in the US? But I think everything translated contextually. And he trusted the reader to understand motivations’he didn’t explain and highlight and underline. My god, the very last paragraph is a killer, and he leaves you with a riddle THAT HE DOESN’T ANSWER! I had to make a panicked call to Jenn, who wasn’t home. Must call Mom, too. Maybe she knows the answer. But that’s how I fell asleep, wondering, playing with the pieces of the novel in my mind, trying to connect the dots, trying to do it myself. When was the last time that happened? Has it ever?

One of my main focuses it to trust the reader. I’ll reread Bulibasha soon and try to figure out just how he does it. Or is it inherent, and one must possess it to begin with? God knows, I don’t. Am trying to learn, though’.

Off to trust.

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Paying bills is such a hassle. The doing them’the sitting down, making the columns total up, making the computer look good’that’s the fun part. The anal part of me likes that. It’s the paying them that sucks. I’ve been doing good with saving, though, and with paying down the credit card bill. I’ve been saving a hundred dollars out of each paycheck, and I find that adds up fast. I need to make a nice cushion, so I can sleep at night. I hate feeling like I have no money whatsoever. And it’s a crying shame that I get paid so well, and it goes to bills’especially the credit card. That’s why one day it’ll be paid off, and I won’t have any of them. Maybe one in the freezer for emergencies (I had a friend who froze hers in a bag of water’she had to thaw it out in order to use it), but none left otherwise at all. I really don’t use it now’only for traveling, and I’d like to get out of that habit. With debit cards, we can do all of that easily now.

On a different subject, have to write my guitar story down before I forget it. Went into Univibe the other day’had to get new strings for Barney. I swear, the strings hadn’t been changed in over fifteen years. I double checked that with Dad, and he agreed. He also thought we didn’t need the strings changed. Oy. So I marched into the store and kind of held Barney up and said, ‘I need strings.’ From across the shop, a man yelled, ‘Is that a MARTIN?’ Well, yeah. ‘Where’s its home, its case?’ It doesn’t have one’it lives in the trunk, or in the hands of the drunkest one at the party. They were horrified at the abuse, and at the same time rather gratified by it. Yes, that’s the way a real Martin should be treated. They’d never have admitted it, though. They refused to change the strings, afraid the pegs would crumble. They do have fine lines running through them, and now they’ve made ME paranoid’I’m going to make Dad change them the next time I go home. One of the guys was so excited he looked it up in a book’Ole Barney’s worth between one and four thousand dollars, depending on his real age, which I had guesstimated to be fifty years old, but Mom and Dad both think more like sixty or seventy. And still playing Indigo Girls like a champ. What a guitar. What a beater.

Just walked out to post some bills and change around my laundry (first day of work=work day) and found a ticket on my car for street sweeping. And I called Christy last night to warn her about it. Ugh. I forgot. Thirty two dollars of forgetting. Speaking of bills!

And even though this is technically my Monday and sorta feels that way because I’m making it so, I actually worked on Sunday and Monday, rep and OT, so this’ll be my third day of work. On my first. Double ugh. But I’m off on Friday night so I can see the said Indigo Girls, so happy about that.

My boring self is sleepy as hell’don’t really know how that can be since I slept 12 hours last night. Catching up after Christmas party still? Drank a lot that night. But had a very good time. A simple, not-complicated time where I was just me and just had fun. Isn’t that the best way to go? No agenda, only good surprises.

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Aargh. Struggling for too long with this computer. Got the Blue Screen of Death a few minutes ago, right when I was going to look at bidding on an Italy trip. God telling me it wasn’t right to go? Or just fate that said I didn’t really want to route my trip through Milan, which was where this ticket wanted me to go. I’d rather route through London. I worked it out last night’I can go cheaper from SFO to London, then catch a inter-Europe flight to Venice, than I can go from SFO to Venice through wherever they route me for the ‘cheap’ flight, which is usually, ugh, Frankfurt. I’m sure Frankfurt has some redeeming features. I hate the airport, and that’s what comes to mind when I think of the city.

It’s an interesting thought, however, going through London. I could stay a few days on either end’. Try to find that Greek fish and chip shop. If I could locate the Underground stop, I could find it, but I’ve looked at maps, and it was just too long ago, and I didn’t keep good notes back then. It will remain in my memory as one of the three best chip shops ever. The other two were the world famous one in Galway (can’t remember it’s name, but it’s the only one in Galway where everyone eats) and a tiny little chip shop just down the street from where Christy lived in Cork. It’s the only place I’ve ever had my fish wrapped in newspaper, hot and flaking, ready to carry into the street and eat at the curb, vinegar in little packets. I felt like a Roddy McDoyle character.

It’s strange what I remember about Cork’I was there the longest on my 94 trip, and I know if I sat down to remember, I could do better, but what jump out at me are the memories of that shop, of another pharmacy on a corner where they sold candy, sitting on a back steel staircase on campus smoking, writing Nick emails on the school computers, the size of the glasses of hard cider, Christy’s washer/dryer which was all-in-one and sat in the kitchen and took three hours to dry a tee shirt, smoking out her window while looking at a river. I must be making that last one up, I can’t imagine there was a river just behind her apartment. I must ask her.

The only thing about routing through London is that it would add expense, and this trip, which I’m hoping to take in perhaps March, is all about saving money. And then on the other hand, with that just written, I wonder why I’m trying to limit myself. I’m using my tax refund, which I swore I would I always try to do, and I don’t need to save back any portion of that. Oy. I don’t know what to think. Only that London isn’t calling me strongly’I love the city, but not as passionately as any city in Italy. I feel sometimes as if I should expand my horizons, and venture out of Italy, and I’m sure I will. Someday. I’ve been lots of places, don’t have to add new stamps in the passport just yet. I just want to go to Venice and not worry about speeding to see other places. I want to sit in one place for hours. I just want to wander. Perhaps take that little jaunt over to the spa towns nearby. Maybe spend some more time in Rome. Just be.

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Yep, yep, yep. Starting slow this morning (afternoon, whatever). They’ve been tarring the roof across the street, and I kept waking up and smelling this horrible stench, and then being too tired to do anything about it. I’ve looked at the workers (one must be Roberto, made in Mexico) and they’re not wearing masks, so breathing a lot of it won’t kill me, but it certainly makes me grumpy. It’s like the smell of the wheels of the rolling shopping cart I bought at the Antiques Fair, the one I keep in the laundry room. It’s a sickening smell. And this is my long afternoon, the day I get off at 5am and don’t have to be in till 9pm. That means hours and hours of playing at home, and all I want is to get out of here.

Actually, all I want is to be knitting. I’ve got that itch again, and it makes me happy just to THINK about knitting. It’s crazy, I know. And I have to admit, there’s an element where the pleasure in it feels the same as a cigarette’s pleasure. And when I think about it, there are relating elements, the biggest ones being your hands are kept busy, and it’s an enforced time-out. Enforced laziness. Laziness with an excuse. When I smoked, I had to take breaks all day. From work, from friends, from family’. I had to sit down and just smoke. Now, when I knit, I can’t be doing much else but watching TV. I have to sit down on the couch and veg out in order to get something done. It satisfies my craving to be constantly doing something (sick, I know, but there it is) as well as giving me a break. And an excuse to watch stupid TV. The sweater I’ve been making is solid garter stitch, so there’s never any need to look at the work, except when I’m changing colors or increasing/decreasing. Practically makes itself.

Enough about knitting.

At least my cold prevents me from smelling the tar all the time.

Well. That’s as interesting as I’m going to be right now. Except yet one more geek thing to add to my score card: I’ve found a person at work who loves fruitcake as much as I do, and we’re having a fruitcake-off tonight. He’s bringing that famous one from the nuns, and I’m bringing Mom’s. Both more than a year old. I’m pretty sure I’ll win.

You know, I keep finding people who love fruitcake. It must be like bluegrass’everyone else is scared to admit what they like. I don’t give a rat’s ass. I would eat fruitcake listening to bluegrass while knitting. And I’d make it look good, too.

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I’m tired, yes, but as I said to my friend Rick Steves the other day’what? I didn’t tell you?

So I’m sitting on the couch, watching KQED do their pledge drive. I knew about it because Rick Steves emailed me that he would be in town, hosting the drive all day (his emails go to my bulk file, for some reason. Almost like he’s sending other people the same emails’very strange’.) So I watched a few episodes and smiled at him when he convinced people to call in, and then he gave a very stirring plea, so I naturally picked up the phone and made a pledge. He’s very good at what he does. I muted the television but kept watching it idly as the woman took my info. I saw them pan onto the volunteers, and I saw a woman saying the very things she was saying to me. I said, ‘Hey! You’re wearing a purple sweater! I can see you on TV!’ She, of course, was rather thrilled. I know it’s nice to help, but they must want in a small way to be seen on TV. And then I saw Rick Steves in her vicinity, picking up the phone and talking to pledgers, and I think I screamed, ‘Can I talk to Rick?’ She called out something like: ‘Rick, for you again.’ Sure, I may be in the masses, but we did talk, and we talked about, what else, Venice, about how much we both love it there. I thanked him for coming out on his Thanksgiving Day weekend to do the pledge. He was very sweet, and I was very gushy, just like every other caller. Oh, well. I did get to talk to him. I was thrilled right out of my chair. I called like six people in five minutes. What fun!

And now I have a cold. From the sublime to the ridiculous. Which is which? I feel kind of OK, just tired, and my head won’t stop running, and the headache is non-stop. I sound like shit. I’ve taken it easy ALL weekend, so it’s not just rest I need’I just need to fight it off. Sigh. I don’t feel BAD, just like crap. I’d almost rather feel REALLY sick for a few days and then be done. At least then I could feel sorry for myself.

I just took a momentary break to switch around the washing, and I heard the Pakeha guy across the street yell down to his workers, ‘Where are the tiles made? Donde’. hecho’.’ One of the guys from the street yelled up to him. ‘Made in Mexico, man. Just like Roberto.’ Everyone thought it was funny except the owner.

Off to get back into the writing mode. Took my full weekend off’didn’t mean to do that. I blamed it on being sick, which was crap, but I believed it for long enough to procrastinate it until today. And that, apparently, was my goal. Made a lot of progress on Xmas projects this weekend, though. Only 22 more days. That’s terrifying.

, I just couldn’t find any of it quickly, so I reorganized everything.

Man, I just took a sip of tea. Even that hurts. Chewing my toast hurt earlier. Not a happy camper. But tomorrow morning, with Bethany’s super help, I’m getting a new bed from Lisa’her old guest bed, which will be one hundred times better than the E 14th St special I got, $100 for mattress, boxspring, and frame. That bed was good for the first 3.5 nights. After that, it sucked. People are so generous to me’I hope I am as generous back, and I really doubt that I am. Something to remember, that.

Giving up on the new Rita Mae Brown book, Alma Mater. Was she always this bad a writer? I mean, seriously, it doesn’t take much to suspend my disbelief, but in this case, my disbelief is rooted in a terror that even reading such writing will affect mine negatively. It’s horrendous. I was hoping to go along, and get to the good parts, and forget about the writing, but I simply can’t. It’s like that second Witi Ihimaeranga book I started, The Uncle’s Story. How can such good writers write such absolute tripe? I don’t understand. I’m not a good, accomplished, or even advanced writer, and I know I can write better than that.

Must start getting ready for work. Maybe I’ll treat myself to Starbucks. Long night ahead. And I WILL write on my break, since today I cleaned bathroom cabinets to get out of it. Nice try.

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This whole ‘write a thousand words a day, five days a week’ thing’which five? Today isn’t one of them, I feel. I’m so sleepy, worked late this morning on my Friday, and then came home and played guitar for a while, then crawled in for a nap that lasted 4 hours. So now my sleep tonight is messed up, but I’ll just have to deal with that. And I DON’T want to write. I think I remember Julia Cameron saying something about throwing tantrums in your writing. That’s me, today. I don’t WANT to.

But the strange thing is, really, I do. I’m finally to the point where when I write, I can be there, in the writing. The world is real to me. And that makes me want to go visit the world and see what’s up, what’s going on there, what’s changed while I slept or turned my back. I think it’s a good idea for me to take this day as one of my rest days, since I’m running on empty, and stupid as a stick, but I actually miss it. Did I ever think I would say that? Hell, no.

Brandy and I found great music on-line last night. I found Dar Williams’ Mark Rothko song, and a good version of IG Closer to Fine, which I worked on when I got home this morning. It’s HARD. But can only get easier. Isn’t it lovely, that we have the ability to make music? That I can sit on the couch and strum this thing quietly, and make little singing noises, and to me, they’re beautiful and as fun or more fun than many of my lame CDs. Of course, I suck, but it’s fun. Like skiing, it doesn’t matter how badly you do it, just that you have fun. And don’t break anything playing the guitar. Usually. Brandy cracked me up when she said her friend had told Tuck (of Tuck and Patti) that she played the guitar. That would be like someone telling Alice Munro that I wrote. Oh, my god. That’s just such a funny image. But in a way, very nice. She is a guitarist, just as I’m a writer. Just beginning, fledgling ones that flap our wings and smack a lot of people in the face as we hobble around, but we’re still doing it.

These cats are driving me crazy, and I’m so glad for them. Trish lost her Christopher last night’the very first cat, the very first animal she had ever loved. Her heart, and mine by proxy, is broken. She did admirably well in holding up’I could barely talk at work when Digit was just in the hospital. I admire her strength, and I remember Christopher with all my love. He’s happier now, even though it’s hard to imagine a kitty being happier anywhere in the world than at Trish’s house.

‘Our hearts have joined the thousands, for our friend stopped running today.’

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Tis the day after Thanksgiving, and it’s on. Mom and Dad and Christy today took on Ikea, and I’m so glad I was asleep for that Goliath-like fall. I couldn’t bear it. I can’t bear the idea of any crowds when it comes to shopping. In fact, this weekend, that’s what I’m doing. I’m finishing Christmas shopping. I don’t have much to do, since I’m making so much, but there are a few little things I have to pick up and I’ll do that on Monday or Tuesday (when the crowds have thinned a little). Be done with the madness. I love the season, hate the craziness of it all.

Yesterday was nice. I slept until three, and then went to Christy’s where everyone but mostly she had done such a beautiful job with the dinner. The turkey (damn it’I need to give her money for that) was good, deep-fried by a friend of hers, and it had interesting little pockets of fun’jalapenos under the skin that made the meat sweet, and every once in a while you hit a landmine of spice (a little painful, but amusing). The dishes, most made with Rachel’s vegan status in mind, were better than normal. I actually liked them. And I don’t like any of that stuff.

Mellower than we thought it would be, there were only 6 of us, and Rachel and I did most of the dishes while they went through my reprints. Played some cutthroat Scattergories (I always want to play that game, and then I always get frustrated with it when I do), and I left for work. A very busy work night. And quite a tame Thanksgiving. I liked that. Less fuss, less muss. Except for Christy, who did most of the work, we all got off lighter than usual. And even C didn’t do as much as Mom usually does when she hosts. Perhaps we’ll do this again next year. People definitely seemed more relaxed. There wasn’t the whole Family Home For The Holidays feel either, and that seemed to help.

But now, officially, the season is upon us. My fist citizen wished me Happy Holidays this morning. I was on a 13, and I really didn’t want to hear it at the end of a stressfully busy shift. And what is it in people that make them wake up the day after Thanksgiving feeling the love of the holidays, but leave them so gleeful when they realize they can still call in vehicles parked in the street sweeping zone since it’s not an official holiday? Dunno.

I really can’t wait for the weekend. I want to do NOTHING. Lots of knitting. How happy me.

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It’s the day before Thanksgiving, and it’s a much better day than yesterday. It’s the little things that can drive you crazy, like Digit peeing on the bed. It was astonishing how much I minded, how upset I was. I don’t like that feeling.

Today, though, I locked him out and slept well, and woke to sun and warm’put the top down on Petunia as I cruised around town. Woke early and went to Longs to pickup the reprints from New Zealand. Not bad, only seven months late. Mom basically threatened me with death if I don’t bring them tomorrow. And what better time for the family to fight over which they actually ordered?

Christy is graciously having the dinner at her house. It’s expanded to family and friends, so I’m pretty sure it’ll be great, even though I’m not a Thanksgiving fan. I don’t like pumpkin pie, or gravy, or cranberry sauce, or stuffing, or sweet potatoes. Pretty much I only like the turkey and the mashed potatoes, plain. Not an exciting plate to be made so much of. But I’m just happy the whole family will be together, and that I get a chance to be there. They’re really doing it for Bethany and me, and I hope they know we appreciate it. Pity I have to go to work that night, though. I won’t be able to drink. Damn it.

Just sitting here, eyes glazed over. Not sure what to do next. I’ve already made the fudge I’m bringing tomorrow, and I feel like I should clean the house for Mom and Dad, since they’ll be staying here, but it’s pretty clean and I’m lazy. Have to pay bills, but I know I have to write first.

While I was in AZ, I caught a program on BookTV (this sounds stupid, but when I’ve flipped past that channel in the past, I didn’t know it was really about books. I knew it was a CNN affiliate, and I thought it was a turn of phrase. How excited am I about my new channel?) on which a woman was talking about her book’Making a Literary Life. It sounded great’I’ve added it to my list of things to buy someday at Amazon. She went over her brief rules. Write a thousand words a day. Five days a week. For the rest of your life. And write a thank you card every day to someone you admire in the writing industry, not asking for anything. That last one I’m not sure of. Apparently it’s a way to break in, to make connections. I’m not sure I’m comfortable with such a blatant ulterior motive. But the rule about the 1000 words/day I like. I can do that. I don’t do it because I’m lazy. But I always write at least 500, so doubling it isn’t severe, and it really will make me fly along a little faster.

And on to write now. Right now.

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Arizona was good, but I’m glad to home.I am sick and exhausted. I’m fighting, very hard, a flu-like thing which keeps trying to wrestle me to the ground. I go from fever to achey, and I’ve had a sore throat for four days. Not strep, thank god, but after four months of strep earlier this year, aren’t I due for a reprieve? It’s extremely irritating.

Almost as irritating as not being able to sleep last night till about 6am. And then, at 630, being awakened by Digit peeing on the bed. On my new down comforter. I may be angry until next Tuesday, I’m not sure. I’m rarely mad. I have a hard time dealing with or even recognizing it as an emotion. People (and animals) don’t, as a rule, do things to piss me off. They may do things that make me pissed, but that’s not their fault, only my reaction. But Digit did this to make me mad’he did it on purpose’with malice aforethought. And I’m so mad at him I could spit nails. I cleaned and cleaned, and then took two sleeping pills at 730 and slept till 1pm, but it was BAD sleep, since he kept howling at the top of his great big lungs outside the door to my room.

New house rules:

1: He will be outside my room between the hours of 5-10am. Every day. Period. I don’t care how he feels about it, or how much he yells. (Actually, I do care’there’s hardly anything as irritating as listening to that cat yowl’clear as a bell, even through the door and industrial earplugs..)

2: I don’t have a two.

I’m just so disappointed. And I’m so irritated at having to clean my lovely, incredible down comforter that I was so happy about. I’m still happy, and now it’s clean, but it’s taken me all afternoon (that I could have spent sleeping on my work Monday). I’m sad that Digit wants out of the house so badly that this is the way he chooses to display that desire. I won’t let him out’it’s not good for him, or for me. But he’s unhappy, and I hate that. He seems happy on my lap while I’m on the couch, or when he’s sleeping next to me. We had a wonderful cuddle for hours last night, so he wasn’t upset about not getting attention. He just wanted out, and believe me, he came very close to being tossed out of the house on his ear. But I didn’t. And I won’t. But he’s lost his AM privileges in my room, and that’s a sad thing.

I’m sad and disappointed and feel like crying. I think I will.

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It feels so odd to have worked Tuesday night, gone out last night, and going back to work tonight. And then to Arizona tomorrow. Whew. Only now just beginning to feel like myself. Not that I was hung-over today, because I wasn’t quite, but I was worn out. Got home about 2am, in bed soon thereafter, and stayed in bed until 1:30pm, tossing and turning, awake a hell of a lot, reading, cleaning up after Digit who chose to pee again at the foot of the bed. Second time he’s done that. I think he’s just so mad sometimes, that he’s stuck inside, and he lets me know. I was just happy he only hit the nightstand and floor underneath it, and not my new bed. He WOULD be outside, and wouldn’t come in for a while, if he had peed on the bed. Poor thing.

Last night was great fun’it was good to go out and just laugh. I wasn’t driving, so I could drink with abandon, which I did, but I never really caught a buzz until the very end of the night. I was cruising when I got home, though, that happy stumble through the house, flipping lights on, thinking: ‘Whoo hoo! This is MY light! And I can have some FUDGE! And I’ll leave my boots and jeans on the floor right THERE, ‘cause this is MY place!’ Yeah, I finally got drunk, just as Nichole dropped me off.

We went to Martuni’s, a pretty class-act piano bar. I thought it would be like the Alley, a dark hole of a dive. But this was really a martini bar, and the people there were martini drinkers. The Peach Fuzzes did rock, sticky sweet, but I had to close with a good old Bombay (not dry enough, though). Some very good singers, including Brandy, who was smoking’she’s got that versatile, run-up-and-down-the-scale-and-land-right-on-the-note-that-was-meant-to-be voice. She was great. I sang ‘Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered’ probably in honor of Lynn leaving. Since we had emailed about Max, I had been thinking of her, and when Nichole and I drove past her place on the freeway, I looked right again. Not trying to peer’well, yes, a little. I saw a person standing in the window, looking at the traffic. Where I had stood, so many times. And so few times. I don’t think I’ll ever really get over her. Anyway. Sang ‘Bewitched’ for her, which went fine, but then I sang ‘Smoke Gets in Your Eyes’ which was pitched a little too high for me. Went to McGee’s after that, where we played the juke box and drank a lot more’Kelly dancing by herself except when she could get me to join in. They are fun girls, and it sounds stupid, but they’re family, too (no, not THAT kind of family), and I had forgotten what it felt like to go out with people that you’re totally comfortable with. Usually when I go out, there’s some level of discomfort, some place at which I’m watching myself, making sure I don’t act too stupid, or watching the other person/people, making sure they don’t get too out-of-control, always looking for the exit, or the excuse. Last night was just hanging out, and it was good.

So today, gearing back up for work, drinking tea and writing, just being with me, my selfishly favorite thing to be doing. Humming jazz tunes, a kitty sitting on my lap.

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A very good sleep, but strange dreams. The police department was down three flights of stairs’as I got ready to go down them, I saw a shadowy figure pop his head out at me, a large person in a trenchcoat and fedora. When I returned to the bar that was attached to the underground with two uniforms I got to go with me, it turned out to be an elderly lady who’d been frightened of me, too. I looked back, to where I’d run across a field, out of fear, I saw that in every footstep had grown a different colored tulip. I tried to back and pick them all, so no one would know I’d been there, but there were too many, and to get there I had to cross fresh cement which I only noticed was taking my shoeprints after I got across. Man, I love sleeping though.

Got an email yesterday from a friend who had to put her cat Max down. How heartbreaking. I tried to send a graceful email back, and I just got a note that said I helped, but I’m not sure anything anyone can say can actually help. Max was in misery, though, and it truly is better that he’s out of it now. It’s just such a horrible decision to have to make’one has to become a rancher and do it ‘for the animal’s good’ and who can do that easily? Well, I suppose some could, and I don’t want those people for friends.

Off work tonight, I keep forgetting that fact, too. I’m going to a gay piano bar in the city with some girls from work. They’ve been before. Perhaps they have to show a lesbian at the door, I don’t know. Should be fun, but I’m not going to drink too much’finances constrain. I’ll sing a tune or two, though. Yippee! Then I work again tomorrow and the next day I’m off for Arizona with another friend for the weekend.

Ask me if I wrote on my break last night. Hell, no. Man, it’s hard. Honestly, I just can’t call it a ‘break.’ Break implies a rest. But writing is not restful, so it’s hard to gear down to. I have to gear up to, and I have to get that in my head.

But right now I have to take a walk. Sun is going down and it’s a lovely warm night.

‘Our hearts have joined the thousands, for our friend stopped running today.’

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I had two, count ‘em, two nights of sitting on the couch, knitting and watching TV. Gotta say it, there’s something to this cable thing. I purposely planned this, went to things in the afternoon, avoided things that would turn into obligations. It’s hard to remember now on Tuesday afternoon, where the weekend went, but it went into little errands, lunch with Christy, yoga, movies, and more little errands. Just the perfect kind of weekend. I wish I had more like this.

Haven’t been sleeping well, though. I really think it’s something to do with the fact that I don’t use sleeping pills on the weekends’three days on, three days off. I sleep well until about 1 or 2am, then I’m up for hours. Last night the outside light went on at 2, waking me up. I don’t know why, but I drew back the curtain to look out. It’s usually a raccoon or a possum. This time it was three male teenagers, all wearing hooded sweatshirts. They were leaving, not coming, probably had hopped the back fence, but it was enough of a strange thing that it woke me up firmly and I spent the next three hours reading and planning writing. And eating a little of that fudge I made. Gotta take some to work, and bring some upstairs. I don’t need all of this, god knows.

It is so hard for me to get the motivation to my real writing, and I’m so proud of what I’ve accomplished in the last few months. But I want to do more, do the smaller articles that I’ve been thinking about. Where do I find the time for that? And more importantly, where do I find the motivation? I suppose I could write the smaller things at work on my break, in the back room, saving it onto disk, but’. Hey. I have no but (well, I do, but it has two Ts, and I don’t want to talk about it). There’s nothing wrong with that plan, so I’ll do that. Try it, anyway.

I have a chicken in the oven, and laundry is a-washin’. I get more done on my work days that any other day.

I feel flat and happy. Happy, but boring. Happy, but nothing interesting to say. Happy that my apartment is small and sunny and clean and smells wonderful, infused with the garlic-lemon-rosemary smell, happy that I have such a great bed (which I don’t think I got firmly placed onto the frame’shouldn’t be any kind of a problem until someone gets into it with me, which I don’t foresee happening any time soon, please god), happy that even with so much done today, I still have four hours before I have to go to work, four hours I can spend puttering. Yippee! The magic sweater is coming along nicely, should get it done in time, I hope.

Dreams of Venice. Nova special tonight that I’m taping, the one on the foundations to preserve the city, have been waiting for this to air. Will add it to the tape of my boyfriend Rick S in my hostaria. Sigh’.

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What a nice weekend I’ve had so far. I don’t even usually write on my weekends, so this shows how good it is. Didn’t go to church this morning, because I got up too late. Got up too late because I have a NEW BED! Well, new to me. A friend from work gave me her ‘old’ guest bed, because they wanted to get a queen instead of the full size they had. They were gonna throw it out! Instead, I made the catch, and not only did I get the bed, but wonderful blue checked sheets, mattress pads, a featherbed (!) and a down comforter in it’s own blue duvet (!!!). She didn’t know that I had wanted a down comforter for years, literally, but I could never justify the expense. For the last ten years I’ve been sleeping under the same quilt I made and a comforter that I bought at Kmart.

I was so COMFORTABLE last night. I think I may have to quit work. I’d have to get too far from the bed. I got off work yesterday at 0700, went home and took a brief nap in the old bed, got up at 9 (and started to make the bed, silly), and went with Beth out to Concord to pick it up. Spent much of the rest of the day either setting up the bed, making it, or just looking at it. The cats were stumped. How the hell are they supposed to get up there? And true, with all the fluffy stuff, it’s at least a foot higher than any bed I’ve ever had before. And I’m in love with it. You don’t even have to TRY to get comfortable’you don’t have to fight. You just lie down.

That’s the highlight of my weekend so far. In my attempt to stay awake for the rest of the day yesterday, I walked down to the Elmwood and saw 24 Hour Party People, which was fabulous. Stunningly funny movie, which anyone who’s had any brush with English punk music in the 80s (or even anyone acquainted with Joy Division or New Order) should see, just to remember how you felt when you first heard the music that wasn’t what your friends were listening to. This wasn’t Elton John.

It’s windy and cold today, the first hint of moving out of autumn into winter. Both cats have cuddled down into the fluffy bed. Smart thinking. I may join them again.

Yoga this afternoon, and then a lazy afternoon/night of watching movies and Sopranos/Six Feet Under. I’m not going anywhere. I may test that whole Pay-Per-View movie thing, although it makes me nervous that I’ll accidentally order two extra channels. I want a quiet weekend’I said that last weekend, and spent the whole of it running around, doing fun things, yes, but running. Luckily, this weekend, everyone is either out of town or having guests in, so I can disappear into quietness. Must test my bed some more. A lot more.

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Writing quickly, have been burning time this afternoon. A friend came over after a really bad day, so I listened with sleepy eyes and loved her as much as possible. There aren’t too many things one can say after a day like that, but I listened, and hopefully that helped.

Then, somehow, I got into cleaning the bathroom cabinets. I didn’t mean to do this. I was making tea, getting ready to write. I wanted something for my head’I have some kind of sinus or ear infection. I can barely stand to touch the right side of my face, and I’m going to have to have a headset on for another 10-12 hours tonight. So I wanted some drugs of any sort. I decided I had everything, Sudafed, Sinutab, Tylenol, I just couldn’t find any of it quickly, so I reorganized everything.

Man, I just took a sip of tea. Even that hurts. Chewing my toast hurt earlier. Not a happy camper. But tomorrow morning, with Bethany’s super help, I’m getting a new bed from Lisa’her old guest bed, which will be one hundred times better than the E 14th St special I got, $100 for mattress, boxspring, and frame. That bed was good for the first 3.5 nights. After that, it sucked. People are so generous to me’I hope I am as generous back, and I really doubt that I am. Something to remember, that.

Giving up on the new Rita Mae Brown book, Alma Mater. Was she always this bad a writer? I mean, seriously, it doesn’t take much to suspend my disbelief, but in this case, my disbelief is rooted in a terror that even reading such writing will affect mine negatively. It’s horrendous. I was hoping to go along, and get to the good parts, and forget about the writing, but I simply can’t. It’s like that second Witi Ihimaeranga book I started, The Uncle’s Story. How can such good writers write such absolute tripe? I don’t understand. I’m not a good, accomplished, or even advanced writer, and I know I can write better than that.

Must start getting ready for work. Maybe I’ll treat myself to Starbucks. Long night ahead. And I WILL write on my break, since today I cleaned bathroom cabinets to get out of it. Nice try.

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I had one of my recurring nightmares just now, right before I woke up. The travelling dream, where I’m not on time. This one involved the whole family, as it often does, and we were in Italy, sigh. I’m putting all my belongings on a bed, pulling my clothes and gifts out of drawers where I’ve stashed them, and I know there’s NO way that I’m going to be able to pack them all. I’m trying to get them to fit, but I’m throwing things out left and right. I look at the clock, and I realize that our plane leaves in an hour, then in half-an-hour. I bang on everyone’s doors and tell them this, but no one seems to be in any kind of hurry. We end up two hours late for the plane, still at the train station in Venice. Venice! How can you have a nightmare about Venice? I leave Mom and Dad inside to haggle over the plane ticket exchange (after I have forgotten all Italian I own), and wander outside to look around. My biggest feeling is that it’s home. Home to the point of boredom, almost, so I stand on the bridge and make myself see it for the first time. In the dream it was Venice, but there were cathedrals on the canal that aren’t there, there were tall overspanning trees that were changing in fall foliage (there aren’t many trees in Venice, as there isn’t much dirt), and horribly, there was a light-rail high in the air, crossing the canal. It was broken, and appeared to be like a ride at an amusement park when it gets stuck, barely hanging. It was Captain EO dropped into paradise, sacrilege. But it felt so good, to hang over the bridge, to know exactly where I was, to feel at home.

It was all Rick Steve’s fault. I read his ‘Pack light’ chapter on line (again) last night at work. Venice is just an excuse to pack. And I’m writing about Venice. Must do research. Yeah, that’s it.

Off for a walk now, before I do real writing. Have to get it in early nowadays with this damn daylight savings light. Yesterday it was marvelous. I love it that I’ve had my favorite season twice this year, once in April in New Zealand’the trees were so similar, the smells echoing each other’and then again here. Autumn makes me nostalgic, instantly, a little grief stricken that it will end soon, and I’ll have to wait another year for it to happen again.

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Right. It’s back to the old schedule. It’s easy to get out of the habit of writing, and so hard to get back in. I like my habit I’ve had of only writing during my work week. It only makes sense that I would write on my weekend, when I have more time, but I have less structure. And me without structure equals long, drawn-out days packed with a million small activities, none of them writing.

But the magnets I made are fabulous! I have to make some more.

And have started on THE sweater, but I have to admit, I’m having trouble getting the motivation for it. I know I have enough already for her Christmas present, and I’d rather make three or four scarves (more?). I just tell myself I can do it all.

Speaking of doing it all, I couldn’t ever have a child. How do people do it? I have the utmost respect. I have no time in my life right now, and I’m single, no kids. SINK. I can (and should) also say that my choice hinges on the fact that one of the most environmentally sound decisions I can ever make is the choice not to bring a child into this world, thus beginning the propagation of who knows how many more humans onto the planet. That, and I’m lazy. I often say, and really mean, I can hardly keep up with the cats.

Ooh! I released my first two books (bookcrossing.com) yesterday, and someone had already found one last night. I left a Joyce Carol Oates (Foxfire) in the trail mix bin at Trader Joes. I got a message saying that a person (who was already a member, strangely enough) found it, and will read and release. Whoo hoo! I left a Sue Grafton in the cat food aisle of Safeway, too. I felt like a criminal doing it. There’s something suspicious about leaving something somewhere, shoving a book onto a shelf where no books would normally be and then walking away. Trader Joes was crowded, and I had to pick my time carefully. I did the put-it-down-like-you’re-looking-at-something-else-and-then-leave-it-behind trick that you employ when you decide at Target you don’t want the hairspray you picked up and leave it in the automotive section. I can’t wait to do more.

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I have too much to read. I have four two-foot piles of books that are in my to-be-read piles. I have 20 books waitlisted at Amazon, for when I get around to them. I’m two New Yorkers behind. And I have two library books! (what was I thinking? the pressure’.)

I don’t spend enough time reading. I read in the tub, and before I go to sleep, religiously. But I don’t do very much during the day. I’ve got to start taking real reading to work, rather than realizing at four am that I have nothing to read but the old Women’s Weeklies in the drawers. There are only so many squash recipes one can absorb. And I know that having cable doesn’t help. But I gotta say, I do love that cable. I only watch it on the weekends, and even then not much, but when I have a night to sit in front of the TV and flip, that’s pretty cool.

Went on a lovely little walk tonight. I got up at 430pm, and it was already getting dark out, so I powered through breakfast and email, and then went out. It stayed pretty dry for most of my walk, just started spitting at the end. I don’t think it’s yet started back up in earnest. Last night was terrible, high winds, and all those limbs that come down at the beginning of the season fell. When I got to work, there were 911 calls on hold. One of those nights that you can’t even put your stuff down and grab your headset, you just pick up the phone and go. One enormous tree came down and flattened a brand new VW. If anyone had been parking it, she would have been dead, instantly. Now there’s something you just can’t predict. I don’t think about trees when I park. Geez.

Looking forward so much to my weekend. Apart from yoga on Sunday, I have NO plans. Zero. None. Nothing at all that I have to do, no one I have to see, unless I get in the mood and decide to play. I haven’t had time like this in months, and I’m tempted to stay inside and play and leave my ringer off, or go out shopping and not take the cell phone. Maybe I’ll go over to the city on the ferry. There. See? I’m planning. None of that.

Thank god it’s payday.

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You know that first drippy mild rain of the season, a few days after the last really warm and sunny days of fall? Yeah. We didn’t get that rain. It’s POURING! And gorgeous. I’m glad I’m not out in it, though. Poor Christy just came by, soaked to the skin’she’s been riding her bike in it. Oy.

There. I had to make the place more hospitable to bad weather. I turned the heater on and lit a candle on the desk. I’m running only by white strung lights and candles. It’s slackened off for a moment, now, but the drips are as heavy as the rain itself. When I drove home this morning, it was just starting to rain, and I remembered another thing I love about fall’the leaves on the roadway after the rain. All those carefully balanced reds and oranges and yellows that thrilled me in the air last week now make a painting of color under my wheels. That just sounds messy when I write it. What a chore for the street sweepers. But I love it.

Have now, officially, caught the Italy bug. Again. For the umpteenth time. I was beginning to think that I could possibly think of a different trip, but Italy is interrupting my dreams. I have begun thinking of the perfect walking shoe while trying to get to sleep. I threw out the TravelSmith catalog yesterday’now I have to dig it out of the recycling. I’ve decided to bring only black next time. So, of course, I need better black, especially pants. Wool, silk-lined would be perfect. Wet wool is rather miserable, though, so I’ll need another pair, possible very good dark black jeans. My Rockports have had it during the last two trips, so I need another pair of black walking shoes, shoes cute enough to wear with my black dress. Also, I’m thinking about taking the huge plunge into light-camera land. This means, I have to BUY a light camera. My SLR is the best camera in the whole wide world, but it’s easier to carry an unabridged dictionary. Which leads me to the perfect bag, which I just remembered so happily, I have. I actually use it as a purse right now’it looks like a purse but folds out into a backpack. OK. One expense taken care of. People worry about air fare and hotel costs. I should worry about accoutrements expense.

And it makes me so flipping happy to sit here in the rain, thinking about how to keep dry in Venice. Thinking about rinsing out clothes at night, lining the radiators with garments, sleeping listening to the thunks and clanks of old marble buildings and the tolling bells across the city.

It’s pouring again. That sounds the same anywhere.

How will I not smoke in Italy? Seriously. It’s something I can’t even think about. I just have to tell myself that I won’t. I’m so committed to my health now that I just wouldn’t do that. I didn’t in New Zealand, although I came so DAMNED fucking close. Oh, to smoke in a restaurant, drinking caffe, looking at the rain on the boats. It doesn’t get better than that.

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Only fifteen minutes to write today. I’ve done the scheduling circus, and have a movie outing planned before work. I like to do that’to feel like I have a life, even in the work week. But I also miss my time to write, to walk. Wednesdays are really good for that.

I’ve found the MOST important site. Absolutely brilliant. Bookcrossing.com is a site that is making the whole world a library. You join, read a book, review it, and release it into the wild. You place an identifying sticker inside, with instructions on how to get to the website, and then the person who picks it up reads it, reviews it, and releases it. I am going to do it to a TON of books that I have laying about. (Man, I wish I could remember the difference between usages in lay and lie.) It’s like the reader’s good karma site. I think the site builder is a genius.

I’m sitting here, staring straight ahead. I haven’t woken up yet.

Jenny’s visit, -did I write?- was a success. We had a wonderful time, sitting on the floor, drinking wine, talking about writing. So simple, it sounds. But I NEEDED it. Makes me think I need a writer’s group up here, but I have so little time, and other things I want to devote that time to. But having Jenny as a sounding board is fabulous. We exchanged pages and stared at each in glee. Look how MUCH we’ve written! With no one making us. No grade dependent upon it. We’re writers, that’s all. I’m 30, and I just now started feeling grown-up.

K. Off for some fun.

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IV.

The light has changed;

middle C is tuned darker now.

And the songs of morning sound over-rehearsed.

This is the light of autumn, not the light of spring.

The light of autumn: you will not be spared.

‘.

my friend the moon rises:

she is beautiful tonight, but when is she not beautiful?

Louise Gluck

‘October’

A poem hasn’t reached me like this one in years. It’s long, dark, with mostly-concealed hope underlying the more blatant loss of joy. It’s where I don’t want to be. But she makes me want to be there. I’m drawn and repelled. I want to tear out the two pages from the New Yorker and keep them, and I want to recycle the whole damn thing so I can forget what I read. That’s why I put my favorite lines here. So someday, I can look up the rest of the poem.

I can’t believe the day has escaped me. It’s almost noon, and I have to be at work today at 5pm. Still plenty of time, I know, but not enough. I had a long-short weekend. Off Friday night, but I worked Sunday night, so my relaxation was interrupted. But last night, I had my favorite kind of time’at home, on the couch, watching TV, knitting away. I simply have to have one of those nights a week.

And last night, I saw my boyfriend Rick. Rick Steves. A more gay-but-straight man I have never loved. I adore that traveling nerd. And he was in VENICE! So I taped it, of course. How melancholy I was. Couldn’t even knit, just sat and stared. He was in the city I love the most. He stood on various corners, or on the edge of boats, and from the wall behind him, I knew where he was and what was just out of sight. Behind him is the fish market. Yes, there it is. I was almost in tears.

And then’. Then’. He said something Rick-like: ‘If you really want to experience true Venice, you must get off the beaten track and dine in a restaurant where they serve cicchetti.’ You see him enter a dark bar. I think, that looks like MY dark bar. But there are hundreds, maybe thousands of restaurants in Venice. Stop it. You see his guide point him to the food to sample. And there’s my Marco, serving him. Serving Rick. There in my restaurant. In the restaurant where I have eaten strange fishy substances, imbibed Marco’s homemade death-wish grappa, danced, sung, laughed, and danced some more. Oh, I started bawling. How is it possible? If I were fifteen, I would say that Rick Steves was telling me it is my destiny to go back to Venice, and soon. As I’m twice that, I’ll merely admit that it’s a very good idea, one that can’t come too soon. I had been torn’should I go in Spring or Fall next year? Spring, it’s now decided. And hopefully Fall. It’s a disease. One with no cure. I’m done for.

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Went out drinking with a friend last night. It was good to get back to that. It had been a long time since someone called me up and said, hey, you busy? Let’s go out and have a good time. I’m ALWAYS busy. And if I’m not, it’s planned non-busyness, and I just want to sit home and be alone. Last night, I had the time (had taken the night off, just in case I found something fun to do). And I did find something fun to do. I had forgotten how alcohol mixed with attraction makes things so interesting. I was never drunk, but I was fun-buzzed.

Went to the X, where I won almost as many pool games as he did. Then to A Cote, a very nice restaurant down in my neighborhood. Ended up waiting for a table near a fabulously strange happy couple, Brian and Hillary, who met in a porn shop and have been married for 12 years. We ended up sitting with them. Just kinda moved in. One of those exceptional pieces of luck where like-minded meet same.

Awfully strange to be, at least for one night, back in the land of the straight. Quite easy to slip back into. Alarmingly so. It’s a nice place to visit, I just wouldn’t want to live there.

Now: On to my full day. Must do laundry and go grocery shopping. Jenny comes tonight, and the work retirement party is tonight also. I have too much fun for one night planned. Although I wish the party wasn’t tonight, or that Jenny was coming later. I hate to share her limited time. It’s been so long. I’m leaving her a key and my manuscript. I don’t know if she’ll read any before I come home, I doubt it, but my stomach gets a little tense just thinking about it. Like sending a child off to school for the first time’I’m not worried about how she’ll do academically, I’m just concerned that the other kids treat her nicely.

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Happy Halloween!

Today is not one of my favorite holidays. I love this season, this is my favorite time of year, but today I could do without. I’m worried about the little trickertreaters that’ll be wandering by soon’I’m on a street this year, and I could be asked for candy. I’m running out of here early’going to Alameda to feed Christy’s trickers. And then to work, where I’ll hear the ugly end of the big kids’ exploits. At least we’re fully staffed tonight. And at least I’ll get some candy, too.

I’m so excited that my writer gal Jenny is coming to see me this weekend. Actually, she’s coming up for a wake, so that’s the terrible part. But I’m claiming her on the living end, and I can’t wait to hang out with another writer. I realize it’s been so long since I did that. People who write, yes. Not writers. I printed out my work for her to look at. I was astonished. One hundred forty four pages is a LOT. It’s as long as my thesis was, and I struggled with that. I had to work so hard to get that done, and this one I’ve just been playing with. Not worried about where it’s going, what it’s doing. I know it’ll go somewhere, and I’m just along for the ride.

Finished the body of Winter’s sweater (I’m seeing him on Monday) last night, and it was TOO small. Sigh. Started another one, which will be TOO big, but that’s a good thing. It’s in a light dusty red, which I realize will make him look like a girl, but it said his name at the yarn store, and I must go with my impulses. As long as they don’t involve spending money (which they always do, duh).

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I’ve been playing the guitar more lately, thanks to my friend Brandy at work. She even brought her new beautiful guitar in to work the other night, and we played around on it for hours. Gorgeous tone, very different from my mellow huge classical guitar, or Barney, for that matter. Dad loaned me Barney to take home and mess with. It’s good guitar to play, small neck. The action is high, but I capo it down and it gets better. Plus, the space between frets gets smaller, too. I’ve been working on ‘Ghost,’ by the Indigo Girls, and after playing the chord progressions and finger picking on Barney, it’s almost impossible to switch back to the classical guitar. But it’s so nice to be getting the calluses again, and to be working on music. For a while last week I was thinking about buying an old beater piano. But I had to be logical’where would I really put it? I walked around and around my little apartment thinking that I really didn’t need so much access to that closet, I could just put the piano in front of it. In the hallway. In the dark. In the only access-way to the bathroom. I just don’t think, without making my living room a tiny cramped space, which I hate, that I could fit even a small upright piano in here. Keith, the guy whose bedroom is above mine, has a beautiful sounding electronic piano that he plays wonderfully. He’s the reason I was thinking about it at all. I suppose someday, when I have some money saved (WHEN will that BE?), I can get one of those. Right now, I’ll assuage my musical leanings with perhaps buying an Indigo Girls songbook. I mean, really, if you’re going to play the guitar, who else do you want to play?

Off now to walk, come back and write, and then give in to the marble making madness. At work last night, I thought I would get a few images, perhaps, from the Natl. Geographic Traveler magazine I had just received. Wrong. I got hundreds. Way more magnets than I EVER want to make. But a fun place to start.

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Just a quick note. I’ll do my real writing tonight at work. Today I’d rather play in my house. Have spent a lot of the day with Bethany’she just went home. And we had fun! Walked to a coffee shop down on College, Spasso, a wonderful little well-lit long place that usually has a couch available. Then walked home and out to the movies, where we saw Real Women Have Curves. What a great movie, inspiring and sweet. And not too sentimental. Saw Last Kiss last night, which I really enjoyed for its utter lack of sentimentality (or did that lack create an alternate sentiment?), but Bethany didn’t enjoy at all. Maybe it’s just ‘cause it was Italian that I loved it. I wouldn’t put that past myself.

Then after the movie, we went to Michael’s Crafts. Don’t let the Herrons in there, please. I only spent $16, on a new hobby, magnets. I won’t say how much Bethany spent. God bless Christmas’we can blame everything on that. I can blame Christmas for the $40 I spent on Donna Leon books, bidding on them in England, too. Even though I have Mom’s present already. They’re a present for me. And her. And whoever else likes Donna Leon books. Dang, I could sell them on Amazon anytime when we’re done.

Bleeding money, and that ain’t good. I want to sign up for a yoga class at the Piedmont Studios, but I have to pay for the retirement dinner on Saturday and tix for the new Cirque du Soleiel show I’m going to in December. These are all extras, I realize. Everything in the previous paragraphs could have been avoided. But I have so much fun in my life, and that’s because I spend some money sometimes. Am I convincing anyone? Not myself. But that’s OK. There’s always tomorrow to not spend money. And I won’t get coffee this week. Ugh. Of course I will.

Off to make some magnets. What glee!

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Good grief. I wonder so often what we did before the internet. I’ve learned so much this morning, mostly about hoboes and the availability of Donna Leon books online, things that in no way matter to my being a person, but it’s fun to be able to find the info.

Which is why I’m writing here. (An side, I simply must SCREAM my frustration at my computer not being able to keep up with my typing. I must have a lot of windows open (I do, but necessary), because I have to type half a sentence, and then wait for it to catch up. And it is SO frustrating.) I’m trying to tear myself away from looking for Christmas gifts. I want to order on-line, and get done with Christmas soon. I hate being pressed for time. My main problem is that some people (like Mom) are so easy to buy for that I just don’t stop buying, and some are so difficult that it’s hard to find anything at all.

I had so many plans for today, and I have to get a move on to get them all done. I worked six days in a row this week, and I’m so far behind. I had yesterday off, too, and got little done. But I did go, for the first time, to St. John’s Episcopal Church. I accidentally went to the late service (the phone book times were wrong) and ended up at the full Eucharist service, where I was the youngest by at least 25 years, but it was a lovely service. I’ll go back. Although I might go to the younger crowd service at 9am.

From musing about church to swearing: This fucking computer is driving me out of my fucking mind. It’s never this slow! What’s going on? Gotta jump into the day, so much to do. Especially: Write!

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I can’t believe I ordered a personalized license plate while I was at work last night. It’s all Kelly’s fault. I found one that was available and loved it and she made me push the buttons to buy it. Dang. It’s cool:

WRTRGAL

For a long time I had been thinking of something moderately police-y, like 911GRRL. But it was giving in to the J.O.B. I don’t define myself as a dispatcher. And the day that I do is the day I curl up into a little fetal ball and ignore the world. Actually, it was hard to change that habit’when people ask what you do, you tend to respond with the way you pay the bills. I’m a waitress. I work at a hotel. Or for so many years, I’m a student.

A friend really helped me out with that. She said, simply, just say you’re a writer. What? Then people will want to know what I write and whether I’ve published and the stuff I don’t like to talk about because I’m private (can’t you tell by my online journal?). And it’s true, they do want to know that. And I love it. And it doesn’t hurt that I have an interesting J.O.B. The conversations usually go the same way. They think it’s cool that I’m a writer’either they want to be one too, or their sister or mom is, which is always good to hear. They want to know what I write (hard to define, and I never get any better at it than just saying ‘general fiction’), and whether I’ve been published, which thank god I can say yes to. And after a few bland minutes, their minds start clicking over to the dispatch job, and they say, ‘Wow. Have you ever heard anyone die?’ (Yep.) Dispatch horror stories are MUCH more interesting over a dinner table than writing will ever be. How exciting can I make it? Yep, I sat down yesterday at my desk. Yes I did. I had a cup of black tea with milk. Then I made some green tea, too. My cat jumped on my lap, and I looked out the window to see who was yelling. And I typed a lot. Crazy people are more interesting.

Strange d’j’ vu. Hmmmm. I never know how to feel about that. But I’m sure I’ve felt it before.

Been feeling dizzy a lot lately. Something I might want to look into, I don’t like the feeling.

Getting dark out, so I’m gonna finish this so I can get a walk in before my real work. Which will then be followed by the J.O.B. All of which I enjoy. Whoo hoo!

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Why is it that sometimes a 12 hr turnaround is enough, and other times it doesn’t even come close? I won’t have time to do my writing today, let alone anything else, like my walk. I had the best walk yesterday, a perfect 30 minutes with a steep hill which was actually a pedestrian alley that led to a view of the City. Amazing. I’ll do it again. Just not today.

Had such dreams today. I’m reading -The Dive From Clausen’s Pier by Ann Packer, and I dreamed that Nick was paralyzed. And that I was still in love with him. That’s the way dreams go, you’re heartbroken all over again, but it’s pretend. It wasn’t a good feeling. I even looked around while on the freeway. Yep, there I was back in Fort Collins and I hated it. The only saving thing in my dream was that Shinobu was there somewhere. In getting ready to go see him, I had to pack on the spur of the moment (god knows, SUCH a nightmare), but what made it worse was that I suddenly had two children. I did NOT want to pack for them. I looked at their two dirty little bodies and decided they could use my face soap when we got there and they could just stay in those clothes. I wasn’t packing anything. Good thing I only have cats.

I was going to write more of the dream, but I can’t remember it now. I did, just a few minutes ago.

Oh, well. I took Adah and locked her in the bathroom about an hour before I had to get up since she was walking all over my head. God, I hate that. But I made the mistake of standing in the bathroom with her (naked), and hoisting her onto the sink so I can close the door on her. Apparently she’s figured this trick out, ‘cause I now have two stunning welts running down my entire side. And cat scratches, especially hers, sting and itch. Kind of killed the more-sleep idea. Thus the Nick dream. Actually, in my dream, I went into the bathroom to look at the cuts, and they were barely noticeable. I remember being disappointed for how much they hurt. In the light of real day, they’re a good size. Aargh. Cats are enough.

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I really have to restrict my time on-line, at least, on e-bay. But I’m getting some fab things, and I should be getting a couple more. I just received the vintage Italian mohair that will make a great gift, and almost more fun, I got a vintage Italian sweater, hand-knit, cables in the front. It’s a variegated pastel color, just the color you would use for a baby’s layette, and it’s so soft, and has just the faint odor of smoke, and I sweartogod it’s an Italian smoke smell. I know it can’t be, and that really it’s spent its life on an old woman playing Bingo in Hibbing, Minnesota, but I can imagine. I can also hang it in the sun to air. Too fun.

Also new: The link at left of Italy 04/01. I’m adding my emails from my trips, and I want to scan some pics, too. All I have right now is one from Dan Heller, whose site I adore and borrow from (and attribute).

Found out excellent news’Longs on 51st and Broadway opens at 6am. I swear that’s the best place to shop. It’s huge and they have EVERYthing, including yarn. Going in the morning when I get off so I can get some yarn for baby Winter’s sweater. I saw the softest smoky red there the other day, an unexpected baby sweater color, but perhaps more interesting for that.

Wrote four pages yesterday. Proud of myself. My goal is two, but four is better. It’s usually something of a struggle to reach two. That’s not true. The struggle begins when I know I’ve made my goal and it’s hard to keep typing and thinking.

I have a little sore throat. This is alarming. After my tonsils came out, I pretty much hoped to never have a sore throat ever again. I think it’s probably allergy related. I’ve been struggling with different kinds of allergies lately’two days ago my face and right eye were itching something fierce. And last week I had my first MSG reaction in years. Very disappointed about that. But I’m sure that’s all past now, and on with wellness. Let me get a tissue’..

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On my desk there’s a wooden letter holder. It has two levels, and they’re always stuffed, the front part for bills and things that might turn into bills, things with aspirations of bills. The back part is for things to keep, letters from Mom, gift certificates, those free address labels animal-rights companies send to me. But in the very front, showing through the wooden slats is a Roman metro ticket. One of those BIT (biglietto integrato a tempo) pieces of paper that are good for 75 minutes. It’s almost a year old now’I went to Rome with Mom in November of last year. But I like to leave it there. I like to be reminded.

On my fridge door is a vaporetto ticket from Venice. That makes me homesick. I haven’t been there that many times. How can I miss it so much? Venice is the one place I know I want to live someday. And someday, I will.

What am I? If a person who loves England is an Anglophile, am I an Italophile? An Italiophile? Whatever it is, I can lay some real claim to the name. It’s almost embarrassing. Lately I’ve had a lot of people in and out of my house’people who haven’t visited me before. It was kind of strange, in two weeks to have three different friends see my house for the first time, and I’ve lived here over a year. And to see all the pictures, all the frames hanging on my walls. It’s obvious my heart is somewhere else. Well, that’s not true. I love my house, and I love Oakland. My heart is here. But part of it will always be on the Adriatic.

I never finished the last two weeks of that Italian class. It was fine going, with no personal contact. I liked it. I was good at it. It was rather easy. But as soon as that Robert started paying attention and engaging with me (and I was engaging back, I’ll admit), I lost interest and heart. I wanted an anonymous class. I definitely didn’t need anyone asking me out. Whew. I guess I’m running away from things like that (especially from men like that, I just can’t go back to men, I don’t think). It’s not that I’ve had a bad reaction, or have a bad taste. Not at all. But I just love and adore being single way too much right now to jeopardize that. Not everyone has to be paired. And I’m totally avoiding dating right now because I’m one of those people who has a girl/boyfriend after two dates. It’s official, and then becomes somewhat long-term, even if I don’t want it to. Because I’m a wuss. But I’m not likely to change quickly, so the easy answer is to stay very decidedly single for a long time. I hope I can manage it.

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Got back from Yosemite last night. Jenn was an absolute peach and drove Beth and I there, paid for the site, and fed us. She knew both of us were cash poor, and she wanted to go anyway, so we did. And it was truly awesome. I was a little worried about the cold, but it was lovely’we wore shorts during the day and Jenn actually slept outside. And I do believe she was warmer than I was’I froze a lot of the night, just couldn’t warm up, even after I put on a sweatshirt over my thermals and put on socks (dreaded, hateful socks at night. I HATE socks at night). When I made the trek to the bathroom in the middle of the moonlit night, she was sleeping all bundled up and cozy-looking, wearing my fleece hat. She was warm in the morning, too. I was astonished and impressed.

We hiked up to Vernal and most of the way to Nevada Falls. There was still water, which was surprising to us (no water at Yosemite Falls or Bridal Veil, though.). Since Bethany had never seen any large waterfalls, it was nice to see a little bit. We thought we were going to die on the hike, though. I had forgotten how steep those steps are. We had to stop and rest every few feet, I swear. But we made it, and went up further on the John Muir trail and took the horse trail down from Nevada, which is a gentle, couple of miles switchback, gorgeous with the turning leaves. The pines are so high, and underneath them are the red/pink dogwoods and red oaks and yellow sycamores. Leaves constantly floating down. Crisp air. So pretty it got annoying to have to point out more prettiness after a while. How lucky we were, to be able to go and hike and sleep outside, and spend time in such a wonderful place. Jenn already had a year pass, too, so she didn’t even have to pay entrance fees. And they were both great to be with, very mellow and we all went at the same pace. (That is, unless they were all going at my pace and not telling me.)

And essentially, that was my whole weekend. I got off on Saturday morning, took a nap, got in the car and drove (we arrived in time to set up our camp site and decide we really didn’t want a real dinner’chips and salsa, crackers and cheese, carrots, and the best dessert of all, roasted Halloween Peeps in the shape of Jack-o-lanterns, followed by a walk to the river in the bright moonlight’could see the lights of people sleeping on North Face), spent Sunday hiking and driving, home in time to watch Sopranos, and bed. Today I work for 10 hours for someone else. I added up my rep time the other day, thinking I was probably at 40-50 hours. I am owed, in total, 112 hours. Almost 3 weeks. Damn. No wonder it feels like I’m always repping people. I really am. I love the idea that if I wanted to take 5 weeks off next year, I could. Maybe I’ll try to do that. Or maybe I’ll just space it out. Kinda like I’m spacing out right now. Have to do laundry and clean the house a little’not sure what to do about my pillow which smells like campfire in a big way. I would leave it in the sun, if there were any, which there isn’t. Perhaps later.

Going to really write now, haven’t since last week, and it’s always hard to get back into it. But not really that very hard. And I WILL take a break tonight. I’ve been lazy about it. That sounds funny, too lazy to take a break. It’s just that on my breaks, I’m working harder than I do in the ComCen’it’s a relief to come back and answer 911s. Silly. But good.

I always feel, in these pages, like telling myself to have a good day. OK, then. Have a good day.

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It’s about the people. It is. I’m so lucky to have the friends that I do, and the family that I do.

I’ve realized that with all my happiness about having time to write, and time to be alone, I still love to be with people, to talk and laugh and feel appreciated and show appreciation. And this shift I’m on makes that possible. After years of practice, I finally have the system down. If I don’t have to work over or go in early, I have heaps of time. Today, I’ve done email, gone for a half-hour walk, hung out with Christy, fed her some chicken. Now I’m doing my writing, after which Bethany and probably Jenn will come over before I go to work. I’ve got candles burning, and the house is pretty and smells good. (A hint, though, do not take the chicken plate out of the fridge, make a plate for your sister and then walk her out to the car. When you come back, you will find a happy-looking cat and chicken all over your floor.)

Yesterday, I got to do all the things I like to do, and I had a great dinner out with Lynn. Went to La Med for the second time this week.

It was remarkable, getting together with her. Shades of remembrance of a very short, very intense relationship, mixed with the admiration I always had of her as a person. We always did do the talk well. We’re both quick, and possess the understanding of the other’s sensibilities. I think we get each other. Too short, and at the same time long enough for now. Would more overwhelm me? I was a runner with her. Didn’t last night, but that might have been tempered with the knowledge that she’s moving to Montana of all places. I felt like it was too bad, really. I’m just rediscovering her, and as I put in an email to her, shame on me for that. She was only five miles away. I could have had a friend these last few years. I don’t know why we were so strange with each other last time, last year.

And Jenn just called and said she wants a DOJF. Date of Just Friends. She wants to go away this weekend, and she won’t tell me where. As I am BROKE she isn’t letting me stress about money. I say I like being alone and being single, and this is so so so true. But it wouldn’t be, without such wonderful friends and sisters like to break the bank with their worth.

So blessed. A thanks.

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Why is it that every once in a while I get into a cleaning fit? I’m always cleaning and tidying, the normal, everyday, maintenance type of things. The tub feels a little dirty, scrub it out (I minimize this, but I LOVE scrubbing the tub). Yesterday, though, at 6pm (I had to leave for work at 630), I decided to bleach out the kitchen sink. I must have spent 20 minutes, ajaxing the hell out of it. And it worked, somewhat. The sink definitely looks better, but it came with those stains. There are some I’ll never get out. After I did the sink, I decided to bleach my coffee cups. What did they ever do to hurt me? I was almost late to work because I was cleaning weirdly. I know I’m not obsessive about it (I can sweep the tracked kitty litter under the door on my lazy days), but then sometimes I get carried away and lose track of things while I scrub.

Again, I feel like I should have been born in the midwest, what with all this cooking, cleaning, and knitting.

Speaking of cooking, yesterday I had the most productive afternoon. Woke at 12pm, did my writing (both kinds) and had my breakfast. Then I went to the grocery store and stocked up. Came home and started cooking a whole chicken. While it was cooking, I had time to clean the house (normally, vacuuming and crap) as well as color my hair and take a shower. The chicken turned out lovely’just perfect. I’m proud of myself. I usually either undercook the inside or burn the outside. On rare occasions, I do both. This one was just right. Stuffed it with lemon, garlic and rosemary, basted the outside with olive oil. Yum.

WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME?

I used to be the queen of the drive-through. Typo: drivethough. Yep, that’s right, too. But I’m in the cheap seats now, and saving money. Rah rah. At least when Lynn comes over tonight, I’ll be able to offer her the choice of eating in. Even if it is sitting on the floor. I know she won’t mind.

Want to work on the two other small pieces soon, too. Actually, I have three in mind. It’s enough of a good day, though, when I get my real writing as well as this done. Maybe on the weekend I’ll diversify. Yawning. Wake up!

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I have money on the brain. Sometimes I work my money like a crossword puzzle, scratching things out and filling in the blanks. No, that doesn’t work up, what about putting it in 11 across? I’m doing fine, and paying off bills, I just want to pay them faster, and have more money in the meantime to squander. I can’t do both, unfortunately. Right now, I have to concentrate on paying the credit card off. And that means no funny stuff. Rare back on the yarn.

New goals: (not new, just in writing now)

1. Stay ahead of the bills. Trick myself into thinking I have no money, but all my bills are marked paid into the next month. I like this method.

2. No dipping into credit card. For anything. Even the best Christmas gift that I could ever think of for Mom which I won’t write here in case she reads it, but at which mention Christy said, ‘Great. Now I have to get her a llama.’

3. Save to a certain point. That point is yet to be determined, but I need a better cushion. I don’t sleep well without a cushion (or a mattress, for that matter) and I haven’t had a fluffy one since before New Zealand/Digit surgery time. After it’s built to its point, I’ll keep saving, but that money can be used for fun things without worry. Right now, if I had to buy a large item, I wouldn’t be happy. I’d like to have the savings to buy stuff without purchasing the remorse right along with it.

So, that said, I’m on the cheap wagon. I was going to go out to dinner with Lynn tomorrow night, but now I believe maybe I’ll cook. Lawdy. That’s ambitious. I was going to go down south with Bethany to cheer the 3 Day, but I had a sneaking feeling I couldn’t afford it, and now I know I can’t.

And then I deal with the feelings of why am I so poor when I make such good money? I think it comes down to the fact that I have I am paying exorbitant amounts to paying off the credit card, and if it was paid off, I wouldn’t have that in my budget. And it’s a goal that ain’t gonna happen if I keep taking this little trip here, and that little one there. Just driving adds up. I need to be frugal, just for a little while. I’m a much better spendthrift. Christy is the one who got the ability to save’that gene just took one look at me, screamed, turn around and fled. I’m the kind who rolls my pennies and instead of saving them toward a vacation, I actually take them and buy sushi. ‘Will you take rolls for rolls?’ I’ve said this.

But I’m happy with where I am, with where I live, with what I’ve done, and with what I have. I don’t need more. I want more yarn and more trips. But they can wait a little while.

My friend Brandy read my whole site (crazy girl), and she said, man, there’s a lot in there about yarn. Funny to me, since the site is actually supposed to be about inspiring me to write. Which it does. I’ve gotten to the point that I won’t do my real writing until I’ve written here. But it’s way more fun to lie in bed at night (or at day) and think about yarn rather than plot. I don’t know why that is. But it is.

All creativity, though, inspires the next lot. Crudely put, but true, in my mind.

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National Coming Out Day!

Hooray!

Come out, come out, wherever you are. This time, 2 years ago, I came out at work. Dang, that was hard. I’d kept a pretty great no-profile, and I did knock some socks all the way clear across the room. And then it was funny when I found out from one person that she had heard about it from another person that I had never even said word one to, wouldn’t even greet in the hallway because I did NOT know him, but he liked the juicy gossip. At least I was the one who came out with it. Gossip doesn’t have quite the same flavor when it’s the truth.

Different subject: How did I manage to live without buying yarn on ebay for so long? It’s sick. It’s an addiction, and I only took my first hit this morning at work. Lusting after some red vintage mohair yarn from Italy that I want so badly I’d pay a lot of money for it. That’s the problem, I could. I might. It’s a three skein lot, and right now it’s at $7.50. I’m gonna go up to $25, ‘cause I love it. Everyone needs a red vintage mohair from Italy scarf. It’s disgusting. It shouldn’t be allowed. It rocks!

Tammy and Emma arriving tonight, how fun! And on a special gay day like today. We really should go out to the White Horse or something, but Emma doesn’t drink and I don’t smoke. Tammy would be the only one having any fun. We’ll see. I have to tidy and clean the house. I love having guests, especially guests that I’m not going to have to feed. That’s too much guesswork and stress. We’ll do Mama Royal’s in the am’. Perfect.

Will write some right now. Then I can clean and knit with a clear conscience.

It’s my weekend!

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I went to the Castro Street Fair this weekend, and I was struck by how very gay it was. That sounds stupid and obvious, but where else do so many gay people get together in one place so unselfconsciously? San Diego has a large population in Hillcrest (one of the reasons I love it there so much), and I’ve heard about areas in Austin and Santa Fe, but what can compete with the Castro? And this was the Street Fair, which is probably the tamest, most mainstream event that ever takes place there. It’s basically a big arts and crafts boutique and everyone’s drooling. The only thing I bought was a tee shirt for myself from the HRC booth, so that wouldn’t be counted as either an art or a craft, but I loved the alterno-fag who knew the derivation of my ‘Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk’ tee shirt I was wearing and had long curly hair and a young pot-belly. That’s its own art. Actually, he wasn’t the only Rufus fan there’I had forgotten when I put the shirt on that he’s gay. Duh.

But it was just fun, seeing normal people having a normal good time, and being accepted, no matter whose hand they were holding. It’s dumb that this is so exciting. It shouldn’t be that way. It should be nothing out of the ordinary. I shouldn’t have to write these words. There aren’t many times that I want to change the world’I’m pretty happy with it just the way it is. But this, I would change.

Christy just came by and we had a nice chat. I love it when she drops in after her classes, I really do. It’s nice just to touch base with her. I told her about how I had a reaction to MSG last night (throat still itchy, just took some Benadryl) (aside’my computer recognizes that as a real, correctly spelled word, wonder how many other brand names are accepted? Tylenol. Yep. Advil. Yep. Aleve. Oh, my gosh. That’s scary. I didn’t even know Aleve was out back when this antiquated version of Word came out.). Oh, yes, reaction. First the right side of my jaw flared up and then my throat started itching. Marama and Brandy were worried about me, but I knew it wasn’t going to be the hospital kind of reaction (at least, I hoped it wasn’t). The worst part of it for me is that I haven’t had that kind of reaction in at least four or five years, and I kinda thought I had it licked. Or at least under control. I hoped it was gone entirely, but I wasn’t going to tempt fate. I was pissed OFF!

I ate some rice crackers from TJs that looked clean, but apparently weren’t. Just reinforces my pathetic no-asian-food stance, which makes my life that much less interesting. I definitely think I’m a take-out kind of girl, and I would love to have all those cute little boxes with wire handles in my fridge, and I’d love to stand in the kitchen of a morning, in my PJs (if I wore them, which I don’t), eating cold Chinese from the box. Ah, those dreams are denied me. Guess I’ll have to get me some new dreams, like eating ice cream from the carton at night on my couch, watching Friends. Oh, wait. I do that already. I like my life.

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I have a lust right now to make things, but I can’t seem to finish anything. I have two scarves in the works, two baby sweaters without buttons, half an afghan, and now I’m thinking about a sweater for me. I saw a great pattern in a new little knitting book that I should have bought for Christy or Beth. Or both. Maybe I’ll go back and get it. Then I could copy the pattern. No. I’m talking myself OUT of these new plans till I finish some of the old. I tell you, though, I’ve got such a yen to make these great looking little magnets’. Could be good stocking stuffers’.

I think I’m really a housewife from Minnesota trapped in the wrong body.

Started the 911 piece last night’I think it’s OK so far, but it’s gonna need some serious punching up. Right now it has no flavor at all. I guess I’m not really sure of my target, and I need to know that, have that in mind. If it’s O, then I can personalize it more. Her pieces are rather zippy.

And my real work’lawdy, I haven’t worked on that since last week. I have no motivation to write on my days off. And part of me justifies this. They are just that’my days off. I’d be happy if I could make myself write, but I don’t think it’s going to happen any time soon. I’m always either so busy, or so lazy. One extreme or the other. And I enjoy both extremes. On my afternoons before work, I’m neither’I’m right in between. I drink lots of tea and wake up slowly and wander around the house and look out the window at the people passing by and pet the cats and do the dishes and make some more tea and read the New Yorker and check my email and get my real writing done and take a bath and go to work. All over the course of hours, and it feels great. I love it. Today I’m hopefully going to throw in a Trader Joe’s run ( new one open in Alameda, whoo hoo!).

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It’s probably my most recurrent frightening theme when it comes to nightmares: a pogrom of some sort instituted by military law, and I’m trying to guide the family to a safe place. Today when I woke up, I had been struggling to get everyone through Rome. People who knew we weren’t supposed to be there’they were looking for us’would hold out their arms, and point us back. We had to return to where we had been trapped, which at one point was a scary little food court in an Italian mall, and I begged the family not to eat the McGnochhis, I could get them to real food, the good stuff, if we could only get out and not get caught. I found a rope bridge that led over the river and into the heart of Rome which looked like San Francisco during a war, and I waltzed over it, but then I wouldn’t let anyone else do it. All I could picture was them falling.

Talk about some control issues, some savior issues. I gotta let them travel on their own. Ew. I don’t like it that I had that dream. At the end of it, there was a hill full of huge mushrooms, that attacked and stuck to you as you walked by, and you had to pry them off with a sucking noise. Ugh.

See, this is why I don’t always like to remember my dreams.

Off to take a walk before I do my real writing. The days are growing shorter, and soon I’ll have to fight to get a walk in before it’s dark. I thought my area was safe enough, but I realize that you just never know. In Alameda the other day, a woman was robbed as she was walking, punched three times in the face, broke her nose and split the upper part of her face. People are so mean, and you never really know where they’ll be. So I’ll only walk during the light hours by myself. It’s disappointing.

But it’ll be a beautiful walk right now. It’s still warm out and I can tell by the light behind me that it’s the magic hour. Off to change.

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I seem to be having trouble writing about tension. Funny, I’ve always had trouble talking about it, too. Do I dislike tension so much that I even avoid it in my own writing? I have only written so far of a little internal tension, and a couple of humorous spats. I do not MEAN to write my life, I’m really trying not to do that. But from the above, that seems to be true. I feel as if I’m laying a lot of groundwork for a plan that I’m not really sure of yet. I have lots of ideas, and I’m hoping that once I get to certain places in my writing that those ideas will flesh out. Right now, I’m trying to flesh out the characters. They need strong voices, and while my writing voice I feel is strong, the characters are too similar in their dialogue. Is that because I don’t want to go over the top? Isn’t the writing that I like a bit over the guardrail?

As I write, I know I’m developing confidence and skills. And trust. I’d like to reread the Artist’s Way, by Julia Cameron. That fired me up so much. I have a ton of wonderful writing books, but I have to be careful that when reading them I don’t substitute them for the work itself. And also, I have SO many books that are waiting to be read, piled all around my living room. And the New Yorker just keeps coming and coming. An embarrassment of riches. I really am going to get rid of that darn cable after a couple more months, once Sopranos season is over. I haven’t turned it on in days, and I have a busy weekend, probably won’t watch it then either. It’s just silly. Maybe I’ll get basic cable and a cable modem. Whoo hoo! Watch me fly then. Christy was over yesterday using my computer and she sounded like a locomotive at the station, she was so frustrated with my lack of speed.

In early to work tonight, and bunned in again tomorrow, when I’m repping all night. Lots and lots of work. Will take breaks and work on the 911 piece. Found some good info on other states and how their jurisdictions work, very similar to California with a few interesting differences. The internet has everything, I swear. Including my own little page, yippee!

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Last night was my first 9-7 permanent shift. Straight 1st platoon now. Sigh. It wasn’t too bad, just BORING since the computer was down, and I couldn’t use the internet, and I didn’t have a book or any crafts to work on. I could have written, yes. I could have studied Italian, yes. But at that time of morning, my brain is too fogged to train it on anything of any substance except the job at hand. And when the job is quiet, I can’t amp it up to do anything difficult.

So tonight I’m bringing a book, and maybe some yarn for another baby sweater. I’m gonna make one for Monica’s bundle of joy, Winter. My third sweater, hopefully this will fit someone I know.

Only did a little real work yesterday. Bogged down and moved through mud. Wanted to do the math again, to get the total number of pages I can do if I write, say, three pages a day, four days a week. All those numbers. But that’s a false goal. It’s fun to stun yourself with the math every once in a great while, but then you have to get down and do the work. I’m proud that I’m already 104 pp in to my work.

At work, on my lunch breaks, I’m going to work on a new project’Mom and I had the idea to write a piece about 911, how it really works, for the layman. So many people, my college-educated parents included, have no idea who they should call if the emergency is another town, or even if something can be classified as an emergency. [thought to self’add lines being tied up] I thought that would fun and satisfying to write. And it would be even more satisfying to get it into a big market and know that people are learning. What I need to do is call a couple of states, or do a big search on-line to see if California ways mimic other states. No use writing the article and sending it to national mags if it’s a California piece.

Off to make more tea. I like my day so far.

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Have been at Mom’s house, so haven’t written here for a while. I think my computer’s slow’. Compared to theirs it’s white lightning.

Dreamed I had to make a stereo, put one together. The wires that I had to twist together would become thick hair, and cassette tape areas would be pushed into someone’s head. I remember actively avoiding thinking too hard about the person who was involved’that was perhaps the most disturbing part of the dream. Also, I organized the bottom of a closet so Digit could sleep better in the dark. This is probably saying something about my sleep patterns, but it backfired, and had the effect of making me want to clean the bottom of my closet. I woke imagining the different ways I could store my shoes.

Got an email from a friend who said she had been reading this page (funny idea to me, since these are morning pages, and I’ve never been able to reread them since they are so boring that I can’t even stand them) and while she enjoyed them, she was disturbed by how much I said the word guilt. It was interesting to me. I should some time do a word check and see just how often, and in what context, it comes up. I do feel guilty, often. When I do small, mean, or petty things, when I snap at someone, when I don’t get enough accomplished in a day (according to my long measuring stick). This is probably too much guilt, I know that. And I try to kick some of it. Some, I think, is useful.

But what’s different about my guilt, I’ve been thinking, is that it’s not the I’m-A-Bad-Person kind. Not the religious kind. I went to church with Mom this weekend, and it brought a lot back. It was the evening service, and it was held in the church meeting hall. They sang contemporary (to a degree, if one can call Amy Grant contemporary) songs that made me feel like I was back at Foursquare Church, where I spent a lot of my teen years feeling guilty for the horrible sinner that I was. And I rebelled against that feeling while in church. Perhaps a blasphemy in itself, but I rejected the idea that I am terrible. I’m pretty damn OK. I screw up, and I feel badly for it, and apologize, and move on. Like every other OK human being.

I had been wanting to go to church up here. I had heard of an inclusive gay-affirming Episcopalian church up in Montclair, and had wanted to check it out. But this gave me a little pause. What I want is the singing, the fellowship, and the time to thank a great higher power for such an amazing ride on this earth. I don’t want the old, reminiscent, left-over, hopeless ache. I like my guilt to be a healthy motivator, to save money, or to get up on time. Not to make me feel like a worm.

Huh. And I like it to make me write. I harness its power. My friend is rolling her eyes right now, but I’m gonna write now. So I don’t feel badly later.

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Quickly’I just had an interesting thought. My whole life, my family has been kind of odd. In comparison to others, that is. Now, my parents, who have always been into folk and bluegrass, are cool.

I’ve been knitting since I was about six or seven. Now, suddenly, I’m cool, too.

These are passing crazes, I know that, and we’ll all soon be outdated (we’re used to that), but it’s fun right now.

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Oh, I’m mad at myself all over again. I had a GREAT sleep, the first one in days (I tell you, I’m so much better at the day sleep now) and wonderful, interesting, inspiring dreams and I told myself again that I would remember them, that I didn’t have to write them down. That lazy. And of course, I don’t remember a thing. Damn.

Voted on our new contract yesterday at work’looks like we’ll get a nice retro check. I want to spend some of it (or my refund check) on traveling in the spring, and I have a new idea. There are a couple of spa towns in Northern Italy that I learned about yesterday while randomly on line. They’re only 40km from Venice, and they are the hot water/mud type of places. An Italian Rotorua. I think I’ll do a trip up there, try to fly into Venice, hop over to Abano for the spas for a weekend, maybe down to Rome for a few days, and back up into Venice for the remainder. That felt so good to type I can hardly bear it. How can I miss a place I’m not from, where I hardly speak the language? It’s like an ache.

But I’m getting better at the language. I really like this class I’m taking. It’s hard and I get easily embarrassed (I blushed beet red the other night when the other students laughed at me’it was because I had asked a funny question, not because I got it wrong, but it felt like I got it wrong), but I’m trying. I have no problem with learning the words and understanding the conjugations and parts of speech. It’s actually speaking it, with the teacher listening to my errors that’s so difficult for me. But it’s such good practice.

Just had a random thought’must up my deferred comp again when we get this raise. No slacking.

And no slacking on the writing, either. I did some last night on my break, but I didn’t the other day, when I said I would. And I’m going away for the weekend, to mom’s, so I know I won’t write this weekend, either. Will get some good work done today and tomorrow.

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Whoo hoo, it’s late. No matter what I do, the weekends lately have been killing me sleepwise. Hard to go to sleep, difficult to wake up. My best intentions turn into self-enforced guilt trips. And I lie there, thinking of the dumbest things: what kind of yarn I should buy, how to iron clothes, what I should start making sometimes for dinner. I become a creative home-maker and I want to get up and start. It’s ridiculous. I had to get up in the middle of the night and take a bath the other day, just to try and jump start the sleep process. It worked, but I don’t know if it was the bath or the fact that it was LATE and by then finally exhausted. Dunno.

And that damn TV ain’t helping. Last night I had some fun with it’watched Angel Eyes (movie) which has that hunky pretty boy (and pretty girl!) in it, and then John Leguizamo’s one man show, Sexaholix, which I know Bethany had wanted to see in the City, and which was great. But I stayed up till 2am because of it. Lordy. How do people do it? And I tell you, I’m having major guilt over the money I’m spending on it. It feels like a gym membership. I must watch x number of movies in order to make it worth it. I must learn this much this week to make it worth it. I tell you, it’s hard to make it worth it. Watched a show on spontaneous human combustion. Why do I do things like that? Let’s take one of my greatest (idiotic) fears and spend an hour feeding images into my brain. Smart. Cable is pretty cool, though.

The self-flagellation ends now. I spent yesterday with Nichole, and we went to Calistoga for massages and salt-scrubs. It was wonderful, and we needed it. I wasn’t really sure if I was liking my masseuse or not until she asked me how I was doing, and I was only able to mumble nonsense. Yep, she was good. Clinical, but hey, it does the job. I want to go again with the sisters. The smell of the place brought back (slightly) Rotorua in the spas, one of the happiest days I’ve ever had. Oy. I have to find the negative for that picture, the one of all three of us in our robes and blow it up for my bathroom. Those robes are red’I’ll need a great frame. Oh, how wonderful that afternoon was.

And yesterday was sweet. It was fun driving with Cholie, and I don’t think I’d ever really been to Napa. It’s quite a large area, all set up on apparently one road. Even on a Monday midday the traffic was awful, and I shudder to think what it would have been on a summer weekend. And with drinkers, too.

See, now I’m obsessed with the thought of blowing that picture up. I suppose that means I have to make those copies I’ve been promising to make for five months. Actually, that’s not too bad.

And I don’t want to write today. But I will. At least a little bit. It’s hard when I’ve had a weekend and have taken a day off or two. But that’s allowed, and I’m just going to write around the little kicking fit I want to have. Remember Anne Lamott, one inch frame. I’ve been working with a novel-frame, and that’s no fun. One inch. Shitty first draft and all. Need to re-read Bird by Bird.

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I have this problem with dreams. I have a book right there, open, with a pen stuck in the spiral. I’m ready to write the dreams down. I want to write them down. Then when I have them, and I’m thinking of them just afterwards, I’m too tired to reach out and write. And I know if I move, they’ll slip out of my head, so I lie there, trying to cement them into my memory. That never works. The only things I can remember today are me taking a picture of a girl up on a balcony, and then that girl using a feather on a string to fish for Matt Damon, who was on my balcony. Matt Damon. I’m not even fond of him as an actor. Where do dreams come from? I love to remember them’the stranger the better. I like it when a dream makes you doubt yourself. How could I dream something so ugly? So frightening? So perverted? There. That’s something inside that can be tapped, mined, saved for later. Except I can’t wake up to godamn write it down, so I’m losing a little grist.

Working a lot this week, 10 tonight on my day off, but then I have Tuesday night off. Man, I gotta learn some Italian before I go back to class. Must work on that tonight. Then, on Monday, I’m going with Nichole to Napa for a massage, mud bath and salt scrub. Whoo hoo! I don’t even think I’ve ever been to Napa, and I don’t know how that’s possible. Maybe I’ve driven through it and don’t remember, but I’m happy that we’re going. Something big to look forward to. It’s my b-day present from Christy and Bethany. Made me feel badly, though, to receive the check for it from Christy on her birthday. Made me want to hand it back and say, ‘No, it’s your birthday, have it back. You go.’ I didn’t get to see Christy at all on her day, except for in the lobby of the PD, our voices echoing into the cavernous space, me sitting there knowing our every word was probably carrying into the sergeant’s space and that we were on camera, too. Ugh. Should have gone outside. I find my job strange sometimes.

Off to write a little something, anything, before work. I didn’t yesterday because I woke up so late, and I have an itch to catch up.

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HAPPY BIRTHDAY, CHRISTY!

When I was driving the other day with Bethany, we talked about how lucky we are. How truly lucky and blessed we are to have each other. My sisters are my best friends, and I always want to be around them. Today is Christy’s birthday, and I’m sad that I have to go to work, and early, at that. If I didn’t have to go in early, I would at least get to see her for a minute. She and Beth are coming over here, though, so they can watch a movie. Man, that’s even worse, that they’ll be hanging out here and I won’t be. Dang.

There. Just spent a lot of time making her a birthday sign that I’m leaving in the living room. Man, I wish I were going to be here.

My sisters are the best sisters anyone could ever ever ever ever have. And I got ‘em. Whoo hoo!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY CHRISTY!

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So the cable guy came yesterday. And my co-workers were right, if he was anything to judge by, cable people really are strange. A very thin man who reeked of cigarettes (how much did I want to raid his vehicle?), he was there for at least an hour and a half. He moved steadily, but slowly. I hadn’t thought about it, but I had left my work clothes hanging in my bedroom. When he was just ready to leave, he asked who worked there. I should just say ‘my husband’ in those situations, but I can’t do it. I can’t even lie to strangers. I feel guilty. I should really get over that. I told him I did, and he wanted codes, including the officer down code. OK, so that’s not so weird. I suppose it was just his manner.

And I just hate, period, letting people I don’t know into my personal space. He was there so long that I had to work around him, packing up for my week, washing dishes. Much too personal, in a place as small as mine.

But it sure was fun this morning, coming home and flipping all the channels. Like my coworkers said, there wasn’t anything on. It was the variety of nothing that was so interesting to me. I still have some major guilt about spending this much money on something so frivolous. Huh. I don’t know how to get over that. I can call it the raise that I just got. Just about fills up that take-home difference. That makes me feel a little better. I still won’t watch it during my work week. I won’t have time. Not with the writing I’m doing now. And I swear to my MontBlanc pens that if I start procrastinating and not writing, and end up watching the brain drain instead, I will cut if off. It’s a weekend, relaxation pleasure, and nothing more. I have to write first. TV as reward. I’m back in high school, and geometry has to be done before The Greatest American Hero.

Changed my bed yesterday and slept for the first time with my head in the other direction. I want to be farther away from the paper thin wall I share with the next apartment, where people (two girls, praise god) are moving in this weekend. That really screws with your sleep, just moving that much. I was confused all night as to where I was. Bad sleep means good sleep tomorrow, so I’m looking forward to that.

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Computers are an amazing thing. I mean, really. I was just shopping (but not buying) for yarn’this gorgeous, heartbreakingly soft yarn that I got in Half-Moon Bay. I have a little left over after the baby sweater (and oh, it’s so cute), and last night I was jealously hoarding it, stroking it. It’s an addiction, I have to get more. With my next paycheck, perhaps, since this one is all gone.

But I find it WILD that I can sit here, drinking my tea, and looking at various prices for this imported (from Italy) yarn. [Aside, find out where it’s made, go there and buy lots and lots and lots] All this information, at my fingertips. It makes me wonder if anyone will try someday to take it away’monitor it, make laws regarding it. It feels like the old west to me (like I would know)’few rules, and the biggest guns and fastest downloads win. You can’t control the pop-up and you will get redirected to porn in about a minute, but if you can dodge all that, you can learn/get/be anything.

My friends at work think I’m computer savvy. I’m not. I just really like computers’I like to sit in front of them and work things out and make charts and keep track of bills. And if you sit in front of one for long enough, you get OK at making it work. My good baby has been working for five years. Every day, I worry about it crashing, and I pray to the little gods inside the machine, offering them sips of tea and bytes of toast (aargh). So far I’m keeping them happy. I don’t trust them very much though.

I remember, eight years ago, when I first met Nick and he was telling me about this Net idea, I couldn’t quite follow him. No one has heard about it yet, unless you were an engineer, and even then it had been around in some form for years. We emailed on telnet, and to illustrate the idea of the web, he showed me yahoo’s search page. I thought it was hysterical. From the name to the idea that there were thousands of Nicks out there, all glued to the cyber highway, it was funny and cute and interesting and something I never thought I would practically live by.

I’m one of those people who would do REALLY well with a high speed connection at home. I would use it all the time. I would probably leave the computer on all the time, just in case I had to check something. As it is, I’m online enough, at least an hour a day. But that’s usually spent in waiting for something to download. I’m happy, though. It keeps me quiet, and drinking my tea, and can I call it a form of meditation? Not really. Even I can’t stretch that far. The knitting, however, yes. Oh, that sweater is so cute. I just need to add buttons and it will be good to give. I started another one last night, too, and that’s almost half-way done. I can tell I’m going to be making plenty of these for a while. Not even enough babies to go around. But someday, there will be, and I can be stockpiling for then. I want to get Kira’s pattern so I can make little booties to match. Ooh, la.

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Bethany and I went for a drive. A real Sunday drive. It’s nice that I get real Sundays off now. We almost didn’t go’she wasn’t feeling well, and I wasn’t feeling charitable of her unwellness, didn’t want to expose myself to germs. Then I felt stupid. It’s a cold. So I get it. That’s annoying. That’s all. So I called her back and we went.

She had just read a book called American Pie, a travelogue in which the author travels the country, searching for the best piece of pie. She’d had a good one in Pescadero, a piece of ollalieberry pie. So we headed that way.

I realized I had never been farther south on 1 than Fort Funston, and it was an amazing drive. We had the top down, the sun was out (!), and we listened to the Dixie Chicks new bluegrass album that a friend made for me. Stopping in Half-Moon Bay turned out to be an expensive mistake, though’Beth took me to a yarn shop called Fengari. It was truly amazing. You can hardly walk in the shop’it’s a good sized store, but even turning sideways is difficult. So many people, so much yarn. And gorgeous, heartbreaking yarn. Fifteen dollars for a teeny tiny skein of yarn that might make a baby’s booty, but will haunt your dreams in the process, so soft and miraculous that you realize it’s good, very good, to be alive in this day and age. I accidentally bought $60 of stuff, mostly for baby sweaters. Whoops. Damn. (Made half of one last night at the stitch and bitch.)

We continued our drive down the coast. This is all just minutes, really, away from Beth’s apartment in the City. How is that possible? We spent the afternoon ‘out’ in the country, and we were just miles from serious populations. We drove farther, to Pescadero. There’s nothing there, only a few stores, but we weren’t really sure where the pie was. Beth saw two women carrying pieces though, and we hit the brakes so she could ascertain that yes, they bought them at Duartes (pronounces Dew-ARTS), just there.

We had lunch in a little dark wooden room, glass doors looking into the bar next door. Good standard fare, I had a grilled cheese and bacon. But that pie undid us. Not only did it have that perfect ollalieberry taste, but it was a true, substantial piece of pie. Most pieces of pie and cake nowadays that you buy, say, at Nations, are gone in two inhalations, and you never notice. This piece took some eating, and then some more, and then we undid the top buttons of our pants and ate some more. And it tasted wonderful the whole way. Oh, the stuff dreams are made of.

Then on, and up into the hills, on 82 and then 35, the back roads in the mountains. An amazing day and drive, and all because Bethany wanted a piece of pie.

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Write your congressman–Save the Bushman!

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I’m trying a new method, typing this in Word and them importing it. I can go faster and I don’t have the great fear of losing it all with one random key stroke.

Had a fabulous time at Slaid Cleaves last night for Christy’s birthday. One of those times where I was just so flipping happy, to be out with my best friends, my sisters, to be hearing such good, fun music, surrounded by people who love the same kind of tunes, holding a cup of good black coffee (which later made me so nervous I was a wreck at work). Just happy. I spend too much money on concerts, but they really are worth it. I was sitting in the dark at the Freight and Salvage, candles flickering on the tables, thinking about how much fun I had had seeing Slaid at Strawberry, which brought back the whole Strawberry experience. God willing and the work creek don’t rise, I’m going again next year (not Spring, though, too cold). I won’t be alone, I’m sure, if only for how much I raved when I got back. And I did achingly miss my family. But it was pretty damn cool to be alone.

I hope the sisters had as much fun as I did at the concert last night. I haven’t talked to them yet (I had to leave before the concert was done, and then I hit traffic, so I was late to work, ugh).

Today is Friday, yee haw! Work tonight, a normal shift, then a nap, and then off to play for the weekend.

I had a dream night before last. Something about a soup party that I went to, where the hostess was having an open house night, and everyone who came got a small plastic container of soup to take away with them. The strange part was that feeling in the dream that this was the answer. I woke up thinking, that’s it. I’ll have a soup party, and that will make everyone and anyone happy. Can’t quite shake that feeling although it’s ridiculous. After all, what kind of soup would fix the world’s ills? I’m thinking a cream of asparagus, myself.

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Last night at work, Paul showed us something amazing. He and his wife had been helping his mother clean out her house. His wife found a roll of film and asked what it was from. Mom didn’t know, so Karen took it to be developed. Probably a few Christmases ago. Or even 20 Christmases ago. But when the pictures came back, they were from his grandmother’s wedding in Fairfax, in 1938. Clear as day. And the best part is that his grandmother is still alive, and she’ll be able to tell them who all those people were, what they were doing. There will be a lot of crying.

I’ve always loved prowling in antique shops, flipping through the old black and whites of people and families I don’t know. I want to buy them, but what would I do with them? I have too many photos cluttering my house as it is. So I walk away. But Paul’s roll is a moment in time that can be defined and explained. There will be stories about the people in them. A family treasure. I shamelessly appropriated two of them and scanned them in: they’re here.

It’s the kind of find everyone wants, and I’m so happy for them. I want to hear the stories attached to the photos, so I’ll be bugging Paul.

Going out tonight to hear Slaid Cleaves with C, B, Y, and the boys attached. It will be great. The girls don’t even know what they’re in for. At least, I hope they don’t. I’m scared I’ve hyped him up too much, and they’ll be disappointed. Nah, won’t happen.

Funny story: when I came home last night, I saw something strange in my door. I have a normal door and an iron screen door. I had left the inner door partially open, so the house could get some

air and cool off while I was gone. Digit and Adah like to play with each other from opposite sides of the door, pawing at each other. Digit must have been between the doors, and Adah must have leaped at the door like she does and closed it, because when I came home, I could see a tail sticking out under the iron door part, and Digit was howling. He had been wedged in between the two doors all night, in the little 4 inch space that’s there. I was so worried at first, but he wasn’t hurt, he just REALLY had to pee–he raced for the box. Once I knew he was fine, it was hysterical. Silly kitties.

Got some good planning done at work last night. At least I know where I can go, to a small extent. Near future work. More than I had.

I wish this connection was faster. I was messing with my pages last night at work, and it was instantaneous. Frustrating here. Or maybe I just shouldn’t play at work. Then I wouldn’t be used to it. And maybe I should format this in Word first, because the characters move so far behind my typing that I get confused and add too many extra letters. Hummm. Nuff.

091102

I just looked at the front Yahoo page, and it’s gray-scale today, commemorating a year since September 11th. This time last year, Mom was in surgery, and I was shopping, buying most of the town for her. I was the only person shopping in most of the stores, and in the Cal Poly clothing store the radio wasn’t playing music, it was giving conjectures of war. I was buying a sweatshirt. People looked at me like I was a traitor. I had planned on giving blood while Mom was in the hospital, but there were too many people in line, in the parking lot, waiting on the street.

I don’t remember statistics well, I don’t remember anything well, but I’ve read how many more people die every day, from starvation alone. They’re not Americans, though. September 11 was a tragic, horrible thing. I hope nothing like it ever occurs again. But worse is happening every day. Not to us, though, so it’s OK.

September 11th made me feel patriotic for a few days. I loved the flag. Until someone enforced my patriotism by slapping a flag bupersticker (United We Stand) on my bumper, crooked. Then I was just another casualty in the media war for my attention. And that damn sticker did not want to come off–a year later, I’m still trying to get the last little bits.

What I find interesting is how much more emotion the rest of the world gives to our tragedy. I read this morning that New Zealand started a 24 round of singing Mozart’s Requiem, all over the country and at the polar base. Other countries will have moments of silence. We have a gray-scale Yahoo and probably some grieving family interviews on television which I refuse to turn on today. (Cable doesn’t come till Monday.) I am so moved by other countries’ condolences–it was the pictures of the flowers in front of our embassies, traffic stopped for a moment of silence last year that truly got me. And I am convinced that if something like this occurred elsewhere, it would get a headline, and a bio of Anna Nicole Smith’s reality TV show would be right under that. And the next day, she’d be on top.

It’s sad that I’m disappointed by something we haven’t done. And I can’t even really name what that is, or what it should be. Maybe it should be realizing, really knowing, the number who die every day of starvation. And counting them as important as those who died a year ago in New York.

091002

This is my new blog. A little more difficult to use, but much more satisfying. I was up till at least one am last night, working this out. It doesn’t require HTML knowledge, thank god. I just couldn’t do that without studying, and I didn’t want to study. I can put whatever pics I want on this site–I can add whole photo pages, I can archive my work when I’m done (not really sure how I’m going to do that, but I’ll figure out a way, copy and paste most likely), and I can change it whenever I want. And I love my webpage name. I got to choose that myself. Aren’t I a big old dork?

I like the cheer photo above. A girl at Strawberry Festival stood in front of me and was immortalized. I should find a better lil pic of me (and Christy won’t be too happy, I think) but it was the only one I had on disk. I’ll have to take some to work to scan tonight. Fun Fun Fun! I’m so excited.

The stitch and bitch was good–all hard C/K sounds except for Bethany and me–Katie, Carol, Kira, Kevin, someone, was it Kathy? Oh, and Nate came later, so we actually had two boys knitting. I started a really hard new square for the afghan–not hard, exactly, but takes all concentration all the time. I thought it wouldn’t be like that–I was looking for something brainless. So I’m going to have to force my way through it–it definitely won’t be a work piece.

I was just thinking about the Sopranos. Which I’m going to be able to watch, on my new TV that will receive cable a week from today. I have some guilt over the money. Sigh. Well, I’ll do it for six months and see how the money crunch is. I can always cancel. It’s just going to be so great to have HBO. Sex and the City, all of it. I can justify that kind of TV watching with my knitting. I’m doing something productive. Buying it? I am, almost.

Just as long as it doesn’t take away from my writing. I swear, it’s easier to do on my work days than on weekend days. Yesterday was my only true full day off, and I woke up, drove to San Anselmo to see Monica and meet little Winter (Laly came too, the whole gang of three back together, with an addition). It’s never been clearer to me that it’ll never be the same again, but that’s a good thing. I had gone so far away from that old life anyway; perhaps I can start a new friendship, on different ground with this mother. She was perfect with him, and he with her. I took some pictures while he bathed, and there’s nothing prettier than that–a squeaky clean baby and a mother with red cheeks from holding him up.

We also had ginger ice cream from Fairfax. Worth a drive back right there.

Then I saw J. It was good, went to see Possession, an interesting, aiming-for-cerebral (and missing only slightly) movie. Romantic but overstated. I find Jennifer Ehle and Jeremy Northham both too beautiful to bear–Gwennyth is very pretty but it’s more the way she carries her clothes than anything else. It was good to hang out–to be having fun together. I had missed that, very much. She makes me laugh more than anyone else.

Today–busy. Italian lessons tonight before work, and I have to admit, I’m a little freaked out. Nervous. I was always nervous in Spanish classes, from high school to college. Hated it. Loved the tests, hated speaking in front of the class. Mom said I didn’t walk till I was 15 months old and certain I could do it perfectly. I’ve been the same since. I don’t like to struggle with anything–that’s why I’m nervous. At least it’s the first night, and I’ll be better than some, worse than others, and that’s the way life is.

I love my new site! I want to work on it all day but I have to do laundry instead.

090802

When I was at Strawberry, I drank every night. I drank between 3-5 drinks, and slept great and woke up feeling fine. This morning when I got off at 3, I had two beers with work folk, and I slept like crap, and feel like crap now. I don’t understand this phenomenon. Maybe it just means I should keep work separate from my real life, something I’ve always believed anyway. People were irritating me last night–there’s one new officer that it bugs me even to look at. Can’t stand to be around that person. It’s one of those “I’m better than you” and I know it isn’t true. Maybe that’s why the beers didn’t sit well.

Got my new awesome TV which has the best sound ever. Have to get the coaxial cable to hook the VCR to the TV, and then I’ll be cruising. Won’t get cable, but I can tape shows now and really enjoy watching them. I can even watch subtitled movies, and be able to read the words without squinting. It was such a generous gesture from David.
Man, I had fun at work though last night. It was slamming busy. I had the radio from 7-11, and we went through incidents 160-240 in that time frame. I love getting the traffic. My new shift next watch will be slow, I’m sure, from 9-7, I won’t get the radio till after midnight.
I feel boring and tired and not hung over, but hung up. Fuzzy. I have to rearrange my whole house because of this TV, and I’m not sure how to approach it. One step at a time, I guess. I need to put things on top of the TV. It’s such A Television. I don’t want it to dominate my living room, or my life.
But football starts today! Nice timing.
Stitch and Bitch tonight, hopefully Christy is going too, although I haven’t heard from her yet. Don’t know whether I’m going to work on the simple scarf, or do more work on the afghan.

posted by Rachael Herron at 14:40
Saturday, September 07, 2002

Got off at 3 this morning, because I could, and because I had to come back at 3pm. I like to have 12 hrs between shifts, if at all possible. Then I can still do a little something, like this, before I have to go. If I have 10 hrs off, that’s time only for sleep and a shower. Today I’ll have time for a bath.

I’ve gotten so that I don’t like to take showers. Just baths. I used to feel like you couldn’t get really clean, washing your hair and body in the same water, but it’s really a lot of water. So now, I just lie there, every day, for at least 20 minutes if I can fit it in, reading my New Yorker, at least one candle burning no matter what time of day, and I relax. I realize I’m lucky. I don’t have much stress. The only stress I have in my life is external, at work, and I get paid well for that and then I can leave it behind. I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. I know stressors will arise, that my life will get all screwed, but right now it’s smooth sailing, and I’m really enjoying it.
My friend is bringing me a TV today. Whoo hoo! I won’t get cable. I won’t get cable. I won’t get cable. I have a TV–it’s just very very little. I’m going to give that one to Christy, who is TVless at the moment.
Didn’t write at work last night. Did a very little bit after this post, so at least it was something, but not enough. I will write tonight. I will write tonight. I will write tonight.
I am proud I’m still not smoking.

posted by Rachael Herron at 12:25
Friday, September 06, 2002

Working too damn much right now, and I want to be writing more. Never thought I would say that, that I would get around to doing real work. But right now, it’s 1448, and I have to be in the tub by 1530 in order to be to work early and in time. And I haven’t eaten or fed the whinybabies yet. But I got the most wonderful email from the best gal in the south, dee ann, and I had to respond asap silvouplais, cause she’s so damn cool and I love her. So not much time to work today. But tonight, on my break (which I swear I’ll take, not like yesterday when I allowed guilt over taking the police radio preempt said break), I will write. The strawberry piece. Yeah.

I decided this morning while I was driving that I won’t allow myself to worry over losing steam on the big piece while I’m working on smaller things. I think for so much of my life I’ve not written at all, even though it’s always in my head, that now, when I am writing, it doesn’t really matter what it is I’m working on. The juices are kept moving (and that brought to mind an ugly image–I don’t want to think about brain juices). As long as I’m writing, I won’t worry. It’s when I stop. But when I stop, I have so many excuses that I don’t really worry.
What a merry-go-round I am. Eey-and.
Working on the funniest purple scarf right now at work. It’s brainless and occupies me while people are talking. There must be something wrong with me that I always need to be doing something–I can’t just sit back and stare blankly at the screen at work. I’m on the internet, or reading, or knitting. And all the time doing my job. As I get older will I lose the ability to multitask? Already I can’t remember things for more than a minute at a time.
Heard last night that a co-worker writer was offered $800,000 for the rights to a book, and he declined because he would lose creative control. I cannot believe this story. But I would like to. Maybe I’ll have to go to the source.
Must eat now. And maybe I can fit in a little real writing. No whining.

posted by Rachael Herron at 14:54
Thursday, September 05, 2002

OK, I’m still frustrated. Figured out how to get into the ftp part and upload images into my files. But how the hell do I get them on my page? Aargh. I’ll give them till next week to answer me and figure it out, and then I’ll cancel that $5 a month. No use payin if I ain’t playin.

Speaking of which, my Strawberry pictures should be in by now. I’ll have to pick them up when I get off work.
Christy made a blog: christybean.blogspot.com. It’s very cool.
I’m not waking up very quickly. Yawn.
I tried to do some work at work (!) last night, but I was interrupted by a friend. A good interruption, but my hands were itching. What I want to do is work on the Strawberry piece. But then I have guilt about abandoning the real work. Will I lose momentum there? I need to be sure I’m not just avoiding it, finding something else to do. It’s hard this week, too, with my work schedule. I get about an hour and a half off every day to fill as I please. The rest is bathing, driving and working. I’ve already spent almost half of that, just futsing and making tea to wake up with.
My weekend (such as it is) is filling up, also. Not much writing time there. Boy, am I full of excuses, or what? I find that I write more easily on my work days, something I never thought would happen. But I’m more regimented. And I need that to keep myself going. Enough rambling about this. The problem with writing this blog during my work week is that nothing has really happened. If I wrote more on the weekends, it would be interesting. But right now, I’m very dull, very sleepy, and very lazy. I just want to eat peanut butter and watch Oprah. Which I’m not gonna do. I was thinking about finally subscribing to cable, since my friend David is going to give me his old awesome TV, but it’ll be enough just to tape things. I’ll try to stick to that. But, oh, Sopranos. I want in on that new season. I’ll think about it. No! I want to save money and travel. Weigh the options.
Weighing.

posted by Rachael Herron at 14:22
Wednesday, September 04, 2002

I am frustrated. I’ve spent this money on upgrading my site and I can’t seem to figure out how to do it. I really want to add pics, it’s the only reason I upgraded. I thought maybe it would just take a little time, but the upload image button is not appearing. Aargh.

And this week is screwed–I’m working four 12s and one 10. Every time I work a 12, I have two hours less to do all the things I like to do in my day–all the things I’ve worked out in my schedule. I wasn’t even planning on writing in here today–didn’t think I’d have time, but I do. Of course. There’s always time to write, it’s just whether I avail myself of it. I’m grumpy. And grumpier thinking that at work it will only get worse as it goes along.
Actually, to cheer myself up, I can tell myself that I would have time for all the writing I want to do today if I wasn’t planning on cooking a rack of lamb. Don’t know why, but I have the craving. A little bit of New Zealand. While I was at Strawberry, I walked past a camp, and heard just the glimmer of a New Zealand accent. I stopped walking and turned around, went up to the camp and said what I thought I had heard. The man from NZ was amazed–no one ever IDs the accent, especially from a distance. I was wearing my tiki (of course, I only took it off to swim and to sleep) so he believed my story, and we were a little bit of family.
Speaking of family, I just got off the phone with Mom, and she told me about being at the bookstore yesterday while a woman was trying to sell books to Nan. Nan told her she couldn’t buy the genealogical books, and Mom and the woman got to talking. Turned out the woman was tracing her ancestors back, all the way to the 17th century so far. For some reason that Mom can’t explain but isn’t surprised by, she asked where the woman was from. England. What part? Lancashire? What’s your last name? Ashcroft. Mom started jumping around and squealed “I’m an Ashcroft.” The woman burst into tears, said “We’re cousins,” and embraced her.
That’s the kind of thing you can’t put in fiction. It wouldn’t be believed.
One more thing. I was talking about Eeyores last night with Brandy and Marama. Later, M and I were talking more about them, and I was defining an Eeyore, a humdrum, oh well, that’s what always happens to me, sigh kind of person. She came up with the term for me–the opposite: Eey-and. Not or, but and. The glass is half-full.
Fucking brilliant, I thought.
I’m an Eey-and.

posted by Rachael Herron at 16:12
Tuesday, September 03, 2002

This computer stuff sometimes has me stumped. I just bought blog-spot for $5 month, which will have better features for this site, and no banners, and I’ll be able to add pics! yay! but I can’t figure out how to post to it. I’m supposed to go to an FTP site, which my computer made me download a component for, but it still won’t work–says the page I’m looking for is unavailable. I’m to the point where I hope it is–then I wouldn’t just be stupid. I’ll try to figure it out at work tonight. At least I know that computer is a little more up-to-date, although not much.

On to Strawberry news.
I had such a great time. I’m determined to finally write about it. I’ve been planning to for years, and every year I go, take some time, and lose the flavor. I should have been taking notes, but it’s just too hard to work at festivals. I’ve only been able to once, and I struggled the whole time. Actually, now that I think about it, it wasn’t working. I was just doing my morning pages, and that was difficult. It would have been a little easier without the family around, but that’s neither here nor there.
I went by myself! I am proud of myself for that. It’s not like it’s that big a deal–it’s a music festival, and I’ve been going to the same kind of thing for over a decade. Even if you don’t know a person’s name, you recognize them as they walk by, and say hello. I met LeeAnn Brooks that way. Aren’t you a Live Oak person?
But more, I met so many people. Steven Baigel, a filmmaker who turned out to be a perfect camping companion. And a great mandolin player, even if would never believe it. He taught me a little about Irish timing, and we played together, and we actually made songs. I had jams at my camp! And they weren’t because my dad was there sounding great, they were because I was sitting around strumming the guitar and singing a little. My camp. I feel so possessive and proud, like a new parent.
I had the sweetest little camp, a triangle a little raised above the road, my table, car and tent framing a space in the middle. I even had two trees to myself to hang the clothesline. I brought everything I needed, so my anal list worked. There wasn’t a time that I hit myself in the head and wished I had been smart enough to bring x. I had x. The thing that I remembered and valued the most were the binoculars. I got so much use out of them, and it made the scramble for good chairs less important.
The music was stunning. Slaid Cleaves, Blue Highway, and Kris Delmhorst were my favorites, with the obvious extra category of almost-godship that included Arlo Guthrie and Ralph Stanley. To be able to see Ralph sing O Death at the revival, the birchs behind him, the sun on his white shirt, the water reflecting the light and sound–nothing finer.
I just hopped over to Freight and Salvage and bought Christy a ticket to Slaid Cleaves at the Freight. I’m sending Beth with her, since I probably won’t be able to come, unless I get rep. I’d love to see him again.
I’m wandering on this page, taking way too much time. I have things to do, and will get no writing done this afternoon, I can tell. Need to go to the Oakland city office and get a visitor’s pass for Christy, so she can park here when she goes to school. I also have to grocery shop. Ugh. I would just like to write and play with the computer all day.
Remember to put in piece: Alpha’s frog, workshop stages, being alone….

posted by Rachael Herron at 11:08
Tuesday, August 27, 2002

I spent time at work last night, trying to figure out how to add hard links to my page–links that would always be on the front page, with, say, my email address or something. I had already managed to change the color of the address showing to the right, but it’s not a link. I don’t know how. And I hate it when I don’t know how to do something. It’s so frustrating. I’d been so proud of my little ability to keep this pre-maintained site up, and told myself that when I learned to add soft links (that’s probably not the term) that I was cool, that I kinda knew HTML. Oh, no. I don’t have a clue. I was trying to add into the template last night, and it was a foreign language. As far as I know, as far as I could tell, I have all the code already built into my template that would allow for that kind of link. I just don’t know how to add it. And I’m giving up. It isn’t that important. It was the principle of the thing.

It’s a hot day, whoo hoo! I’m happy. I want it to be warm (but not blasting) up at Strawberry. Last week was cold and overcast, and while I love the fall into winter season (my favorite time of year), I didn’t want it to be cold this weekend. I want to swim in the lake. Correction, I have no intention of swimming, only of relaxing on my pool toy, drifting wherever the slight breeze might push me, listening to the kids splashing and the adults showing off.
Festivals have so much of their own atmosphere–I was trying to describe it last night to a friend at work, and I just couldn’t. How do you talk about the culture? About the post-hippies, the young urban swank professionals, all the children of said, and the adult children of the hippies (me). How do you explain the jamming that goes on after hours? How do you talk about sitting around your own camp late at night, barely playing a song, just kind of screwing around, when a couple of people walk by and sit down with you, and you develop an instant rapport and share songbooks and chord changes? How you describe what it feels like to be on your feet in a third ovation of music that you love, that everyone around you loves, that those people up on stage love playing?
My best memory of a festival (and I have so many) was last year, at Strawberry. Arlo Guthrie sang “City of New Orleans.” I remember standing in the kitchen, years ago, and the song came on whatever radio show Mom was listening to. I said, “God, I love this song. I don’t know why I love this so much, but I really do. It’s weird.” Mom just stopped, and stared. She said, “You know, this was our song. I used to dance you to sleep to this every night.” When Arlo sang it, I was sitting next to Mom, who had just been diagnosed with colon cancer (in remission now, thank God). We held hands while he sang, and I was so happy, to be there next to her, in the dark, the moon behind us, the family around us. Couldn’t be better.
Arlo’s closing this year’s festival, too. And I know he’ll sing it, and I’ll be sad to be alone. But I’ll be happy to be there, and that’s all that counts.
Enough. I have other writing to do now.

posted by Rachael Herron at 13:39

1

082702

I spent time at work last night, trying to figure out how to add hard links to my page–links that would always be on the front page, with, say, my email address or something. I had already managed to change the color of the address showing to the right, but it’s not a link. I don’t know how. And I hate it when I don’t know how to do something. It’s so frustrating. I’d been so proud of my little ability to keep this pre-maintained site up, and told myself that when I learned to add soft links (that’s probably not the term) that I was cool, that I kinda knew HTML. Oh, no. I don’t have a clue. I was trying to add into the template last night, and it was a foreign language. As far as I know, as far as I could tell, I have all the code already built into my template that would allow for that kind of link. I just don’t know how to add it. And I’m giving up. It isn’t that important. It was the principle of the thing.

It’s a hot day, whoo hoo! I’m happy. I want it to be warm (but not blasting) up at Strawberry. Last week was cold and overcast, and while I love the fall into winter season (my favorite time of year), I didn’t want it to be cold this weekend. I want to swim in the lake. Correction, I have no intention of swimming, only of relaxing on my pool toy, drifting wherever the slight breeze might push me, listening to the kids splashing and the adults showing off.
Festivals have so much of their own atmosphere–I was trying to describe it last night to a friend at work, and I just couldn’t. How do you talk about the culture? About the post-hippies, the young urban swank professionals, all the children of said, and the adult children of the hippies (me). How do you explain the jamming that goes on after hours? How do you talk about sitting around your own camp late at night, barely playing a song, just kind of screwing around, when a couple of people walk by and sit down with you, and you develop an instant rapport and share songbooks and chord changes? How you describe what it feels like to be on your feet in a third ovation of music that you love, that everyone around you loves, that those people up on stage love playing?
My best memory of a festival (and I have so many) was last year, at Strawberry. Arlo Guthrie sang “City of New Orleans.” I remember standing in the kitchen, years ago, and the song came on whatever radio show Mom was listening to. I said, “God, I love this song. I don’t know why I love this so much, but I really do. It’s weird.” Mom just stopped, and stared. She said, “You know, this was our song. I used to dance you to sleep to this every night.” When Arlo sang it, I was sitting next to Mom, who had just been diagnosed with colon cancer (in remission now, thank God). We held hands while he sang, and I was so happy, to be there next to her, in the dark, the moon behind us, the family around us. Couldn’t be better.
Arlo’s closing this year’s festival, too. And I know he’ll sing it, and I’ll be sad to be alone. But I’ll be happy to be there, and that’s all that counts.
Enough. I have other writing to do now.

posted by Rachael Herron at 13:39
Sunday, August 25, 2002

You’re welcome. To all the people who ask me to do something and then never say thank you–who don’t even think that it might be appropriate. You’re welcome. Especially to people who ask, and then get snippy when you don’t respond to the email fast enough because you only check it once a day when you’re not at work. You’re welcome.

With a smile. You’re welcome. Not a problem. Because, really, it isn’t, and I don’t mind helping (usually). But a tiny bit of appreciation goes a long way. Goes a long long way.
Didn’t go to the movie yesterday–Robert called instead and I met him at the airport where he was picking up some friends. It was great to see him. I’ve known him for so long (12 years) and he never changes. Same can’t-love-anyone-too-long, happy go lucky, cute tall boy. He’s still a boy at 32, and I hope he continues to be. Not everyone has to grow up. We had a couple of hours to kill after we got one of his friends while we were waiting for the next one to land, so we went to Sam’s Hof Brau off Hegenberger. Good food, but wild place, old and dark, and stuffed with Raiders’ memorabilia. Stuffed with Raiders’ fans, too. It was the first preseason battle of the bay, and we were the only people in there without R gear on. At least we weren’t wearing red. Had a huge french dip and listened to his friend talk–or tried. He’s a rich surfer-looking boy who’s made his money with a construction company that he founded–he builds extreme sports equipment and travels the world building ramps and such. And he mumbles. I thought at first he was Irish. I could hardly understand a word, but Robert seemed to catch it all. And when I did clue in and start to understand him, he was only talking about how many girls he’d picked up and how many times he’d got laid in the 34 days he’d been away from his wife. Charming fella. But amusing.
Then I spent the evening watching a great little film called All Over the Guy, a gay comedy that I picked up for five bucks at my video store and didn’t hold much hope for, but really really enjoyed. Sweet and funny, and sometime close to real life. And I made choc chip cookies, finally (been fiending for them) and then ended up cleaning out the bedroom closet (another thing I’ve been fiending for). Most of my house is cleaned out now, thank god. I’m enjoying the knowledge that great pockets of what-the-hell aren’t lurking, waiting to fall out when I open doors. I love that. I’m outta space though, all those cupboards are full.
Going to finish my car-camping packing list. There’s always another list to work on. You’re welcome.

posted by Rachael Herron at 13:38
Saturday, August 24, 2002

Swimming This is the movie I think I want to see tonight. And I’m trying out this “while in the website” post function. How does it look?

posted by Rachael Herron at 14:55

Trying to wake up slowly on this, my one day off. I have to work six tomorrow, and ten the next. I have a LOT to do, but I don’t know where to start. Maybe with laundry. Hang on, I’ll be right back.

There, I’ve started that. The only important part of that laundry is the uniform, since I have to wear it again tomorrow. Could I whine anymore? It’s not that much of a hardship, and then I’ll be going to Strawberry. I have a list, though, a car camping list, and I’m beginning to obsess. I need this, I need that. I don’t need any of that. I can’t afford any of that. Of course, I want the thermarest chair, so I can sit easy and sleep easy. That’d be over a hundred, I think. That’s ridiculous. I have a foam roll-up and Christy’s lending me some chairs. If her chairs don’t work out, then I’ll buy a ten dollar one at Walmart. I think I’ll go shopping there tomorrow (on a Sunday, god help me) to fill in the gaps. Then I’ll buy snacks on Wednesday, go to work and leave at 3 on Thursday morning. I’ll be one of the first in line. I think we left at 5 last year, and that was WAY too late–we got no space whatsoever. I wish I had a hammock. I have a hammock chair, but I don’t want to drill a screw into a poor little tree.
I told myself I wouldn’t work today, but maybe I’ll just do some line editing that I’ve been working on this week at the J.O.B. OK, I’m happy with myself, that I want to work, that this schedule is working for me, even on a day that I don’t have to stick to it.
Mom sent me an email about air cats. The ones that are on a strict diet, exercise regularly, and still are chubby. They get fat eating air. That’s Adah. Her best exercise is plaguing me for food for three hours a day. It must be exhausting to be that hungry. I have no sympathy. Well, a little, since I’m going to make myself a little something to eat right now.
Robert Wickens is in town, and I may see him this afternoon, or I may go to see a movie (Swimming), or I may even go down to the White Horse tonight. I just wrote that, and I knew it wasn’t true. There’s no way you’d get me all gussied for that by myself. Maybe in a few months. Not now. I’d love it if David called for a drink tonight after work–I’ve got a craving to go to the Alley. No bar is as fun without a cigarette, though, and that’s hard. But only lame hard. I can handle it.
Off to eat Rockridge Crunch bread with Kira’s homemade strawberry jam.

posted by Rachael Herron at 14:47
Friday, August 23, 2002

Another good sleep and it’s almost the weekend. One more night. Except that I work four hours on Sunday night and 10 on Monday, so I only have Saturday night off. But that will be made up for by Strawberry Festival next weekend. I can’t really believe I’m going to go by myself. I’ve met one person on line that I’m going to hook up with, and otherwise I’ll just meet people. I’ve always seen all the people who go by themselves, and they’ve always sat around our camp, and I’ll do the same thing. I wonder if Ruth is going? I guess Dad had a ticket reserved and was going to go, but then decided against it. I feel a little badly about that, since I told him I wasn’t going, but I really thought I wasn’t. I just made up my mind for good this week, when I got Nichole to work for the hours that I needed covered (bless her heart). I’m really excited.

It’s weird I won’t be smoking. I love smoking at festivals, even though everyone else hates you. It’s quite a green environment, and you are polluting everyone else. There’s nothing a beer and a cigarette back at camp to make you feel relaxed. But I’ll just have the beer and some books, and that’ll be just as good. I need to buy a camp chair, since mine is stupidly at Mom’s house, and I’d like to get some kind of cot so I don’t have to sleep right on the ground. It’s all about sleep, as it should be. And I’m not cooking. I’m camping in the most elemental form, in that I’ll have a tent and a sleeping bag. Otherwise, I’m bringing enough money to buy my tea in the morning and buy all my meals. Now that I’ve written that, I feel guilty. I should call Bethany. I think she has a camp stove. I should at the very least make my own tea. God knows I drink enough of it that it.
Had strange dreams all night (which begs the question, are there normal dreams? I’ve never had any that weren’t a little strange). At work, Kelly has been having major problems with her ex, and work tracked him down yesterday and arrested him, and he was to go to court this morning, and then we were worried about what he might do, either if they released him on his own recognizance, or if he made the 30,000 bail. That’s not the dream part. I think I internalized my worry about her so much that I had stalking dreams all night. Couldn’t get away. There was always someone outside, or worse, inside, that was armed and coming to get me. That dream’s motif went on all day. It was never bad enough that I freaked out, or felt the need to wake up and check on Kelly (god, I hope she’s sleeping right now, poor baby), but it was not good.
I just sneezed. That hurts with the tonsilless throat. Most everything else has healed now, though, I’m pleased to say. It was so hard the first week, but that second week I got better in great leaps and bounds. Found out from the doctor that they accidentally cut my esophagus with the breathing tube. Huh. Guess that’s why it hurt so dang much. I just couldn’t understand why it would hurt there, down in my throat. What kind of tonsils grow there?
See? These really are moring pages, bunches of nothing but the crap that’s in my head. Nothing wrong with that, and I’m going to quit feeling badly about it now.
I want to make some chocolate chip cookies tomorrow, lots, for the new neighbors, and maybe to take to Monica and their new baby if I get to see them tomorrow. Oooh, chocolate.

posted by Rachael Herron at 15:18
Thursday, August 22, 2002

I had such good sleep. Maybe I write and think about sleep so much because it has so much to do with everything else important in life, but there’s nothing like the frustration of not sleeping, and nothing like the satisfaction of getting it done right. And tonight (today, whatever), I did it right. I took the bath, and that has to be it. I read it has something to do with heat release, or transfer, or something, but when I combine a hot bath with a cup of sleepytime and a banana and one sleeping pill, I sleep. Without the other things, two sleeping pills don’t assist in sleep at all. State of mind, that’s all.

Tried to write at work last night but I was interrupted by my favorite and got to see the super high tech surveillance van. In two years it will probably be in the dark ages, but it was cool–kitted out with directional mikes and cameras that can zoom in and read license plates from blocks away, a comfy reclining padded chair. Man, I could live in there. And they have a port-a-potty, something I needed when living in the trailer at Alyson’s. You gotta have the potty.So that was my lunch break, but that was nice, to talk with someone I like, and do something different, and not be in the building. Had a terrible chase–just awful, only lasted less than a minute before it was cancelled, but I never had anyone, anyplace they should have been. Ugh. I want a good chase tonight, just to prove I can do it.
Still need a damn name for the protag. It’s been fun, working on this this week, I’m actually getting something done. I’m proud of myself. Will keep it up. Have nothing else to say right now, so I’m done.

posted by Rachael Herron at 15:40
Wednesday, August 21, 2002

Last night was my first night back at work since I got my tonsils out.The talking didn’t hurt that much, it was the laughter that really got me. I don’t realize how much we laugh there. There were the normal laughs, just to be polite or because something was kind of amusing, and then I had three or four painful barks of complete surprised laughter. That’s the best kind. Although it still hurts a little.

Brought my knitting to work last night and then didn’t work on a stitch. I did look at my writing, though, on my break. Going over previous pages so I can remember what and who I wrote about. I’m getting neighbors and friends confused, need to make flashcards for them, too. Every character with any depth needs a card. Neighbors can be collected on one, as can co-workers, except for the major ones. Felt like a waste of time, in some way, that I spent my whole break just reading, and only got up to page 38, but it’s all part of it. Some time has gone since I wrote those earlier pps and I’m not as familiar with those as the recent ones. I liked the early pages. That felt good. I was interested in reading them.
I want to remember: Lightness of touch. Humor. Trust the reader. Space and time. And I ain’t talkin’ continuum.
I still hate the protagonist’s name. I don’t have a name for the main character, 70 pps in. I’m working using her old name, Molly, which I just can’t stand. It reminds me of a bratty little girl I used to babysit, a child who was so precocious that she intimdated me, and I was ten years older than she. But I only got to that name because the protag’s name was originally Polly, before I went to New Zealand with the fam. Then we met Mom’s Polly, who is nothing like my character, and I didn’t want the two muddied in my head. Now I got nothin’. But I’m keeping my eyes and ears open. You have to be very careful, choosing names. Something that is even remotely similar to anyone you’ve ever known will either trip unwanted memories, or will trip others’ memories, leading to phone calls that you don’t really want to receive.
I’m up early today–didn’t sleep well. Back to the land of troubled sleep. Goes part and parcel with the night shift. I was getting good at it for a while. I think the bath really helps, and I didn’t do that this morning. Will go back to that after tonight’s shift. I feel guilty, though, sometimes, wasting water just to take a bath. I know they use so much more water than showers, and sometimes I take two a day–like I will today. It’s the world’s most precious and fought over resource, and here I am bathing so I can sleep better. I’m a spoiled, selfish person living in the same society. But I am typically American, and won’t think about it too much. I’ll just have my bath before work tonight, and read my New Yorker.
Boy, I’m caustic today. Not really grumpy–I haven’t had time to develop grumpy yet. Just a little off. Must be the sleep. Got a cat on my lap that I’m going to remove now to make some breakfast, and then I’ll write. And then I’ll walk to the market for some more fruit. I’m almost out. One booty nectarine and an orange I’ll never eat. And some cherries in the fridge that make my stomach hurt. Cherries are harsh! Stopping typing now.

posted by Rachael Herron at 13:17
Tuesday, August 20, 2002

It’s still morning, actually. Amazingly. I had such a rough morning with the kitties–I was awake pretty much from 215 till 8 dealing with the leaping, then the eating, then the yowling. Digit, for some reason, needs coaxing with his morning bathroom ablutions. He needs me to sit by the box and talk him in. True, it’s a big new scary box, but come on. He manages for the rest of the day. Then doors must be opened, and windows, and still we have running around and over my head. If I hadn’t known that I would try to grab a nap today before heading back to work tonight, I would have locked them both in the bathroom.

Forgot to say how fun the stitch and bitch was–it was Kira, Rachel, Bethany, Nate and me, all of us knitting. Bethany and Nate learned that night, and they did remarkably well, I thought. When I learned, there were a lot more tears and obvious frustration. Granted, I was six. But I was impressed. And it made me so happy. For all my life, I’ve been such a nerd for knitting. People called me gramma and other terrible expletives. And here I was in a trendy City apartment, hanging out with trendy people who wanted to knit. I had to revel in the experience. It’s, obviously, trendy. And as such, will probably flare right out, like swing dancing. But I’m going to enjoy showing off while I can. Then I’ll have to hie me back into the closet with my needles.
Wrote yesterday. I have to remember a few things: To trust the reader. I put up a little sign on my computer reminding me of that. I tend to overstate. And I love, in books, when they understate. When that writer trusts me to be able to add and subtract and come up with the correct sum. I do not need to give them the calculator. Also, I need to…. Forgot completely. Dang.
Just found out that we lost another person in dispatch, so we’re two short, in one week. That’s going to make for lots of enforced overtime, and less time to write. I will, however, continue to take my breaks and write in the outer upstairs lounge. It’s been so hard to find a place to write there, out of earshot of any radios, but still in range of the paging system. I think I’ll just have to take a radio with me, switch it to channel two, and tell the girls to hit me there if they need me. The girl who just left changes around things for me–I’ll need to find coverage for Friday night of Labor Day weekend in order to go to Strawberry Festival. And I was just getting excited about going by myself. Hopefully it will work out. If it doesn’t, then it wasn’t meant to be. I get frustrated, though, about the staffing. Just decided, I could still go, for one or two days. If I wanted to. I’m only one tent. I could find a spot. I’ll wait and see. These are rambly morning pages. But that’s OK. Just getting it out, so it doesn’t get in the way when I’m writing.
There are two men installing cable to the upstairs units. They are loud and happy, and I like listening to them. Distracting, though. Everything feels distracting right now. Must be lack of sleep. Which will not be alleviated tonight at work, that’s for sure. But I know I can do it, and I’ve actually missed working. Although I have LOVED the time at home. Single, at home. No responsibilities except to get better. What more selfish time could I have in my life? I keep reading all these articles lately on how our eggs are dying, and women don’t realize they have to have children earlier than they think, but I relly think I won’t want them. Cats wear me out. I don’t have the energy, and god knows there are enough terrific children being born every single minute of the day, in all regions of the earth to satisfy my cravings for cool people. Who knows? I might have a little terror, and then, wouldn’t I regret it?
Enough rambling for now. Off to write.

posted by Rachael Herron at 12:00
Monday, August 19, 2002

It’s a dark day–gloomy and foggy. Feels like fall is coming, and I love that. Fall turning to winter is my favorite part of the year. I love the light, or lack of it, and I love lighting the candles and using the string of white lights in my living room all day long. I love using the musty heater (after 4 years without one, I would use it every day, if I could afford it, love it). I love walking in this weather (even though this new haircut really leaves the ears cold).

Been reading The Days of a Writer online. It’s so great. I had almost forgotten about it till I was going through my Favorites file and took another look. It’s written by Alex, a girl at play, who believes in herself enough to take herself seriously. It’s hard to do that sometimes. We, no, I should say I think that people don’t take me seriously. Actually, it’s more than just a thought. I have had people (lovers mostly, how depressing) not believe that what I do is that important, or that hard. Ooh, I was just going to trivialize myself, right here on this page. Quit it. What I do is important, and hard, and the only thing I’ve ever really wanted to do. Yesterday I was up to 64 pages in the new work. I call it the new work because I can’t really bear to call it what it is. Everyone’s writing one of those. The dreaded novel. And the problem remains that I have a living, breathing, resentful 150 pp novel in a drawer, each character (except the cowboy, damn him) round and convincing to some extent, each one wanting out of the predicaments I left them in. So I’m scared, a lot, that I’ll do to this new work what I did to that one.
Which is why I’m not showing or telling anyone really what I’m doing. I think I killed my last book by making it my thesis. I can’t even count the number of people (15? 30?) who read it, who all had very good, usable ideas. But I couldn’t incorporate every idea for the the very contradictions of them–Julia should be stronger, Julia should show more weakness. I was exhausted, trying to please other people. This one is staying close to me, very quiet and dark, and I’m pleasing only myself. Then I’ll show it to my sisters and mother (the only ones that really matter), and that’s it, till it has a jacket on it. But people are pushy, and want to know. They ask direct questions that are hard to get around. Questions like, “What is your work about? What are you writing about right now?” Even deflecting these questions is hard. I just realized that I should lie. For some unknown reason I usually tell a modicum of truth and try to change the subject as fast as I can (but writing can’t be as exciting as encoding devaluations, tell me all about that). Why bother? What would they know? Yes, I’m writing articles on how the green house effect makes small rodents crazy. And doesn’t even exist. Yes, I’m writing a treatise on how Raymond from TV has changed the way parents raise their children. Yes, I’m writing a linked series of short stories about people who dig tunnels and live under large cities. And they, the ones asking, would say the same things they always say, Ah, interesting. That must be great. Good for you. But they’re thinking about encoding devaluations, god love ’em.
Whoo. A tack I had not planned on taking. But the boat went that way, and I get seasick if I don’t just follow along. Off to write some more. I love this way of keeping track of myself. So far it’s working, and that’s all that matters.

posted by Rachael Herron at 11:14
Sunday, August 18, 2002

See, look at me. Not very morning, is it? And this is me, just waking up. I sleep at all times of the day. Of course, not on any given day, but over a week, I sleep all night, all morning, all afternoon, and wherever in between. Can’t be very good for me. That’s what they say, anyway. But I suppose one could look at it another way, that it’s good for your body, promotoes flexibility in thinking, or something. I’m reaching here. But I slept GREAT last night, till this afternoon. I only got up because of that guilt thing. Which is stupid. I’m recovering from the tonsillectomy–granted, I’m pretty well recovered now I think–and more importantly when it comes to guilt–I’m on vacation! I had to use my last week of vacation since I didn’t have enough sick time. That bites, I can tell you. But I’ve got so much done in the last week…. Wait, I was talking about guilt, wasn’t I? Thus the so much done, but stupid is where I was going. I should have NO guilt over doing nothing on a vacation. After all, if I was on a cruise of something, nothing at home would be getting done. Closets definitely wouln’t be getting cleaned out. (One and a half to go) So why the dead rush to do things? I can’t answer that, except that I’m insanely enjoying things–I love knowing what’s in my desk drawers. I love recycling vast amounts of paper that I’ve been saving.

I save so much paper. I’m online at work, and I like something or want to do something, I print it out and save it. I save things out of newspapers and magazines. I save the scribblings that I make while on the phone. And then every six months or so, I go through everything, and apart from book titles that I want to buy that I transpose onto a file card, nothing is worth anything. Not worth the thin space it’s occupied for months. (Then of course, there are things like 4 page knitting patterns, god knows I have enough knitting patterns to keep my occupied for twenty years, why do I need more? And if I really really wanted to make a hooded sweatshirt, hopefully I would know enough to look online and find the pattern again. But I can’t throw it out. Yipes.)
Did more writing again. I like this little schedule of getting up, making tea, posting here, making a little breakfast, coming back and writing, and then getting in the tub. I’m on vacation, though, and I can’t imagine this schedule lasting. I always get almost romantically attatched to schedules and then fail in keeping them going. I hate that. Can I blame it on my job that changes? Only every six months–it’s harder to deal with the daily fluctuations, getting off 2 hrs late, and coming in 2 hrs early on the same day is rough. Cry me a river. I’m on vacation, and will enjoy it. Will write today (there isn’t anything like relaxing on the couch with the New Yorker when you know you’ve done your ‘real’ work for the day–you can really luxuriate instead of feeling twinges of guilt (am I Catholic? jeez)) and then off to Bethany’s house, where her little lesbian roommates are having a stitch and bitch, everyone knitting or doing something. I believe Beth is working with candles (how can she resist the lure of yarn and needles, though, when they’re all around her?).
A pleasant day, yes, glad to be walking into it.

posted by Rachael Herron at 12:35
Saturday, August 17, 2002

I have to say that I’m proud of myself–yesterday I actually did some writing. And it was due to this, the nagging that impose upon myself. I did some transcribing of hand-written pages of work, while doing some fresh writing at the same time, and it felt great. So great that I got fully and finally fed up with the viruses that have been plauging my computer for years and have been getting worse recently. I up and put myself in the car and drove to CompUSA where I was assaulted by choices. I did spend a little time drooling over laptops (do you know how small they’re getting now? it’s unbelievable. Full little laptops, 25% smaller, at least. Wouldn’t that be fabulous? Can’t afford it, Rach, let it go), but then I went to make my virus choice. The range is limited when you’re running Windows 95. You know your time is short when almost NOTHING will run on your platform. It either means I have to upgrade (god forbid, I don’t even know how to do that) or get a new computer and we’ve already discussed how I can’t afford breakfast this morning with my sister, let alone over a G for a new computer. Let it go, Rach. Found one that would work, McAffee, took the thing home, only to encounter a fatal error every single blamed time I tried to open the motha. Started this at about 2pm. At 830 I was finally done. I had to clean the entire hard drive (this may be routine for some, but I can’t remember how long it had been. It fixed at least 10 errors). It took an hour and a half to defrag the drive. Then I had to download one new program and upgrade my internet Explorer version. Apparently I’ve been living in the Dark Ages. Who knew? That’s why I burn candles. All this, and everything is now squeaky clean. When I looked at my finally shut down computer (it was breathing hard, poor fella) last night, it seemed to sparkle. Good boy.

I really like computers. I get along well with them, most of the time. I just don’t want this one to crash. I have over 5 years of Microsoft Money on it, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out how to back the files up. Which effectively negates the first two sentences in this paragraph.
Off to write, now. Whoo hoo!

posted by Rachael Herron at 09:06
Friday, August 16, 2002

I’m just going to treat this as a morning pages place. I don’t know why it’s more interesting to me right now that it’s on the Web, maybe it’s because it’s archived somewhere, and as long as the creek don’t rise and blogger don’t dot-com-out, I’ll be able to access and maybe print the things I’m thinking about.

One of my big worries about my writing is how to archive it. I even considered buying a scanner and scanning in all my thousands of hand written pages–until I realized it would take a zip drive, too, to contain all that information, information that I don’t ever feel like accessing anyway. And what am I going to do with it anyway? Save it for the kids I don’t plan on having? Save it to read in my old age. Seriously, they’re morning pages. And as such, are soooo boring. Could not be more boring. Actually, this blog will probably turn out to be just as boring, but no one’s going to read it, except maybe Christy, cause she’s the only one who knows where the site is, and honestly, C, I’ll tell you when to check it out. I’ll send you an email when I write something witty, and you can tune in for that day.
Morning pages, for me, are long rambles of motivation. Or they are trying to be, at least. Not usually written in the morning, they are as long as you feel like typing (this would be my definition, I suppose), as opposed to 3 hand written pages, but they stick to the main principle of not editing, not thinking, not going back and adding words and running spell check (which I don’t think this thing even has). You just keep typing. It’s easier to keep typing than it is to keep hand-writing, I think. I can babble on forever while typing. Like I’m doing now. And mostly, in my old morning pages, I wrote about what I was doing, what had happened, what I needed to work out, and what I was planning on doing. My own little cheerleader. Of my own creating. Rather sick and narcissistic in a way. A big way. Whatever helps.
On creativity–I WILL transcribe some of my recent writings onto the computer. Swear. Wanna hear my excuse why I haven’t? Cause this computer bug is driving me out of my head. I’m scared to add an antivirus program, though, for fear that it will just crash the whole entire rig on its cleaning route. Thus, with that bug, and the inability (almost) to save anything I write, I don’t like to write more. The truth: I can save on a disk and clean it at work–already figured out how. So moot point. Scared to lose computer that I can’t afford to replace, true. Ugh.
Knitting–finished another square in the sampler afghan last night. I’m working on the 6th now. Out of 20. Gonna take forever. But at least each square is different. I hate the one I’m doing now. Beautiful, but the cables are difficult and frustrating. At least they only come every six rows.

posted by Rachael Herron at 13:05
Thursday, August 15, 2002

Now that I’ve started this blog, I’m wondering what in the hell (can I swear?) I’m gonna do with it. I know I want it to be about MY creativity, and all that goes along with that. Creating something can be done in any number of ways. The number one way in my heart is by writing. Of course, that’s what falls to the wayside when knitting and cleaning closets are competing for time. So, I’ll keep track of what I do, and how I do it, and how frustrated I get, and how much or little I actually get done. I know that in a minute, I’m moving to the couch where I will watch videos and knit. Hey, I’m still recovering from the tonsillectomy! I’m allowed. I’m a loud. Uh huh. Over and out.

posted by Rachael Herron at 16:40

This are two of my favorite bloggers. They are talented and do it themselves. I use a service. Much like they bake cakes and I buy them in the freezer section of the grocery store. But I have more time to watch videos.

Here’s one: notmegan

and another: dangerouschunky
Whoo hoo! I’m getting hang of it.

posted by Rachael Herron at 15:19

Hey there.

This is my very first little blog. Blogging away here. No, it doesn’t hurt. It is a little frightening, though, and I’m not sure why. I’m noticing my toes curling slightly, and I’m taking shorter breaths, and it’s all because in a minute this will be published somewhere on the Whirled Wyde Webb, and I’m not sure I remember the password to access it.

This is all my sister Christy’s fault. She made me do this. And I think she should do one, too–hers would be much more interesting. Yeah. That’s right. She should call me on the cell now.

posted by Rachael Herron at 15:12

1

I know there are those of you who don’t watch much TV. Or any at all. Good on you, and I mean that. But this post is not for you. (I used to be you. I am now,however, an unashamed Big Ole TV watcher.) (Okay, untrue. I am a little ashamed. But it’s nothing I can’t handle.)

Okay, here’s where I’m going. Reality TV can suck, big time. You know the kind I mean: Let’s put three people in a house and take bets on who sleeps with whom first. That’s just wrong, and I wouldn’t watch it. Or at least I would NEVER admit that I did. I can’t handle Nick and Jessica (although I’ve tried). And those Road Rules shows don’t seem like reality TV, they just seem like an MTV game show with flashing lights and bitchy women in thongs, something I can live comfortably without.

But how in the name of all that’s holy did I end up watching any reality TV at all? Dude, don’t erase Amazing Race off my TiVo, or I’ll sic my drool-cat on you. (Schmirna’s fake accent that would pop up whenever she spoke to someone in a taxicab was driving me CRAZY. “Okee, I geev you dohlars for to use your telephone, okaaaie, Habibbi?” WTF?)

What’s bothering me the most, however, is that I’m watching what I would have guessed would be the nadir of all television programming: Amish in the City. And I don’t hate it. I’m a bit emotionally invested, if the truth is told (I’m really trying here). When Mose almost drowned because he didn’t understand the strength of the ocean, I was all a’flutter. When Miriam’s best friend came for a visit, I thought, a-HA. I was right! She IS a lesbian. (Don’t tell me you didn’t think it. Those were some damn emotional hugs.)

I just can’t quite believe they put five Amish kids and six LA kids in a house in Beverly Hills, but they did, by golly. Now that’s the way to get your rumspringa on (a word I’ve always loved. I’m 32 and still in my non-Amish based personal rumspringa.)

I felt a little better when I read this article — it makes the series sound deeply thoughtful, a “new generation of constructive, literate reality TV shows.” Well. I don’t know about all that. I think it’s not the ultimate trash that it should have been.

But I’m still embarrassed. What about you? ‘Fess up.