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Yesterday was a fantastic mail day here at ChezYarnagogo. Just lookee. Bethany (reader, not sister) sent me this! Out of the goodness of her heart, and nothing more. And I swear, I had NO idea what a really cool book it is. Updates, schmupdates. I like MY version the best.

Thank you, Bethany. That was so thoughtful, and so sweet.

And from Maggi, completely outtadablue, a Richmond bag (because I *heart* that city) that’s destined to carry many partial sweaters, and stitch markers that she made her very own self. Is there anything happier than those little things? I think not.

Thank you, Mogs. You are darling. (Digit-tail sold separately.)

Lemme just take a minute and say that I love my readers. Seriously. There are good readers/commenters out there, but mine are the best. The BEST. I used to blog because I wanted to jumpstart my writing. It was just for myself. I didn’t care who did or didn’t read. I actually preferred that no one read it. I suppose I could maintain that line and tell myself it wouldn’t matter if no one came to visit my old glass house, but honestly, it would matter to me. It’s like (how to say this without sounding cornier than all get out?), it’s like I have this fountain at my fingertips, and it’s full of good wishes and love and wisdom and advice and empathy. I don’t feel like I deserve such wealth. But know that I’m grateful, and happy, and so proud to have people like you, reading my silly ole words and dropping me these fabulous comments and emails that make my heart sing.

Why, just today, MaryB in Richmond (of course), wrote me an email giving me a name for my running style. It’s been suggested that I was SLOGGING, SLow jOGGING. I liked that. But MaryB has an even better one. She says,

Well.

I think that you are a beginner, who is thus being careful getting started. Yes? So you are a Beginning LOw-impact joGGER.

Get it?
You’re a BLOGGER!!!!

Priceless. I’m a blogger, all right. And proud of it, too.

So, thank you. We’ll leave the light on for ya. (Not sure why that needed to be said, but it did.) Mwah.

Ah. The Girls just left. I realize that in this world there must be a billion women (and some men) who fit into a group that is called by someone, somewhere, The Girls, but these Girls are Rachel and Kira. (It would seem like my darlin’ and beloved sisters would be The Girls, but they’re not. Well, they’re MY GIRLS, something entirely different.) You’ve seen R and K here before on this blog. They’re the ones who got hitched recently, and I was lucky enough to be part of their big day.

They’re also the ones who Took Care of Rachael on Memorial Day Because She Didn’t Want to Leave the House Ever Again. Of course, that meant that I had to go out driving for sorbet and videos, but they brought the food. We barbequed. Yes, we did. In my backyard. World, meet my first barbeque!

Looking at Kira:

Looking right:

Looking left:

See? Yard is coming along. The tomatoes are going crazy, and I’m starting to get things where I want them…..

Now, one must remember that The Girls are vegan. Normally that would send me running for the hills (where the juicy cows live), but they are also magic vegans. Everything they cook tastes good. Seriously. When I’m around them, I (happily) eat zucchini and squash. Really. I do. I swear. So they barbequed and I watched and was appropriately impressed and then we went inside and watched movies and drank beer pretty much ALL DAY. They came over about 1pm and I think they meant to leave at dinner time. They just left. It’s after ten.

But my clothes smell like smoke, and it came from my backyard! That’s the coolest thing ever! And they even left the barbeque in my custody, since they don’t have a yard anymore. They left the charcoal and the lighter fluid, too, so if I want my clothes to smell smoky again, I can go light some briquettes and stand over it, anytime I want! I suppose I could cook something, too, but that would require thought and preparation, something I am rather short on this week.

Oh, la. Off to bed. That’s a lie. I’m off to watch TV and then take a bath, since I have to stay up late tonight. I have to do that in order to sleep late tomorrow, which I must do, since I’ll be up all night tomorrow night at work. I love HAVING to stay up late. It’s a good thing to have to do. You know? Hope you get to stay up late, too. (And thanks for the amazing, awesome comments last post. You all rock.)

It makes me look like a lumpen grey marshmallow:

It practically hangs to my knees, and the armpits hang to my waist. I had despaired of it fitting him. But look! It does!

He came in to work fifteen minutes early (which at 0445 is a chore) just so we could do a photo shoot and get him in the trademarked Rachael pose.

Yippeeeeeee! Thanks, Don, for the house-painting, and the free couch, and the heavy lifting, and generally making my life easier.

Specs:
Pattern: Raglan Generator for measurements, 3×1 rib everywhere but at cuffs and neck, where it’s 2×2.
Yarn: Plymouth Galway Highland Heather, color 704, approx. 10 skeins.
Needles: 5US
Gauge: 5st/inch

And now, to kill the teaser I posted earlier, I did end up cancelling the date I had lined up for this afternoon. I had recently put a personal ad up on PlanetOut, a gay/lesbian online magazine. I thought it would be fun. I had always assumed you had to pay for the service, but once I found out it was free, I thought, cool! What can it hurt?

Well, it don’t hurt none, and it stays pretty quiet, but recently for some reason I got three interested nibbles that were interesting in return. Nice, smart, pretty women that I thought I would like to meet.

I met one for coffee the other day. She knits, she contra-dances, she’s eclectic-looking, she’s a blast. But was I interested? Eh. I had another date scheduled for this afternoon with a fabulous-seeming gal who probably really is that fabulous. And I’ve been dreading it all week. (Lest you ask why the hell I set it up in the first place, I answer, because I thought I should. Shoulds. Always get you, don’t they?)

I thought of all SORTS of things I could beg off with. Migraine. Work. The dog ate my car keys. I woke up in the shape of a giant cockroach. Then I remembered: I hate lying like that. I used to be so good at it. In the last few years, I just can’t do it and still remain happy. A lie like that, small though it is, bugs the hell outta me. (And it’s karmic. If I plead migraine, I get one.) So I wrote:

I’m going to be a complete ass right now, okay? I’m going to pass on coffee tomorrow…. and if I can make anything clear to you, please let it be that it’s not you. (I realize how lame it is to use that line before two people even meet.) I find your pictures to be both charming and lovely, and everything you’ve said in email makes me think that if I dated anyone, even just met them for coffee, you’d be the one with whom I’d want to have that coffee.
But right now I’m stuck in an alone period. Not really sure how to get out, nor if I should even try. I thought I’d jump-start the process by meeting new people, but I’m beginning to think that’s a poor idea, and ultimately not fair to anyone I meet right now. We’d probably have a lovely time at coffee, and then I’d have to send this email anyway. Better sooner than later, I think.
I hope I do meet you someday.
Please email me back to say you got this.
Thanks, and I’m sorry.

Yep. And this morning I got a nice little email back saying “no worries, and best wishes.” I remain guilt-free and SO HAPPY that I’m spending the first afternoon of my weekend in my backyard, alone.

There’s something to this alone thing, I’m convinced of that now. It’s not shyness, it’s not apathy, it’s just where I need to be right now. Society’s pressure is insidious. I don’t care about what society thinks, but somehow it shapes my own thinking without my noticing. *I* sometimes feel I need a partner to be complete. Then I stop and think about that feeling, and I know it’s crap, but it was there for an ugly second.

I’ll meet whom I’m supposed to be with at the right place, at the right time. (GAs: Is that whom right? Still sleepy from working all night.) I’m not against the internet for hook-ups. Look where it’s taken all of us! But I’ll know when I’m in the right place, and right now, I ain’t. And I’m not worrying about it anymore. Hear, hear!

I didn’t know I was going to proselytize to myself. And you, in the process.

Last thing, there is apparently a war to get me to change coasts. Cari has a kitten. But look what Ann found that needs adoption.

Heh. I love it.

My friends have animals doing their dirty work for them now. Look what I just got in my email:

Hi ther nice laydee. Anty cari tole me that mebbe you wer movingg ouwt heer to nu yawrk to liv weeth mee an I jus wann say that my baggs er packt an eym wayting fur you ta com git me.

Ey lov anty cari jus fine but I no yu ar my mom probabbabbly.

Lov
Pitiful peony the sidewalk kitty

How can one continue to resist such coercion? Help! (Can’t you just see the kitty? Sitting on the stoop, bags packed next to her, craning her little fluffy head up and down the block? Sigh….) And speaking of fluffy heads, did you see who Greta met?

The Dude Sweater, eet eez complete! There were no seams, so no kir royales (sorry, Becky, next time!) but there were pains in the ass enough to equal seaming and then some. That kicky flare, for one. Oh, I ripped that out good and put in a simple 2X2 rib and a tight bind-off. And a neckline that just wouldn’t cooperate, for another. I made a nice simple collar (ended up with my original idea of simple ribbing) and then I bound it off too tightly. So I had to rip that, too. Erg. I hate ripping. Such a waste of time that I could be spending on something really fun, like cleaning the cat box.

I gifted the sweater this morning (he works with me), and he gave me the highest praise a girl could hear: “It’s the best sweater I’ve ever owned!” It made me look a grey bowling ball, and it came to my knees, but it fits him great. I was so pleased! He promised I could take a picture of him in it tomorrow, so I’ll show you then. For now, here’s a shot of the top of it, me in it. I cut off my head because I’ve been up for so long that eyes are beet-red and my face is flushed. That happens at o-dark-thirty in the morning…..

Quote of the day (heck, of the year):
“The U.N. is cool. I got a brief tour of it yesterday and somehow managed to restrain myself from running into the Security Council meeting room and representing Angola. ” — Em, Everybody Loves Saturday Night

I’m a-gonna work on the Dude Sweater (as Silvia has dubbed it) tonight and hopefully finish it the hell up. I’ve got too many things on the needles right now, and it kind of stresses me out. I’m not a multiple-item knitter. I like one big project in the works, and socks somewhere in a basket for train knitting. But right now I have the ChicKami waiting only for straps, the Dude Sweater waiting for a bottom that doesn’t flare (aren’t we all?) and a collar, the Cromarty waiting for custom-dyed yarn from Canada, and I REALLY want to cast on for a Debbie Bliss cabled cardie from her Cotton for All Seasons book.

Last night I put the big projects aside and swatched with the cashmere from the cone I bought from School Products. I was convinced that if I worked hard enough, I could get gauge for the cardie. Nope. Couldn’t even get it on ones, and let me tell you, I tried. I did the math to see if I could make the smallest size to make up for it, and no. I can’t. Blast it all. I’m getting four stitches per inch on ones, and the yarn would honestly be more comfortable at about 3/in. Why didn’t I notice it was on the bulky side? Sigh. I want to make something incredible with that stuff, and I’m disappointed. Anyone know a good bulky weight cabled jacket/cardie? Bring it on!

Ah, well. So I’ll finish Dude. I was going to pick up the collar and just do a (k1 p1) for six or seven rows and then cast off, but do you have a better idea? I’m feeling uncreative and I realize that someday I need to invest in the Vogue knitting bible so I have it to run to when I’m this uninspired.

I just finished my writing for the day. I’m sitting outside right now, on my porch swing. I love my backyard, have I told you that recently? It’s still nothing very special, and I have several pots of dead flowers that for some reason I just keep watering, but there’s a fuschia at my right hand that is so pink and purple that it makes my heart feel good. And my tomatoes are growing (and wondering what they’re doing, it’s just not that sunny back here). And my the wind flirts with the ivy behind me and the swing is hung low so my short little legs can keep it moving, and I’m just happy writing out here. I’m doing well with the writing on my work days. It’s easy for me to be regimented on work days: I have so many minutes to write, so many to run, so many to eat, so many to shower, and back to work. Easy. But my weekend days…. I’d still like to figure out how I can fit a little writing in on those days. Maybe I have to do it the same way: Do it first thing, as soon as the eyes open, before the protestations can occur and the distractions arise. It’s also not as important to me to work on my weekends. I do, after all, need a weekend. But I have three days off a week, not two, and I could definitely do with a little work on at least one of ‘em.

Babbling, aren’t I? Don’t let me get started on the date I don’t want to go to on Saturday….. Ideas for the collar? Please?

(Bethany’s in Maine, the top edges of her trip….)

***update — Friday morning. Dude is complete and gifted. Pics tomorrow. Sleep now. Mwah!