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I think little Digit’s paw is broken. Not badly, because I can touch it and move it a little. There aren’t any abrasions, it’s not hot, no cuts. He just holds it up when he’s sitting and limps when he’s walking and every once in a while, when he forgets about it, he puts weight on it and falls THUMP over. Of course, this happened Friday night, so I’ve been waiting to see if he’d heal over the weekend. Don’t think I’m a bad mama, please. This boy has been known to heal in twenty-four hours after gonzilla fights, after he drags himself in, barely able to stand, grumbling things about card-parties and fast kittens and bad catnip. He pops up after a day’s sleep, good as gold. But it’s Monday, and while he doesn’t seem in pain, he’s still not using the limb. I’ve asked my friend Nichole to cover my shift this afternoon so we can go see The Man Cats Hate. Poor baby.

And Digit’s mama has a leftover headache. Yep, I’ve figured out the damn trigger for these migraines. I thought it was a combo of PMS and the weather. No, it’s just the weather, damn it. Following in my mother’s migrained footsteps. A prolonged low pressure before a storm starts the sinus headache, which then moves into migraine territory. Yesterday at work I had all the accompanying symptoms, too, nausea and vertigo and dizziness. Bleach. Feeling better now (and the Imitrex did really help), but I still can’t touch the right side of my face – too sensitive. (Oh, and Imitrex is FUN to take. Doesn’t make me sleepy or unable to focus at work (although I wouldn’t take it if I had to be on the police radio). But it makes me sharply giddy. A focused, intense grin kind of feeling. Odd.) Daisy-Winifred, you predicted this, didn’t you?

Been up for the last two hours, two hours way too early. Heavy rain pouring down, lying in bed thinking about moving. Okay, now I’m getting a little stressed. And it’s mostly about the cats. I need to ship them out (hopefully to the little mama’s house – who is feeling MUCH better for those of you keeping score) and do the move without indulging in this “got a month to do it” crap. Then I can bring them back and hopefully, with a six-hundred mile drive between their old home and their new home half a mile away, they’ll lose their way and won’t think to go looking for the auld sod. And I’d like the apartment to be mostly ready by the time I get them back. Less stress on them AND me.

The problem is this (and it ain’t really a problem in my book, more of something I have to work with): I’m going to ask a friend for his truck and his help to move the four heavy things I own. Another friend is helping me paint. The rest of it I want to do by myself. I’m not being a martyr here. I’m being a helpless control freak, that’s all. I want to know where everything is in my new home. I want things to pass through my hands only. I don’t want anyone else to see the dust behind my bookshelves at my present home. You know? So I have to work quickly, accurately, and with some semblance of balance or humor, or it’ll be a head against the boxes sobbing moment. But I mean it. ALONE. That’s how I want to do it. Wish me luck and godspeed – I may not be posting a lot the next week or so…..

https://rachaelherron.com/i_think_little_/

Lemme tell you how a day with Greta goes. You get up. You think about doing something, but you talk instead. You go to breakfast and talk until the coffee’s cold. You look at the clock, and it’s two, not eleven like you thought. A very little while later, it’s suddenly six pm, and you don’t know how that happened. I have experienced the Time Flies syndome many times in my happy leetle life. But yesterday was ridiculous. I wanted to dig my heels in and drag. It was going TOO quickly.

And Greta? Everything you would think, everything you would guess. She makes me want to talk more slowly, to feel the words in my mouth more fully. She makes me appreciate color. She smiles as much as I do. And she is the BEST storyteller, giving me goosebumps no less than six times yesterday. She brought me the most thoughtful handmade gift that I won’t even ATTEMPT to describe right now, but I’ll show it to you later, after we do our next photo shoot.

Oh, we had a good time. Here we are on the way to the City. We had been going to take the ferry, but it was a little cool yesterday and threatening rain, so we hopped BART after a FABULOUS breakfast, eggs brady with smoked salmon for Greta, eggs benedict for me, and wonderful looking pancakes for daughter-bird.

Once we trundled under the Bay, we arose into the lovely light rain and grabbed a cable car up and over the hills. It kinda broke down at the top (we didn’t ask) and they let us off right at Lombard.

This is for Em:

Daughter-bird wanted to eat lunch at Hard Rock Cafe. G and I were still full from breakfast, so we decided to do dessert and drinks instead. Yes, we had drinks:

Oh, my merciful lord, their dessert nachos are insane. Seriously. Like to have killed me.

And darling Greta got a shortcake sundae.

When we left the restaurant, this is what we saw (I’m convinced the City put on its Special Sparkles for the return of one of its favorite daughters):

We went to Longs, to the BIG one, the 24 hour one, the one that when asked to swear an oath, I swear by. (That doesn’t happen too often, actually….) In the process of looking for a pencil, we found a bean bag that will be PERFECT in my new place (this Longs sells clothes and furniture and plants and even has a yarn section!). This is NOT an attractive photo, but it cracks me up, so hard.

Oh, and she spotted a rug, too. The problem arises, with my small car: How do we fit us and all the stuff in? (We had to put the top down to get all their luggage in when I met them at the train on Thursday night, driving the highway at two in the morning, wind in our hair.) But hey. Shopping with Greta goes like this:

Daughter-bird is IN that car, I’ll have you know. She’s a trooper, just like her mama.

Now, they’re off again, and I’m back at work. I feel horribly let down, after such an eventful (and extended) weekend, to be back at work. Deep sigh. But Stitches next weekend will help with that feeling, I’m sure. And I’m going to paint my new place! Orange! Or rust! But I’ll leave the living room yellow, ’cause I love that. Happy weekend to you.

(Oh, that Guestmap is fun, but it’s eating people. If you’ve been gobbled off the map, I apologize. But I know where you are, and I love ya. Mwah!)

Photoblog today, since Greta and daughter-bird and I are probably out cruising the Pacific Coast in the ‘vertible, top down, sun on our foreheads (which are covered in SPF 40, I swear).

I HAVE A NEW KEY!

That unlocks my new apartment. The only problem with being this damn spontaneous is that I’m basically going to be paying two rents from the 13th to the end of this month. Erg. That’s money right out of my Stitches Fund. And my Going East tour! Oy.

But it’ll be worth it, baybee. Lookit.

Looking from my new door out toward the street.

Check. It’s yel-LOW! Good thing I adore yellow. Picture some red and blue thrown in there?

My landlord in the kitchen, taking my hefty deposit check. Goodbye, cashmere. Hello, room for a Real Table!

View from the bedroom window:

Those are sweater shelves, you know.

Part of Digit’s new playland (the garage belongs to the house next door).

And my new playland, the backyard! All mine (rubbing my hands together…..):

Now, enjoy your day! And we’ll tell you about ours later…..

https://rachaelherron.com/photoblog_today/

Oh. My. God.

Sometimes I am impetuous. When I buy something big or decide on a life change, it tends to happen RIGHT NOW.

For the last week or so, I have been feeling like moving.

Understand that I never feel like moving. I hate moving. I abhor moving. Moving stresses me out until I break down sobbing, my forehead resting on the cardboard box, and that’s just when I pack my books. So this feeling that I’ve been having, lying in bed thinking about new, unfilled cupboards, has been unnerving.

Then yesterday I received an email from my landlord. Seems that the guys who live upstairs have found a new complaint. They think they are paying too much for heating, and that we should share the bill. I think not. I pay my gas/electric bill separately, and have my own meter/breaker. And this is the straw that’s flipping said breaker. Four girls live downstairs in this big old house, in three apartments. Four guys live upstairs, in a big communal four bedroom, one kitchen set-up. We girls are awesome. We’re kind and helpful and respectful. The boys are awful. One is a DJ-mixer and mixes thumping rap until all hours. They stomp above me and crank the bass until my windows rattle. The block the driveway on a daily basis. And now they’re asking for money for THEIR utilities? When I got home yesterday at 5pm and found the email, I decided to start looking. I’d just see what was out there before I responded back to my landlord.

I went to Craigslist and found several listings that seemed all right. I called one. He seemed nice, and said he could meet me there in half an hour.

Now, get this: It’s less than a mile from my present apartment. It’s still in the wondeful walkable area of Rockridge/Temescal that I love. It’s really close to BART. Cats are welcome. It’s easily two and a half times the size of my present place. Hardwood flooring in the long (yellow!) living room area. A private fenced back yard. A sliding glass door. Green yards and trees on all sides of the place. Only one shared wall, next to a single man who is reputedly never home. It’s only a three unit single-level building, with a new washer/dryer. The owner is a contractor and architect who said I could paint the walls any color I wanted. There’s a walk-in closet in the bedroom. There will never be anyone thumping and clunking above me. He said I could have the place. We’re meeting today to sign the lease. I’m freaking OUT. But in a good way.

Hey. There’s room for a kitchen table. In all my grown-up life, I’ve never had room for a table (no, Mom, the card table didn’t count). I’ve never lived in a place in which I could have more than two people visiting comfortably at the same time. Two is pushing it right now in my present apartment. You can’t all stand up at once or claustrophobia sets in.

And it’s only $150 more than I’m paying now. Tony never raised my rent (what with the ants and the awful boys, how could he?) so that’s right where inflation would normally have placed me, anyway. I can handle it.

And because this isn’t a forced move, it’s more exciting than terrifying. I want a yarn area. I want to paint words on the walls. (But how do I choose which words?) I want to paint one wall red. I want a writing area. I need bookcases. I worry about how to keep Digit safe in his new yard (big scary German Shepard next door). I wonder how to make a bigger place as cozy as my present place is.

I want to have a dinner party. A real dinner party at a real table.

I find my sentences in this entry are short. Choppy. I have so much to think about. Me? Moving? By choice? I am astonished at what has happened in so short a time.

Stay tuned for further. Yow.

And Greta arrives tonight. I took tomorrow off to PLAY! I absolutely canNOT wait.

(Oh, sign my new guestmap, wouldja? I love to see where all y’all are….) —->

For Wendy’s contest, I was going to dredge up an old post with a cat in it (not hard to do), but in the spirit of Valentine’s Day, I’m going to share the cat love, revisiting some of my favorite pictures. Those of you who love cats, enjoy. Those of you who don’t, run away now.

My favorite Digit-sleeping photo:

One that I just took, through my bedroom window — he’s sitting outside in the planter box. (Note to self, put flowers in planter box):

You know how I sleep with Koigu? Adah sleeps with Horstia Tweed:

There’s a lot going on here. Kureyon raglan to the left, surfing blogs to the right, Digit wanting a scritch in the middle. You can just see that I’m wearing my yellow Lo-Tech and devil duck PJs. A good day:

Adah sleeps with a LOT of fiber:

Life is hard:

A special guest appearance, Sebastian. My sister Christy rescued him at age EIGHTEEN. He had been abandoned at the vet’s office, destined to live and die in his cage. A year later, he just had an operation to remove a huge (benign) tumor, and is doing well, considering the circumstances. Keep him in your kitty thoughts:

You made it this far, so here’s the first Cromarty sleeve!

And this captures the color of the Kersti best. Kinda matches my big guy, huh?

Scratches on the head for everyone!

So. Good god, if it ever gets to the point where it’s remotely serious and I have to tell her about the blog, this’ll have to be erased, so eat this note after you read it, ‘kay?

A Very Nice Time. She’s funny, and she smiles a lot: I think that’s what I like best. She seems quietly content in herself. I tend usually to be attracted the cynical, the depressed, the pessimistic. The occasional psychotic (no, you don’t know her). The opposite of me. She’s rather more like me than those I usually date, and that makes me wonder. Opposites are a pain in the ass, but you gotta admit, they attract. Boy howdy.

It was a very casual night, since she had only had a short nap after her 30 hour shift (and I complain?) and I got off work at seven. Late dinner at the taqueria down the street from my house, and then Pieces of April, which I thought was darling. Patricia Clarkson rocks the house. And Oliver Platt was very good. Katie What’sHerFace was very good, too, but I kept wanting to wipe off some of her eye makeup. She didn’t entirely convince me that she had a tattoo on her neck and black rubber bracelets. She’s so good looking.

Then a night walk back to my house, through my neighborhood, which never fails to make me happy. I actually kick up my heels sometimes. I try to do this surreptitiously, but people occasionally notice. I don’t think she did, though. It was a suave little hop. Yeah.

(Confession that I probably shouldn’t blog, so it’s that much more interesting: Awkward kiss at the car. No, really. So awkward I just started it over. I believe I said something inane like, “All righty.” Then a sweet kiss, but a little…. well, no word works but awkward. In the past, luckily, I’ve been more often confronted with the Oh-Lord-Wow-NOW kind of kiss, and this wasn’t it. I don’t tend to revisit awkward kisses. Call me non-old-fashioned. But this one I’d like to revisit. Maybe inside, with a bottle of wine (pity I don’t cook), instead of next to her car, standing in the road, in the cold. But I did want to kiss her more, so that’s a good sign.)

Men are easier,* I tell you that much.

Recently a friend asked me, upon hearing I had a website, “You have one of those online journals? [Snicker.] I could never do that, I’m too private.”

I responded, like I always do, with how I’m very private too, I just fool people into thinking they know more about me than they do, and that I just let them read only what I choose to reveal. I’m so private you think I’m NOT private!

I realize here and now, it ain’t true. I don’t have a private bone in my body. The only thing that censors me at ALL is the fact that my mom reads this blog. Hiya, little mama. Otherwise, we’d be discussing the fact that my darling friend Tara, who works for Toys in Babeland, thanked me yesterday for taping Keen Eddie episodes for her with this gift. Mom, don’t click. DON’T! Not work safe, either. (But everyone else, you know you want one. “Writer’s block will never be the same.” Heh.)

No knitting content today. But I’m almost done with the first sleeve. Yippee!

* Gross exaggeration, I realize, and could be construed as offensive. I don’t mean it like that at all. But they can sometimes be easier. Think about it. TWO women processing, all the time? Yow.

** Addendum, after several GREAT comments. Men do process. In fact, some men I have known process more than me. Maybe it comes down to what George Sand said, that the differences between the sexes are so tiny that we blow them up out of all proportion. Well, she said it better than that. Obviously. But you know what I mean. Mwah, keeses to all, men AND women. (Now the rumors start….)