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It’s my sister Christy’s birthday! She’s thirty! Today! Wheeeee!

We’re going to meet up for Ethiopian food in a couple of hours and then go see the concert tonight. Last night’s concert was great, except Slaid Cleave’s fiddler just bugged the crap out of me. And that’s hard to get over when you’re in such a small venue. I just tried to concentrate on his guitar-playing and the words and his great jeans, but I kept watching her – a little twenty-year old blonde with long dreads, who only fiddled marginally, sang atrociously and mouthed all his words when she wasn’t singing.

I get to give Christy her Booga J bag tonight! Whoo hoo! I told her a few days ago that she couldn’t look at my site, and I don’t think she has. This is when we grow up, isn’t it? When we can keep ourselves from peeking, from looking in the closets, from shaking the packages under the tree. We figure it out – it’s only disappointing to guess it ahead of time.

At least that’s what I got from thirty. I totally dug turning thirty. I felt like I was finally official, not in my silly twenties anymore, but still young enough to still occasionally (and sparingly) wear glitter lipstick. Thirty-one is awesome, too. It helps that I’ve always had older friends and lovers – I know what I’m headed for and I’m happy with it. They make older look good. I figger I’ll be okay until just about thirty-nine, when I’ll have a stern talking-to with myself, and I’ll have to make friends with forty.

Off to fight briefly with Safeway about Bethany’s film which they didn’t have for me last night. I’m going to kick some ass if it ain’t there today. Yeah. Right. I would ass-kick with all the methodology and expertise of Charlie Brown. But I can SAY it as if I mean it.

Arrrr. Blimey. Forgot to talk like a pirate. Okey-doke then. I’ll swab the decks with the scurvy Safeway manager. And then buy some half-n-half, because I’m fresh out. Ahoy!

Not much sleep today, nor will I have much tomorrow, but it’s my own blessed fault, and it’s all for a good cause. The cause, of course, being me hearing live music. Uh-huh. Das right. Bring it.

There’s a place in Berkeley, you might know it, called the Freight and Salvage Coffee House. It’s a music venue, a big ole wooden hall that remind you of a huge boxcar, and it serves coffee and muffins in the back. That’s right. Coffee. The first time I went I was horrified to realize they MEANT it. Coffee. Equals no alcohol. I’m sure plenty o’flasks get shipped in under coats, but its dryness will come in handy tonight and tomorrow night when the concerts are followed by a work shift. Nothing worse than going out with friends to dinner and a show, watching them guzzle, then saying goodbye and driving to work.

Tonight, we’re hearing Slaid Cleaves. When I first heard this name last year, I assumed it was an Irish girl singing Celtic songs. Nope. He’s kind of alt-country (y’allternative) with some great songwriting and a kick-ass band. And he’s sexy as hell, can’t get around it.

Tomorrow night is Kris Delmhorst, another singer-songwriter who actually writes songs that mean something. Both links to The Freight’s page have sample songs at the bottom. Enjoy.

Bethany’s post today kicks ass. I worry about her. Not much, but just a little. But then I get this kind of post and realize that no matter how odd or creepy the surroundings, she’ll take care of herself. I just got a phone message from her that said, “I’m driving. I just ate a piece of cheese that was over a year old. And I washed it down with two-year old water. Miss you!”

And while I was talking to her yesterday on the phone she said, “Hang on, I think I just missed my turn. I’m going to turn around. Going through these big open gates. Okay, here’s a good place to turn around. Holy SHIT! I’m on a runway!” Luckily no planes happened to be landing.

I’ve got Adah sitting beside me, and I have to post a couple of pictures of the pretty thing. She IS gorgeous, but I can’t tell you how annoying she is. I have to do cat yoga in the morning with her before I go to bed. She drags me, one paw wrapped around my ankle, into the living room where I do seated positions, bending forward to the floor, my hands rubbing her head. That’s all she wants in life – her head to be rubbed. It’s neurotic and vaguely disturbing how much she desires this, but we both get happy, me stretching on the carpet, she rolling blissfully around my outstretched hands. She’s not as dumb as she purports to be.

Here she is working on the sock I finished last night.

One sock down, one to go. I swear I’ve never been so sock-obsessed. I just want to get them finished so I can (re)start the wave-along shawl….. And then two more Booga J bags, and some Koigu socks, and that GORGEOUS sweater Steph’s starting from a Paton’s pattern….. Not to mention Christmas. Blimey.

Don’t forget – Friday is not only my sister Christy’s thirtieth birthday, but also, fittingly, International Talk Like a Pirate Day. You know Em? Of phonetic first-initial Everybody Loves Saturday Night? My phonetic first initial, I decided, is Are. Except on Friday it’ll be Arrrr.

Okay, so I’m groggy this afternoon.

Get it? Hee!

And silly.

Bethany’s rambling again. Gawd, I miss that kid. I took too long getting her film turned in, so her first batch of photos won’t be up till Friday, but I can’t wait to see them! And since the only place she’ll see her photos is online until she gets back, I bet she can’t wait, either.

I’ve no head for linear thought today. I’ve ordered more yarn from the boys. Somebody help me, please. Please? Yarn S.O.S. And I received from them in the mail a bag of charcoal grey Cascade Indulgence, which will be the Wave Along Shawl as soon as I finish these socks I have to make for a b-day which is fast approaching. For hosting the knit-along, I sure ain’t far along.

My best friend left for Ethiopia today. She’ll be there for almost ten months, teaching at a university there, instructing new teachers. I miss the crap out of her already, instantly. It’s not like Bethy, I can’t rely on Verizon to connect us, crappy as that connection might be. This is utterly cut-off, at least until she 1) arrives 2) finds a place to live 3) gets a phone connection 4) buys the “internet connection” some people swear is available for the right price. I won’t believe it till I get that first email from her.

Bah. I hate goodbyes. Abhor them. We did remarkably well. I saw her two days before she left, gave her a big (huge) hug and we said we’d hook up the next day to say a proper goodbye. Then we both got too busy to do so – she had last-minute-moving-to-the-third-poorest-nation-in-the-world-errands to run, I had to go to work. We chickened out. Thank god. There wouldn’t be enough kleenex. I’ve talked to her twice a day every day for the past four years.

Doesn’t bear thinking about. I’m so proud of her.

Off to knit the sock that doesn’t slow down (Wendy’s pattern, but 56 st on size 3 (US) needles – it’s zooming. Also it’s huge, whoops.)

You deserve a photo now. Me, alone, in Venice, city of my heart. This was in March of this year. Click for a bigger pic. (I’m getting that rambly feeling again, don’t tell anyone. I can’t afford it, I can’t even afford yarn! I can’t afford Venice…..)

Hey! It feels good to get the sweatshirt and the Booga J bag (and most of Suki Seuss) done. I wore the sweatshirt while I ran my errands today – no one would ever notice, no one would ever say, “Wow! What a gorgeous sweatshirt! Where’d you get it?” But in my head I’m telling them oh so casually, “Oh, it’s just a little something I knitted up.”

It isn’t even like I really AM the Finished Object Queen – I just had to get all my little projects done so that I would still be considered a knitter. I tend to ramble about everything else, and I forget to talk about the knitting I’ve done.

Can I just tell you what kind of a dork I am when I finish something? Last night I draped the sweatshirt over the back of my desk chair, where I could see it from the living room. I just liked seeing it as a piece of clothing, instead eight (EIGHT!) separate little pieces and some buttons. I just realized that even now it’s artfully draped over the arm of my couch. No one ever drops in. We don’t really live in that kind of society anymore, do we? But if someone did, I’d say, “Oh, let me move this silly little sweatshirt out of your way. Just finished it, you know.”

Sometimes, after I finish a tank or something small, I leave it folded on my desk for a couple of days. I just like that it folds. Period.

You know?

Moving along.

I was shopping for my sister’s birthday present yesterday and instead I bought myself the most stupid little tchotchke. It’s a pen made to look like a cigarette. The end pulls off to expose the ballpoint. How dumb is that? And how much do I love it? I adore that I can get out my old disused ashtrays (and I have some GOOD ones) and put the cig/pen in it. Ready for notes at a moment’s notice. (Hey, how are my quitting girls getting along? You know who you are.)

Grumpy that this is the start of my work week – I’ve been up since eight this morning (after being up and down since three a.m, when Adah decided to start crying for food), and will work until five tomorrow morning. No chance of a nap – way too many things I’ve put off. Little things like laundry. But happy that my LoTech is draped all yellow and buttery near my knee.

Knitty’s live! Whoo hoo! And it’s fabulous. Get my credit card, I need some yarn from the boys.

And Bethany’s rambling.

So I’m home. And I’ve posted (below) a little bit about the writer’s conference, which I’m glad I went to. Ending sentences with prepositions. No avenger am I…..

I’m also glad that:
I’m Finished Object Queen this weekend!

Well, only two FOs. But Suki’s felted, and I deserve a beer for that. Right? Maybe a martini. Yeah.

I give you the Before (of Suki and Cutes (aka Booga J. in Noro Kureyon #88)):

And After:

And here’s Cutes all fixed up and ready to go.

I have to admit when I started this project, I thought it was going to be closer to Suki’s size. So I was surprised when it turned up all small and cute-ified like this. The opposite of Suki which I must have done wrong (and I knit large, also). This is how I dried it halfway:

This is a TREE STUMP that the cats sit on in my mom’s backyard. It didn’t quite dry, so I put it on passenger seat in the convertible on the hot drive home today. I mean ON the seat – over the headrest and down about half-way. One man almost crashed trying to figure out how I got Dr. Suess in my car. No photos, alas.

And also, I finished LoTech Sweat! Bonne Marie can do no wrong, in my mind.

I love it. Adore it. Lament my regrettable sewing skills, but hell. It’s cozy and comfy (just Lion Brand Kitchen Cotton – color Maize) and I’ve already impressed my folks and two friends with it. Whoo hoo!

Now I’m home, Digit growling with misunderstood happiness. About to work on some socks. Happy. How’re you?

The writer’s conference was, if not great, then pretty darn good. I took an excellent rewriting course from Earlene Fowler, author of a series of eleven mysteries. She’s not my favorite writer, but I’ve always had an alarming suspicion that I write like her. Something about her prose reminds me of my own awkwardness.

But it turns out that she IS just like me, in other ways, too. She’s confident in front of a group, self-deprecatingly humorous, and kind of a spazz. And she’s mostly left-brained. Pulling the writing out of herself, the first draft, is like pulling candy from a five year old. It’s hard for her to make that switch to right-brained creativity. She prefers to organize things. She was a great secretary (reminded me of how much I like to dispatch, which is like a gigantic jigsaw puzzle). She loves lists.

So rewriting is her strength, and she’s studied how she does it over the years. She gave us LISTS! Of things to do while rewriting! It was a beautiful thing. I went in not expecting to learn very much, and I was overwhelmed with information. And excitment!

Suddenly, finishing the book doesn’t seem so hard and scary. I’ve known from the beginning, when I made the conscious decision not to rewrite as I went along, that this would only mean major revision at the end. Now I’m looking forward to it. Yet another jigsaw puzzle. (Okay. I only like metaphorical jigsaw puzzles – if I had to do an actual one I’d yawn myself to death.)

That class was the thrilling part of the conference. I’ve never been to one before, and I didn’t know what to expect. What I DIDN’T expect were all the sighing, religious women. At least they seemed that way – as the speakers spoke, they nodded, mmmm-hmmm-ing right along with the speaker. Uh-huh. Mm-hum. Yeah. One woman in the back of the room mmm-hmmm-ed herself so hard it came out as a loud squeak and we all swiveled to look at her. That woman was astonishingly irritating, I have to say. She touted the glorious powers of Powerpoint (!) and then went on to just TALK. And talk and talk and talk. This class was led by a stunning teacher, Daniel Houston-Davila, and it was about writing cross-culturally. I had questions. I didn’t have time to get them answered, though, since Old Girl kept on yakkin’.

Walking out of the classroom, she cornered me.
“Why did the teacher keep talking to you? It was like he was directing all his comments at you. Do you know him?”
“No,” I said, “But I talked to him earlier today.”
“You look pretty white to me. Why were you in this class? It was a class for writing cross-culturally.”
Shock at this point.
“I’m a lesbian.” I said. “I had some questions about writing and crossing that divide that I thought the class might address.”
“Oh. I was sexually abused by women when I was young.”

At this point, my eyebrows just stopped working and I had to manually bring them down to their proper positions. This was like me saying, “I have a boyfriend,” and her replying, “I was sexually abused by men when I was young.” Holy crap. What do you say to that? To a stranger who’s just pissed off?

We were approaching my little mother at this point, so I merely tapped her on the shoulder and said, “Good luck to you, then.” She smiled sweetly and traipsed off.

Erg.

Speaking of my little mama, I have to say this:

At the end of one of the classes, I was waiting for her to join me at the cafeteria. We had attended separate classes, and I was sure when I saw her teacher arrive at the cafeteria that she would soon follow.

I waited. And waited. And waited some more. Fifteen minutes later, I was frantic. Did she get lost? Was she ill? How would staff find me? That’s when I saw strolling toward me, Daniel Houston-Davila in tow (the one person I hoped to button-hole and meet at the conference). Not only was she clever enough to meet him, but she had spent the last fifteen minutes passing out her cards (she’s a book reviewer for a local paper) to new authors. She couldn’t get away from them!

My mother. The networker. It was awesome.