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I’ve really been enjoying The Book of Salt, even though it’s not something I would normally pick up. I know I’d read about it when it came out – the fictionalized account of Gertrude Stein’s cook. Nuh-UH! Are you kidding me? That kind of thing normally leaves me cold. But a friend lent it to me, and I started reading it without reading the jacket. By the time it came to me that I knew what the book was about, it was too late. Now I have to keep reading for the language.

Yep, it’s over the top all right, but somehow Truong gets away with it. It might be because the book is ABOUT language that she can get away with being so purple, but I don’t hate its luridness. Actually, I’m digging it.

Just listen to this about jade:

Oh, you know what? Never mind. (This is still me, not Truong.) What was purple and moving in bed after a cocktail last night (see below) is now just annoying. I’ll just show you MY jade instead:

When I was little (you’ve heard this already? I’ve written it? You know I’ve forgotten if I have), I always had a plastic tiki. My mother had the real greenstone one. She told me on every trip to New Zealand that when I was a grown-up lady, I could buy myself one. Always the pragmatist, my mother. So last year, when the whole family went, I did. It’s one of my three most precious objects. (Not that I really have three, I just bet I could come up with three if pressed….)

And I do believe that it’s the most alive kind of stone. It does feel like it breathes next to me, and the way it warms up against my skin is comforting. When I was dating T, she had such respect for it (not that she doesn’t now, you know what I mean…..) She refused to touch it at all. While this felt a little silly, I really liked that she felt like she did – that she believed there was power in such a little item. The other day at Peppa, a couple of women closed their unknown fingers right around it: “Oh, how pretty! What is it?” Nooo!

Okay, just a few lines from the book.
On making love with someone with whom a common language is not shared: “We will attempt to tell stories to each other using just one word.” Too rich, but sweet. My teeth ache in a good way.
Also on sex: “There is no narrative in sex, in good sex that is.” And I like it that she doesn’t try to force such a narrative.

Tonight: Boy Meets Boy finale. I’m terrified that Franklin will be the straight one, and that will be too horrible. It has to be Trying-to-Have-Gay-Hair Pompous Ass Wes, it just HAS to be. I can hardly wait.

Isn’t that an Alison Kraus song?

Just a quick note to say that: Seagram’s 7 and San Pellegrino Aranciata can, in a pinch, become a new favorite drink. It’s like a mimosa, but with a dash more sass, and a quirky one-two punch. Think I’ve found my campin’ libation of choice.

Off to bed with me. ‘Night.

Why doesn’t the Tiger Balm pot ever run out? Have you noticed that? I’m sure I’ve bought Tiger Balm before – I remember buying some in New Zealand when I hadn’t brought mine – but I can’t remember ever HAVING to. There’s always some more left. I have one little jar of the ultra-strength that I can trace to a relationship nine years ago. There’s still plenty left. And I use it all the time! Not sparingly, either. Here’s the Ancient One:

Is it odd that I time things by relationships? Do others do that? I used to remember my hairstyles by the person I was with at the time. It’s been a busy year, though, so lately I’ve been remembering to get my hair cut by using dating as a clock. Oh, god, I haven’t talked to her in about eight weeks. I had just had a haircut then. Must be time to get another one.

Why can’t I simply remember it was December of 1999 when I cut my thumb so badly that I needed surgery? Why do I have to remember that Lynn and I were breaking up in order to place the date? Years don’t mean that much, I guess. People do. That’s the simple answer.

Of course, during the longer ones, two and three year relationships, I lose all track of time. I can trace particular cars owned and food likes and CDs bought only to time frames. Between 2000 and 2002. Somewhere around 1994 or 1996. I know who was IN said car or liked said CD, but that just narrows it down some.

It’s why I write so much, always have, in either morning pages or online: It’s because I CAN’T REMEMBER ANYTHING. I’m legendary for it at work. I don’t remember a thing people tell me. It makes me a safe repository for secrets, I can tell you that much. You can’t spill what you can’t remember. Just yesterday, I was watching an early episode of Queer Eye with my sister Christy. When Jai (AKA QueerEye Candy, ‘cause he never gets to DO anything) came on, I got all excited. “Hey! You know what! He’s…. He can….. I think he was a singer…. or something…..”

Christy looked at me and said, “He was in Rent on Broadway. I told you that.”

Partners hate this in me. But they can tell me their best stories, over and over again…. That’s a plus, right?

I’m so rambly today. Have a lot to do to get ready for Strawberry and I’m not doing anything. I think I’ll read blogs and knit instead. I JUST managed to line up the cat-sitter a few minutes ago. Nothing like the last minute, says I.

Oooh – didja see? The Grammar Avengers webring is now official, thanks to Em! Link to right. Let me just state for the record – I know and understand most rules of grammar. But I either 1: break them on purpose for effect or 2: break them because I’m lazy. I joined because no matter what I say, I’m still obsessed with THINKING about grammar. Even if it don’t show much a’tall in practice. Yup.

And just for fun, here’s Digit a few minutes ago: (check out those extra toes….)

Had a ball yesterday – got off work at 7am, and managed to get a lovely long nap at home. Karen picked me up about 2pm and we drove into the City to go to Peppa. Freaking gorgeous day – warm, clear, everything that San Francisco usually isn’t. Peppa is an afternoon dance that’s held at a club in the Mission. It’s officially a Women of Color dance, but as you can tell from my photos, I am decidedly NOT a WOC. (I call myself a MockWOC – or, since this was Peppa, I called myself Salt.) But the women are mostly non-discriminating, and as long as you have a WOC or two somewhere in your entourage, you can dance the day away in the large patio garden.

We got there early, met up with Jenn and Geena, and unlike the last time I was there, there was an interesting hour of very junior-high behavior. Everyone stood around in groups along the edges of the patio, everyone watching each other, rating, discussing, and NOT dancing. It took the two boys who managed to get past the bouncer and a girl with no shoes to kick it off, but we were the second little group on the floor, and the floor filled up fast. Oh, the beauty of a hundred and fifty girls dancing in the sun…. T’s face, when she arrived from the Giants game and saw this vision, was priceless. She just kept shaking her head, “I didn’t know…..”

Afterward, we met up with a couple of T’s friends and wound up at some art-opening slash surf-punk thing – loads of garishly over-the-top art filled with dead things, either painted in reds and blacks or actually made up of rat bones. People milling about, looking impressed. I had no opinion about the art (or at least, no GOOD opinion) so I kept my mouth shut and we found the bar. Karen and I only lasted there for about half-an-hour, but T really wanted to hear the band, so we left her there and we headed over to the Wild Side where we shot pool and chatted up the locals. I kept having surreal moments where I’d be introduced to someone, and I’d realize I recognized her from my Friendster list. That’s when technology reaches the point of absurdity.

It was SUCH a good night. Day. Whatever. Knowing I don’t have to be back at work for ten days, knowing I had nothing to do but hang out….. Knowing that I could either ride home with Karen or take BART back….. It was a loose, easy day, and today I’m just so damn lazy that I can’t stand it. I never want to leave my apartment again. I really might crawl right back into bed and keep reading The Book of Salt. Oh! Discussion of Secret Life of Bees starts today in the knitblog readers group, doesn’t it? Have to hop over there and see what’s going on.

Knitting news – working on the sleeves of the LoTech Sweatshirt – forgot to bind off 7st at the raglan edge on each sleeve, had to frog for miles. Erg. I only frog when patently necessary, as this was. Too annoyed.

But blissed out otherwise. What a good Sunday!

Written yesterday at work –

I don’t know why I’m so stumped on my writing. I’m at work right now, taking my break. I try, most days, to do my writing on my forty minutes off. But lately I’ve been acting like a petulant child out here in the empty foyer.

Bah! Bad words! Don’t like these words, give me something else. Mom! Tell her to stop!

I stamp my feet. Aargh.

Yep, throwing a little tantrum out here right now. Not happy. Don’t know why. I just DON’T KNOW where the novel’s going. I know the end is close, the denoument is approaching, and I don’t know what it is. The characters are bugging the hell out of me.

You know those Tuesday mornings, when you wake up and your stomach kind of hurts, and your back is stiff, and when you put the lipstick on, you’re totally aware that your skin kinda looks gray? And there’s not enough milk for cereal, and there’s no cream for the coffee, and you stub your toe on the door while you’re carrying out the cat litter? And the cat’s whining and yelling and there’s absolutely no goddamn reason for her to do that, and your house is a mess, and you have absolutely no will to clean it?

That’s what writing feels like right now. I’m going through the motions. I’m writing because I promise myself I will write. I didn’t even write at all yesterday, and I’m feeling guilty about it. So I’m in the writing blahs AND I have guilt.

And I’m not even writing right now. I’m writing this blabber to make myself feel better, but I still have to close it up and get back to the real writing, which I DON’T WANT TO DO!

Raspberry blowing. And not in the good way.

Foot stamp. Why can’t writing be more like knitting?

– Later – You know what? That little tantrum helped. Just did my writing. I don’t hate it. It was kind of fun. It’s usually kind of fun. It’s just getting my ass into the writing seat that’s the hard part. I need to throw more tantrums.

Dude, it’s a knit-along! Got the list up to the right. Wanna join? We need a button, though. Any ideas? Maybe I’ll hit up Pioneer Melissa, since she did such a WONDERFUL job with mine, but I hate to abuse anyone like that. God knows I don’t have that talent (to make the button, I mean, but nor do I think I possess it to abuse anyone….). And I don’t think there will be any special “done by” date, maybe Christmas perhaps, but it’s fast and loose. Just like the shawl/scarf. Like I said, I still haven’t felted Suki. Mare, you’re a doll for holding space for the picture…..

It’s Friday! And I don’t work at all next week! Ten days off! Four of those in the sun at Strawberry (hopefully the link works today) in Yosemite. That’s a lot of beer in the sun, dancing to the music, and the best Greek Gyros you’ve ever had. I worship the man who runs that stand. His name is Spiro (he says) and he’s small and wide, with more hair than you’ve ever seen. For the last ten years, he’s run this stand at various bluegrass festivals with no more than fast hands and a young blond guy with lots of piercings. When you step up to the stand to order, without fail he asks, “What’s it for you, my love-a-lee?” And when he hands you the hot, dripping, lamb cucumber goodness, he always says, “Here you go, my love-a-lee!” Over the years, the young guy with all the piercings has become much wider (all that gorgeous lamb) and now he actually calls all the women love-a-lees, and he totally gets away with it. Spiro’s blond California employee now speaks with a Greek accent. Oh, it makes me happy. If they weren’t there, I think I would cry.

Cool Thing Number Twenty-Seven for This Week: If you google the word Rachael, now I’m number TWO! Isn’t that crazy? Course, it’s for my old site, which directs to this site, so it doesn’t feel as official. But I’m Rachael Number Two! AND if you google “my glass house” my old site is number ONE to pop up. This site, not so hot. It comes up number twenty-six.

Of course, these are arbitrary assignments of popularity in an electronic ether. Who really cares? Why SHOULD I care? But I DO care, that’s just it. I want the word Rachael to hit on ME first, not on a weird Rachael singer that I’ve never heard of. Give me time. Mwah hah hah.

Happy Weekend!