Yarn-A-Go-Go

Random

I have learned tonight that it is funny as HELL to walk into a room and without saying hello, say in a deadpan voice, "I ain't no holla back girl." Especially if you happen to be male.

(Can you tell I'm trying to change the subject? I embarrassed Lala (hard to do, dude, SCORE!) and now all your comments are embarrassing ME. But hey. All those comments? And not one mean-spirited or unkind or even mildly scolding? Knitters fuckin' rock.)

Lambtown this Saturday! Lambies! Fiber! (Why did I just buy that expensive bra? I should have remembered I'm saving for fiber.....) Who's going?

Mariko, Joanna, Becca and I are running the SF Half Marathon on Sunday. Anyone I'm forgetting? Actually, Mariko might be running the full thing, since she does these at the drop of a box of candy. Not sure. I don't think so, though.

Me, I haven't been training. I've been running, sure. But only little runs. So I'm going to go out on Sunday and run as far as I want to and then stop. I paid sixty bucks, dammit. I want a tee shirt. We'll call it a nice six or eight miler. I really don't think I'll make the whole 13.1. But we'll see.

So, happy weekend. Thanks for being fabulous.

Whew

You all are too much. I am overwhelmed with your response. Haven't even made it through my reading of all the fabulous, loving, comments, but several people wanted to know where they could throw their money. Funny you should ask.

Until July 31st, any contribution you make to the Human Rights Campaign (the largest group working for gay rights) will be matched by Bruce Bastian, a donor and HRC Board Member. Think about it, your donation of any amount will be doubled, how cool is that? Go HERE and click on the link to the right in red.

MWAH!

Sadness to Joy

The rage doesn't get me often. In the face of all the world's sadnesses and atrocities and wars and genocides and stupid politicians making permanent black marks on the soul of the planet, I listen and wish and hope for the best. I'm political in my own quiet way: here, on this blog, with friends, in public when it's necessary.

But the state execution of the two gay teenagers in Iran has me seriously shaken. It happened a week ago today, and I bet you didn't even know about it, did you? It had me so upset that I tried to put it out of my mind, which I can't, and shouldn't.

Two teenagers, Mahmoud Asgari, 16, and Ayaz Marhoni, 18, were held in prison for fourteen months (fourteen MONTHS), and were lashed 228 times. They were accused of having sex with each other and of raping another 13 year old boy. They did admit to having consensual sex with each other, but human rights groups believes they were coerced into these admissions, and there is speculation that the rape charge was fraudulent, an attempt to avoid international censure.

Iran's Sharia law calls for the death penalty for gay sex, and girls can be killed at age nine, boys at age fifteen. Unimaginable.

They were hanged, publicly, a week ago today. Babies, both of them. Their mothers watching. The whole country watching. Ten percent of Iran's population knowing that the same could happen to them if they ever admitted to their illegal predilection.

Ali Asgari, in a quote to the Iran Focus, said, "These individuals were corrupt. Their sentence was carried out with the approval of the judiciary and it served them right."

I saw still photos of them, being led out to the execution, crying. There aren't words for the horror of it.

And here, in much lesser but still shaking news, two days ago California approved a ballot initiative aiming  to add an amendment banning same-sex marriage. Attorney General Bill Lockyer reworded the title of it from "The Voters' Right to Protect Marriage Act" to "Marriage. Elimination of Domestic Partnership Rights." That's right, Bill. Call it what it is.

The measure would void and restrict registered domestic partner rights from things like hospital visits. Adoption. Insurance benefits. Little unimportant things like these.

According to Seth Kilbourn, VP of HRC's Marriage Project, it would "strip away more rights from more families that any other proposal we have seen in any other state." It would permanently ban all legal protections. And two similar ballot measures are expected to get initial approval this week, also.

Lala and I had a conversation about this a while back. We knew that no matter what, no matter how we felt about it, we'd end up being political.

See, we're getting married.

Yup.

Some of you already knew -- it's not like it's been a big secret, but we took our time telling family and friends, so I've taken my time blogging it. (It was decidedly delicious, those first few weeks, when no one knew, not even family. Such a lovely secret to carry around. And then I had the ring, the sweet gold antique ring from the 1880s, and just glancing at it gave me such a thrill. Still does.)

It's early, see, but we've known for a long time, since maybe month two or three, even though neither of us admitted as much to each other until month six. (No, we won't go into the proposal. It was mutual. She may have said the word first, but I was hot on her heels. Then we were terrified. In the good way.)

I never saw this coming. I never planned to be married. Wasn't important to me. Then suddenly, it was.

She's the one for me. She's smart, funny, and one of the kindest people I've ever been lucky enough to meet. She's hot. She makes me want to be a better person. I don't have to babysit her in a crowd. She knits. She's a kick-ass musician. And just sitting on the couch doing nothing with her is the best place in the whole world to be.

No one can tell me that's wrong. No one can tell me God thinks it's wrong, because He doesn't. A small-minded, bigoted person's small-minded lesser deity might think it's immoral, but who cares? I don't care about your tiny, wrathful god.

But let's fight for love, shall we? Isn't it good, finding it where we can? Who would stop happiness? Only someone terrified of what was in their own heart. But that's not us, is it?

Instead, we cross our fingers and look at stars and wish for forgiveness and acceptance in Iran, and we wish for the United States to realize that this is really about civil rights. We won't allow America to demote us to second-class citizens. We won't be pushed to the back of the bus. You'll help, right? You'll donate money to the right places, to the wheels that turn the cogs in the right places, and you'll speak out loud, even if you're scared?

Lala and I, who want to be together, to live our lives together, as a family, thank you.

Oh, and I'm knitting the wedding dress.

    Engaged.

Howlers

Queer as Folk? Love it. Going out with a bang, isn't it? Nothing subtle or delicate about the show, but I love the way they whamBAM into American politics and policies of hatred and bigotry, with cute Canadian accents and no apologies. And last week's episode (no spoilers) had me bawling. Sobbing. Well done, QAF.

Did you see Ryan's camping trip? Now that's a howler, and in a good way. As is Greta's typo. Heh. Go there. They're interesting. I'm fighting the very onset of a migraine, and might just try one of the myriad drugs the neurologist sent home with me (oh, she was a good doctor. Spent time, listened, asked questions, seemed interested, roundly told me I was fine, with regular old migraines triggered by hormones and sinuses. Just as I had told MY doctor, who hadn't listened and forwarded me on. Oh, well. At least I came out with boxes and boxes of samples to try).

Adah says we're sleepy. Time for bed for all of us.

FOs on Parade

Man! Thanks for the veggie comments in the last post! I love them, and they made me feel hungry just reading them, and I actually made a stir-fry and fed it to Lala, and it was good. Really good. Not just okay-for-vegetables good. This green shit might not be half-bad. Thanks for making me my own little recipe book!

So, in return, just for you all, I put on sweaters in a heat wave. Feel the love, baby, because I felt the heat. Okay, not really true, because I took these pictures at home early in the morning, after a twelve hour shift, and it was cool in the house. But still. I sacrifice, for you.

First up for the morning, we have the Autism Cause. Our own darling Greta wrote the pattern. Go HERE to purchase, all for a good cause.

Note Digit posing. Ham. The yarn is handspun Targhee from Maryland Sheep and Wolf, unknown vendor (Deanna, do you remember where I got it? I remember you commenting on it). Sproingy is the only word for this stuff. Okay, and bright is the other word that sproings to mind.

LOVE the dropped stitches. Note Digit still trying to get into the frame. Excellent cause, excellent pattern, and very, very fun.

Next on the Finished Object List:
Lara. (You'd think I'd save these up, and sprinkle them in posts to come, perfect blog fodder, but I'm kind of an all or nothin' gal.)

Specs:
Pattern: Debbie Bliss's Lara, size medium
Yarn: Handspun Rambouillet (came predyed)
Needles: 3US

I love the effect that knitting it side-to-side in one piece made on the self-stripeyness of it. And I have to say that I LOVE THIS PATTERN. I adore how I had absolutely NO idea how the sweater would be put together, had no idea most of the time whether I was knitting the back or the front. I just followed her instructions, and they were perfect. I cast off, shook the piece around a little, sewed two seams and an inch or three at the neckline, and I had a sweater.

A little truer to color here:

This was, I need you to know, the moment at which I became punch-drunk with tiredness from staying up all night on no sleep.

Things like this happen when I'm this tired:

Yep, that's Stef's smart One Skein Wonder. (And Becky, that's the Luscious Manos yarn you gave me for my birthday! Thanks, doll!) I'm a little dancey in this one. Couldn't help it. Had to shake.

   
My back porch had better light than indoors, so I was out there taking goofball shots at six in the morning, not caring a whit until my new neighbor drove down the driveway and shot me a whatthehell look. I did that whole straighten-the-face thing and pretended I was photographing the flowers. Then I set this up, which was kinda obvious it wasn't about the flowers, I suppose:

It's a little big, and I cast off TOO loosely, so it's got rather a ruffled appearance. I like it, though.

I like it so much I had to party a little more:

There's actually a whole montage on my camera, showing me making faces and snapping the shutter, and then snapping the shutter again immediately, photographing my goofy laughing face. It's fun to scroll through. Not so fun to blog about, but I couldn't resist one more:

And don't click on this next popup photo if you're made insecure by my sheer hotness. I mean it. Don't click. You will weep from the Hot Rachael.

G'morning

I am knitting lace.

It is the summer for it, isn't it? More on it later, but can I just talk about row eleven? The poorly written, problematic row eleven, which for the first 5 repeats NEVER worked (but did I rip it out? Heck, no. Don't you know me at all?) but now suddenly works just fine. Nine is a little wonky sometimes. I just add another stitch or purl two together and it evens out, and no one will ever notice, but still. I'd like to know how I did it wrong so many times (searching the internet for the errata, finding none, thinking a-HA! I'm the only one to find this error. And indeed I was. The error in my head).

Also, my tummy hurts. I've been eating well lately in the Battle of the Triglycerides, and apparently I don't do much eating well, or at least my stomach is telling me that. Suddenly asked to digest things like broccoli and brown rice and fruit, it's rebelling. Give me a nice coffee and a bagel with cream cheese, and I'm fine. Salad, not so much.

Plus, I don't cook, so I'm at a loss. I throw myself on your cooking knowledge, tines down. Can you help?

I need ways to eat veggies that don't suck. Also, I need methods that are EASY. Keep in mind that steaming veggies and then stir-frying them is do-able, but one step more than I'd like. In fact, I went to work last night with broccoli and beans in a bag, brown rice pre-made at home, tamari at hand to stir-fry up, and I was too lazy. Well, not technically true. I was strapped to the police radio most of the night and unable to dash to the kitchen to cook, so I ate premade salad and apples with peanut butter (peanut butter is a vegetable, right? In Rachaeland it SO is).

So. Tell me. What's your favorite, low-fat, easy way to eat those stupid things grown in the ground? (Ann confessed to me recently that she likes red bell peppers more than chocolate. That is just sick and wrong, darlings, much as we love her. Not as wrong, however, as when I told Lala about this, and she said, "Wow. What about red bell peppers WITH chocolate? That could be good!")

Please? And can you tell me why row eleven evened out while you're at it? Mysteries.

Mr. Fan

So. You all may never, ever see another finished object from me. I am knitting, I swear. I've finished the handspun Lara, and a shrug in support of autism, and the one-skein wonder, and I can't show them to you. Yes, all my cameras work. The objects fit. They're actually awfully nice.

But it's too effin' hot to put any of them on to take a picture in daylight. I mean, NORma. Damn.

I'm such a wuss when it comes to heat. I loved what Cuzzin Tom said the other day about barely being able to dab the strawberry ice cream to his lips -- that's the way I feel. Ice is too heavy to put in the glass.

But things HAVE changed for the better. I have made an astounding discovery. Well, I can't even claim credit for it. Lala gave me a stand-up fan (maybe she wanted me to quit whining -- I just realized that). And then at work, Marama made a stunning comment. She said she stood in front of her fan in the bathroom when she was getting ready for work.

And I said, "Oh, my GOD, I could MOVE the fan!"

Because I am just so amazingly intelligent, I had placed the fan next to the bed, in case I got hot while sleeping during my day-sleeps, when in fact that's usually the only time I'm comfortable in summer, because I'm lying on top of my sheets, with verra little on, not moving or thinking (do you ever wake up and feel your consciousness come back, and feel your temperature rise as you lie there thinking? Weird). But as soon as I get up and move an arm or a leg or god forbid walk a few steps, I'm an unhappy, grumpy sweatball. Ask Lala. She'll tell you. Normally cheerful to the point where strangers want to brain me in the post office, I turn into a whiny whimpering puddle. "It's hotttttt. Why does it have to be soooo hottttttt? It's still hottttttt. I'm too hottttttt. No. That's wrong. You're doing it wrong. Sheesh. Gah. I wanted the OTHER ice cream sandwich. It's hotttttttttt." I would stomp my feet in this state and throw myself on the floor, kicking and flailing, but that would be exertion, so screw that. I just whine and pout. Attractive, to be sure. (And this is in Oakland, where my interior house temperature never goes above 90, I'm sure. I would flipping fry in Texas or somewhere actually hot.)

Anyway. I moved the fan. I moved it into the living room while I was on the computer. Lo and behold, I checked email without getting all whiny and sweaty and horrible. Then after I got out of the bath, I took the fan into the bathroom and pointed it at myself while I put on makeup and did my hair. I was comfortable. I didn't have the rivulets of sweat running down my just-washed body that I usually do, Oh, I hate that.

I even took a nap last weekend after work on the couch in front of my new best friend, Mr. Fan, and I was a little... wait for it..... chilly! I loved it so much I didn't even turn it off. I just shivered and smiled.

This to say: Good luck getting me to take pictures of sweaters in July.

Happy Anniversary , sugar!

She's the one. Have I mentioned that? She is. I'm so freaking lucky I don't even let myself buy lottery tickets. That's not because I don't know how to work the machine, either. Quit it. I do, too. It's because it just wouldn't be fair to everyone else. I'm that lucky. And more.

Lazy Day

My fabulous sister brought me a copy of the new Harry Potter on Friday night, just after midnight, so I got to stroke the book jacket all night (it was pretty busy and I was doing other things that night at work, so I didn't get to start it then). And I've been busy since then with a Fun Filled Weekend, so I'm not much past page 100 yet, but I've decided the very nicest thing that can possibly happen on a Monday morning when your girl has to be at work is lying in bed, reading and dozing between Potter pages until noon. Or maybe until just after noon, if one were going to tell the whole truth. And maybe one only actually got up because she knew she could keep doing the same thing all day and then she'd NEVER sleep tonight. Or maybe not. You never know.

And hey, we saw Charlie and the Chocolate Factory last night. I've never seen the original movie except in snippets on TV, so it never made an impression on me, but I read both the Charlie books over and over and over and over when I was a kid, and damn. Tim Burton NAILED it. He got in my head and pulled the movie out, and I've never had that experience before. I have to admit, the Oompa-loompas were a little different in my mind and weren't so pimp-esque, but that was great. And Johnny, oh, Johnny. He's the hottest thing on the big screen, isn't he?

Yep. That's all I've got today. Lazy. I believe I'll go splash about in the tub now.

Write On

You know what I find interesting in blogland? I like to see how the circles meet and mix and separate. If you were around four- to five-ish years ago, you remember that blogland was a little town. You really could visit all the sites and have a relationship with 'em. I wasn't knitblogging back then, but I was blogging and eavesdropping on the knitters. I didn't want to be one -- the relationships looked if not clique-ish, then at least very,very tight.

But I blogged about my knitting once or twice. Then I left a couple of comments. You remember those ones, the tentative ones, the push of the Publish button that left you rather giddy. I did it! That writer's gonna read MY words! Then, oh, god, what if she comes to MY site? Lord, let's clean house.

Then I started forming the friendships. The town turned to a city. Multiple zip codes. Then the friend circle got a little unwieldy. There was that whole "shall I link or not" question that I finally solved by only linking family. And all the friend-circles linked their friends, and referenced them, and had their own in-jokes and taglines and slumber parties.

It reminds me of the rings in a tree trunk  -- you can almost date to the month when someone started blogging by the average ages of her/his circle's blogs. Newer bloggers get cozy with other newbies, fast. Older bloggers are tired of trying to keep up and lack that OCD drive to read every single post someone else writes, to memorize cat/DH/SO names and favorite colors. And they're fighting the guilt that comes with that. I have the greatest respect for the people who just read what they want and publish when they want and comment where they want and don't fret over it. Cari, that's you. (See? Tight linkage, yo. My girls know who they are.)

Why am I writing this? It's 0528 in the morning and I've been up for, like, forever, so you might know the answer to that better than I do. It's quite probable.

Maybe it's because I want to encourage the newer bloggers -- keep writing, keep commenting on the blogs you love. The connections can take a while to forge, but they happen, and they're strong and good and truly, deeply amazing when they do.

And maybe I'm writing this because I want you to forgive me when I don't comment as much, when I don't respond back to comments. I'm still reading, still blog-hopping and eating up the details and loving the new faces and appreciating the creative, thoughtful, intelligent comments, but I'm totally lazy. And less willing to feel guilty about it, so that's good. That's actually really good.

I started blogging with the goal of kick-starting my own writing. A little online CPR. And it's worked. I'm writing more now than I ever have, and it feels amazing. Gold stars for everyone!

And as usual, thank you.
xo

Lipids

My doc called me in this week because she found something in my recent labwork. It's not a very big deal, but I found out I have high triglycerides.

Now, my doctor is not Miss Bedside Manner, although she totally thinks she is. She's got a rockin' office, and her girls at the desk are all rockabilly and cute, and she wears Doc Martens and great glasses, and I would bet she's got a wife at home. It's the only doctor's office in the whole world that I've ever been asked on a form whether I was sexually active, and if so, was it with the same sex, opposite sex, or both. I LOVED that. I do everything in my power to like her. I totally should like her. She says nice things about my knitting. (And then she winces and says, "I'd never have time." No one does, lady. We just do it.)

But she's not helpful, and that's irritating. When I had pneumonia last year, I had to pull the info out of her. She literally said, "I'm not going to tell you what you'd have, because you'd just worry. Just take this medication and you'll feel better soon." We had to have a heart-to-heart in which I explained my buried-but-latent Type A-ness, and I HAD to know or I'd break into her office that very night to read my chart. And then there's the mess to clean up, all the glass on the floor, and then there's going to court in three months.... Messy. Better just to tell me my DIAGNOSIS.

When I went in for my migraines last month (I get a migraine once a month, three days into my period. Think it might be hormonal?), she didn't do anything but write me a referral for a neurologist. She said the neurologist would know better than she would.

Two days ago, when she saw me, she explained that I have really high triglycerides (almost 400, should be less than 150) although I have reasonable cholesterol levels. So she's putting me on meds and sending me to a cardiologist.

"But you said this isn't a big deal, why do I have to see a cardiologist?"

"Mostly it's for CYA. My own protection against malpractice. Besides, he talks about the heart all day long, and he likes it. I would be SO bored. But he'll be able to tell you more."

"Side effects?"

"Like none."

THAT made me a little suspicious. So I checked, and as long as gallstones aren't considered side effects (and why would they be? Such fun!), I'm all right.

Eh. But I'm going to go on the meds (low-dose gemfibozil) for now. I'll go back on the fish oil, which I had forgotten about (women! Take your fish oil for the love of god!) and cut back on the beer, maybe just a couple of bottles with Lala once a week, and cut down on the sugar (but not on the ice cream, are they fucking nuts?) and make more of my own food and get tested again in three months. We'll go from there.

Irritates the hell out of me that I could run a marathon and still be all hyper-lipid-y. For that matter, it irritates the hell out of me that I could run a marathon and still get winded walking up two flights of stairs. There is no justice.

It's hot. And really, compared to where some of y'all live, it's temperate. I'd guess it's about 80 outside, maybe. But in my house, during this my first summer, it's horrid and sticky. Okay, I'm horrid and sticky.

I've been doing this thing for about six months now, the Right to Write Poetry Project. On Monday nights, we go to the San Francisco County Jail and teach poetry (don't laugh - you know I'm a fiction gal and I'm floundering in this poetry stuff) to the female inmates. We read a little bit, talk about the published poem, then we write a little bit and read our poetry to the class. At the end of an eight week cycle, we collect their poems into a book, which we then self-publish and distribute to the women.

Last night we did a Bukowski poem which was about heat. Then we wrote about heat. And while my mind is usually creative and makes personal connections when thinking about heat (if you know what I mean), all I could think about last night was how I live in the wrong climate and I do the wrong things. I should live in Alaska. I thought about Canada, but their cold winters turn to hot summers. Unacceptable. Alaska it is. Or the Antarctic.

Also: I spin yarn from wool. I knit heavy sweaters from wool. I prefer wool and alpaca to all other fibers. I can barely hold wool in my lap without sweating while sitting outside in November, but it's all I really like. I'm almost done with Lara, a big ole piece of woolly knitting, done all in one piece so that the damn thing sits in my lap while I slick my way through it.

This house is muggy. I'm muggy. I'm also cleaning the house and sweating like a pig, so I'm dying here. Wait. I'm going to go kidnap my girl and go get iced coffee and watch little dogs trip people up with their cuteness. Yeah.

Amy and Steph

You know you're in for a good day when it starts like this:

Steph and Amy, both in town, both at the same hotel, both hanging out with ME. That's my big, happy smile. We went for good ole David's Jewish Deli in the theatre district for brunch, and then sent Steph off for an East Bay knit-in while Amy and I shopped.

I have to tell you, I've never been much of a shopper, but I'm learning. I think all the pretty girly prints and skirts are helping, as is the fact that I've been learning that just skimming the surface of Nordstrom while you're gossiping with your friend is just really FUN, whether you buy anything or not.

Of course, you might buy something. You might even buy the very same THING while at Anthropologie:

Isn't Amy the cutest? Lookee:

Steph and her guy Craig (a doll) are just as cute:

These were taken at my favorite bar, the Wild Side West, just before Lala joined us for dinner. We proceeded to eat our weight in sushi, and ohmigod was it good. Then I took them all dancing at a lesbian club with three different dance floors. For a while it was all junior high, girls standing on the sidelines watching the go-go dancers, talking with their friends and trying not to get caught looking at everyone else around them. But then it amped up and the dancing got going and the ogling was great. And my girl danced with me. Apparently she never was real big into dancin', but she's got some moves with me. That's all I know.

And yesterday was an un-official pyjama day, so nothing to report. I spun. I slept until 2pm. I re-watched The Incredibles. I feel fabulous.

Dirty Sheep

And on different a topic, does anyone understand dirty Scottish humor? I mean, I'm half-Kiwi, so I understand sheep jokes. I love sheep jokes. But this one is beyond the reach of my funnybone. The indomitable MaryB in Richmond sent me a card that neither of us get. If it's VERY dirty, I apologize.

    "Why eye ba ba black sheep,
    Who did this to you?"

    "Shearer."

Apparently it was with all the other dirty cards, so it must be good and bad. Anyone?

And this, from my final birthday hurrah on Tuesday:

All full of Indian food and happy.

Have a good, safe, peaceful weekend, all y'all.

Couldn't and didn't blog yesterday. It's just too much, too sad. And I don't know about you, but as an American I feel directly responsible in a small way. Even though I voted against him, even though I stand for everything he is trying to pull apart, I still live in this country and am counted as a citizen and pay his salary. America's actions in the past three years have guaranteed that this kind of atrocity will continue to happen. Just a question of when and where, and that's a hard thing to comprehend.

Aargh. It's too difficult to write about, and what do my small words mean, anyway? I meant to give you something light and upbeat today, the day after, something bright and hopeful. But I'm having a hard time thinking of anything that's not rather bleak.

So it's time to pull out the big guns. Isn't that what Americans do, after all?

Mom's homespun Cormo socks:

And these, from the last time I was home:

Doesn't the angle make them look small? Or is it that my little wheel is so big in these photos? Whatever, they do my heart good.

Love someone hard today. Okay?

* I have closed comments on this post, since I saw them going in the direction of heated argument. While that may be amusing on another day, I don't feel like arguing today. Peace, all. Now, go knit. Mwah.

My Drawn-Out, Photo Heavy Birthday

Is today. And I'm exHOSSted. I've been partying for days, and seriously, I'm all tuckered out. Diamonds on the soles of my shoes and all that. Let me recap:

Friday: The Whoreshoes played in Bolinas. We drove up in Lala's car, and little Miss Idaho had had another unfortunately timed butt problem (we won't discuss it -- it's gross, but it's okay per the vet, and just takes time to heal). But I can tell you authoritatively that nothing makes you giggle more in a car than having a diapered five-pound dog on your lap.

We had a room at the old saloon, Smileys, and we got into town early enough to walk to the beach and back, and there was time to sit up on the old saloon's porch while I knitted and the girls made their set list.

    Don't Joni and Camilla look like rockstars?

    Harriet keeps an eye on the townsfolk.

    And Miss Idaho recovers.

The show was so much fun -- there was much dancing and a lot of knitting at the bar, too. I got half a sock done between carousing on the dance floor. It's a small town, with all the reg'lars you'd find anywhere else, plus a special bunch of purely Bolinas people, people born and raised on the beach, in the water, eating organically and smoking the same way. The owner of the cafe opened up just for us after the show was over and made root beer floats and quesadillas for everyone, band and entourage, which at that point was about fifteen strong. I never knew a quesadilla could taste that good.

Crashed late that night, and overslept my surf-call, which was Camilla yelling from the front porch, which was okay, because it was overcast and foggy and cold and I didn't feel like learning to surf half-hungover. So we went to the beach and sat and watched, and I have to admit that by the end of the day I rather regretted not learning -- the waves were so low and mild that you could walk out to the break. I think it would be easier to learn in stand-able water. But another time. I did have a great time sitting on the blanket with friends, knitting on the Lara sweater, hugging on the Lala person.

    For warmth, you know.

    There were other knitters among us.

    With the Scary 4th of July Bear

So we got up and brushed off and walked back into town, meaning to head right for Dharma Trading to look at fiber dyeing supplies, but we ran into Steve and Alena who had been busking, but the busking turned into jamming.

   

    Note the wee dog.

So we got to Dharma Trading a little late that day....

The next day, Sunday, was my partay. I had invited everyone I liked that I could remember, and if you weren't invited, I just forgot, that's all, no ill intent. I thought a few people would show up for dinner, but dude. Twenty people showed! We had the whole back side of Chachacha, and part of the bar.

But all this skin is part of my party, so I was happpppy. (Note how hot Lala looks in her blue suit, talking to Camilla.....) I made a rule that everyone had to dress UP (since, really, when do you get to really dress up anymore besides company Christmas parties, and those blow, we all know), and everyone did. I was thrilled. Everyone looked like a million fucking bucks. It was a beautiful thing.

Then there was dancing and seriously expensive drinks with umbrellas over at the Tonga Room, where the band is on a floating boat in the middle of a lagoon and there's a thundershower every hour. Then we moved on to Encore Karaoke on California Street, where we had a BLAST. As someone said (bless me if I can remember who), "all your friends are good looking AND they can all sing!). Well, yeah. Of course. There was a great moment when Nathania was up, singing an Alannis Morrisette song, and our whole table turned around saying, "Is that really her? Really?" She's fab. And Celia? Great voice AND she yodeled. Just for me. The entire bar went nutso. And she brought knitting:

    My gorgeous sis in the background.

    Oh, yeah.

We closed the bar down. Oy. So we got to bed REALLY late. The next morning, the 4th of July, we woke early after about four hours of sleep and drove up to the Russian River where we went canoeing!

Have you ever done that? Really? Why haven't I? You get in the canoe, spend the next four-ish hours going down the river, stopping to eat and play in the water, and then you paddle some more. At the end, you get out and take the shuttle back up to your car. Totally worth the $30. Burke's Canoes. I'm telling you. No photos, since I was convinced we would capsize and I didn't want to risk my baby, little Treo, getting wet.

The best part of the canoeing was that I learned I'm a bigbig stud. Apparently knitting has given me more arm muscles than I thought, because whenever I paddled, I spun the canoe. I think Lala was a little irritated at first. But eventually we traded spots and I was in the back, steering more than paddling. Just floating down, leisurely. One of my new favorite things to do.

And then when we got home, fireworks! Seen from the Emeryville marina, no parking problems, just walked in and watched the Oakland, Emeryville and Berkeley fireworks. I heart fireworks. Majorly. I can't even tell you how stupidly giddy they make me.

And today is the actual birthday, and I'm being lazy and not doing anything I don't want to, so I'm going to spin and read and take a bath and later go out to dinner. It's the most drawn-out, best birthday EVER. And Lala got me this:

Exactly, prezackly what I wanted, lusted for, and couldn't justify buying. Oh, she's good. And Mom sent me this:

which has patterns like this:

I'm so lucky. I know it, think about it, every single dern day. I do. And thanks for reading. Y'all are a great part of my birthday, too. Thirty-three! That's three times my favorite number! Woooot!

Sister Bethany signs off her almost-two-year-long road trip. She's finally put down roots. (Go tell her she can still blog when the mood takes her, and bloglines will notify us, because she should write more because she's GOOD at it. But that's just her older sister speaking. Proud of her.)

Bloggin' Fool

But I just can't stop. I just found this article on how PETA is encouraging an anti-Australian-wool campaign, which made me raise my eyebrows in that "oh, yeah?" way, but then I read it, and it's horrifying, and my very own Christina of Article Pract is listed as one of the few in the nation who are doing the right thing.

That's rad.

Weekend!

Bathroom update: They say they fixed it. Let's hope, shall we? It's just weird how they can cut a hole in your ceiling, do things, then patch it back up. That doesn't seem right, somehow. It's like skin. It shouldn't just be opened up like that.

He asked, "Do you have the right paint so I can cover up the patch?"

"Nope."

"Well, do you think the owner has the paint?"

"Pretty sure she doesn't." Nine months later, still WOOT! Me! Owner! They'll be back next week to paint the ceiling all one color. Along with the garbage disposal repair-guy. Don't ask. It's been a week.

And I've just been chugging along on Lara. I remember sitting in Cari's living room, watching Iris work on hers. She said, "I have no idea how this works, but I'm hoping it will be a sweater when I'm done." And it was, so she is to be admired.

She's so right. I have no idea what part I'm working on, since it's done side-to-side, and it's Debbie Bliss and she thinks that schematics are tools of the devil. (What is so freaking hard about adding a line drawing? I'm missing something.) I might be working on the back right now. Or a collar. Whatever. If you know, don't tell me. I want it to be a surprise.

I'm using handspun, and I've had NO time to spin, so I'm about to run out of yarn. I'd really like time to spin.

But alas, this weekend promises to be a busy one -- I've got five days off, and there's a show in Bolinas tonight I want to catch, and I think I might try surfing tomorrow for the first time (although I'm legendary for chickening out and sitting on the beach knitting instead), and then Sunday there's a little party I might attend, and Monday I'm going canoeing on the Russian River, and Tuesday is a birthday kind of day. I might spin then. Wait, I see spinning time on Sunday, too. Yay. That means banjo/dobro/lap steel/computer video games time for Lala, so I'm sure she'll be happy to hear about me scheduling spinning time. I actually told sister Christy yesterday that I was going to just sit and spin. She laughed at me, as was right.

So. Have a good, busy, fun weekend, and just tell me, who's a sweet wee dog?