AdviceDecember 28, 2012

I have all the machines running (dishwasher, laundry, Roomba, kitty litter robot) and I thought I'd drop in real quick-like to tell you the amazing things I've learned this year. 

1. If you need to leave the house in a cat-haired sweatshirt, no makeup, and hair that was washed three days ago, wear the reddest lipstick you own. You'll look like you planned it. 

2. A good bra is worth every single fucking penny you spend on it, even if that is eight thousand pennies. 

3. If you have a day you want to spend doing All The Things (as I so frequently do), do yourself a favor and break it down in hour blocks. One hour to write, one hour to clean, one hour to sew. Honor this agreement. At the end of the day (I just did this today for the first time, and it worked so well I can't stand it), you will have actually done all the things. Maybe you didn't complete all the things, but then again maybe you didn't go all A.D.H.D. organizing your pens during the time you could have been sewing had you not lost your damn mind. 

4. When you need help, get it. (When in doubt, reread number 4.) There are people who just live to help, who are waiting for you to ask (this may not be your mother/husband/coworker. You might have to hire someone. That's okay. That's actually preferable in many cases). If you get a lemon, try someone else.

5. THIS IS THE MOST IMPORTANT ONE. I don't know how we don't all know this. Hire a skywriter. The Californians don't know this, people. This is practically life-or-death out here in Oakland.
     When your avocado is ripe on the table (when you squeeze it with your thumbs it says, "Oooh!" not "OW!"), put it in the fridge. It will last for, like, forever. And when you cut into it, it will be perfectly green inside, not all brown and mushy like they are when you've missed The Day You Should Have Cut It. I learned this from the woman at the avocado stand on Highway 46, and I was gobsmacked. So obvious. Come back and thank me. I'm sure you will. (And I'm sure you already how to ripen things faster, esp. avocados: put them in a closed brown paper bag.) 

What did you learn this year that you should have already known? 

The Lucky OneDecember 15, 2012

Yesterday morning, I got off work after having a terrible 48-hour tour in which I barely slept. I think I got about four hours of sleep, total, on my nap breaks. I was a zombie, and I was fighting a migraine because of it. 

But I refused to cancel my Debauched Sewing Circle that was coming to our house at 11:30. I got a tiny nap and got up and made coffee (sweet, sweet coffee -- I'm only drinking it every once in a while now, when I'm headachey, and it's so GOOD it hurts). 

Veronica Wolff, Sophie Littlefield, and Nicole Peeler (in a guest appearance from Pittsburgh!) arrived on the doorstep, and the clatch began. Veronica had never used a sewing machine and wanted to learn. And while I know my way around a bobbin (despite learning the other night on Twitter that I had been putting it in UPSIDE DOWN for thirty years, thus my constant frustration with the jacked-up bobbin thread), what you might not know is Sophie is a triple-black-belt in all things domestic. 

At show-and-tell: 

The quilt top she made before we got our Wonder-Woman topped tree, but which would look SO GOOD on our walls. I'm just saying. 

Look! Vero sewing her first seam! She was awesome! 

Nicole, well, she doesn't sew, and she'd just gotten off the plane. Luckily, we had things for her do, too. 

Advanced Adah-wrangling

And as I flitted from the front porch sewing room back through to the kitchen, I was filled with such joy. This, perhaps, was what my ideal life looked like: Casually hosting friends in the home I've made with the person I love. 

(THIS is why I'm happy to be on the anti-depressants (if you haven't read that post, it's here). THIS is why I'm so glad that I can feel joy again, can connect again, can sit around and really talk and not feel as if I don't belong, which was such a terrible part of the depression.) 

As we sewed though, my exhaustion migraine got worse and worse. By the time we were leaving the house to go to our next adventure, I was barely holding it together, so when we got to Sophie's, I took more pills and she put me to bed in her dark bedroom. 

And the day got even better. I know that's weird, but as I dug my fingers into acupressure points and did the breathing that helps, I could hear laughter from the other room. Juliet Blackwell had arrived by then, and I could hear her infectious giggle, and I could hear Sophie chopping things, and the Dog's whapping tail, and Nikki's Chicago accent, and I felt safe and warm and happy and loved, so much so that the pain abated within 90 minutes, and the real honest-to-God-kill-me-now migraine never landed.

It has always been one of my favorite things in life, being by myself in another room, listening to people I love talk and laugh. Soemtimes I sneak away from parties just to do that. I love being the one washing the dishes  in the kitchen after a dinner party. I try to refuse help. I just want to stand there, barefoot, doing the cutlery by hand, listening to people laugh. There aren't words to describe how happy that makes me. 

By the time our significant others arrived for dinner at Sophie's, I was at the table with everyone, pounding Coca-colas (more sweet, sweet caffeine!).

When I was a little girl and looked ahead to my fabulous imaginary life, it looked like this, I think. As I grew up, I didn't think that fantasy existed. I thought I'd just been silly and naive. But it does happen, and honestly, it regularly happens, in part because I'm lucky, and in part because I've gone out and made it happen. I've surrounded myself with intelligent, driven, kind people who for some reason love the authentic self I reveal to them. We take care of each other. 

That's a really great feeling. I'm not sure what's better than that. 

A Knitting PostDecember 7, 2012

Digit - You know what I wanna do? Check it out. Wait for it...

Adah - HEYYYYY!

Digit - Wut. 

 

Knitting News

I'm in the knitting doldrums. 

I'm not sure how I got here. I've been here before, of course, and the knitting wind eventually picked up and blew me to the right merino shore, but I'm not enjoying it. I'm working on a blue cabled cardigan which I'm already predicting won't be right. I'm already mad at it (and myself) because I majorly screwed up and had to rip two weeks of work (you know what that is in writing-a-novel terms? A hot minute. Don't know why it's bothering me so much.)

I don't know why I think it's not going to be right, except I fear it might end up too big. But I've been around this particular block enough times to know that I never really know. The sweater I thought would never fit me because I was making it too small ended up being the one sweater I've worn most this year. Sweaters I'm sure I'll love the whole time I'm knitting them end up wrong, and I never see it coming. (I do love this year's Mischke -- I like to put the top down at night in the cold, foggy air, and wear it while I run the seatwarmer.) 

But mostly, I've been just . . . reluctant to knit. I look at my knitting bag and I sigh. I don't WANT to knit on that blue cardigan. I want to START something, something else, right now. 

I've assuaged the startitis by making a few small things (socks*! Did you remember how satisfying it is to finish something in a few evenings? I didn't!). I find that every year around the 6th of December, I decide to make all the things for everyone. It's ridiculous. And I always fail. But yesterday I literally used my break at work to make an emergency run to the yarn store for hat yarn. And I have a gajillion sewing projects I want to make. 

I did make a purse. It's no great shakes, but it's a good prototype, and I know what I want to do differently next time. Based on the Phoebe free pattern/tutorial. 

And I still don't know what I actually want to be knitting. I would love to be deep into a complex shawl that I've mostly memorized. You know that time? When you don't need the chart, and you think you'll be knitting it for years? I love that part. (Funny, when I trained for that marathon, I liked the mid-distances best. Of a 20 mile run, I love miles 12-15. I love being in the middle of a novel, too, stuck in the thick of it.) 

What I don't want to do is start something that requires great concentration to begin (like a shawl). I don't want to be in the beginning of a sweater. What I should do is pick up that damned blue sweater (THIS pattern for the curious) and finish it because just maybe it will be all right. I have to remember that during every book, I'm sure I'm the worst writer in the world. I know I'll never pull it off. Everyone will know I'm a fake. 

Then I just keep writing. 

I guess I'll just keep knitting. (I honestly thought I was going to write this blog-post to give myself permission to start something new and awesome. I didn't know I was going to lecture myself. Way to go, me?) 

HEY, SCREW THAT! A couple of you just reminded me what's important -- that I love what I'm doing. I'm going to start something else. Just as soon as I figure out what that is. 

*That sock up there is Amy Klimt's self-striping sock yarn. Her yarn is FABULOUS, and the stripes are to die for, and she can dye any colorway for you. She would have to, because [ahem] I just bought the last skein of it on her Etsy shop. 

The Romantic AnswerNovember 25, 2012

DAMN, you all had the best suggestions for what to say when I'm asked what I write (so that I don't have to defend myself from the Dread Eye Roll of Doom). Seriously, there were too many good ones. Using a mish-mash of all of them, I'm going to say, "I write romance, mainstream literary fiction, and memoir." Which, I find with delight, is all true. And I'm proud of every bit so any eye-roller can just bite me in the tuckus. 

We do have a winner, though! For all the people I meet at parties whom I know I don't care about, the people I chat with in line at the post office, etc., I'm going with Erika's GENEEYUS solution:

No need to enter me into the drawing, since romance isn't really my thing. But I had to say, I get that same reaction from people when I follow up "I write for a living" with "online content" or "professional blogger" or any other dumb thing that has come out of my mouth. I'm pretty sure that people deflate no matter what you say. Unless you are literally JK Rowling, it's not "real" writing to a lot of people. (And I bet even JK Rowling still gets that deflated "Oh, you write CHILDREN'S books" reaction from time to time.) All of which is leading up to what I personally tell people, when I know the conversation is meaningless. If it's just a barista I'll never see again, or someone in line at the grocery store, or whatever, I tell them "I'm a project manager." It shuts them down immediately. I have never once been asked a follow-up question. It's become my standard go-to answer. I try not to laugh as I watch them scramble to change the subject, because no one ever wants to talk about project management. (And it's not untrue... I do manage a lot of projects. It's just that they are all MY projects. But the motions are the same.)

Isn't that brilliant? I love it. 

But since she's not in the drawing, I'm going to randomly draw three winners for a book each: Laurie M., Tara, and Mary B. (who always had a lot of votes for her answer: "You know how some books are all about violence and death? Mine are all about romance and sex. I like sex a lot better. Don't you?")

Winners have been emailed, and THANK YOU all who played. 

New Dresses! 

I made some! I'm still perfecting that smock-like pattern of mine that I drafted, and I'm getting closer each time. 

In honor of NaNoWriMo! 

I love this one. It's light-weight enough for summer and flip-flops, but looks good with dark tights and boots for winter. I've kind of decided these dresses are going to be my uniform. I do love me a uniform, having worn one at the day job for so long. No thought! No decisions! Just make sure it's clean!

And now I'm off to eat some more turkey. Fourth day in a row. I am now officially Over Turkey. (This is why we only eat it once a year, by the way. Because we gorge ourselves once and get sick of it, only remembering it again the next year. Turkey breeders should only breed tiny little turkeys, one per house, and then we'd eat it all year. Thus speaketh me.)

Signed Books for the Holidays! November 21, 2012

Hey, y'all! 

This year, you can order signed copies of my books! Dude, I'm super excited about this. I really think that in terms of the writer's job, after writing "The End," there is no better feeling than signing your books. I get the BIGGEST thrill out of it. Also, I get to help you give a fun gift, and a great independent bookseller gets the business. Yay! 

So if you've liked one of my books and have thought about giving a copy to someone, this is the time to get it signed for them. I'll write whatever you'd like me to! Even, "Dear Aunt Joanne, Maybe this will spice up your nights since Uncle Bill's been in lockup for you-know-what. Love you!" And then we'll mail it to your Aunt Mavis, the one who can't STAND Aunt Joane, and it will be fun for everyone! 

Or maybe YOU just want a signed copy or two. Do it! I'd love to autograph a book to you (I'll even throw in some bookmarks! Woo!). 

I've teamed up with Books, Inc. in Alameda (the very first store in which I ever saw a book of mine in the wild), and they'll do the wrapping and the mailing. All you have to do is give them a call (if there's any confusion at first, as we get it going, ask for the manager, Nick.) 

HOW TO ORDER

Call Books, Inc. at 510-522-2226, and tell them which title(s) you like to order to be signed. Tell them to whom the books should be inscribed (include your brief message if you have one). Give them your mailing address and billing info (list price varies by book, additional wrapping and shipping costs $8.50, every book after that is $2). That's it! Easy! 

Deadline: December 15th, so books can get there on time. 

They'll also ship to an alternate address so you can send a wrapped book directly to Uncle Bill's lawyer if you want to (I'd be happy to include a note in those packages that aren't going directly to the buyer saying who sent them the gift.) 

SADLY, this is for US residents only. (If you live out of the US and DO want a signed copy, you can always mail me your book, postage paid both ways, and I'd be happy to do that, but it's practically cost-prohibitive, so I hesitate to mention it.) 

ALSO

On a different note, I just wanted to publicly thank our Fairy Godmother for sending us to the Writing Prom, the Night of Writing Dangerously. 

I got a new dress for it and felt like the luckiest girl at the ball. Thank you. 

*Oh, and winners for the books in the last post will be announced in the NEXT post (and by email). I was just too excited about this today. :) 

Romance (and Sexy Giveaway!)November 14, 2012

You know I love romance. I'm proud of writing it. No more does romance bear its stigma of ripped bodices and rape. Romance is GOOD. Romance today is written and read by smart women who like being in charge of their own lives. 

But I'm tired of men (and some women) giving me that look when they ask me what I write and I say romance. Strike one: Romance. Strike two: Knitting. I can see them actually deflate when I say it, and while I know men are not my target audience*, I hate the combined emotion I feel of defensiveness and embarrassment. I shouldn't feel that. Obviously, it's MY own hangup. But I want a better answer.

Help!

I'm looking for a great, one line response to memorize that says: I write romance. Before you get that look, you smug bastard, tell me what's wrong with fiction that celebrates a woman's autonomy and her right to make her own career, sexual, and relationship choices. 

Except without that defensive second sentence. I try to simply say, proudly, "I write romance and memoir," but as soon as they get that look, I trail off into something like, "You know, popular fiction...like regular fiction, but more for women, oh, look at the bartender's hat!" 

Lyssa won the Vickie Howell book, and she's been notified, but I LOVE giving things away, so:

I'm giving away three romance books I've recently enjoyed to three readers who give me the best answers to above dilemma in comments. These are finely written books/novellas that I know you'll enjoy and that I'm happy to recommend. 

(Bonus: they're available inexpensively in e-format.)

(Double bonus, and I just realized this: they're all very spicy! If you don't like reading explicit sex, you might not be into these, but hey, if you enjoy reading me, you're already there. The last two are erotic novellas (with PLOT, people!), and the first is a romance novel heavy on the sex.) 

About Last Night, Ruthie Knox. This was lovely and very fun, and I had a hard time putting it down. It's set in England! And it's about a textile curator at the V&A! She works with knitting!  

Cass: Taken in the Stacks, Jami Malroux. This is HOT. If you didn't think you could marry hot-tamale plot with lyrical prose, this is where you find you're happily wrong, my friend. (Set in a bookstore. Really. Meow.) 

Bound by Desire: The Acadian Curse, Rebecca Lyndon Paranormal erotica (which is not normally my thing since I tend to naturally hear bumps in the night), this is such a super fun, delicious ride, and only induces dreams of the sexy kind, not nightmares. The characters are real, and the stakes are high. 

Advice on my dilemma gratefully accepted! 

* Generally speaking. Hi, Jeremy! Hi, Mel! Hi, Garret!

** PS - I'm going offline for five days. A little digital sabbatical, so I'll draw the winner when I get back.

Recipe and Giveaway!November 7, 2012

It's recipe day! What else is a blog for but to store the recipes you've cobbled together over the years to serve as an aid to your rapidly failing memory?

And this is a two-fer! At the end, I'm going to ask for your favorite way to cook either vegetables or meat, and if you comment, you get a chance to win Vickie Howell's new book: STEP IT UP KNITS, a cute look at accessories with an eye to gaining new knitting skillz. 

When I was a teenager, we lived on a teeny-tiny island called Saipan. Floating in the space between the Philippine Sea and the Pacific at the edge of the Marianas Trench, it had many Filipino residents, and my family fell in love with the food. Every Sunday, we'd go to church which had no walls and was open to the ocean breeze. We could see the waves breaking from our pews.

Saipan Community Church, Susupe

After holiday services, we'd step outside from the end of the pew and take our place at the groaning tables full of of glistening pancit, crunchy lumpia, and my favorite, chicken adobo. Our Ates would load our plates, and we'd eat sitting cross-legged on the sand. 

Lately, I'm all about easy meals. And lord, this one is easy. It's the perfect way to try cauliflower rice if you haven't yet (you do need a food processor for this). Now, I couldn't quite imagine adobo without rice. I'm not eating grains at the moment, and I didn't believe that cauliflower (a vegetable I've always hated) could substitute in ANY way for it. Guess what? It does. I actually like the cauliflower rice more than the real stuff. 

Bonus: This is anti-inflammation diet and Paleo diet friendly. (Psst - I started eating well to feel better, but I'm sitting here in a size 10 pair of Dickies for the first time in, um, memory? I don't think I've been this weight since I was twenty-one. So that's something.) 

Chicken Adobo

This recipe reminds me of my mother's, so I'm fond of it. There are approximately one thousand variations of this. Of course, I think mine is the best.

4-5 lbs chicken thighs, bone-in

1 c white vinegar

1 c soy sauce

A head (or more!) of garlic, peeled and crushed. 

1 tsp black peppercorns

Marinate the above for at least an hour. (The more time the better. I like about five hours if possible, but often only do an hour.) Then bring to boil, cover, reduce to simmer for about thirty minutes. Uncover and raise the heat a touch, cook for another twenty minutes or so, until chicken is done. (The meat should be almost falling off the bone at this point.) 

Cauliflower Rice

So easy! And fast! Make it at the very last minute. 

Two heads cauliflower

2 tbs olive oil

1 tsp red chile flakes (or more to taste)

1 tsp ginger powder

Salt to taste

Cut the cauliflower into florets, add to food processor. In approximately 10-15 one-second bursts, chop the cauliflower into pieces that resemble rice (no more, you don't want this going mushy). I usually have to stop the food processor, carefully pull out the bigger pieces that refuse to chop, dump out the rice bits, and toss the big pieces back in. Repeat till all the cauliflower is done. Over medium-high heat, heat the olive oil. Once it's hot, add the red chile flakes, ginger powder (or fresh! but that's not as quick), and salt. Add the cauliflower and fry it up for about four or five minutes.

Serve the chicken adobo over the rice, and add some of the marinade over the top. Then let your eyes roll back in your head in pleasure.  

Servings: Lots. (6-8ish, feel free to halve the recipe)

DRAWING

Now! Leave me your fave way to fix veggies or meat--you know, that easy recipe that you don't have to look up, the one that always tastes good. Simple is best here, since I'm avoiding sugar, dairy, grains,processed ingredients, potatoes, beans, and tomatoes. I know, a challenge, right? It's not as hard as I thought it would be.

(Example: I've recently discovered making sweet potato fries in the toaster oven! Slice fry-shaped, toss with olive oil and salt, bake for 50 minutes or so, till they start to blacken. Serve with mayo/chipotle powder/garlic dip.)

One lucky commenter will win a copy of Vickie Howell's new book! I'll draw on Monday. 

The Great Grocery Store WalkoutNovember 4, 2012

You guys, I can't thank you enough for the kindnesses in your comments to the last post. If you haven't read those comments, they're worth casting your eye over. I couldn't respond to all of them, but I did to as many as I could, and I've been having the most amazing conversations with people about depression and how it affects all of us. Really, every adult human being has been depressed at some point. Why don't we talk about it? 

Several of you mentioned The Great Grocery Store Walkout. I've done it myself. A cart full of goods, left behind, the ice cream melting, as you bolt because it's just too fucking difficult to decide between the expensive soft toilet paper and the recycled TP that feels like birthday streamers. I once panicked in Ikea and ended up buying a convertible, because it was easier. True story.

Reader Sandy had a good 'un for me. As a reward for being the most awesome readers in the whole wide world, I give you (with her permission) a great story that Sandy shared that had me rolling.

 

My ex sister in law came over from Scotland about 25 years ago.  She came from a little fishing village that had the old fashioned baker, butcher, post office, etc.  Small little village.  Think smaller.  Think about knowing everybody.  When you wanted to do errands you grabbed your basket and went out to get a few things.  However, her job had her moving temporarily to a suburb of Chicago where she subsequently met my brother in law and ended up marrying him.  Anyway -- I worked at the place she was temporarily transferred to and I was asked by HR to kind of show her around and make sure she knew how to get to the grocery store, put gas in her car, etc.  Kind of a helper to the US way of life, so to speak.

So, I took her to the closest grocery store to her apartment.  Costco.  We got a parking spot, grabbed the big giant cart, and into the store we went.  We got about halfway into the store and she had a full on panic attack!  She was like GET ME OUT GET ME OUT!  We abandoned the cart and I got her to the car.  She sat there trying to gather herself and said "Hen!"  (Scots call all women Hen)  "Hen!  I just need a wee bite to eat!  What in God's Name is that place we were just in?"  So I had to explain the concept of Costco to her and that it was closest to her apartment and I was so sorry and I thought there was less chance she would get lost if we went there.  (Suburb of Chicago.  Think lots of traffic.  Now think more.  Then think about her driving on the wrong side of the road...)

She said:  "I'll starve first.  I cannee go back in there.  I cannee."

So I found a little 7-11 and took her in there.  I think she ate Slurpees and overcooked hot dogs for about three months before she'd got the nerve to venture out to find a Safeway.

Grocery stores can slay the most intelligent well rounded women, I tell you!

 

How much do I love this? So much. Thanks, Sandy. And thank you, all. 

 

Depression. There. I Said It.November 2, 2012

If you've been hanging 'round here at Chez Yarnagogo for any length of time at all, you'll know I'm predictable in the way that every six months or so, I end up writing something that some might think is too personal (and yep, this complaint does land every now and again in my inbox. Hey, if  you don't like what I write about it, I will stop coming to your house and holding the words in front of your eyes. All you have to do is ask. I thought you liked it when I did that). 

This, my friends, is gonna be personal. 

When I had my hysterectomy in May, I intended to go on estrogen-replacement therapy. I was 39, and after doing research, I'd decided it was the sensible choice for me. Unfortunately, it turned out that I have an extremely rare and potentially fatal form of estrogen-dependent angioedema, and can't take estrogen in any form (no supplements, no soy, no phyto-, no bio-identical, nothin'). 

So I hit menopause like a juice glass hits a tile floor. 

The doc said I could expect all the symptoms, but I haven't had one single hot flash or a moment of crazy emotional rage. I actually started sleeping better.

But my only other symptom was a doozy: Depression. 

I was sad, yo. And at first, I didn't recognize it for what it was. I just called it brain fog. I couldn't connect with anyone, couldn't seem to hold an intelligent conversation. I went to a writing convention and cried my way through it, thinking I was just being overly sensitive. Everything was out of focus and so difficult. During that time simply going to the post office was too hard for me to figure out. I felt bone-tired and got more exhausted every day. At home, I started sleeping in, something I never do. One day I was in bed looking at the noon-time sun reflected onto the ceiling, unwilling to move. I thought to myself, Why am I lying in bed? This is what depressed people do. I'm not depressed. Thud. Wait for it . . . Oh. 

I talked to my doctor, and even though I failed her Depression Quiz (there's a fun afternoon!), I rejected her recommendation for medication. I also rejected therapy. Now, I LOVE therapy and sign up for it whenever I think I can use an intelligent outside perspective on a confusing or difficult situation, but this was not situational depression. Love life was good. Family was good. Friends were good. Both jobs were good. I was happy with my life. I just wasn't happy, and the move from always happy to unbearably sad took exactly the four weeks it took for the estrogen to leave my body. So I knew it wasn't therapy I needed.

Now, I know I'm lucky. I don't know from depression.I've had situational depression, the kind of depression that comes from life's hardships like losing a loved one. Grief happens. Depression in those cases is natural and (usually) eases with time. But me? I'm one of those happy-chemicals people. And I've always, ALWAYS said that if my happy-chemicals changed for any reason, I'd march myself up to the pharmacy line and get me some of the good stuff. I understood in layman's terms the idea of serotonin reuptake, and I'd studied the way serotonin, norepinephrine, and dopamine function in the brain. I held no judgment, none at all, for people who chose to assist their brains' chemistry and functionality. 

When my joy and positivity plunged along with my hormone levels, I was astonished to find I totally rejected this option for myself. 

Without knowing it, I'd bought into the stigma that medication brings along with it. I'm not sure if it comes from having a mother who didn't take a single Vicodin after her hysterectomy because she could tough her way through it, but I was surprised by how desperately I wanted to try to fix my depression myself first. 

(I realize that some of you are, or have been, clinically depressed for a great part of your life. My friends, I can't imagine your struggle. I fought it for a few months, and so often I thought, This is TERRIBLE. They aren't kidding! I commend you for everything you've ever tried or done to make yourself feel better. It's so hard, and I only got a taste. Please know that I understand I'm very lucky to have been born with the positive chemicals, so lucky that I haven't had to struggle more with this in my life.) 

I told my doc I wanted to fix myself. I read books, lots of 'em. I learned our brains have to have exercise in order to keep the right levels of serotonin/norepinephrine/dopamine. Ha! Exercise! That's what you feel like doing when you're so sad you can't get out of bed. But I started running again, because I am nothing if not stubborn. I took it like medicine, trying to exercise every day, even though I hated it. 

I'd already changed my diet, eliminating dairy, sugar, wheat and all other grains, as well as the nightshades (potatoes, tomatoes, eggplants). I didn't think I could get any healthier in that respect, but I did cut back on my optional sugar-of-choice, wine (which is, obviously, a depressant).  

I waited to feel happier. Instead, I just ate well, ran around the block and on the treadmill and kept crying. I hid this from you pretty well, didn't I? I might have dropped a mention or two of it on twitter and here at the blog, but I'm pretty damn adept at functioning as a happy-looking individual even when I'm not. No one at work had any idea. Many friends didn't know.

I hid it because I'm known for being happy. Someone has nicknamed me "Sunshine" at every job I've ever had. It was a huge part of who I was, and I was proud of it. (I wonder now if I'd have been so proud had I known that happiness was so dependent on my hormones?) And I hid my depression because I knew--it had been drilled into me from all parts of society--that being depressed is wrong, and trying to fix it with medicine is EVEN WORSE. It would mean that I was crazy and/or incompetent and/or untrustworthy. I am none of those things. So my knee-jerk reaction was NO THANK YOU NO DRUGS FOR ME BACK OFF NOW. 

But a month into trying to fix myself with diet, supplements, acupuncture, yoga, talking to friends, and exercise, I broke. I called my doctor and, literally through sobs, asked for the pills. I went on Celexa that day. Two days into the treatment, I stopped crying. Two weeks into the treatment, I felt better. Six weeks in, I felt normal again. 

It's been a few months now, and this---> I feel normal. 

Normal again! I'm not living in a haze. I can communicate with people. I sing again (the fact that I hadn't been singing had been so weird. I didn't sing in the car or while working in the kitchen. I hadn't even chalked it up to depression, I just had the odd thought perhaps I was getting too old to sing all the time. So it was very, very nice when the singing came back). Now I feel wild bursts of joy at random moments, just like I used to. I also get stressed out and overtired and snappish and grumpy, all mixed in again with my regular, even-keeled mood. 

Normal.

The thing I'd most worried about when going on the medicine--that my creativity would suffer somehow, would change--hasn't happened. The only thing that's changed is that I sit at my writing eagerly again, instead of dragging myself to the page. My words come out sharper because I'm sharper. And I'm still completely me. I just feel like I put on the right emotional glasses and things are in focus. 

Sure, I'm nervous hitting Publish on this post. My boss reads my blog, for Pete's sake. (Hi, Denise!) Especially in my day-job field, the world of police and fire, being on depression meds was really stigmatized for a long time. You could lose your job for it. That coloring made an indelible impression on me. I'm also nervous because of that volunteer job I really want--what if they read this post and think I'm nuts? Yep, super nervous. But I've never regretted sharing myself here, ever. So I'm gonna hit that Publish button and squeeze my eyes shut tight and maybe take a little nap and have a smoothie later. 

This is what I think: let's talk to people about depression, directly and honestly. Tell those you love you need help with figuring this shit out. Encourage those you love to accept the help they need. IT'S NOT WRONG to be depressed, and there are things that can truly help you feel better. (And the thing I hear most when I do bring it up? "Oh, I don't want to go on that, it might affect my sex life." Dude, your LIFE is affecting your sex life when you're depressed. Don't buy that line. Sex is a lot more playful and fun when you're happy.) 

I deserved to feel better. I deserved to find the things that would help. For me, it's diet, exercise, and medicine. You deserve to figure out what makes you feel better.

Big love.

Kindle Daily Deal! October 25, 2012

Just a drive-by to say that today (Thursday) and today only, my memoir, A LIFE IN STITCHES, is the Kindle Daily Deal, available for just $1.99. 

Woo! 

Sunday RewardsOctober 21, 2012

Winners of the raffle have been drawn, and we made almost a thousand dollars for the George Mark House! Thank you, friends, with all my heart. (Emails are going out now, more will go out as people pick their favorite of my sweaters.) 

Now, for your rewards! 

This is a whole pile of ridiculous cute. I don't know how we work under these conditions. 

Lala bought a cat hammock. (It's stated aim is to "reduce clutter." How? By putting away our cats?) I bet her five bucks we wouldn't get a cat in it. Within four minutes of its installation, I'd lost that money. 

And rather than give you the sloths or kittens I promised you, I give you something better. If you haven't seen this, enjoy. If you have, watch it again. Your heartrate will go down and your hopes for the world will rise, I promise.

Isn't that just the heart-happiest video? I swear it's my favorite of all the millionty-billionty videos I've watched in the wee hours of the night. 

What's your heart-happiest video? Wanna share it in a Sunday come-together meetin' here at Yarnagogo? 

I Have Lost My Damn MindOctober 15, 2012

Again. (I'm aware this might not be a surprise to you.) 

I had almost completely decided not to do NaNoWriMo this year (a lark during which you write a novel in November, as fast as you can). I was pretty okay with that. I didn't know what I wanted to write next (I'm between novels right now), and I didn't have a plan. 

And then my sister said, "Let's do it." Convincing, isn't she? That's all it took. I'm in again, and I actually have an idea I'm trying to wrangle to the ground using yarn instead of rope. 

Again, we'll be going to the Night of Writing Dangerously. If I raise $250, I get to go to the Julia Morgan Ballroom and eat candy and drink booze and write all night with a couple hundred other crazies dressed in noir costumes. It's AMAZING. If I raise $350, I get to take Beth. My fundraising link HERE. And thank you. 

(I realize I asked for donations for something else in my last post, and I'm a bit red-faced about doing it twice in a row (or it could be the rosacea. But I don't think so). I promise to put an amazing FREE kitten video in my next post. Maybe kittens and dolphins. And sloths! Playing in yarn!)

Edited to add: We are now funded to go, thanks again to our Fairy Godmother. (Really, I have one! It makes me feel wonderful and magical and like I can really do this thing.) I actually thanked her in the acknowledgements of my second book, her support means that much. Thank you, Fairy Godmother. xoxo

::off to google animal videos::

Janine's Herbed Roasted ChickenOctober 10, 2012

Hey, y'all! Entries are low on the below post, so if you donate to the George Mark House (hospice + children = need), you have a good shot at winning a sweater. I'm just sayin'. And THANK YOU! 

As a perk (don't you need a pick-me-up on Wednesday? Even though I work a truly weird schedule that shifts every six days, Wednesdays can still be rough for me), I thought I'd give you a treat. Actually,  it's a treat from FeralKnitter Janine (who will be here soon! Yay for friend dates!) who said I could share it with you. 

This is the BEST CHICKEN I've ever made. Seriously. And it's so easy. No one can screw this up. The secret is buying bone-in chicken breast. I didn't even know that existed till I looked more closely at my butcher's selection. At my butcher, both breasts come together, which is huge, so I have them cut them apart for me so I don't have to. 

This is crispy and flavored and moist and one hundred percent delicious. Serve on a bed of lettuce and cuke and onion, drizzle the pan drippings and a little lemon over it all? Unreal. (Also, for those of you on the special diets, this is anti-inflammation diet and Paleo approved). 

Janine's Herbed Roasted Chicken (adapted from SF Chron recipe)

1/4 c  olive oil
4  garlic cloves, crushed
2 tsp  red chile flakes
1 tbsp  thyme
salt & pepper 
2  skin-on, bone-in chicken breasts

Preheat oven to 450°.
In a small dish that holds the chicken neatly (say, an 8x8" pan) mix the oil and herbs. 
Roll the chicken in the oil until it is coated. Place it skin-side up in the pan. 
Bake for 45 minutes or until cooked through. Let rest for 10 minutes, then slice and serve with juices.
Serves 2. Usually there are leftovers!

 

The George Mark HouseOctober 5, 2012

First off, the winner of the Happier at Home drawing is jdrbel -- you've been emailed! Thanks for subscribing! I love doing random giveaways to people on my list! 

You guys, I loved this book. I actually liked it better than Rubin's original Happiness Project. (I'm all about home. I love home.) It got me off my ass to do a couple of things that I'd been putting off because they were difficult to do. 

Rubin quoted Mother Teresa at one point (that sounds sanctimonious, but I promise, it wasn't). Mother Teresa said, when asked how people could help her with her mission, "Find your own Calcutta." 

This struck me SO hard. Now, I'm not drawn to assisting a leper colony. 

You know what I am drawn to? Hospice. And specifically, children's end of life hospice.

Years ago, I learned of the existence of the George Mark House, the country's first freestanding palliative care center for dying children in the United States, and I've been unable to stop thinking about them. It's been helping children and their families since 2004 (and is still only one of four children's palliative care homes in the nation). 

In 2010, they had to close due to lack of funds. See, they provide care to children who need it, regardless of their ability to pay. It's a non-profit. They ran out of money to care for children at the end of their lives. They were closed for six months (I thought erroneously they'd shuttered forever and had been broken-hearted about it). 

But they're open again, and they need money.

Okay. I'll give you a minute. Here's a Kleenex.

Last night I put in application to be a volunteer there. I can't tell you how much I want that. But no matter what happens with my app, I want to help in some way. Thus, what follows:

Another thing that Rubin's book helped me to do was to get rid of stuff (oh, how I love to do that). 

I went through my sweaters and found a bunch that I don't wear, that don't suit me (or that are honestly just strangely patterned and/or knitted). I was going to donate them, but I thought that was weird for handknits. I was going to sell them, but I thought that was kind of odd, too.

But this? This is perfect. I'm holding a fundraising drawing for George Mark. 

Every $10 donation gets you an entry (therefore, $50 gets you five entries). At the end of the drawing, I'll pick the eleven winners. Winner number one can have her first pick of the sweaters. Winner number two can have the pick of what's left, et cetera. 

I'd love it if you sent the money to my paypal so I can make one nice donation from The Knitters and Writers.   It's been pointed out to me that Paypal might shut this down as they don't like raffles, so let's just go this simpler route:

Send your donation to the George Mark House directly -- just send me your receipt (to yarnagogo at gmail dot com) so I mark down your entries. 

And thank you, dear hearts. I know money's hard to find these days. So thank you, for anything you can give. Many ten dollar donations add up to very real money that HELPS. YOU are helping. 

With no further ado, here are the eleven sweaters available (click each sweater's pic for Rav/yarnagogo link, etc.). 

Ruby's Bookstore Sweater, from How to Knit a Heart Back Home, Noro Shirakaba. A bit too big for me. 

Drops 110-23, in Paton's Classic Wool. A little rounded shape, esp. in the back. But I do love the knitting of it. 

Levenwick, Cascade 220. Never worn, never blocked. I didn't even put fasteners on it -- I was victim of the photo fallacy, forgetting that I had boobs. Sigh. 

Cabled chickami, Rowan Calmer. Cute. I just don't wear it. 

Lace Wrap Sweaterbabe #112, Brooks Farm Mas-Acero. I have NEVER been able to make this wrap around me the right way. Someone's body style is perfect for this. Not mine. 

February Lady, Lion Brand Cotton Ease. I love this, but it's too big on me now. 

Spring Forward Fall Back, Knit one Crochet two Cotton. This is also great, but just a wee bit short on my long-waisted torso. 

Coachella, Brown Sheep Cotton Fleece. Cute, never wear it (requires racer-back bra). 

Artfibes cardie, Artfibers alpaca. I've wornt the hell out of this, a little nubby. Still a good sweater, just rarely wear it. 

Shapely Tank, Soy silk. Just fine, rarely worn. 

Back in the DAY (bonus points if you were reading me then) - Noro Kureyon Raglan, now with buttons, rather worn out of shape, but still fun. Rarely wear. 

I'll draw winners in two weeks, on October 19th. I'd love your tweets and FB links to this -- let's spread it far and wide, my darlings. Thank you so much for considering donating to this amazing cause. I kiss you on both cheeks, mwah! mwah! 

Really. Thank you, from my heart. 

Red Cowboy Boots (and a giveaway!)October 2, 2012

You know what? Saying nice things really matters. 

I often wear this pair of red cowboy boots (Ariats from Zappos, for the curious). I wear them with everything: jeans, skirts, dresses. I wear them while writing, dancing, hiking, and camping. And I get SO MANY compliments on them. I swear to God, those boots break down some kind of social barrier. Perfect strangers catch up to me in airports to say they love my boots. Grumpy old men love them. Teen girls (and their mothers) adore them. 

I feel special every time I wear them, because when I do, people say nice things to me. That's odd, isn't it? That wearing something as simple as boots can make you feel good? The boots aren't me, and I had nothing to do with their construction. I just gave a company my debit card and then I pulled them onto my feet. But I still grin like an idiot when a man playing a trumpet in a mariachi bands shoots me a thumbs-up. 

I think it's true of all kinds of compliments, right? I just opened my email to find a treat of a message, and I feel three feet taller. It's better than using good shampoo, I tell you. Opening your email to find that someone took the time to reach out and say hello is just like being handed a mug of steaming hot cocoa on a rainy morning. Only warmer, and sweeter. 

And what stops us from telling each other when we think nice things? I've had great service from waitresses, and I leave them a big tip, but I rarely flag them down to thank them for being attentive and sweet. The guy at my oil changer place, Roosevelt, has the nicest smile you've ever seen, like sunrise come an hour early, and I've never told him that.

I'm going to start complimenting people more, not only the ones I love, but the people I meet in passing.

To every single person who's ever left a comment here, thank you. To the girl in my teen class who just sent me the most amazing story opening, thank you. To the people who leave Amazon reviews, thank you. 

Boots in the wild, summer at Bodega Bay 

Everyone loves to be praised. Everyone wants to know they're special. Everyone wants to be seen and heard and appreciated. 

May you all feel today as if you're wearing red cowboy boots. 

* Because I'm in the mood, I'm going to give away a book! I'm really enjoying Gretchen Rubin's new book, Happier at Home, and I'll send a copy (either print or e-version) to some lucky gal or fella. Just be on my mailing list, and you're automatically entered! (I never sell names or spam.) I'll draw the winner at the end of the week. MWAH! 

TeachingSeptember 25, 2012

I went to the Central Coast Writers' Conference over the weekend to teach. I was hired not only to speak, but for the first time in this thrilled writer's life, I was put up at a HOTEL. On the BEACH, yo. 

Okay, it wasn't on the beach. But it was close to Morro Bay, so close that at night I could slide the door of the hotel room open and listen to the seals barking.

Originally, Lala had been slated to go with me, but she had to go to Idaho to see her mom after a routine surgery (and incidentally, had breakfast with Neko Case one morning, as they do in Boise, apparently) so I went alone. 

I drove down through the heat of Steinbeck country in the SmartCar (oh, beloved little car) into Morro Bay, dropped my bags in my room, and headed for San Luis Obispo to have dinner with Emily Post-Punk (her Rav handle). You know those people you meet who make you think: I need this person as a friend? What can I do to entrap her? That's EPP. I finally finagled my way into friendship with her. Go, me! 

But before I met up with her, I wandered for a little while through the crowded street. Every Thursday night, San Luis Obispo--an idyllic little coast-proximate community--shuts down the main drag and has an enormous farmer's market. Less market than it is social gathering, it's the closest thing to la passeggiata, the nightly Italian stroll, that I've ever seen in America. This last week was the first Farmer's Market since the kids came back to Cal Poly, and the excitement was at a fever pitch. 

Being home, in the area where I grew up, where I went to undergrad, was both lovely and melancholy. I mean, I remember a time before the creekside area of SLO was so fancified--my sister and I would play in that creek, looking for crawdads (which we never found, but we were sure they were in there somewhere), throwing rocks to make the biggest splash, getting so muddy Mom would make us wash our feet in the fountain in front of the Mission before we got back in the VW. 

When I was twenty or twenty-one, I went through a bout of serious depression. I remember leaving my counseling sessions, which coincidentally were on Thursday nights on Garden Street. I would force myself to walk one block--just one block--through the milling, laughing crowds of students and families. I can't remember why it was so hard for me to do this (something about thinking people were looking at me and laughing--I hadn't figured out yet that really, no one cares) but I remember how difficult it was. 

Now, literally twenty years later, I was walking down the same street, through the same crowd, living a life that the twenty-year-old me never could have imagined. A good life. A happy one, full of love. A writerly one. I was simultaneously elated and at the same time, sad for that twenty-year-old me who never thought she'd ever get anything right. 

I met the lovely Emily (who went to my high school in the same small town just down the coast and I'd never known her!) at a great used bookstore, and we ate dinner (tapas) on the patio of a restaurant that was literally right next to the crawdad-seeking area of thirty years ago. We laughed under the hanging lights, the night sky low above. 

It was so circular, and just right. 

The next night I had the teens in a "How to Be a Writer" class. Now, lemme tell you something. I was nervous. I don't know teens. I love young adult fiction, so I read a lot about them, but I hadn't hung out with one since I was one, perhaps. But when the coordinator had asked me to take the class, I'd said yes in a momentary I CAN DO ANYTHING bit of craziness. 

I prepped for "what you can do  to be a writer after high school." I was full of quips and wisdom and witticisms. We would talk about going to college, what that was like, and what came afterward.

And then I opened the door to a room full of kids, aged 11 through 19. My talk to older teens was suddenly not broad enough. 

So I asked them what they wanted to learn.

Answer: Everything.

We narrowed it down with some difficulty to what they wanted to know the most: how to keep your Butt in the Chair, Hands on Keyboard (BICHOK). See? Writers of all ages struggle with this, the hardest part of writing (or any kind of creativity): actually doing it.

I explained the magic formula of Freedom (takes you off internet) and Write or Die (erases your words if you don't write fast enough) and the excitement in the air was ELECTRIC. I swear, these kids inspired the hell out of me. (I only swore once, by the way, and I was talking about our inner editor, who IS a bitch.) The other two classes I taught to adults on Saturday were great. I actually knew what I was talking about for the most part. I felt like I helped a few people. And that felt amazing. 

But doing these kinds of things is not the best part of a writer's life, believe it or not. For me, the best part is just after I write every day: that feeling of satisfaction that no matter what, the day is good because I got the most important thing done. After that: writing The End is the best. 

But after that? The times when writers get together--that's the best part. All of us doing this crazy thing to make a dream come true. It doesn't get much better than that. 

Oh. And I might have gone to NordicMart. 

MishkeSeptember 16, 2012

Winners of The Little Book of Knitting Wisdoms drawing are: Kim, Caitlin, Erin, Janice and Chandra. I've emailed you. (And thanks for entering, all of you. Your happiest moments this year made me cry, several times. If you haven't taken a moment to read the comments, do yourself a favor and take a gander.) 

And now, I'm posting Mishke so I don't forget to do so. I love my new sweater. 

I love everything about this sweater. I love its asymmetry (ribbed collar on one side only! shorter on left than right!) and its color and its softness and its warmth. 

Most of all, I loved the difficulty level of it. I haven't knitted anything this hard in years and years. I had to pay attention so much of the time (do NOT attempt while drinking wine -- ask me how I know), and often you're doing four things at once (you really have to be careful and read ahead or you'll miss that all-important AT THE SAME TIME and the one below it, too). It's a Cocoknits pattern, and I think Julie's clothes are just so damn wearable (I've made three of hers now and I love them all). 

Really, it doesn't get better than a knitting party in the hallway, right? Yarn/details are over at Ravelry, for the curious. 

Now I'm going to take my book to the porch and enjoy the rest of this balmy East Bay evening. Happy Sunday, y'all. 

The Little Book of Knitting WisdomsSeptember 10, 2012

Grace is knowing when to bind off.

That Eliza Carpenter, she is wiser than I am. So when Random House Australia suggested she and I write a tiny book together, I jumped at the chance. 

I collected her wisdoms and put them in this little package. It's only available in Australia and New Zealand, which leaves the US/UK/Canada/Brigadoon right out, so I'm going to give away five copies here. 

To enter, please leave me a comment telling me about your happiest moment in the last year. I'll draw the winner on Mine: knitting in Venice.  (Oh! Won't this be fun to read? I can't wait. And....go!) 

[Eliza is actually me. A lot of people ask me where I got her quotes for the Cypress Hollow Yarn series, and um...I made them up. Just like the rest of the books. However, I channel something better than myself when I'm writing as her. It's weird, and wonderful, and I can't quite explain it.] 

Strawberry 2012September 8, 2012

Apart from the transmission going squirrely, the radiator blowing up, and the brakes going out while going down New Priest Grade, we had a fabulous camping trip! (Those moments were hair-raising and we won't take the trailer out again until we get the car fixed, but we made it safely home, white-knuckling it all the way.) 

You know what I love about camping? How you can't do anything but relax. Our favorite camping trip every year is the Strawberry Music Festival, up in Yosemite. It's really glamping, not camping. We bring eggs, bacon, and booze. We make breakfast, but we purchase lunches, dinners, and snacks from the food vendors, making the difficult decisions between samosas, gyros, and artichokes stuffed with crab and shrimp.

The site where Strawberry is held, Camp Mather, has absolutely no cell reception, so even if I wanted to tweet, which I did, I couldn't. The phone stayed off for four days. Four full days. 

It's interesting, though, how even with big, empty days full of nothing to do but listen to music and lie by the lake, the days still fill up. Sitting in a camp chair, I can waste an hour wondering whether I'd rather read or spin (I brought my spinning wheel as I usually do. I don't know what it is about camping, but I love spinning in the open air under the pines). And then the day is over, and you've done next to nothing, and you're tired. You're exhausted from all the resting! It's pretty wonderful. 

I also knitted a lot, mostly on a simple shawl. 

I loved reading while lying in the trailer with its little windows open (that thing makes us superheroes! Everyone wants to talk to us about the teardrop trailer! It's like sleeping in a chihuahua! We were actually woken from a nap by a guy who wanted to talk to us. Um. Give us a minute?). I read The Age of Miracles while there -- have any of you read that one? I liked the book but thought it might have missed the point. Without spoilers, I can't say much more, but I'd be curious to know what you thought if you read it. 

(While I'm thinking of books, I also just finished The Care and Handling of Roses with Thorns, which I absolutely loved. About a rather cranky rose-loving teacher who needs a kidney transplant, I couldn't put it down. And Laura Lippman's new book, And When She Was Good, about a suburban madam, was also good fun, and as always, well-written and tightly plotted.) 

Best part of the festival? k.d. lang, all the way. She was amazing. I stood in the front row under the stars and screamed with all the other ladies. Worst part? The stress of driving home (we were prepared to stop at any point and get a tow, but after the brakes cooled off, the car just kept on going. I literally kissed it when we got home).

Now we're back at home. I'm finishing a book revision and doing copy edits on another while working a lot of hours. I'm looking forward to fall, always my favorite season. I smelled it in the air while we were in Yosemite, and it can't come soon enough for me.

Ah, the season of new pencils and handknit scarves. 

100 Acts of SewingAugust 29, 2012

I've been thinking a lot about clothing lately, as you know. I took the Seam Allowance pledge to make 25% of my clothing (which I'm already hitting, surprisingly). It's been really satisfying, paring my wardrobe down to just the items I love and wear, and then supplementing them with items I make myself. Here's the truth: We take clothes for granted and buy them at prices at which they are not sustainable. If you pay ten bucks for a dress, chances are good that the workers (all along the line of production and transport) weren't paid a fair wage. Hell, I can't say I haven't bought lots of ten dollar dresses. And I can't say I'm not tempted now. But I'm thinking about it more. A lot more. 

It's like eating. Yep, organic is more expensive. I can pay less for produce that's grown with the help of chemicals and pesticides, but then I'm buying those chemicals. I'm keeping that pesticide company in business by my own choice. It's less about eating healthily than it is eating right. 

Same with clothes. The ten-buck dress at Target is tempting, but how do I know what I'm purchasing? Whose hands did the fabric pass through to get to me? I'm getting a lot more satisfaction out of buying fabric (especially at thrift stores, where I know I'm a direct part of the recycling circle) and making my own pretty awesome clothes and knowing that my own two hands made the objects with attention and care. (I haven't missed the fact that most fabric, at its base, isn't sustainably made. One step at a time. I'm not up to weaving my own cloth, friends. I'm not completely aboard the crazy train. Yet.) 

(Photo: Sonya Philip)

Sonya Philip is someone you should be watching. She a complete inspiration to me. At the beginning of the year, she didn't sew much, if at all. She took a class and learned how to make a dress to fit. She made her first dress. It was awesome. So she made another one. And another one. They were tumbling out of her, and as an artist, it struck her: she was sewing an art installation that was not only useful and wearable, but meant something more than just handmade clothing. 

So she set a goal: 100 dresses in a year. Some she keeps, some she trades, some she gives away (I'm the EXTREMELY lucky recipient of one, and I can honestly say it's my favorite dress I own, hands down). The goal is to make us more conscious of how we live and how we choose to clothe ourselves. 

I love that she says, "When we know how to sew with our own hands, we can make and remake and make well." Today I wore for most of the day a little black dress I made out of an inexpensive knit. I made it for a cocktail party, and I wore it there a few weeks ago with pride. Today, I cleaned the house in it. You know why? It's my pattern. It took an hour to make. When it wears out, I can make another one if I want to. I can make it better next time, or just different. I come from a long line of people who changed into play clothes when they got home, saving the best for special occasions. I don't have to do that anymore, and I love that. 

I'm only posting one photo of hers here because I think you should click over to her site and spend some time wandering around. Check out her artist's statement and the clothing. I hope you'll be as inspired as I've become by her. (If you follow her on Twitter, she always posts the new dresses.) 

In the Outsidelands vs Cotati battle, Accordions Win! August 20, 2012

Weekend before last, we spent an ungodly amount of money on the Outsidelands festival (three days of music in Golden Gate Park) and managed to have an okay time despite the odds. It was crowded to the point of ridiculousness. Wine was nine dollars a glass. People stepped on our toes and didn't apologize.

 

This was the crowd for Alabama Shakes. We were front of middle. I never even saw the band, not even when I jumped.

Last weekend, in contrast, I went to the Cotati Accordion Festival for the first time ever. (Kids, don't be like me. I'd imagined every accordion-player-wanna-be wandering the streets of Cotati, forming pick-up bands and taking on the scourge of small town blight with a one-two oompah beat. I left my accordion in the car when I learned that only the performers bring their instruments. And cars, even parked in shade, are dangerously melty to accordions.)

 

IT BLEW MY MIND. For $17, I got all-day access to as many accordions as I'd ever wanted to see (which, for the record, is a crap-load). There was festival food (Spiro's Gyros! My favorite! Spiro always calls me "lovely" and makes me blush). There was plenty of lawn space for me and my friends to loll around on. Five dollar glasses of wine, and free tastes! There was music, on three stages, all the time. Polkacide killed it, as they do, bringing the crowds to their feet in a polka-fied frenzy.

 

Lolling

But the very, very, very best part of the whole thing? The part that made me feel better about being a member of the human race again? There's this tent, see, a big one, and under the tent was a band. Five men played the accordion along with a piano player and a trumpet player. They played a little of everything, from Lawrence Welk-type tunes to cumbia to Stevie Wonder, under the tent, and what was magical was the dancing. EVERYONE danced. As a friend put it, it felt like we were crashing someone else's wedding. Fathers danced with daughters, friends with friends. I saw a very old man dancing with his ancient mother (seriously, when they spun off the dance floor, he gently placed her in her wheelchair at the side of the tent). A young, tall dark-haired dark-eyed boy waltzed with every female member of his extended family and looked as if he'd been born to do it. A sixty-plus year old couple danced and swayed, crooning the words to each other, and at the end, he dipped and kissed her.

Here's just a sample of what I watched for perhaps an hour: 

A young blond cowboy asked me to dance, and I did, and only THEN did I remember that I've never been able to two-step, but he was all smiles anyway. Everyone was grinning, as a matter of fact. Turns out it's impossible to dance at the Cotati Accordion Festival without smiling.

You can keep your Outsidelands. Next year I'm going to Cotati.

AnnaAugust 16, 2012

You know what I love most about a Cocoknits pattern? How wearable her clothes are. I've seen women trying on her trunk shows, and her sweaters flatter so many body types. I actually saw this on Julie and although it's not typically my style, I knew I had to have one. 

And I love it. 

I was super careless making this. I made most of it poolside in LA and finished it at Outsidelands in Golden Gate Park, and there are dropped stitches (whoops!) and strange decreases, and the front is longer than the back (or maybe that's the back... Hmm). And it still looks great. (I made it in Shibui Knits Heichi, wonderful heavy silk.) Super easy pattern with interesting construction. Good summer knit. 

Cocoknits page here, Rav link here.

PensiveAugust 5, 2012

I'm a bit pensive tonight, having spent the last few hours going through things of my mother's. She died four years ago, but sometimes it aches like it was just a few weeks ago, and other times it's still impossible that it's true. How can a mother just go away? It's unthinkable. Unbearable. 

And then you think it, and you bear it. 

This past weekend, while Lala and I were camping in Bodega Bay, my sisters went south to go through some boxes that had somehow been overlooked when we tried to go through Mom's things four years ago. It turns out there were a lot of boxes. 

Guess what they found? 

The sweater I made her. 

The sweater I wrote an entire essay about in my book, A Life in Stitches. I wondered about lost things in that chapter--how a mother devoted to losing nothing could lose something I knew she cherished, the sweater I'd made for her from wool from Ashburton, New Zealand, her hometown. 

Seen tonight on our dining table

Yeah. She didn't lose it. It was packed away. She died in June; she'd probably packed it with her other winter woolens in April or so. Twice a year, she went through her closet and packed up the out-of-season wear, putting it in the garage to wait for the appropriate heat/cold to roll around again. How could I have not thought of that? She loved routines. Lists. File folders. (I spent this afternoon writing out a massive, thorough camping checklist which made me giddy.) 

My sisters also brought some more of her writing to me. We shared that, Mom and I. Both of us wanted to be writers so badly and we both achieved that dream. In fact, before either of us were published, she took me to my first writing conference at Cuesta Community College in San Luis Obispo. We went to the same classes, and both of us took detailed notes that we saved. We ate lunch in the cafeteria and goggled at the published writers (she was more suave than I was, having met many of the local authors through her bookstore jobs).

And tonight, sitting with her papers, I found her most authentic voice, the one I've been looking for for years now. It was in a surprising place. She published dozens of articles and wrote a newspaper column for years. Every time I'd read a piece, I'd start with hope and then begin skimming, hoping for the meat. The feeling. The fear, the joy, the loss, the confusion, the happiness. 

Instead, Mom wrote like a journalist. Everything was beautifully well-written and impeccably well-researched. When asked to present a speech on her most recent trip to New Zealand to the Arroyo Grande Ladies' Club, she prepared a talk on the history of the islands (not on what I hoped I'd find: how she felt about seeing her own mother's grave for the first time). When she wrote about going through Super-Typhoon Kim, she discussed how to dry books on a lawn after a 200+ mph typhoon, not how it felt to live through something that hadn't happened in more than 500 years. 

Then I opened her file folder from the creative writing class she took a few years before she died. And I found her there. 

In the in-class, handwritten, uncompleted essays, I found my little mama. She started an essay about the typhoon by saying she "was as frightened as I've ever been in my life." She remembered giggling with her friend Helen in the forties as her father drove them to the beach, a once-a-year delight. In an essay about her daughters' high school graduations, it's what she doesn't say that's telling. She starts to write how she was a bit more teary when her second daughter Christy crossed the podium--but then she stops and veers to a description of how girls in heels totter on the grassy football field. She automatically self-censors something that might be wrong to share (but it's okay, Mom! Christy was valedictorian in a school of 2,000! We were all more teary that day, as we should have been). 

It makes me think about my own writing. No one would ever accuse me of not sharing my feelings. It's possible I share them too much. But in the same way she kept to herself, because it was what made her feel good, I run here to the blog, or to my journal, to drop my feelings all over the place because it's what makes me feel whole. 

Feelings like: I've been blue, and I think it's the hormones (or lack thereof). Running has been helping, and I'm exercising every single day, and monitoring my moods as best I can. See how easy that is for me to tell you? Although my menopause is surgical and not natural, I don't know how my mother's was, because I never asked her and she didn't volunteer things like that. (Ladies, if you can, call your mothers. Ask.) I don't know if she felt blue, and I don't know if she had terrible hot flashes or not. Did she lose sleep? Did her migraines stop? Not knowing makes me sad, which is exactly what I'm trying to crawl out of, and THERE I DID IT AGAIN with the telling you about how I feel. 

But that's what we want, right? As people? We want to know how others feel because we're all basically selfish at the core, and we want to compare those feelings to our own and then talk (or not talk!) about them. 

In the back of that class's binder, I found a complete, typed essay for the class on how my middle name was almost Shea, after the dump-truck driver who helped my father make sure she was safely out of the Corvair they'd been trapped inside during a flood (my mother, full-term with me, couldn't get out the window as my father had done). A helicopter (the dump truck's boss) followed them overhead as they walked home, to make sure they got there safely. 

I loved that essay. And then I noticed its title, and I pretty much came undone. 

"Happiness." 

She might not have talked much about emotion, but when she did,  it packed a punch. That's another kind of writing power, one I could learn from, I think. 

Clementine, almost home from camping. Another kind of happy.

*By the way, I'm teaching three classes at that same writer's conference down south at Cuesta College in September. That is just...that is just amazing. And that is all. 

Addicted July 30, 2012

to green/brown milkshakes. And I don't mean chocolate. Or milk, for that matter. I was out of town for five days, and I missed this every single day. That's weird to admit, but true. 

Dear reader Lynn put me on to these, the Green Monsters, and I'm HOOKED. I tell you what, they are delicious (honest), do NOT taste like spinach, and they are so, so satisfying. You know how when you order a milkshake, hoping that it will be thick and creamy and heavy and perfect, but instead it's airy and thin and unsatisfying? This tastes like I've always wanted a milkshake to taste, only healthy. 

(See, I've been eating so well -- yay! I feel great! -- but I'm bored of thinking about cooking all the time. Eggs for breakfast, almonds/fruit for snack, this shake for insta-lunch, and THEN I'm happy to think about a nice, home-cooked dinner.) 

There are a ton of recipes on that page up there, but I thought I'd share the one I've been making with you. It's amazing. 

Rachael's Green Monster

(Add ingredients in order, so the spinach doesn't fly around)

2 cups fresh spinach (that's about two handfuls, in my estimation. I fill half our blender), 2 tbs almond butter or sunflower seed butter (tastes like a PB shake!), 1 banana, 1 cup coconut milk(the drinking kind, not the canned kind) (or almond, soy, rice, regular milk, apple juice -- I like coconut milk for the fat content and flavor, add more liquid if you want it thinner). Blend these for a while, then add about a cup of frozen berries (add frozen mango for even more sweetness, or pineapple for fun!). Blend a minute or two longer, and ENJOY. (Oh! I keep forgetting to add ginger. That would be good.) 

It looks funny. Yes, it does. But it tastes so good! And makes you feel great! I promise! 

Another New Dress!July 24, 2012

First things first: the winner of last post's draw was Louisa S! Congrats, and you've been notified by email. Thanks for playing, all! 

Second, I made a sewing area! We have a front porch that has been used for storage, and it was TRASHED. I realized that my dream of actually having a place to sew could be realized on the cheap. The machine table was nineteen bucks from Ikea, the chair fifteen, and I put our two card tables together to form a cutting area (the second table is up on blocks, decks of cards, to make it exactly the same height as the other table. It works. It's awesome. 

And I just made a dress! The Rita dress that I was talking about! Pictures don't do this justice because it is as sparkly as a dress can be. It cost about eight dollars (sale fabric!), and it either looks VERY expensive or VERY tacky, and I'm not sure which is true. Don't care, though, 'cause I feel like a million bucks in it. 

Adah, self-petting

Some sparkle, closer to what it looks like: 

Except multiply the sparkle times a thousand. Oh, the fun! Whee! (Also, I'm knitting, I promise.) 

Book GiveawayJuly 20, 2012

Storey Publishing does it again. Cast On Bind Off is a lovely little book by Leslie Ann Bestor, 215 pages of nothing but interesting (and useful!) cast ons and bind offs. 

Me? I use two cast ons: long-tail and crocheted (when it calls for a provisional cast on) and I use one bind off, the old fashioned kind, knit 2, slip one over. I've used more, but only when they're printed in the pattern, you know? I love Elizabeth Zimmerman's sewn bind-off for socks, but I always have to look it up. 

This cute little tome, though, now lives in my house, ready for reference. 

You can have a shot at owning one, too, by leaving a comment. Tell me your favorite method, or heck, if you're not sure, just tell me how your day is going! WINNER DRAWN!

More chances can be had by visiting the other blogs on her tour: 

7/9         Picnic Knits

7/10       Knit and Tonic

7/11       Zeneedle

7/12       Rambling Designs

7/13       Rambling Designs (pt. 2: Leslie Ann guest post)

7/14       Neo Knits

7/15       Knit & Nosh

7/16       Knitting at Large

7/17       Rebecca Danger

7/18       Lapdog Creations

7/19       Nutmeg Knitter

7/20       Yarnagogo

7/21       Weekend Knitter

7/22       knitgrrl

7/23       It's a Purl, Man

7/24       Whip Up

7/25       Knitspot

7/26       Under the Humble Moon

7/27       Knitting Daily

7/28       Knitting School Dropout

7/29       Hugs for Your Head

7/30       The Knit Girllls

 WINNER DRAWN! Thanks for playing. 

SewJuly 18, 2012

I swear this won't become a sewing blog, but I got a SERGER for my birthday from Lala. (What's a serger? It's an overlock sewing machine that cuts, sews, and finishes an edge all at once. If you look at the seams of a t-shirt or sweatshirt, that's what serging looks like. It's pretty awesome.)

Digit, serger, and my new shirt, "My Cat is Famous on the Internet." Because he is, you know.

So, I got the serger for my birthday. It took me a full WEEK to find the bravery to take it out of the box. I was very excited and equally terrified. 

I've wanted a serger since I was about eighteen, when my best friend's mother used one for creating huge gorgeous hoop-skirted dresses for the Harvest Festival. She would curse and swear at it when it got tangled (which was often), and my fear was forever cemented, along with my awe. 

(I got this one. Doesn't it look terrifying? You should see the inside!)

I girded my loins. I read the whole book first. Then, when I was thoroughly confused, I sat down and tried to sew (it comes pre-threaded). However, two threads were tangled in the pre-threading, and I ended up with this disaster (that's a chaotic bloody tangle there, if you can't quite tell). I started swearing at the machine about two minutes after I first touched it. 

Then I had to learn to thread it, damn it (there's a method where you tie on new threads and pull them through, so once it's threaded you don't have to do it again -- I didn't get that luxury). 

I learned. I threaded. I sewed. I squealed in glee. It's so FAST! (About 1600 st/minute as opposed to a normal machine's 400). It's so FUN! 

I immediately got out one of my favorite knit dresses which has had holes at the waist for a while because I can't be bothered to sew anything by hand. Zip zip! Fixed! And hey, it was such a great dress that I decided to copy it. (Copying clothes is my new favorite thing, yo. Just Google rub-off patterns -- it's EASY. Lay the dress down on paper, trace away, make a pattern, make a muslin, adjust for a while, Bob's your uncle. It's soooo much easier than following a standard pattern, and you're copying something you already know fits.) 

So I made a muslin (a mock-up) of the dress in a black rayon I got on sale at Stonemountain & Daughter, and I ended up with something Angelina Jolie would have blushed to wear to the Oscars. The vee was slit past my navel. I couldn't have worn it to the kitchen. 

But you know what? I just cut off the whole waist seam, rejiggered the bodice, and resewed it. Knit fabrics are so FORGIVING! I was getting closer. And when I added the sleeves and tried it on for the thirtieth time (sewing involves a lot of nudity, yo), it was actually wearable! 

I made it in a couple of hours (!) and wore it to two parties that night (and yes, told anyone who would listen that I'd made it, with a twirl for effect). 

I've been working pretty much ever since (120 hours this week) but next week, starting on Sunday, I have eleven days off in a row (vacation! RWA National in LA!), and I'm going to sew the hell out of a couple of those days. There's a big fancy awards night function called the RITAs (the Oscars of the romance writing world) and attendees always dress to the nines. I have a fantasy of whipping up something pretty out of red sparkly fabric and wearing it to the big night along with fabulously high heels.

I'm no Angelina Jolie, but I'll strike a leg pose iffen I have to. 

My Favorite Bag(s)July 14, 2012

are made by Rickshaw in San Francisco. 

EDITED TO ADD - The bag is supposed to be for in-store purchase only. If you were looking at the deal, you probably noticed this. However, I know there's a workaround for non-locals. Shhhh. Don't tell. (But email Rickshaw and they'll make it work.) 

 

Some things: 

Names: The green one is the Medium Zero Messenger. The orange is the iPad bag. The houndstooth is the Commuter 2.0. 

Deal is HERE for the next 6 days (in-store purchase only, technically). If you miss the deal, their site is HERE. 

I customize all my bags and use the Performance Tweed because I love it--strong, sturdy, attractive. 

I forgot to mention: the Commuter 2.0 comes with a laptop sleeve! I don't use it because I have such a tiny computer. 

Someone asked me about knitting getting caught in the velcro -- that only happens if my yarn trails out and over the outer "clasp" velcro. It hasn't been a problem for me since the interior velcro is the grasper loops, not the grasping ones (there's probably a better way to say that, but you get it, right?). 

Verdict: Love, recommend, love. 

Sea ChangeJuly 11, 2012

I changed my diet recently, in an effort to figure out the allergies I was suffering (see the swollen face, below). I'm doing an anti-inflammation diet, which basically means I'm currently dairy, gluten, soy, corn, caffeine, and added-sugar-free. 

When I thought about doing it, my brain, in a panic, screamed, "What's left?" I usually eat toast or a muffin for breakfast, a sandwich at lunch, and often ice cream follows dinner. HEALTHY! Cheese was my go-to snack, and in a pinch, I could make a meal of two glasses of milk. 

But I was kind of getting desperate to figure out what the problem was, so I gave it a shot, and I gotta say: I like it. I like feeling more energetic. I like sleeping better. I like that my hayfever/allergies have basically gone away for the first time in years. I like that I've dropped fifteen pounds without trying to lose weight. (The answer to the "What's left" question is: organic meat, eggs, fruits, vegetables (minus the nightshades), and some grains/legumes. Thanks to Janine, I read It Starts With Food by the Hartwigs. Yes, they say no grains or legumes. I say just TRY to take lentils and oatmeal away from me.)

I do not like: thinking about what to eat all the time. I do not like cooking all the time. I mean, I like cooking, and I like it when I hit the ball out of the park and make something amazing. But I'm not one of those people who looks forward to chopping vegetables, and there are a LOT more vegetables in my life right now. You know how you find those wilting greens at the back of the fridge? We're not finding those in our fridge anymore. We're eating all of them. We started getting a CSA box, and come hell or high water, we've got to figure out what to do with zucchinis even though I hate them (hint: feed them to Lala). 

(OH GOD, IS THIS WHAT FORTY LOOKS LIKE? Really?) 

No, come on. THIS is what 40 looks like: 

At my birthday party. SO fun. 

And, it turns out, they've figured out what was wrong with me. I have estrogen induced angioedema, which is rare, rare, rare indeed, so rare my allergist is actually excited to present his findings in a paper. I'm intolerant to any estrogen that's not my own, which means I had to go off the HRT immediately (since the swelling isn't treated by regular ER-given antihistamines and steroids), and now I can't supplement with anything like soy or black cohosh since the reaction in the body is the same. Gah. I haven't had a hot flash yet, but I'm nervous. 

Hey, it's not all bad. For a minute there I thought I was allergic to avocados, and I would MUCH rather be in sudden surgical menopause than have to give up those green goodies for the rest of my life.

I have my priorities, people. 

Bonus Recipe! 

Eggs and Greens

There's something wonderful about the soft-boiled egg, how the yolk runs into the greens, making everything rich and delicious. I've been eating this almost every day and I'm not even starting to get tired of it yet. 

Set a small pot of water to boil. While that heats, chops greens (kale, colllards, chard, or a yummy mix of all) and two cloves of garlic. Dice mushrooms if you have them, because that's just fun. When the water boils, use a slotted spoon to slide two eggs in their shells into the water. Set timer for seven minutes. Heat a glug of olive oil in a heavy pan, add garlic, cook till it's fragrant, then add the greens (and mushrooms or whatever else you like) and add some salt, pepper, and an optional dash of cayenne. Cover, cooking over medium heat until the greens are wilted to your liking, stirring occasionally. (This usually takes the full seven minutes of egg time for me.) When the timer goes off, pour cold water over your eggs and then peel, careful not to let the shell pierce the egg or yolk. Plate the greens, add the eggs on top, another sprinkle of salt, and YUM. Eat on the porch, if possible. 

Camping! July 1, 2012

We went camping in the teardrop trailer! It was awesome! 

The day didn't start well. I've been having angioedema, something I used to get maybe 15 years ago. It starts with part of my face swelling and doesn't slow down for a while until I'm almost unrecognizable. Click here for a good pop-up picture of Friday's alterno-Rachael. I'm thinking it's all a byproduct of last month's surgery, but it's scary (since last week my throat swelled) and I want to figure it out. I've been on an anti-inflammation diet for about a week now (no gluten, no dairy, no sugar, no caffeine -- LE SIGH) and I'm feeling better physically although I still got the reaction (it seemed to come directly from stress -- awesome). 

Anyway. 

I talked my way out of the hospital four or five hours later (they never want to release me until the swelling is gone, but my swelling lasts up to three days -- NO CAN DO), and then we went camping. The day was not lost. 

I made a camping dress out of some thrift store fabric. Rachael-as-Picnic-Table!

Dude. With the trailer, camping is so awesome. Lala had worked hard on pulling together the stuff we needed while I was in the ER (really, I just went in to get out of camping prep), so when I got home, we threw stuff in the station wagon, hooked up the trailer and got out of town. Well. Kind of. 

It was a trial run, at Chabot Campground, which is literally less than 5 miles from our house as the crow flies, close enough to be comfortable for someone having an allergic reaction, but far off enough in the woods that it felt like we were far, far from home. 

And you know how when you're camping, you get to your site and then you have to scramble around for an hour, putting up the tent (hopefully without fighting with your significant other about whether or not tent pegs are important), blowing up the air mattress (after finding replacement batteries for the pump), and making the bed? Afterward you're sweaty and tired and sick of camping already.

Fire reflected in the bedroom window.

With a teardrop trailer? We pulled up, unhitched (a matter of about a minute), and we were done. The bed was already cozily made with flannel sheets and our down camping comforter. The kitchen was ready in the back of the camper. I lit the fire while Lala opened a beer and thought about steak. We played some music (the nearest campers were far enough away that the accordion didn't bother them, a small miracle in itself). Some friends actually happened to be camping there also, so they came over and we all laughed at my face and we drank wine into the late hours, until we crawled off to bed which was SO COMFORTABLE. 

In the morning, while I laughed at my six-year-old face, Lala made steak and eggs for breakfast. Oh, YUM. 

I admired the view: 

and spied on our closest neighbors (seen in the distance here): 

Clean-up was swift and easy -- we just threw our stuff in the camping boxes, and tossed them in the back of the car. We shut the doors on the trailer and hitched up and left. I can see us doing this a LOT this summer, and into the fall (when we have our best weather, in my opinion). Not a bad way to spend thirty bucks, I think. 

Many Things Make a PostJune 23, 2012

Such random things I feel like mentioning today! In no particular order: 

I've been using (sometimes) this app called MotionX to track my sleep. I don't use it all the time, because--hippie alert--I'm convinced that one shouldn't have one's cell phone too close to the body very often, so putting it under my pillow freaks me out.

But the app has convinced me that I do sleep more than I think I do. Often I feel like I'm awake all night, but what's actually happening is I'm looking at the clock every five or ten minutes, yes, but in between, I'm dozing. You can see that here, in this picture (on a work day, where I only got 3 hours and 1 minute of sleep -- very sad): Yes, I was awake for a lot of the time, but also, when I was glancing over and over at the clock between 11:30pm and 1:30am, I was in light sleep. 

This, somehow, is comforting to me. I'm getting SOME sleep. (Yes, I know the trick of turning the clock away from you. I'm not that strong.)

I show this to you in order to contrast it with Lala's sleep efficiency. This is from two nights ago: 

All that dark blue??? IS DEEP SLEEP. She has a true gift. 

And if that weren't unfair enough, she has another gift! Lala painted a picture of me! 

I love this. I think she flatters me, and yep, I'll take it. 

In knitting news, I've got my mojo back, I think. I'm deep into Cocoknit's Mishke, an asymmetrical cabled cardigan that I'm doing in Berocco Blackstone Tweed (delicious yarn, wool with mohair and a little angora for softness): 

O, cables. How I love you. And how I don't care if any are miscrossed. (Thanks, Eliza Carpenter!) This is taking forever, but I'm loving every minute of it. It's one of those knits. 

And it's San Francisco Pride weekend! Happy Pride, everyone! We'll be going to the city later, because I like to look at people and Lala does too, even though she sometimes forgets that. We started the weeekend earlier this week at an amazing Indigo Girls show at Slim's. Here we are in line. 

Yay love. Yay sleeping artist wife. Yay Pride. Yay just about everything. 

I Made a Dress!June 19, 2012

But not just any dress. This is my own pattern, which I made up MYSELF.

Oh, my gosh, I love those teensy flowers.

Seriously, this was the goal when set out to sew again. I wanted my own perfect dress pattern which I could whip out when I wanted something new, and I GOT IT. I copied the top of a dress I like from Eshakti (I've learned I like many gathers rather than just a couple of bust darts), and the skirt of a dress I made a long time ago which was just the right shape and length. I made four very frustrating muslins of the top getting the fit to be what I wanted. 

It has pockets! I heart pockets. And it has no closures! Easy! 

Where's Digit?

And it's fast, so fast. The dress took me two hours, and the bias tape (which I made myself!) and application took another two hours because I was determined to do it beautifully. Which I did, by the way. I had to rip two seams. I hate ripping seams like I hate ripping knitting. It galls me to my core. Oh, but sewing is a million times faster than knitting. Instant gratification! 

Basically, I realize that I wanted dresses that look like old-fashioned aprons. YEP, THAT'S IT!

A few more pictures are over at Flickr for the curious. 

Socks For AlexJune 16, 2012

Whoops! I put it on Facebook and on Twitter, and I sent it out in my newsletter last week, but I think I forgot to tell the blog! 

There's a new Cypress Hollow super short story called Socks for Alex in the new magazine The Sock Report. (In it, we find out Cade's wronged date Betty is up to. I've been dying to write a little about her for a long time, ever since she caught Cade and Abigail making out in that pantry.) 

And this is cool -- I was contacted by Kim Opperman, the president/founder of Socks for Soldiers, a non-profit I wasn't aware existed when I wrote the story. It gives me a warm glow, somehow, to know that all opinions on the war and all politics aside, we are still knitting for the soldiers. 

So, enjoy the free story! 

Smart MoneyJune 8, 2012

Many years ago, I was in Italy, and I saw, for the first time, tiny little things that kind of looked like vehicles, buzzing up the cobblestones and jammed in four deep at the curb. They were everywhere, zooming like bugs having a joyful race. I fell immediately in love, saying, I'm going to have one someday, somehow. 

I never thought they would be legal here (even though it turns out they're very well safety rated), but The Smart Car did come out in the States in 2008. I couldn't afford one (and besides, the wait, after ordering, was over a year at that point). I gave up hope for a long time. 

See, we were in debt.

Let's talk about money for a moment, shall we? I've been meaning to write this post for a long time, and now seems like the right time.

I believe the strongest emotion felt by a person is shame. Everyone feels it, and everyone fears it. It's completely debilitating and alienating. And money and shame go together like slime in a bathtub drain. 

During the great housing crisis-bubble-disaster of 2006 (and 2007, and 2008), we poured money onto our credit cards, trying to save my old condo (which we'd used as collateral on our house). We threw good money after bad, trying to rent it out (a rotten time to be a landlord in the Bay Area). We were in short-sale purgatory for almost sixteen months. We failed in all attempts, right around the time my mother died, at which point I got tired of fighting everything. 

Afterward, when the dust cleared, we were $47,000 in debt. 

What a huge number. Immense. Unimaginable.

It wasn't to be talked about. Never admitted. We were living paycheck to paycheck, paying only the minimum balances. There was never, ever enough to go around. 

And then Lala lost her job. 

I panicked, and I panicked hard. After breaking down in tears while talking to a coworker one day, she mentioned credit consolidation. I'd heard of it, but I didn't trust it. Surely these were companies who were trying to get over on the consumer -- exploiting them, raking them over the expensive coals one more time. But I cautiously looked into it. Somehow, I got the nerve to call, and oh, it was one of the hardest phone calls I've ever made, because I had to pull out all the bills and have them in front of me AT ONE TIME. You know how easy it is to not know how much you owe? When it's that great a number, it's easy to say twenty-mumble-thirty-something to yourself when you do manage to think about (usually at two-dark-thirty in the morning). 

While talking to the counselor at Money Management International, I learned we owed $47,000. It was devastating. 

And then, the counselor made it better. See, they're non-profit. They work with you, at whatever level you're comfortable with. They work with the credit card companies to get your rates lowered drastically (a couple of ours went to 0%), and you DO NOT use them anymore. You pay MMI one payment a month, and they dole the money out to the creditors. When one card is paid off, the money that you were paying to that one rolls over and goes to the next card. You can put all your cards with them (which is what we did -- we flew, terrifyingly, with no safety net for a while), or you can keep a card out for emergencies if you have to. 

With this plan, we saved $800/month in payments, and we PAID OFF the entire amount in four years (instead of the twenty-seven (literally) years it would have taken to pay it off making minimum payments). And a lot of those years Lala was only working part-time. (I can't sing the praises of MMI enough -- if you're curious, just call them, or someone like them. Their counselors are seriously the nicest people ever. They are used to hearing people cry, I think.)

And you know what? We didn't talk about it. I was ashamed. It's not okay to be at a cocktail party talking about how in-over-your-head you are. You're going to Hawaii? Awesome! I'm wondering how to pay the phone bill! 

So I'm bringing it up here, with you. Maybe we SHOULD be talking about this over dinner with our friends. And not in a ha-ha, isn't it rough kind of way, but in a what can we actually do about this kind of way. 

In our house, we scrimped. I made all our household cleaning products. While Lala wasn't working, she cooked all (ALL) our meals. I baked a lot of bread. She bought all groceries and household goods on $50/week. We drank two-buck Chuck. We cut off cable/newspaper/magazines/everything extraneous. 

We dug our way out. The day I wrote the last check I felt like a balloon of joy was deep inside my lungs, as if when I spoke, I'd have a helium voice. So happy. So proud. The opposite of shame. 

And -- this is the fun part -- yesterday, when I was driving to buy a rotary cutter (makin' some dresses out of thrift store fabric! Being frugal is fun!), I hit the brakes because I SAW THIS BABY: 

I was cruising down Shattuck in Berkeley and passed a used car lot (The Buggy Bank, awesome place). There was a Smart Car convertible in the lot. There is never a used Smart Car just lying around. 

I texted Lala: "There's a Smart Car at the Buggy Bank. Pray for me." 

I told myself I was just curious about the price, but I would not test drive it. I looked at the price ($11k) and the mileage (17k!!!) and walked in the office and gave them my driver's license. I texted La, "I'm test driving it, but I'm NOT going to buy it, don't worry." 

I test drove it, all through Berkeley and onto the freeway, into the Maze, and back, going way over my 20 minute test-drive limit. I was out of my mind with joy. (I don't get car joy. I don't care about cars. I've driven my hoopty station wagon for six years, and I've never liked it. Nor have I hated it. It was a car. It got me around. That was awesome. It has almost 200,000 miles, and the doors don't lock and the only window that still goes up and down is the driver's side window, and acts of its own volition as if it's possessed especially if I'm in a drive-through line.)

But the Smart Car? IT WAS FOR ME. It was the car I'd been waiting for. 

When I got back to the Buggy Bank, there was a woman and a teenaged boy standing in the space I'd left, watching me pull in. I thought, Oh, they're interested, too. That's the way it goes. And then I thought, I wonder how fast I can run for the buying office. I can take them. I know I can.

Turns out she was the seller who happened to be passing by. She'd cried when she left it there, but they need to buy their teen a car that he won't be embarrassed to drive. She was wonderful, darling, and very much Our People. We must have hugged each other five times. She was so happy to let it go to me (because by then, of course, after talking to Lala, I was buying it). 

And Lala was the voice of reason. I wanted to pay for it outright, but that would have depleted our savings (WE HAVE SAVINGS! WHO ARE WE?) by a lot, so she talked me into going to our credit union and financing a portion (about half). That way we're reestablishing credit (which is much better now, by the way) at the same time we're keeping savings in the bank. That Lala is smart, yo. I got a two-year loan, but my plan is to try to pay it off in six months if possible, because I love being debt-free (let's not talk about the student loan and the mortgage -- wait, no, let's DO talk about debt, okay? It's okay to talk about. Only by talking to each other do we learn how to fix our problems. If you're drowning, check out MMI.) 

After all this, I drove across the Bay Bridge with the top down. 

(I look daring in this shot but I'm not stupid, this was in stopped traffic, never fear.) 

THEN I PARKED IN A SPOT THAT A HONDA FIT WOULDN'T HAVE FIT INTO. Literally. It's hard to tell in this photo, but this is just a bump between two driveways in the Avenues. They are everywhere. No one but Smarts (and maybe that new Fiat?) can fit in them, and NOW I HAVE ALL THE SAN FRANCISCO PARKING POWER MWAH-HAH-HAH. 

I'm deliriously happy. It's my day off and I woke at six am because I was too excited to sleep. The first thing I did when I got up was stick my head out the window and make sure it was still in the driveway, that no one had put it in their pocket and walked away with it overnight. 

Last night when we got home from a dinner party, Lala (kidding) said, "You can drive on the sidewalk!" 

So I did. I drove on the sidewalk in front of our house. It was punk rock. 

(For those wondering, book money is not enough to live on. I still work 56 hours a week at the day/night job. It would be nice if book money was enough, and someday I hope it will be, but authors, as a vast whole, are not even remotely rich. However, book money has helped us immensely in the last difficult few years, and if you've ever bought a book of mine, I hope you know how that last night, on the bridge, I got teary, thinking about you. This is true.)

And now I have to go put on something cute enough to drive this car. Red cowboy boots for sure. Short dress and tights. Handmade sweater. 

Because I still need to go get a damn rotary cutter. 

Mr. Smiley-BobJune 1, 2012

I found a dog while driving home today. Meet Mr. Smiley-Bob: 

You know what pisses me off? That this is so flipping common in my neighborhood. I love Oakland, and even more, I love East Oakland. I have mad love for where I live. But the pit bull problem? It makes me so mad I get those choked hot tears stuck in the back of my throat. 

Mr. Smiley-Bob here had his ribs sticking out of his chest. It's hard to tell because he has the unneutered male's broad head, but this guy was skin over clackety bones. I yanked the car to the side of the road because I'd never seen the bones in a dog's tail before. He barely noticed me coming up to him, he was so busy trying to jaw a chicken bone out of a grate in the gutter. 

And you know what he did when a stranger came right up to him? When I said "Hey, boy, what's goin' on here?" He collapsed against me in joy. Tail whap-whap-whapping. Gave up trying for the chicken bone in favor of getting his head scratched. He had a nice heavy leather collar on WHICH MEANS HE HAD A HOME at one point, goddammit, but no tags. And I pray to god he doesn't have a microchip because the rat-bastard who would starve and/or abandon a dog like that doesn't deserve to get such a sweet boy back. Also, I would like to punch that guy in the nuts. Twice.

I opened my car door, and the dog jumped in. Oh, joy! I put the window down a bit, O frabjous day! I brought him the few blocks home with me and gave him a big bowl of water and dog food, THIS IS THE BEST DAY EVER IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD! Tail still whap-whap-whapping, his head pushing under my armpit just to get a little more cuddle. 

I loaded him back in the car to take him to the shelter (legally, we're at the dog limit for Oakland residents, as well as also being at our house and financial limit, too). The Oakland shelter does a great job -- that's where Clara came from (via the SPCA).

But you know what else? They have no money. Just like everything else in our city -- schools, public services, roads -- they can't do much with no cash. And on Fridays the shelter closes at 4pm. I got there at 4:30. 

Oh, nuh-uh. I couldn't bring the dog into our home -- Clementine is the best people dog ever but doesn't appreciate other dogs (besides ours) in her house. The outside one-way dropboxes were closed and locked. No one was answering the phone (well, they never answer the phone). 

So you know what I did? (Did I mention I was in a mood?) I hopped their locked fence. I said a chipper hello to some startled people working with a dog outside. I waited until a volunteer opened the door to leave and I literally stuck my boot in to wedge it open. "Hi! I have a dog!" 

"Well, we're closed." 

"OKAY I DON'T CARE I HAVE A DOG." 

The volunteer turned his head to talk to the shelter officer. "Are we taking any more dogs?" 

"HE'S IN MY CAR AND I'M DROPPING HIM OFF. Would you like to help me open the fence, or should I carry him over?" 

The officer just shook her head and followed me to her car. 

See, the Oakland shelter partners with the nationally acclaimed pit rescue Bad Rap, which is honestly one of the best adoptions organizations out there. Take a look at some of their Happy Endings -- the photos are amazing. This boy will find a safe, loving home, I absolutely know it. He had me laughing during the whole drive. 

His ears fly back like this all the time! This was him just chillin'! 

Jumping backward in time for a moment, as I was trying to get into the shelter, the gate opened as a car drove out. The minivan driver rolled her window down. I said, "I found a dog!" She said, "What kind?" I said, "The sweetest pit bull ever." She wrinkled her nose and said, "No way," before speeding up.

You know what, lady? Bite me. Thank you for opening the gate I couldn't get through (oops! your bad!) for me, but otherwise, can it. We own a pit bull who would only like to rapturously lean you to death. Many of our neighbors and friends have wonderful, loving pit bulls. (Yes, occasionally pit bulls do bad things. So do Golden Retrievers (of all my 911 dog-bite calls, the Goldens have been the worst calls). And Rotts. And Dalmations. And, and, and -- the list goes on. Almost any dog trained to be bad will be bad. Almost any dog who is loved (and well-trained) will be loving. There.) 

But people keep throwing these dogs away, like they're trash. At the shelter, by the dropboxes, was a plastic bag with a dead pit bull in it. How's that for awful?

Remember when Lala found Bart? He was a pit that had been thrown out (literally) on the side of the road. He lay with a dead puppy pit bull, but he wasn't quite dead yet. He couldn't move or stand, and was only a skeleton covered in skin, but instead of taking the treat Lala offered him, he just wanted her to pet him (he had a lovely storybook ending -- the director of the SPCA kept him in his office until he was well, and eventually, when he was fat and happy, they let him live with a man in Danville where he probably eats steak dinners every night). 

It is not the city's fault. It is not the fault of breed (good god, after the pit bulls I've gotten to know in the last few years, I don't ever want another kind of dog. There has never been a more loving dog than Clementine in the history of the world). 

Until the city finds the money for more services and more education, we're going to keep finding pit bulls in the trash. And I bet this is the case in many, many poor cities. 

And it's making me ill, and sad, and still, I have hope that Mr. Smiley-Bob will find a wonderful home, because that dog is the BOMB, yo. He needs a home. He's young (maybe a year?) and very strong aand has a heart the size of a taco truck. I wish we could have him. But if we can't, I hope I see that guy at the dog park soon, carrying his favorite squeak toy. 

How I Write a NovelMay 23, 2012

"How do you write a whole book?" I get asked this a lot, and I thought I'd take a moment to answer it specifically rather than with my usual generic answer, "A little bit at a time." While this answer is true, I don't think it's very helpful. It certainly wouldn't have been for the younger me, the one who only wanted to write but could never actually seem to get her butt in the chair to do it, and when she did finally get seated at the desk, usually just ended up playing Solitaire. 

But dude! I just finished my sixth book. SIXTH! So I've changed. It can be done. 

This is my process. It works for me. Your process will be different, but if any of these tips help, I'm glad to share them with you. (And in the comments, let us know what techniques work for you!) 

1. Don't Wait For the Muse. 

As Nora Roberts says, "Sister Mary Responsibility kicks the muse's ass every time." The muse is a fickle beast, and she usually only strikes me in the middle of the night. I'm a GENIUS at three in the morning. However, since I never write down what she says (because I know I'll remember it later), I don't get that much from our relationship. 

In my mind, the best way to write would be to find a whole day or better yet, a whack of days, during which I could lock myself in a hotel room overlooking the ocean and write the better part of a book. 

That doesn't work. The time never comes. I spent, oh, ten years trying to find the perfect block of time, convinced it was always coming up in the next few weeks. 

Instead, the only thing that works for me is to just work every day. Every day. I work from 1 to 8 hours, usually more on the 2-3 hour side. (This gets me two books done a year while still working 60 hours a week at the day job. But I've got no kids and I don't have cable. Your mileage will vary.)

On the days when I go to the day job, I work on my breaks, only as much as I can fit in. I don't stress too much about those days. 

But on every day off, I get up and go to the cafe. Getting out of the house is key for me -- if I'm home I'll find something to clean or organize or DO. At the cafe, they frown when I start to organize the paper cups.

Of course, I could always lose myself in the internet at the cafe, which is A Bad Thing, which leads me to...

2. Freedom

I've written about this a million times, but it bears repeating. This is a $10 program (with a free trial) for the Mac and PC that kicks you physically off the internet. You tell it how long to go offline, hit your password, and you're locked out. The only way to get back in is to actually shut down your entire computer and reboot (which, let's face it -- we've all done it once or twice). 

So I get to the cafe, grab my coffee, and allow myself to check email while I eat my carrot muffin. Then WITHOUT THINKING or arguing with myself, I hit Freedom, enter 45 minutes, and enter my password before I can talk myself out of it. Bam. I have nothing else to do but work. And if, while I'm working, I think of something that I must know from the internet, I jot it down, thus clearing it from my brain. 

After 45 minutes, the computer bonks and DING DING DING, twitter and email messages fall from the skies like confetti. Then I give myself 15 minutes to screw around.

Then I do it all over again. 

3. Write or Die

Also ten bucks (or free if you use the online version), this is THE ONLY WAY I write a first draft. It's simple. Write or Die is like a sweet little cattle prod to the imagination. It makes you keep writing. I like the intermediate level, where your screen turns red and then it makes a terrible noise if you stop writing. (I do NOT use the level in which it erases your words if you don't keep writing, but it amuses me to know that it exists.) 

See, I just lose track if I'm not using it. I open a document and start writing. An hour later, after taking long sips of coffee and absentmindedly staring at people with weird hair in the cafe, I will have 500 new words on the page. And I'd swear to you that I was doing the best I could, writing as fast as possible. 

Then I turn on Write or Die (for first drafts, I usually dive into Freedom and Write or Die at the same time, for 45 minutes) and three quarters of an hour later, I have 1500 words or so. 

Yep, some of these are crap words that I won't end up using, but I would have written those anyway. And it's astonishing -- your voice is your voice is your voice, whether it's a "good" writing day or a "bad" one. You end up using a lot of those words. Some of them are exactly what you needed and never would have come up with while staring out the window. There's something about the pressure of having to keep the cursor moving to the right that makes you figure out solutions to the problems on the page in ways you wouldn't normally think of. 

(I just finished writing a novel, and the first draft was so difficult for me at one point, I had to go into Write or Die for 15 minutes at a time. Just 15 minutes. I always got more words that I thought I would, and I got through that slump. You do what you have to do.)

It's that idea of Flow, right? Getting into the state where time disappears and everything disappears except the work in front of you. I have the best chance of doing this when I'm forced to work fast, which disables my inner editor (oh, I hate that cranky bitch). Another thing that helps me is: 

4. Music

For me, every book has a soundtrack. I listen to music on my iPhone since my computer is offline while I work. But whatever media player you use, the key is this: use the music as a way to drop right back into the writing. Don't end up procrastinating (I see you over there!) by making the perfect playlist. Drop three or five albums that you think might work into a list, hit shuffle, and start writing. When a song doesn't work? Hit skip, and later, when you're done writing, throw it out of the list. Later, when you hear a song on the radio that would be perfect for the list, add it then. Your playlist grows organically that way, and when the book is close to being done, the list will be pretty much perfect.

5. Do the Math

I just finished my sixth book, and I know that it takes me about six months per book (three months for a horrible first draft, two-three months in revision). You know how I know that? Math. I know my novels are around 95,000 words. Writing 2000 words a day (approximately eight pages), it'll take 48 writing days to complete, which even gives me days off in my goal of first draft in three months. 

But what about revision, you say! No one can strap a time frame around revision! Well, it might be a little bit more slippery than its friend, the first draft, but you sure as heck can.

I try to do a full (major) revision in a month (because I write really crappy first drafts -- I know people who revise as they go, and end up with very clean first drafts -- that is not me). I also try to do this because I know, from my process, that I might have to do this two or three times, and I'd better get crackin'. (My revision method is outlined here. Gawd, I love revisions.) 

So I look at the calendar. Suppose I have 15 days off in a month. That means I pretty much have to revise 6000 words a day. Yep, that's a lot. But I can get that done in four hours if I'm working hard, more if I'm brain-dull that day. It's doable, for me. These are my numbers, and yours will be different, but again, it comes down to math. I know, we English majors don't like that, do we? But it works, I promise. 

Now, if your goal is to write a book in a year? OH MY GOD! You're going to have so much fun! Aim for six months to a first draft -- that's only 527 words a day! Then you'll have another six months to revise! That sounds delicious, right? You know it does. The key is not to let it be some nebulous, undefined "year." Make it a year from today. Starting now.

6. Just Do It

Again, writers write. I completely, totally understand wanting with all your heart to write and not writing, because I did that for (too) many years. It's such a frustrating feeling. But the only way to get that urge out of your system and feel satisfied (finally!) is to do the work. Even when it's shitty work (and it will be, at first. All first drafts will be shitty. It's the law). Just sit your arse down and do it. A little at a time. It's like knitting -- the words add up, just like stitches do, and eventually you have something to show for them. 

*Pro tip: If you say I can't write this way because I have to make everything perfect before I move on, that's fine by me ONLY IF this method works for you. In other words, if you are completing what you set out to complete, then yay! But if you want to write books but are stymied because of the whole "perfection" thing, then barrel through a really horrible first draft. Your method isn't working. Try a new one, friend. 

So. What's your process? 

Staying Still and ReadingMay 15, 2012

Staying still is so hard for me. I mean, damn. I was diagnosed as hyperactive as a child (and today I do think that I'm ADHD, but I'm one of those people for whom it works -- I harness that energy, and I've learned how to make it work for me. Even if it means I never, ever, ever sit still). 

So this recovery game? Is so freaking hard. 

Yesterday, I took a shower (this is not the punchline -- I take showers all the time, I promise). To me, a shower is a get-in, get-clean exercise in timing. Four minutes, including shampoo, all the bits clean, and I'm out. I simply do not understand how or why people like showers -- they've always felt like something to be borne. Shower, brush teeth, eyeliner, mascara, deodorant, DONE. I can be out of the house without feeling rushed twenty minutes after the alarm goes off. 

But yesterday, I decided to try that whole slow shower thing (plus I've had no choice lately. I just can't move quickly). I stood under the water, letting it warm me. I thought about how it felt, standing there. It didn't suck. Actually, after about ten minutes, I was kind of enjoying it. I zoned out. It really was relaxing. I wasn't hurrying. No wonder lots of people say they get their best ideas in the shower (I've always wondered when this happened -- between the shampoo and the conditioner? Before or after leg shaving?). I wasn't thinking about the next item on the To Do list. I was just kind of hanging out. Being.

That's not to say it's going to turn into a lifestyle thing. I do like a wham-bam shower. But after exhausting myself a couple of times this week (who knew just sitting UP could be so difficult?), I've learned my lesson. Now is the resting time. 

Luckily, it's also the reading time! 

I'm telling you about this now even though I'm only a quarter of the way into it, because it's been a long time since I fell so hard for a book. The River Witch, by Kimberly Brock. Within the first few pages I was googling Sacred Harp singing because by the way she was writing about it, I knew it would be something real and something peculiar. Which it is (see video below). And her language! Unique, rich, devastating. Just download the sample -- chances are you'll fall in love as I did. And this, by the way, is a little intro to the Sacred Harp singing (also known as "shape note singing"): 

 

 

I just finished A.J. Jacob's Drop Dead Healthy, which is my favorite of all his books. I can't imagine living with the man (his wife needs a raise), but I love the way his mind works. Once he wrote a book about the year he spent reading the entire Encyclopedia Brittanica. For another book, he tried living Biblically for a year. Literally. For this new book, he spends two years becoming "the healthiest man in America." He tries every diet and every health regime touted by anyone, anywhere. He does cleanses, yoga, meditation, barefoot running, and a triathlon. He does veganism and Paleo. He spends two years not eating his kids' birthday cupcakes. And his humor is so funny and affecting that I'm reconsidering the treadmill desk again. 

Ali in Wonderland, Ali Wentworth: a memoir, this one caught me from the first essay. Sometimes it made me shake with laughter (my belly hurt too much to howl). I don't regret reading it -- she's smart and her sense of humor is wickedly, devastatingly funny. However, I think she would have benefited from a firmer editing hand. Some of the essays are so good...and then kaput. They clatter to the floor like a dropped spoon. But overall, worthwhile. 

Um. I've read others, but nothing you have to read, so I'll leave it at this reiteration: this whole post was prompted by my belief that you should absolutely check out The River Witch. I'm beyond impressed so far. The woman can write.

Wow. May 11, 2012

Thanks to all of you for being so patient. The randomly drawn winner of California Revival Knits is: Stephanie Ivy! (You've been emailed.) 

Edible Arrangements - how does it stay so fresh for so longggg?

I had my surgery. This is the way I thought it would go: Surgery last Thursday. I'd be groggy but adorable upon waking up after a short hour's nap. Lala would take me home and I'd eat jello and broth and sleep a little more. Then Friday I'd rest and be sore, and I'd be writing in bed by Saturday (I have a book due in three weeks to Australia). Then I'd recover gracefully, tapering to ibuprofen within a day, writing and receiving visitors, napping when I felt like it, watching the flowers grow in the planter boxes outside. 

This is how it went: Five hour surgery. Reaction to anaesthesia. Did very poorly in the recovery room. Tried not to vomit for, oh, twenty-four hours. Tried to taper to ibuprofen within a day, was yelled at by everyone who loves me. Went back on the Vicodin which I HATE. Then I spent the next six days staring stunned out the window at the flowers growing in the planter boxes outside. There was no writing. There wasn't even Twitter or email. Nothing existed except stunned silence. And tears. LOTS OF TEARS. 

At one point I figured out I wanted a smoothie while Lala was at work. I dragged myself from bed and started making it, not noticing that the blender we haven't used in years had broken at some point, and the milk was running out of it all over the counter, into the drawers, and on the floor. I sobbed. I cried harder than I have since Mom died. I was literally CRYING OVER SPILT MILK. I blamed the hormones (which scared me -- I'm very into the hormones working at this point). Then, a couple of days ago, I went off the hated Vicodin and suddenly stopped crying. I hate that drug SO much (but I'm allergic to codeine). 

I'm feeling so much better now. Still can't sit up for very long, but I can manage the pain with the prescription ibuprofen, and I actually put on clothes today. Real clothes! I can pick up tissues off the floor all by myself. Last night I figured out how to lie on my stomach (a real accomplishment -- I haven't been sleeping well because I'm a tummy sleeper). My emotions are steady. 

Digit (and our new, perfectly-timed bedroom windows) helped with speedy healing.

I'm going to manage an outing tomorrow if I'm feeling up for it (a good, writerly outing which includes a bed I can borrow, the best kind of outing). 

And while I was having a bed picnic with two beloved friends, the UPS man brought me my favorite recovery tool: 

New "barefoot" running shoes (like Vibram Five-Fingers but without those crazy toes that I can't get myself to wear) from Merrell, Pace Gloves. I can't WAIT to wear these, first to walk, then to get back into running. It was a challenge even to get them on to get that shot. But they fit perfectly, and I leave them at the foot of the bed as inspiration. 

Delayed!May 7, 2012

I'm sorry I haven't yet drawn a winner for the California Revival book! I will, very soon, within the next couple of days. I had the surgery (five hours long -- the doc had a lot to do), and I can't quite face my laptop just yet, and only handling things I can do from my cell phone, like this post. Recovering well but so tired. Napping again now. Xoxo

Sent a-go-go from my iPhone

California Revival KnitsApril 30, 2012

My fave pattern, Wrought Cardi

I'm lucky enough to be a stop on the blog tour for Stephannie Tallent's new book, California Revival Knits. As a fan of California architecture, I couldn't help but be interested in a book of knits modeled on buildings that, grouped together, "feature stucco, red tile roofs, coved ceilings, tile, tile, and more tile (with Spanish, Moorish or Mexican influences) and wrought iron."

After drooling over her book (which you can win a copy of by leaving a comment below), I had the chance to ask her a couple of questions. 

Wrought Mitts

What was your favorite part of this book's process? 

I really enjoy all the big picture things:  planning the palette, the yarn choices, the general pattern ideas. 

But I really love seeing it all come together, too.  I’m a big one for keeping myself organized via spreadsheets, and I admit I loved putting DONE in the pattern status column. 

It was also fun getting the patterns to my group of test knitters & getting their feedback and seeing their finished objects.

And having the final PDF is tremendously exciting.  I can’t wait for the print copy.

The photoshoot was a little nervewracking for me – I’d never done one before – but my photographer, Kathy, had fantastic ideas & made it as easy on me as possible.  Kristi Porter, who modeled for the main photoshoot, was awesome too.  I know the next will go smoother, now I know more of what I have to do.

Was there anything about bringing a book to the finish line that surprised you? 

Just how long it takes even after all the initial stuff (patterns, photos, text) is turned in.  There’s a big difference between self publishing a small collection of patterns yourself & working with a small indie publishing company (where, lol, it’s not always about ME). 

Tiles Sweater

What knitting project do you have on the needles now? 

I’m currently working on a second pattern collection of my own designs, and am in the midst of working on a lace cami in Dragonfly Fiber Dance rustic silk.  The back is done & I’m getting ready to cast on for one of the fronts.

If you’re familiar with my designs, two things probably caught your eye.

Designing with the silk is a first for me -- I usually work in wool or wool blends.   I really like the Dance silk; it’s a nubby silk noil that has lovely drape.

Also, I nearly always work seamless tops.  I didn’t have any traditionally non-seamless designs until this one.  But I decided the structure of seams would really help with this top, considering the inherent lack of bounce and memory of the silk.

After that, I have a couple hats for the book to work on next, and another sweater.  Of course there are many more patterns, but that’s the order in which I want to tackle the projects.

Please leave a comment for a chance to win the new book! Or preorder here.  Ravelry link here.  I'll draw a random winner on Friday. Good luck!  

JamApril 22, 2012

I've been playing music lately, drawn to the accordion more and more. It's been about a year that I've been fooling around with it now, and while I'm still not reliable with both hands at once, I can noodle around more or less non-embarrassingly with either hand. I have ONE song I can do with both hands (Eilen Jewell's "Walking Down the Line"). I believe that's what you call a start. And, hey, if I'm playing only the bass buttons, I can sing along. Kind of. 

We got together with a group of women a couple of weeks ago and spent the entire afternoon playing bluegrass. Accomplished musicians and singers, I played as quietly as I could most of the time, as I was by far the least talented, instrument-wise. I managed to tape one short version of "I'll Fly Away." (I'm the low alto.) 

I'llFlyAway

 And the other night, I got together with the knitters to play some tunes. ALL THE WORLDS COLLIDE. At A Verb For Keeping Warm, we had an upright bass (Lala), drums and trumpet (Adrienne, of Verb), and two accordions in addition to mine (Stephen hizKnits and Sonya of the Felt Cervix Project). Lala also had her banjo with her, but we decided that a jam consisting of a banjo, three accordions and a trumpet was just asking for trouble.  

Stephen and Lala bonded over their t-shirts: 

Stephen's has Obama riding a unicorn, and Lala's has Batman riding a unicorn, saying "Giddyup." There was also an almost unbelievable moment when the two of them rapped "Bring the Noise" by Public Enemy back and forth to each other while the rest of us watched, dumbfounded. 

Then we jammed, man. Imagine three (THREE) accordions in one spot. Three is just about two and half too many for most gatherings. At times, it sounded experimental punk music being played by junkies wearing earplugs. At other times, though? It sounded awesome. 

 

Adrienne, with her "drums" at her feet, Sonya's accordion in the foreground. Yes, A's wearing shades at night. That's how trumpet players do. 

It all reminded me of what I love best about playing music--it absolutely forces you into a space in which you are bound to screw up, usually in front of other people. That's really hard for me, and it's scary. But there's a contrary part of myself that absolutely loves doing things that scare me. The high afterward is just so damn high, you know? 

My favorite photo of the night: 

Here, Stephen was about to look up and see the host of accordion angels that Sonya and I so clearly saw (they had wings made of wool and their harps were strung with qiviut). 

 

Migraines and HormonesApril 16, 2012

*TMI alert -- If you're offended by people writing about their lady parts, don't read on; go pet a puppy or something else fun. I won't mind. 

I'll keep it short, because really, who wants to read about other people's medical schtuff? I'm getting a hysterectomy in two weeks, and I could not be happier. I've spent the last ten years trying everything (absolutely everything from East to West, don't you worry) to control/prevent my migraines but they're completely hormone driven, and I'm done. This is the pain train's last stop, friends. I'm getting off. Due to endometriosis, dysmennorhea, and the hormonal migraines, I'm getting the full monty taken out, ovaries and all. 

So I'm going to throw it out there, because you are wise: Let's talk about hormone replacement. I'm going to do estrogen-only supplementation. The hormone replacement therapy (HRT) that's been shown to cause cancer is a combo dose of progestin/estrogen. I'm not doing that because I don't need the progestin (and because I don't want to risk). The studies show that estrogen-only therapy actually lowers mortality (Bing! Zap! I'm like a video game!) and protects against the things that the old HRT caused: breast cancer, heart damage, etc. It might increase the risk of stroke, but only by a small amount. I've done some reading but I know there's a lot of stuff out there I don't know. And just try Googling hormone replacement! Quelle horreur!

Got any experience with this? I'll accept all stories and words of advice, apocryphal and otherwise, because I swallow the internet with a large grain of fabulously colored exotic salt. 

Oh, and I think in a response to all this, I've been SUPER sensitive about the all-over grey hair I've been trying to rock. (I'm 39, for the record.) I think, while I have friends that are rocking it, I was not quite there. I do believe in my heart we ALL should be proud of the grey hair when we get it. I believe my friends with white hair are gorgeous. But me? I was just not comfortable in my skin or my skin tone under grey hair, and I was tired of always feeling not myself. 

So I bought a box (Loreal Feria 56, for the curious), and covered some of my white with foil (because I do love it, just not all over) and ended up with this. Which, I have to suggest, I might be rocking. 

Now tell me everything about hormones. 

Dear Australia and New Zealand: April 12, 2012

I have a new gift book out! The Little Book of Knitting Wisdoms: 

So Eliza and I came up with this together: she came up with the quotes, and I, um, wrote them down for her. Yeah, that's it. (They're compiled from the first three Cypress Hollow novels, so America, don't despair that you can't get the book here.) (If you really want it, I think you can go HERE and request to be notified when they get it in stock.)

I'm excited about it. I love that my character Eliza Carpenter has become Someone (because, to me, she's always been pretty darn special.) 

Colette CrepeApril 8, 2012

Once a year, whether I like it or not, I get sewing fever. This year, it seems like there are more awesome patterns out there than ever. I chose Colette Crepe, and boy, I'm glad I did. I love this dress. 

It's a wrap-around, no zip/button dress, and it was, facings aside, very easy. And fast! Three hours to prep/cut, 4.5 hours to sew. For me, anyway, that's fast. Admittedly, there was a moment when we were due at a dinner party, and I was standing in the kitchen in my underwear, ironing the hem I needed to sew, but that's the kind of race I like. 

You can see by this shot I'd moved the vacuum cleaner. (Classy!) 

Closer shot of fabric: it's orange and tiny white dots on dark blue, with an orange sash. 

Angle of shot is weird and makes me look like a woman in a comic-book. Oh, well. 

It has POCKETS! 

and it's just fun: 

Good FridayApril 6, 2012

Why, yes, yes it has been. Non-religious me got home from work, took a nap, went and bought fabric for a dress from Verb, and then went to kayak Lake Merritt with Bethany. As you can see here, I had a terrible time. 

I've decided this: For my 40th this year, I'm going to learn how to sail. The Lake has lessons, CHEAP, and it's real sailing with tricky winds and tiny little sailboats. Then someday I'll take my show on the Bay, but until then, I'll be happy tacking around the lake of the city I love. 

Tonight I'm gonna tack seams, instead, and try to make a dress. The internet buzz about spring sewing has infected me, and it's all I can think about. More to follow. 

Ciao, OaklandMarch 30, 2012

You know what I love about Italy? That you don't ever enter a place without saying the equivalent of, first, hello! Hello! Oh, hello, how are you, hello, hello! And then when you leave, it's imperative that you must say Goodbye! Goodbye! Goodbye, take care, see you soon, travel safely, goodbye, goodbye! 

And this is what strangers must do. If you know or like the person in question? Please multiple the number of Ciaos by approximately 17. I got no end of amusement sitting in campo cafes, watching people meet and leave each other. So much genuine affection! None of it sounded forced or cursory. 

Connection. 

That's what I got from this whole trip (along with an extra pound or three from the carb consumption but let's not talk about it). I was struggling with the language, but I was stubborn about it, so instead of falling onto people's mercy and their mad skills with English (because everyone in the service industry in Venice speaks good English), I would muscle my way through things. It was exhausting, struggling to be understood. 

And while I'd gone to Italy by myself in order to find quiet, I found myself strangely lonely sometimes. I wanted to laugh with someone, and to chat easily. I had coffee with my friend Santina, which was awesome. 

 

But for the rest of the time, when I wasn't happily being quiet, I was searching for connection. I craved it. I didn't see that coming. I pictured myself in Italy, perfectly content to wander alone for eight days. But even with Facetiming Lala every night (what a world we live in! How cool is that that I could just DO that for free?), I was looking for someone to talk to.

I would pick a likely-looking person sitting alone and plan on saying something casually (sometimes it felt like I was single again, trying to work up the nerve to talk to someone at a bar). And then, in all cases, their other half would join them. 

No one travels alone in Venice. 

Now, I know that's not true. It can't be true. But in March of this year, I started to believe I was the only one traveling solo. It became a kind of game, watching for people who looked like tourists who were alone.

I became a connoisseur of the small connection.

Like the screaming set of twins on a very packed boat. The girl baby and I bonded. Every time I caught her eye, she stopped crying and started smiling and laughing. I swear I was drunk on the ten minutes of love we shared. 

Or the cat lady (I will tell you about her at some point, I promise) who called me cara and kissed both my cheeks when we parted. 

Or the punk bartender who played Sinatra (I actually ended up lapsing into English with him, and it was okay). 

Or the lacemakers. 

Or the very young waiter who, when I declined dolce, brought me a tiny plate of wee cookies anyway, to make my night sweet. 

Or the young man, sitting opposite me, eating alone (oh! There was one!) and obviously completely miserable about it. Seen above, this is the way he ate his whole meal. I tried for a long time to catch his eye but he wouldn't look at me -- he ate with his head down or occasionally staring up at the sky. I was too shy to just speak out and grab his attention. But by the time he hit his dessert, I gave up and just spoke loudly, "How's your ice cream?"  He transformed, utterly. He sat straight. He grinned. He said it wasn't very good, that I should order something else. He left shortly thereafter and wished me a wonderful evening, still standing straight and walking away smiling from ear to ear.

Those moments, those were the ones that made my trip. I know it seems obvious, but I was kind of caught flat-footed by it. I went with the intention to write, to finish the book I'm working on. I didn't do that. I only wrote in my journal and on the blog. 

I went with the intention of seeking solitude, and found it, but craved connection. 

I went with the intention to catch up on sleep. AND I DID. Hoo-yeah. Not a sleeping pill in sight, just glorious sleep. 

But I didn't know, I honestly didn't know, that other people would be such a big part of my trip. So I'm trying to bring that home with me -- that delight in hearing someone else speak, a stranger. 

Yesterday I was in my home post office, and an older gentleman told me I'd dropped a piece of paper. "No, I didn't, but thanks," I said. I think I had just kicked a receipt, but he was still worried. 

"You never know, young lady. You coulda written an important number on that. You don't want to lose that." 

So to humor him, I picked it up and flattened it, putting it in my pocket. Then I really looked at him. He was COVERED in military pins, from his military hat to his heavily-weighted jacket. Normally I would have smiled and wished him a good day. But instead I said, "LOOK at you! What IS all that you're carrying around there?"

His chest pushed out and he said, "Welp, happens I'm the most decorated veteran in the East Bay."

"Wow!" I said, impressed. I stuck out my hand. "Honored to meet you." 

"Abner Walton," he said [I know]. "I was with the army. Now I'm the owner of Dynasty Investigation, for the last thirty years. I specialize in finding people. And let me tell you, I find the ones who don't want to be found."

He told me stories, and I gawped appropriately, and it was a lovely, lovely few moments. It took maybe five minutes out of my life. And isn't that exactly what life is FOR? 

Being. Listening. Thinking. It means everything, doesn't it? 

Venice kissed me one last time as I left, giving me this as I took the bus-boat away, suitcase at my feet. 

It was amazing to be there. And it was amazing to come home, which is just the right way to travel, I think. 

Digit agrees. (Lala said by the last few days of my trip, he kept trying to get out. She thought he was trying to go look for me. Awwww.) 

* Boots for the win, by the way. I didn't see a single Italian woman under the age of sixty who wasn't wearing black boots. I brought a heeled pair and a low pair, and alternating them daily kept my feet happy till almost the very end when duct tape handled the two blisters I got (duct tape, the best thing EVER for blisters -- I never travel without some wrapped around a chopstick -- just wrap it around the part of foot where the blister is and it forms a new, thick skin that you can just keep walking on. Best thing I learned from running).

Ciao, ciao, salve, arrivederci, ciao! 

LACE! and zomg so much to tell you!March 23, 2012

You GUYS. 

So Burano, a small island about 45 minutes away from Venice by boat, is known for its lace-making. I've been before, and hadn't been impressed by anything but the beauty of the tiny town (they paint their houses vibrant shades so they can be seen by their sailors from far away). Most of the lace for sale in the small shops isn't made by hand, and that which is is obviously extremely -- and prohibitively -- expensive. 

This morning, I hopped the boat for Burano. I hadn't been in at least ten years, and figured it was worth another go. However, the obnoxiously loud tourists clacking away on the boat bugged me (said the obnoxiously quiet tourist), and at the last minute, when we landed at Burano, I decided to get on yet another boat and cross the canal to Torcello. 

Torcello is another small island in the lagoon. Ruskin called it and Venice "the mother and daughter," Torcello being the mother. (And you KNOW how I feel about mamas.) It was inhabited first, before Venice, around the 5th century (!) and in the 10th century had about 10,000 inhabitants. 

It now has 20 inhabitants. Twenty.

And it felt like it. I went on a walk when the boat landed. 

I found a lane: 

And another one: 

I found a church (one of the oldest I've ever been in) and I found lunch (one of four places that looked like they cater to the rich summer crowd, none of whom were in town for the winter): 

 

After a couple of delightful hours, I knew I should at least give Burano a chance, so I left Torcello, passing this on my walk out: 

 Yep. The lonely accordion-player was all by himself out there, with nothing in his hat (until I walked past, of course). Jesus. Just playing this back for myself makes me grin like I'm still there.

Then I caught the boat back to Burano. I looked dutifully at the lace, and no, nothing had changed. Mostly crap. (In fact, I didn't see any real stuff at all this time.) I was heading back to the boat, gelato in hand, when I spotted THE LACE MUSEUM (it wasn't in caps like that, but in my head it was.)

The little movie at the beginning was amazing, 30 minutes or so showing the history of the lace in the islands and where it was now. 

But upstairs? The real jewels? THE LACE MAKERS THEMSELVES. Or three of them, at least.

Please excuse my photo clicks and my bad Italian -- I was seriously so excited that even now, thinking about it, puts a hitch in my breathing. 

I didn't get my friend's name, which makes me mad at myself because we talked for a long time, but I know that she's been doing this for ten years (she got rather a late start, apparently) and her mother, who was with the sculoa when it began in the early 1900s, made lace for 83 years. 

I showed her my lace. And OH MY GOD we had such a moment. She showed it proudly to the other two lace makers: 

and they all said, "Brava, brava!" and she told me this: That we were the same. She and I. She made lace with her craft, and I made lace with mine -- then she clasped my hand -- but we are the same, she said in Italian, which I would repeat here but I'd get the conjugation wrong so I won't.

I wanted to hug my friend! To kiss her! But instead she asked to see my tattoos which were peeking out from under my sleeves -- she liked the yarn ball but loved the mama tattoo. 

I felt annointed.  

(I love how in the picture above she's stretching it out, totally confident, even though she only crochets and doesn't knit much -- she commented to the other women about my tiny needles! And she knits with THREAD! When I pulled out the knitting later, there was a short white thread from her work caught in with the red. For a moment I wanted to save it, like I saved my first gray hair at 21, but then I realized I was crossing into crazy-land.) 

Then the creepy guard who had already asked me out once in the four seconds we'd spoken about lace followed me down the stairs, whispering so his boss wouldn't hear that he could show me Venice at night. He didn't think I knew he wanted to show me Venice in his pants? I know what Venice at night looks like, fool, and she's much prettier, so basta. However that doesn't stop me from loving I got hit on in the lace museum. BAM! 

I'm loading a ton more pictures to Flickr, but I think I'm going to bed now, so I won't title them or even guarantee that they make it there. I'm exhausted, and I have my first well-deserved blisters of the trip. 

* I haven't even told you about going to the Lido and finding where the cats of Venice went yet! (That was yesterday and such a good story.) 

** Anyone ever used one of those Berlitz/etc language courses? Do any of them work? My problem is this: I have exactly enough Italian to order food, to find the bathroom, and to understand 80% of all responses. I can't conjugate a damn thing correctly -- in order to say I did something yesterday, I turn around and point behind me. In Italy, I'm not embarrassed (much) to make a fool of myself trying very hard to speak the language. (I fooled someone today, who corrected himself when he started to give English directions, and gave them all to me in Italian. I understood them all, and followed them, and then avoided him assiduously afterward, lest he learn the truth.) My problem in that in the US, when I'm learning, I hate being wrong all the time. I've done college courses in Italian, and usually drop out because speaking it in class makes me too nervous. Any ideas? 

A Small MomentMarch 21, 2012

I had a glorious moment tonight when I remembered again why I'm here in Venice. 

Because, and I say this with some embarrassment, there are occasional moments when I forget. Like when my feet are tired. Or when I'm lost, and not in the good way (say, if I can't find the apartment while carrying two bottles of wine, and I've had to pee for thirty minutes). Or when I notice that every single damn person in Venice is with someone else. I have lonely little pathetic moments when I remember the times I've been here with loved ones, and how nice it was to have someone to chat with instead of being the perpetual eavesdropper. (And I chose to come alone. This was what I wanted. What I want. So it feels stupid to have these moments. But there it is.) 

Every time I feel this way, I immediately find a cafe and I order either a cafelatte or a spritz, depending on whether it's before or after three pm (the time is arbitrary to my own taste -- I've seen people drinking at nine in the morning). I pull out my knitting or I write in my journal, and the world gets positively radiant. It's amazing. 

Tonight, I couldn't decide what to do. I'd had stunning luck at finding yarn (cashmere at Lellabella!) and bad luck at finding the Hemingway exhibit I read about yesterday (I was a year late). The light was leaving the sky. Should I go home? Find dinner? Have a snack? A drink? Go grocery shopping? I stood on a bridge, confused and tired. Then I saw a tiny old woman in a wheelchair sitting in front of a cafe in Campo Santa Maria Formosa. I sat next to her. Buona sera, I said, and she looked surprised at being addressed by a stranger, but she responded politely if coolly. 

I pulled out my knitting.

She did a double, then a triple take. Then she started grinning at me. I grinned back. At 6:26, the bells started ringing (in eighteen years of coming to Venice, I've never been able to figure out why or when bells ring). I sat in utter, complete joy to be exactly where I was. 

She left shortly thereafter while the bells were still ringing, giving me one last grin and a tiny wave as her daughter pushed her chair away. Sadly, she's not caught by the video below, but in this moment, I had tiny tears of complete and total joy. 

These moments are why I'm here. 

More March 18, 2012

Today, I wandered. I got lost countless times, which still surprises me. It's like getting lost in Oakland -- I feel as if I know it so well, and then I turn around, and I can't find my way out. But by getting lost, I found a great grocery store (hard to find sometimes here) and a few glasses of spritz in squares I've never been to before. 

I'm going to try to put up new pictures every day or two at Flickr, if you want to go visit there. It's easier to load them there than here (the internet connection is spotty, and I swear it shifts with the wind). 

One for you from today: 

And some knitting: 

(This place, where I bought two spritzes, has the best bathroom view, perhaps in the whole world. Will try to sneak a picture another day. I'm the MASTER of toilets in Venice, I'm telling you.) 

And perhaps one more video to show you what Venice sounds like: 

 

In VeniceMarch 17, 2012

It's been a wonderful, if very long, day. 

I'm sitting at a little table, with Wifi that works, and I'm listening to the water lap in the lagoon outside the window. 

Seriously, right outside (this is from my window):

Today, in the time that I've been awake, I've gotten off work, driven home and packed, spent three hours at SFO, taken an 11 hour flight followed by another hour-long one, then taken an hour-long boat ride to find where I'm staying, then walked about a million miles, just exploring and getting lost in Venice. I've been up for about 33 hours now (and I only got 6 hours of sleep in the previous 48) so I think I'm probably tired, but I don't really feel it yet. I've had three glasses of wine, and instead of making me sleepy, they've simply stopped my hands shaking (NO, my hands don't shake when I don't drink. Please. But they do shake when I'm this tired) and it's made made me red-cheeked. My slap-faced rosacea always blooms when I drink more than two glasses, especially when I'm tired. You know the only thing that helps? Extremely bright lipstick: 

I just got done dealing with the aftermath of forgetting to send a cancel on a reservation (I thought I had! But it was still sitting there in Drafts). So my cheap lodging just got quite a bit more expensive. 

But you know what? I've accepted that. I'm in the place I love best (I do love Oakland, with all my heart -- but my soul belongs to Venice). I realized something today (again): It's good not to worry about things before they happen. See, I dream at least four or five times a year about trying to get to Venice, and I can never quite make it. I get close (to Mestre, or some equally awful approximation) and then fumble around, never able to figure out how the boats work before I wake up. 

So it was natural to try to worry about getting here today. But I didn't. 

I could have worried about the taxi not coming (okay, I did, for a minute, quite violently, but I got over it). It came. Mr. Singh smelled like vanilla and coconut oil, and he drove like a saint on rollerskates. 

I could have worried about not making the flight. But I did, with thirty minutes to spare (that was with building in 3 extra hours, thank god for them). 

I could have worried about the fact that SFO wasn't able to print me a boarding pass from Frankfurt to Venice (Frankfurt is my least favorite airport in the world -- it's HUGE and busy and I've missed flights there before). But when I got to Frankfurt (after a lovely flight seated next to people who were the perfect combo of chattty/silent), I got my boarding pass within minutes, and I was standing at the gate already, on accident, with ten minutes to spare. 

I could have worried about the fact that Christina didn't answer her phone when I called her -- she was picking me up after two more boat rides to take me to the apartment. But I didn't worry. I just got on the first boat. At Fondamente Nuova, I looked for a phone to try her again, but there wasn't one. Period. Anywhere. 

So I asked at a bar. And bless them, they let me phone Christina from there. I hopped another boat, and I finally realized this: even without worrying, I hadn't really thought I would make it here. I never think I'll make it back. And I did. I'm here. 

And I'm so goddamn happy. 

Wanna see where I'm staying? (OH! The ambulance boat just went by, code three, lights and sirens. That's always fun.) 

And just a few more that I shot from the window while I was making dinner (usually I go out at night to eat, but tonight I was just too tired to do so): 

Aw, hell. I'm just TOO tired to add any more here. In between writing this and posting it, I went for a long, dark walk to try to stay awake just a little longer. I chased after some students who obviously knew where they were going, and I found a section of town I'd never seen. (The Witch's Garden, that's where I'm going for dinner tomorrow night.) But now the exhaustion has set in.  Flickr set being built here. Love to you all -- more to come. Lots more! I'm home!