Yesterday, as most of you probably know, was November 1st. Always, always, always November 1st starts the countdown to my birthday. I love my birthday. So much so I named this here blog after it. And without fail on November 1st, I start thinking about my birthday. I may not say it out loud, but inside, where it really counts, I’m going two months until my birthday two months until my birthday two months two months two months!

This year? Not so much. Somehow I’m not so into the two months until my birthday mantra. Now I’m more like let’s get through November let’s get through November let’s get through November.

Georgie’s hip surgery is scheduled for the Monday after Thanksgiving and if we can just get through November everything will be a-ok. He’s having hip resurfacing, which is actually a misnomer because it’s really a modified hip replacement. He’s getting new parts. My own Six-Million $$$$$ Man! (Don’t ask how many times I’m going to be ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ing every time he moves. It will be a lot.) I’m praying that this surgery is the beginning of a whole new life for him – for us – PAIN FREE! It’s going to be a hard recovery, I’m sure, and unlike his numerous other surgeries, he’s actually going to be staying in the hospital a few days (trust me, I’m already thinking about the knitting projects) so there’s that extra added seriousness factor. Rehab is of the utmost importance and it’s looking like he’s going to be home for a while. There’s a lot to think about.

Add to that the fact that this is my busiest time professionally. Last year I couldn’t think straight and this year will be a bit easier since I’m not taking new jobs right before the surgery (and none after) but still – I’ve got deadlines and worries and the birthday just isn’t taking priority.

And I’m going to be 37. For some reason that seems old(er) to me. I don’t know – I don’t feel old necessarily – at least not mentally old. But my husband’s having hip replacement surgery and I don’t have a baby yet. I thought for sure I’d have a baby by now. If I get pregnant when I’m 37 but my embryos were fertilized with eggs that are 34 do I still need to do an amnio? These are the thoughts that run through my head. I’m feeling SO MUCH BETTER these days about so many things, but will that be enough? Am I old enough now? All of these thoughts just make me feel older.

Last year the birthday was all about EXTRAVAGANZA! There were prizes galore and funny photos everyday and while I will be doing a contest for the actual day – assuming we get through November – I’m going to be keeping a bit quieter about my birthday this year. I have so much to celebrate EVERY SINGLE DAY of my life. I have long considered myself one of the luckiest people alive and the older I get the more I appreciate every day as opposed to singling out ONE DAY.

In the past, I’ve been afraid of odd prime ages. 13 sucked. 19 wasn’t the best. 23? One of the worst years of my life. I got married when I was 31 so that might have reversed the curse. Here’s hoping 37 brings about a score of new beginnings – atop the list a pain free life for my husband. But I’ll settle for a year of ordinary every days. With maybe a couple extraordinary days thrown into the mix.

L, C
I love Georgie!

READ THIS FIRST: This is a very long post – over 3,000 words. It doesn’t have any pictures, except for one at the very end, and it doesn’t talk about knitting, unless you count the fact that I mention two yarn stores. This post is about emotions and opinions and I know that a lot of people don’t read knitting blogs for emotions and opinions. They read them for knitting and I completely understand and respect that. Tomorrow’s post will be all about knitting and yarn. But I was a writer long before I was a knitter or photographer. Writing is my blood and what I felt while I was visiting New Orleans needed to be written down. I’m extraordinarily lucky that there are many of you that keep coming back to read my blog and I’m full well taking advantage of that fact to share my feelings and opinions and my writings on New Orleans with you. I’m putting it out there. You can choose to read, or you can choose not to read. Read some of it. Read all of it. But I’m putting it out there. I thought about closing the comments for this post, but I’d like to hear your feelings about NOLA. Have you been there before? Have you been there since the Hurricane and subsequent flooding? Are you from there? I had never been before last weekend but I will be back. Mark my words, I WILL BE BACK. Thank you for your thoughtful, RESPECTFUL comments. I greatly appreciate your reading.

Cara Davis
September 12, 2006

We flew into Louis Armstrong Airport Thursday night after connecting in Chicago. On the second leg of the trip we watched a decent amount of the last two acts of Spike Lee’s When the Levees Broke. It was awfully strange getting off the plane, tired and a bit disoriented as you always are landing in a new city, and recognizing everything. We had seen body after body lining the floor of the airport on TV – dead bodies, hurt bodies, misplaced bodies. We had heard about people begging to be put on planes out of the hell they had lived through only to end up with a one way ticket and no idea of their destination. The airport was quiet. And empty. But the pain echoed in the corridors. We saw the Jazz Greats mural on one side of the large waiting room, and on the other we found the haunting specter of Icarus, hanging over the room. It was quite scary.

Our ride to the airport was no less eerie, taking us along the highway in the dark, peering through the bus windows wondering what devastation was out there to behold. And then we passed by the Superdome. It was all I could do not to cry.

I have to admit I was reticent about going to New Orleans. I hate flying and I didn’t want to get on a plane. And the recent news coming out of NOLA hasn’t been the best – bullets, crime, the stagnation of rebuilding taking its toll on the people. But a part of me thought it was our responsibility to go. To be a WITNESS. And I’m so glad we went.

On Friday morning I woke up and looked forward to a morning on my own. Amanda had emailed me a list of yarn stores to check out and I figured I would start with the farthest from where I was staying. I called down to the concierge and asked her the best way to get to the Garden District Needlework Shop on Magazine Street. She told me I could take a cab, that would cost about $15 or I could take the #11 bus. I don’t know, but $15 seemed like a lot to me to go about 2 miles (probably the same as NYC) so I took the bus. This might not seem like a big deal to you, but for me it was HUGE. I’m not sure I’ve ever taken public transportation – by myself – in a strange city. But there I was waiting on the corner of Canal and Magazine for the #11. At every opportunity I tried to engage the people around me. I looked them in the eye and I smiled constantly. I was full of positive energy. This is NOT my usual demeanor. I’ve lived in the NYC area for nineteen years and I’ve perfected indifference – on the bus, the subway, at the post office. Wherever, whenever. But in New Orleans I felt like I wanted these people to know that I cared what happened to them. I wasn’t afraid of the badness that had touched them. They were real to me and I wanted to be real to them.

As I road the #11 down (up?) Magazine, I looked out the windows and once again was forced to imagine the suffering that went on behind closed doors. Had these homes been flooded? Were the houses empty waiting for their families to come home? Had children been separated from their parents? Everything seemed okay, if not a bit shabby and yet there was an emptiness to the streets. There were maybe six people on the bus with me and I was by far the only tourist. When I got off at the 2100 block of Magazine, I stood and looked around – not sure where I was and where I was going. I had forgotten the piece of paper with the address of the Garden District Needle Shop so I stopped into a store along Magazine. The concierge had told me that the neighborhood was one of an eclectic mix of shops – you could buy a Louis XVI chair at an antique store and then have it tattooed on your arm at the shop next door. The store I ended up sold lots of kitschy toys and clothes for kids and adults and I asked the young woman at the counter if she knew where the yarn store was – she told me it was across the street, but I felt like I needed to look around her store before I left.

I asked her if the neighborhood had flooded. She told me no, but that they had had some hurricane damage and that after the floods looters had come. I told her that I had seen the Spike Lee film before I left and she asked me what I thought of it. She, a white woman, told me she was nervous to see it because she had heard it was really very biased. I told her that I thought it was about as balanced as Spike could get – but that in the hands of someone like Michael Moore it could’ve been a lot worse. We talked some more about what had happened and how it had played out and she was the first white person, but not the last, to tell me that what happened in New Orleans was a class issue, not a race issue. It was about poverty, not the color of your skin.

I looked around the store desperate to spend some money before I left to go to the yarn shop, and ended up with a Desire New Orleans magnet. It wasn’t much, but they were very grateful that I had come.

Before I left the woman at the store told me about Vera, who had lived in the neighborhood and had been hit by a car when people were running out of town. Her body had been left to rot for many days, until finally the community came together to bury her where she had died. The grave is at the corner of Magazine and Jackson, where I stood and waited for the bus to go home.

The Garden District Needle Shop doesn’t look like much from the front door, but I was a bit shocked when I walked in to see how far back it went. It’s got something of a warehouse feel – white walls and low shelving in aisles on the floor. There were only a few people in the store – it was hard for me to tell who worked there and who was a customer. I wandered around, a silly smile plastered to my face and I listened as the women talked about coming home and the state of their houses and the damage and it was clear that what happened during Katrina is still VERY fresh a year later. People are just now coming back.

I browsed and browsed – determined to spend money – and after
I had found some Koigu I went up to the counter to buy it. The sales woman asked me if I had ever shopped there before. I told her this was the first time I had ever been to New Orleans. She asked me why I had come, and I told her, and then we talked about the storm and the flood. She lived close to the store, so had no flood damage, just a bit from the hurricane, but she pointed to another woman working in the store, she lost her house. I told them I had seen the Spike Lee movie (I don’t know why I kept bringing this up – because it was so fresh in my mind? I wanted to be controversial?) and the original clerk – who I think might have been the owner – told me that more white people died or had catastrophic injuries during the storm and floods than black people. Again I was told it was a class issue – not race. We talked a bit more and she thanked me for coming to visit. She told me to go home and tell people that there’s nothing dangerous about New Orleans. The only people being killed are young men trying to reestablish or establish their drug turfs. I told her I thought that if that’s what you were trying to do – it probably wasn’t safe for you anywhere.

I told her I was very happy to be in New Orleans and hoped to come back to visit soon.

I went out to catch the bus back to the hotel – I didn’t have a lot of time to walk around as I had to meet George fairly soon – but I tried to talk to people – ask for help. Where do I get the bus? Do you know when it comes? Just a little bit. It made me feel better. While I was on the bus there was a white man talking to two black women across the aisle. The man had a long bushy beard and seemed not to have many teeth and he had a cane. He was overweight and in the heat he seemed to be struggling a bit. I listened to him tell the women that he had walked twelve hours trying to get out of the storm? Flood? I’m not sure. But he said that when they picked him up they asked him where he was going and he told them Baton Rouge. I think it had taken him twelve hours to walk a fairly short distance. Whoever picked him up took him to a shelter.

All around the bus were signs about evacuating. Do you have a plan? they asked. Have you remembered your friends and family in that plan? MAKE A PLAN! Don’t wait to have a plan in place.

A man got on the bus and needed a quarter. I jumped up to offer him one – just a measly quarter – and he sat across from me and started to talking to me. “Hot enough for you?” I smiled and said yes – it was hot – and it had just started to get cool where I’m from. “Where are you from?” he asked. I said New Jersey and he asked if I lived in New Orleans now. I told him no. I was just visiting.

When he got off at the next stop I understood again that this wound is very very fresh. And then I thought about how a year had passed and how a year is really nothing in terms of time and that how even five years later I can still sit with friends and tell the story of what my 9/11 was like. And they can share with me and that for the people of New Orleans their 9/11 is ongoing and seemingly never ending.

When I got back to the hotel and met up with George, I was so absolutely PROUD of myself. Proud that I had taken the bus, proud that I had talked to people about what had happened. I felt like I had made a connection. Maybe pride isn’t the right word for how I felt. I was a little bit giddy about it. I think, really, that somehow, someway, on the #11 bus that Friday morning, I fell in love with New Orleans.

Later on that afternoon we took a walk to the French Quarter. We were wandering around aimlessly really with no destination in mind and I commented to George that the streets felt incredibly empty. It was Friday afternoon around 4:30 and we were walking on Chartres in the direction of Jackson Square. Completely by accident I came upon The Quarterstitch, one of the other yarn stores Amanda had told me about. We went in and I started looking around – the young woman behind the counter was listening to NPR and when she turned around she seemed surprised to see us. Once again, we talked for a bit while I shopped for yarn – was there flooding? Where did she live? Was she from New Orleans? In the middle of our talk George had left the store to take a phone call and suddenly he came running back in to get me. We had seen a band strolling around before, but they were too far away and turned a corner before we could catch them, but here they were again. I told the clerk I’d be right back – I still wanted the yarn (more Koigu) as I ran after the band. I caught the tail end of it – apparently it was a Second Line, often associated with a funeral – with maybe ten people dancing behind the small band, waving white handkerchiefs in their hands.

When I got back to the store I asked the sales clerk and another woman who had come in if the streets were normally as empty as they were. They told me that it was still summer, so things were pretty quiet, but that it was much more quiet than usual. Eerily quiet, the young woman said.

The next morning I woke up to sheets of rain falling outside the hotel window. My first thought was that the people here must hate when it rains. The children must be terrified.

Later on that day the rain had stopped and we took a tour of the city. Lunch was at Deanie’s Seafood in Metairie about two blocks from Lake Pontchartrain. From there we headed to the 17th Street Canal Levee, which was breached during Hurricane Katrina, and onto the neighborhood of Lakeview, which I think is in Jefferson Parish, right outside of New Orleans. Home after home was gutted and empty. Through the missing windows and doors you could see black walls leading out to the light at the other end of the house. Mattresses, chairs, refrigerators, insulation piled up in the front yard. And then there were the spray painted door markings left by the search and rescue crews. Every time a house was searched, the party spray painted an X on the front door or wall. The number at the 12:00 point of the X was the date the home was searched, at 9:00 the crew that did the searching, 3:00 any hazards in the house, and finally, at 6:00 the number of bodies discovered. Thankfully, I didn’t see any homes with number other than 0 at 6:00, but there are stories that the crews didn’t check well enough, or couldn’t check well enough and many people returned to their homes to find 0s on the door and bodies inside.

Those markings are chilling. I kept taking out my camera and I kept putting it away. I didn’t feel like I could take a picture of those doors. I don’t know if I felt like I couldn’t do it justice, or it wasn’t something I wanted evidence of – I don’t know. The memory of those doors will stay with me longer than any photograph ever could.

Along the streets of Lakeview we saw homes already rebuilt. We saw homes being cleaned out, FEMA trailers in the front yard, but most of all we saw the empty shells of homes. Where had the people gone? Were the families together? Safe? Secure?
Would they, COULD they come back?

From Lakeview we traveled back to New Orleans. Along the way were orange Xs and water lines as far as the eye could see. Some people have chosen to paint over the Xs and the water lines, but it seemed like most were keeping them there. A testament perhaps. Or maybe they just never came back. Occasionally, of the side of the highway, we’d come upon a large group of FEMA trailers. The modern day tent city.

As we got closer and closer to the French Quarter, the visible damage was less and less. But people are getting tired. From what we were told, in the months after Katrina – when the proverbial dust had settled – people were energized. They wanted their city back! They were willing to fight. But bureaucracy and politics and honestly, ineptness and ignorance, are taking their toll on the community. They are exhausted fighting for their homes. The one thing all people can agree on – whether they are black or white or rich or poor – is that the devastation in New Orleans was not caused by a natural disaster. It was MAN-MADE. The Army Corps of Engineers has taken responsibility for what happened to the Levees. For instance, the 17th Street Canal Levee – the flood wall was supposed to be built 17’ into the ground. It was built 10’ feet into the ground. From what I understand, the water didn’t just go over those walls – it went UNDER the walls – picking them up and splitting them into little pieces.

The people of New Orleans are angry. And rightly so. They’re angry at FEMA and they’re angry at the Army Corps of Engineers and they’re angry at their government – at EVERY level. Someone on our tour asked the guide whey they voted in Ray Nagin again if everyone hates him so much. He told us that he voted for Nagin because the other guy was saying the SAME EXACT THING. They felt that the devil they knew was better than the devil they didn’t.

I don’t know, honestly, where class stops being an issue and race takes over. In my limited experience there doesn’t seem to be that much difference. Maybe because of where I’ve lived – I don’t know. I also don’t know if there were more poor black people in New Orleans than there were white, but it would seem that way. And while the floodwaters didn’t discriminate, housing does and the poorer areas are lower and closer to the water. We didn’t go to the Ninth Ward – the tour buses aren’t allowed in anymore and I think many of the homes have been bulldozed anyway. The area of Lakeview we did go into was middle class – and I think predominantly white. Everyone lost something those tragic days in New Orleans. Everyone in this whole wide world lost something.

I’m sure some parts of New Orleans have survived relatively physically unscathed. We had beignets at Café Du Monde and they were fantastic. We ate Bananas Foster at Brennan’s and I can imagine it was as good as it ever was. Bourbon Street is as gross as I had heard. I ask those that have been there before – were the sex clubs lining the streets always so raunchy? I’m by no means a prude, but these clubs were really awful. Most of the street was like one big bar, but there was a really desperate seedy element as well. Was that always there? George was at the casino one night and he was told that the city is teeming with single men – the men that have come back to fix their homes while the family stays away – or men that have come looking for construction jobs. I found this really interesting – from a sociological perspective. How will the city change without the influence of women? (Of course, women are still there – but if the men out number the women by such a large margin, things are bound to change.)

Anyway. This has turned out to be far longer than I thought it would be but I felt like I needed to bear witness to what I saw and experienced. As I said early on, I fell in love with New Orleans. THIS New Orleans – battered and sad and overwhelmed and still standing. I have nothing else to compare it to, I know nothing of the character of the city before Katrina, but I left a piece of my heart there nonetheless.

Thank you for reading.

RENEW ORLEANS is a non-profit group helping to save the music of New Orleans. Buy a T-Shirt.

Visiting New Orleans was one of the most profound events of my life. Flying home into NYC, directly over Lower Manhattan, on the eve of the fifth anniversary of 9/11, made the emotions brought about by our trip all the more intense.

Given the day, I thought I would share a story I wrote. It’s about the nature of tragedy and it’s both funny, absurd and very sad.

“The BBC,” Fourteen Hills, Spring/Summer 2002, pgs. 36-40.
© 2002 by Cara Davis

Read it!

(I couldn’t get it all in one pdf document. The Fabulous Bookish Girl merged the documents together for me! Thanks Wendy! I hope you don’t have any trouble reading it. You will need Adobe Reader to view it. Thank you.)

https://januaryone.com/blog/post_9/

The streak continues.

On Friday, we arrived in Chicago a bit late, checked into the hotel and made a mad dash to the Red Line for a ride out to Wrigley Field. Ironically enough, the Cubs were playing the Mets. I was rooting for the Cubs, natch. G had been really wanting to make it out to Wrigley – one of the original ball parks – for a long while. I’m not the hugest of baseball fans – I tend to get bored. Not to mention it was really really really hot and when I sat down, this was my view.

Ewwwww! DUDE! How was I going to eat my hot dog looking at that?!? (Sorry Bonne Marie! I had to do it!)

I tried to divert my attention elsewhere:

Old fashioned scoreboard.
The guys in there must have been HOT!

Seats on the top of buildings surrounding the field.
Who do you have to know to get one of those?

And then G said, “What do you think’s going to happen today?”

I’ve talked about it before, but it seems like we can’t go to a ball game without something extraordinary happening. It’s become kind of de rigueur for my attendance at a baseball game. Friday was no exception.

As I mentioned (along with countless meteorologists across this great land) it was FUCKING HOT! And humid. And as the game wore on it got darker and darker and darker. G said, “I’ve never seen a rain delay.” and it was like NIGHT at 3 PM. The first indication of rain was a huge group of people in red polo shirts who seemed to have come out of the ground around the Cubs dugout. “They’re the tarp guys,” G said. And then I felt the first few drops. It was a relief to be sure. A drop here. A drop there. Nothing big. The game played on. And then suddenly and without warning the people on the OTHER SIDE OF THE STADIUM at the third base foul line started to run as if their lives depended on it. Of course, they couldn’t really go anywhere and it was a matter of seconds before the SHEET of rain was upon us dry folk on the first base foul line.

Where’s your shirt now, bub?!

See the person in the clearish poncho next to me on my left? This was actually an older couple – the guy told me he was at the first night game at Wrigley – and while they were huddled under their poncho a mysterious hand came out from underneath and handed me an umbrella. Thank you kind souls! There was really no where to go – the lines to get out of the rain were at a standstill so we sat huddled under the umbrella and laughed. There may have been some kissing as well.

Like 3:15 in the afternoon. See how dark?

Right back atcha baby!

Eventually the poncho couple started to move toward the covered seats and I told G we had to go with them because I wanted to make sure they got their umbrella back. We followed them up and gave them the umbrella. The rest of the delay we stood sort of out of the rain. I talked to a woman who had lost her whole family somewhere. It was her birthday. We laughed.

It stopped, like all rains do.

First you put it on, then you take it off.

I was never so wet in my life. Seriously. My pants were STUCK to my legs. My feet. Oy. You don’t even want to know about my feet. But MAN did we have fun!!!

These guys seemed more annoyed than anything.

And the sun did eventually come out again.

Although I think it was hotter AFTER the rain than before. We left right after the seventh inning because we had to get back to the hotel. My pants were wet for days. Here’s a picture of what my feet looked like whe
n I finally took my shoes off – all pruny and gross.

The most amazing part of the afternoon was my felted bag. I had my booga bag with me – the one I carry everywhere – and it got pretty darn wet. ON THE OUTSIDE. The INSIDE stayed dryer than dry!!! I swear to you! When they say those felted bags are water proof – my god they ARE!!! Here’s a picture of my ticket and G’s ticket. My ticket was thrown willy nilly inside my bag. G’s ticket was in his pocket.

Dry one on the left, wet one on the right.
But you didn’t need me to tell you that, right?

Isn’t that CRAZY?! And it never really got wet on the outside either, although at one point at the height of the rain I was hiding it under my chair and the bottom was really wet – like I could wring some water out of it wet. Inside? DRY. I will never NOT carry a felted bag again!!!! AWESOME!

Just like the Cubs fans. I don’t think anyone left during the rain delay. That’s what I call dedication.

I was all set to take the boxes to the post office yesterday but we had pretty horrific weather all day so it was a no go. They actually had tornados in Westchester which isn’t so close to me but close enough. The lightning across the swamps was INCREDIBLE. Sustained huge bolts. Scary stuff. And while it took a little while in the day for the rains to come, the thought of trying to load 24 boxes into my car then take them out of my car at the PO with the threat of rain was too much! Today is the day. I have laundry to do too and lots of clothes folding and then tomorrow bright and early CHICAGO!

Last night I started folding the clothes in the bedroom and we had a really really really bad storm – much worse than anything we had during the day – and I started watching this movie Birth. Has anyone seen it? It’s that controversial movie where Nicole Kidman gets naked in a tub with a little kid and kisses him. Although she doesn’t kiss him when they’re naked in the tub. Whatever. He’s supposed to be her reincarnated dead husband. I get kind of in to it and I’ve stopped folding clothes and G keeps walking in the bedroom asking questions and I keep telling him to shush so I can watch and then it ends and I turn to him and say, “My god that movie sucked.” Why? Why can’t we turn away? Why do we feel compelled to see something through to the end like that? Especially when Nicole Kidman looked so bad it was uncomfortable and Lauren Bacall is looking decidedly Planet of the Apes. I could’ve had all the clothes folded. Or I could’ve watched three episodes of Another World which just got really really really good because now Ryan is on the scene and I’m surprised that Anne Heche was still playing Vicki when Ryan showed up. Now THAT’S entertainment! Incidentally, I found it pretty funny that Anne Heche was also in Birth.

Then I had a dream that I started knitting my top down v-neck Calmer pullover. What do you think that means? (THANK GOD for archives because I couldn’t for the LIFE of me remember what size needle I used on my swatch and it says right there in internet black and white that I used size 8s. Which seems really wrong because the stitches are small, but that’s what I’m going with. I need to talk with MJ though because she did the whole thing top down and that’s what I want to do. Her sweater came out PERFECT and I want one JUST LIKE IT!) I’m thinking this will be my 2006 Rhinebeck sweater. Yes. I said it. It’s July 13 and I’m invoking the R word.

I’ve been thinking about socks too.

I’m not sure how much blogging I’ll be doing while I’m away – we get back Monday night. Look for an update on Tuesday for sure. I’ve decided that I’m definitely going to the Loopy party tomorrow night. I will have had a pretty full day by that time and I’m thinking I can sit and knit and meet other knitters without having to worry about much. So come sit by me! Hope to see you in Chi-town! Have a great weekend everyone!

L, C

(Warning: this is one of those feel good rose colored glasses the universe is a beautimous place post. If you’re one of those people who hates everything and everyone, back away slowly. I’m usually like that myself so I understand the nausea. I promise to be back to my cynical sarcastic fugly self tomorrow. Thanks! Have a great day!)

Have you noticed it too? That the knitblog world seems so, I don’t know, quiet? Maybe it’s just shifting, as these things are wont to do? I just dont know. It seems like lots of people I used to see around all the time have just sort of disappeared. Or maybe it’s just that everyone got a life and I missed the memo? (Maybe it’s me? I promise to shower more.) I’ve been thinking about this a lot the last couple of weeks. Like maybe it’s all ending and the new new thing is coming along and I still just want to write in my blog and show off my stuff and I have a compulsion to share! In some ways I’ve never been more excited about my knitting and where it’s going and I’m not one of those people that can keep my mouth shut. I find it interesting – this incredibly fluid incredibly fickle world we pseudo live in. I guess that IS what keeps it interesting. I DO STILL have faith in all of it – this big goofy experiment of a community where people come together because they love this one thing – this fiber thing – and then they bare their souls and actually become friends and join together to care about stuff. I BELIEVE!

Because, for instance, just yesterday THIS came in the mail.

NORMA! You nut! I laughed for like a half an hour and then everytime I went into the dining room and saw it sitting on the stack of mail I laughed again. DUDE! You ROCK! Thank you! (What’s so funny is that I rarely say dude except with my knitter friends. You guys bring the dude out in me. It’s true.)

And then, the other day, these found their way into my home:

BRIGHT! CHEERY! HIGH ENERGY! Gotta love my girl Jenny! She was all worried about me that I wouldn’t get sockapaloooza socks so she somehow got my foot dimensions and knit me a pair. How freaking sweet is that? I put them on immediately and I love them – because yes – I love the socks, but more so because they’re from Jenny and even though I met her for a couple of hours one really sunny day two years ago May, we made a connection and I love her. Thank you Jenny!

ETA: I did receive Sockapaloooza socks. Lovely ones. From Elizabeth. Thank you Elizabeth!

And in the blow my socks off with a 50 lb canon category I received this:

I can’t even begin to describe to you what these are. Stephanie of Spritely Goods was the FIRST person to offer up a prize for the Spin Out – even before I knew I was going to give prizes. Even before I knew that there would be a fundraiser for Heifer – SHE KNEW. She generously donated some hand-dyed batts. Then she donated money to the cause, and then, because you know, enough is never enough, she offered up some SAMPLE BATTS for spinners attending the event. MINI SAMPLE BATTS! Are you freaking KIDDING me?

I guess not because these little babies arrived in my mailbox and I swear to you I cried. Obviously, Stephanie lovingly carded all this fiber, made the little batts, made the mini labels. Do you know what the back of the label says? I’ll read it to you:

In honor of June’s Project Spectrum color Blue, I’m pleased to present you with a sample of handblended merino fiber in the Desert Daybreak Colorway. Enjoy and spin happily! – Stephanie

She’s even getting you all in on Project Spectrum!!! I need a new way to say it but THIS GIRL ROCKS! Sure, sure, the cynics among us will say free advertising, but c’mon. The amount of work that went into this was way more than what she’ll get from the free ads. As Georgie said when he came home and I showed them to him – she’s just a little bit better than me. My god Stephanie. I’m so incredibly touched that Ann can come with up a crazy idea and that people like you can take off with it. Thank you thank you thank you. Get there EARLY people. This gold ain’t going to last!

I still blog because people came out of the woodwork yesterday to ask if I was okay. You know. Because I said I’m going to host another knit along. I’m fine. It’s all good. I have a plan. HAHAHAHAHAHA! No really. Thank you for your concern. Yes I’m still seeing my psychiatrist. Yes the drugs are working fine. Yes. Yes. No. Not really. Do you think it would help? Really, though. I’m okay. It’s going to be great. And I think, this way, I’ll get to meet lots of new people! As I said, the knitblog world is constantly changing and while I miss my old friends that have moved onto greener pastures, I’m making new friends! Have you read Julia’s blog, Fricknits? She takes really beautiful pictures and has the cutest little boy and knits well and teaches kids to knit and most importantly she writes really really well. Go check her out! And the other day I saw a great meme type thing over at Victoria’s blog (who also takes some really really nice pictures,) Peace and Sereknitty. It’s sort of the anti-high school meme. What I Really Like About Me. Victoria would like us to all be a bit kinder to ourselves by stating five things (baby steps) we like about ourselves. Here are my five:

1. I have a great neck. Long and thin and ballerina like.
2. I think I have a pretty good sense of humor. And most importantly I can laugh at myself.
3. I’m loyal to the bitter end. If I’m your friend – you’re stuck with me.
4. I am extremely passionate about what I love and what I don’t love.
5. I’m well mannered – I always say please and thank you. I think please and thank you go a long way toward helping people feel appreciated.
(I’m adding an extra because I just can’t leave it out. Yeah. I’m all about the self love.)
6. I have great feet. Perfect feet. Pretty feet. I love my feet.

See? Blogworld is still a great place to pull up a piece of the Internets and grow some roots. HAVE A GREAT DAY! THANK YOU FOR READING!
L, C

Hey little girl is your daddy home
Did he go away and leave you all alone
I got a bad desire
I’m on fire

Tell me now baby is he good to you
Can he do to you the things that I do
I can take you higher
I’m on fire

Sometimes it’s like someone took a knife baby
edgy and dull and cut a six-inch valley
through the middle of my soul

At night I wake up with the sheets soaking wet
and a freight train running through the
middle of my head
Only you can cool my desire
I’m on fire

Late at night I’m takin’ you home
I say I wanna stay, you say you wanna be alone
You say you don’t love me, girl you can’t hide your desire
‘Cause when we kiss, Fire

You had a hold on me, right from the start
A grip so tight I couldn’t tear it apart
My nerves all jumpin’ actin’ like a fool
Well your kisses they burn but your heart stays cool

Romeo and Juliet, Samson and Delilah
Baby you can bet their love they didn’t deny
Your words say split but your words they lie
‘Cause when we kiss, Fire

Words and Musice by Bruce Springsteen.

There is no knitting content today. None. Nada. NIL. It’s like when I finished that shawl I was sapped of all my knitting super powers. I can’t even look at a sock. I’m sad. Anyway, come back, I don’t know, next month? if you want knitting. Thanks!

Last night was NOT devoid of excitement. It was about 9:45PM and I was laying in bed updating the MDSW sidebar (yes, I’m STILL updating) and watching this show about Bette Davis’s life. I love Bette Davis. Anyway, I’m watching tv and computing when G calls me in for dinner. I take my time wandering into the dining room from our bedroom and as I’m passing the kitchen he comes out, frantic, practically running me over.

“I need your help! There’s a FIRE!”

I walk into the kitchen – no smoke or anything – to see what can only be described as a nice bright ember glowing in the heating unit at the bottom of the oven. The chicken he was cooking is still in there and he proceeds to toss water on the coil. And when I say toss I mean throw a measuring cup of water in the direction of the oven missing pretty much everything that might be burning. I say why don’t we take the chicken out of the oven so we can get a better look at what’s going on? I wasn’t really scared or upset or anything because there weren’t really any flames, per se, but it was definitely on fire and it didn’t seem to be going out. We take the chicken out and the grates and watch it burn. G’s so pissed because he made corn on the cob and biscuits even and he’s hungry and I say I should get the camera to take a picture for the blog and he says do whatever you want. Yeah. No burning picture. The ember travels around the coil – so it’s moving – but it isn’t getting bigger. G throws more water into the oven. Nothing. Some sizzling and some sparks shooting out of the coil, but nothing like it’s going out. At all. It seems at any moment it’s going to get A LOT bigger and that’s what prompts us to get out the fire extinguisher.

I keep yelling, “DON’T POINT IT AT ME!” as G’s trying to figure out how to get out the pin. Not very intuitive those things. Had it been a real fire we would have been dead before we got the thing opened. He unpins it finally and takes aim and fires it at the burning coil. Nothing. Nothing, that is, unless you count a HUGE plume of toxic talc in our faces and lungs. Cough. Cough. Great.

About this time I remember that the washing machine and dryer are right next to the stove and that there are still clothes in the hamper on the floor and pants over the door that haven’t been folded or anything since the last time we did laundry so I’m scooping everything up and throwing it on the sofa in the living room and then I remember the big box of yarn that came the other day (I’ll tell you about it later) and I quickly get it all back in the box and close it up and open all the windows and then go back into the kitchen.

So the thing is still burning and now we’re trying water again which mixes with the fire extinguisher stuff so that we’re making a paste that will be impossible to get off ever and the coil is still burning. Then I take control of the fire extinguisher and hold that fucker down so that the ENTIRE house fills with toxic talc. The fire just won’t quit, moving along the track but now it’s getting to the other side of the coil and suddenly more and more sparks are shooting out and the fire blooms up then back to what it’s been and then I notice that the coil is burning bright orange further down the line where the fire is heading and it wasn’t doing that before. I close the oven because I’m thinking if this thing gets out of hand then maybe it will contain itself in there and G says no because opening it will cool it down and it’s STILL BURNING and I’m getting scared now and we’ve sort of run out of options and it doesn’t look like this thing is going to burn itself out and we both feel like the thing is going to explode at any minute. So we do it. God help me this means people, STRANGERS will see I’m a pig, but the house could burn down and we don’t have any choice. G calls 911.

“911. What’s your emergency?”
“We live at __ __ __. There’s a fire in our oven. We’ve tried everything to get it out. There’s not much smoke. (There really wasn’t any – it was just fire extinguisher crap.) It’s electric.”
“Did you try unplugging it?”
“We can’t get to the plug.”
“Did you flip the circuit breaker?”
Blank stares.
G runs over to where the circuit breaker is located, across from the stove IN THE KITCHEN, and we both start flipping switches. I look over to the oven. The fire is completely out. Nothing burning anymore. When I say instantaneous, I’m being slow about it. “It’s out,” G says to the operator. “No, no. It’s out. We’re good. Thank you.”

I’m amazed. In shock. Complete AWE that two incredibly intelligent, resourceful, quick on their feet people could be SO FUCKING STUPID!!!!!!

My house is covered with a fine mist of silt. Soot. Whatever the fuck you want to call this dust that is in everything. Oh and that little fire that probably wasn’t a fire at all – burned right through the coil in the stove. So I’ll be getting a new stove.
I just lay on the floor and started crying. Dude. I have to clean my house. I don’t have time this week to clean my house. I don’t. Next week I can clean my house. I think all the yarn is okay and it’ll be hard to tell what’s normal dust and what’s fire extinguisher dust. There is some good news in all this: the microwave still works.

I should’ve known that when I took this picture earlier in the evening it was a harbinger:

That’s pretty much what the stove looked like on fire.

I’m feeling EXTREMELY guilty about Maryland. We need a new stove. We just spent a fortune to fix our old car and now we’re not using our new (old) car because we need to keep it nice before we trade it in for our new (new) car which god knows when that will come so we’re renting a car to drive down to Maryland. It’s going to be really hard to spend money. Well, it’s going to be hard to spend money guilt-free. G says this year is a rebuilding year like the Mets. I say stop being so goofy and happy when your house almost burned to the ground you big lug. And besides, I’m a Yankee fan. I said we don’t have to go this weekend and he said of course we’re going and now that we’re renting a car it will be even MORE like a vacation. How’d I get so lucky?

Now, I have a favor to ask. I’m feeling really really really negative about my sockapaloooza socks. Somehow I feel like I’ve been cursed in this exchange and that I will NOT be getting a new pair of socks. If you are my pal and read my blog, can you please please send me out a note that says you are knitting the socks or have knit the socks or could care less about knitting my socks? I haven’t heard from you AT ALL and I’m sorry if I’m being a pain but I’m nervous and I don’t want to go to the mailbox every day just to be disappointed. Thanks sock pal. I really appreciate it.