Crazy Lanea

I'm going to my happy place, Metro, and you aren't coming with me . . .

I commute to DC for work, and most of my commute is on Metro, DC's subway system.  I don't like working so far from home (23.6 miles, 9 of them in a car, with a river in the way during the subway trip).  I am generally happy that I can do most of my commute via public transit, which allows me to read or knit rather than drive the whole way in DC's horrid rush hour.

Well, the last week or so has been a bad week for Metro riders.  Last week, the endless storms in DC brought trees and power lines down on the tracks, and Metro staff and local police were completely overwhelmed, and many of us were stranded around the DC for hours and hours trying to get home.  To make matters worse, the throngs of people trying to board the very few shuttle busses available showed Washingtonians at their worse.  Neighbor, in case no one has told you, it is never ok to push a person's wheelchair away from the entrance of a bus so you can board before said wheel-chair bound person.  Never.  I lucked into a shared cab ride back to my station, so it only took me 3 1/2 hours to get home that afternoon.  Today, a derailment blocked service again, but I lucked into a spot on one of the first shuttles and it only took me 2 1/2 hours to get home.  And when I got home, some crazy woman (i.e. me) demanded I paint some more blasted trim in our house, because our remodel still isn't entirely finished. 

That said, you'll understand my need to go to a happy place.   Thankfully, Scott and I just reminded ourselves a few weeks ago that there are places outside of the DC area, and some of those places are fantastic.  So rather than complaining anymore than I already have about my horrid commute and how much I hate painting trim, (and also the new Typepad because it makes it a huge pain to align photos the way I like),  I give you a random assortment of llama photos, triumphantly rescued from a misbehaving memory stick. 
 

  

I'm pretty obviously jumping the gun on the ABC along, but I'll come back to the Ls with some actual description and more photos.  Some day soon, I will even show you knitting. 

Valentine

I can't drive on Valentine's Day.  I've done it six times, and three of those times I've been in very bad car accidents.  I'm not a particularly superstitious person, but I can do basic math and those are horrible odds.  So I arranged to take today off.  I also arranged to have PT and my doctor-mandated allergy test Wednesday afternoon, thinking I could use today to recover from both--limping plus angry needle-marks all over one's arms do not a good impression make, after all.  I woke up yesterday to learn that the ice storm we had the night before had frozen my car doors shut, so I ended up calling in sick rather than adding terrible ice-removal tasks to my extra-crappy commute and half day at work.  A morning of leisure to prep for my four hours of allergy tests and PT that afternoon seemed a good option.  Cue accidental mid-week break, complete with power outages, errands, bad roads, scratch and intradermal tests, and stability tests (though only for my leg--no one looked into my mental state). 

Lo and behold, my immune system decided to switch it up on me.  When I was tested for allergies a few years ago, I tested positive for allergies to dust mites and dogs.  Yesterday, I learned I was no longer allergic to dogs, but was suddenly allergic to cats.  Now, I know dogs can be very very smart, and I'm sure Kayo and Scott have both used some amount of their mental prowess to entirely win me over to the dog side.  But such a drastic shift of allergies?  What the hell would cause that?  Are Yarrow and Speedwell really so different from Scath that their dander is poison to me when his wasn't?  I'm so confused.

Apart from the running around, I've spent the last couple of days on a number of worthwhile projects.  Priority one: trying to help out our young pin oak, which was having a bad time with the ice.  Pin oaks hold their leaves through the winter, so suffer more than most deciduous trees in such  storms.

 

The whole tree was bent pretty dramatically towards the ground Wednesday morning, so I did some judicious ice-removal, while simultaneously convincing neighbors of my continuing insanity.  Thankfully the ice has melted and this young tree is standing up mostly straight again. 

Priority two: prove I still knit.

This is the lace cardigan I'm making for the sake of a  beer label.   I asked Aes and Phalen to brew some heather ale, and they agreed, while encouraging me to perhaps grow hops and heather and also do a label shoot for them.  So I have to come up with a lovely outfit that seems to evoke heather, and maybe Scotland, and the like.  So, of course, greens and purples and knitted lace.  I need to speed up, I guess, since it's not that long until heather season.  Though, being lace, the sweater is further along than it looks.  I'm using a free pattern from Elann, though I'm not using the second lace pattern for the sleeves, and I am going to make it longer than the original.  It's worked from the top down with raglan shaping, so the alterations should be dead easy.

And Hedgerow Mitts:

 

( Ignore the bump over my wrist there--my friend Tara gave me a beautiful bracelet, and I can't bring myself to take it off right now.)   I started off a second pair of Hedgerow socks in some lovely Fearless Fibers sockyarn I had on hand. But then thought it was silly to make another pair so similar to my first, noticed that I was going to have too few stitches, and accidentally designed some mitts.  It may be a special kind of laziness that makes a knitter design a new garment rather than start over upon realizing things aren't working out.  The first mitt is finished, and the second one is humming along.  I really like how this stitch patterns feels as mitts--it is very stretchy, and reminds me of those arthritis-therapy gloves turned pretty.

Priority three: shop for books and eat great food with my Mom. Nuff said.

Priority four: cut big pieces of fabric into smaller pieces of fabric.  I'm trying to do more with red, because the red-loving people need bags too. 

Priority five: Order flooring!  Tonight, we buy bamboo.  Lots and lots of bamboo.  I know some of you gals go for jewelry, flowers, and candy--and I certainly like all of those things--but this is the best V-Day plan ever.   We get to replace carpets that literally make me sick with environmentally-sound bamboo floors, thus increasing the value of the house and making dancing at home easier, while employing a dear friend to do the work, all the while financing the project with the settlement money from that terrible car accident Scott was in a few winters ago.  It's like a home-improvement hat trick. 

Please remind me I said that when we have to pack up everything we own so that the flooring can be installed, ok?

Line went dead

We're currently without internet access at home, hence the lack of posting and emailing.  We had some big wind storms, and the power is back but the web still eludes us.  If you're trying to email me, well, sorry.  I'll try to catch up as best I can on someone's DSL box.

Coming soon: proof of knitting on two separate projects, and my C post in the ABC along. 

Now go vote in the primaries, you Virginians and Marylanders, and whoever else is at the end of the primary queue with us.   

Bookshelves

Sallyjo suggested this great meme, and I was excited to participate: post a photo of a bookshelf that is revealing about your self.   

Well, really, this is pretty darn easy for me.  I apologize for the flash-induced greasiness.  But there are the opening shelves of our library, and the beginning of my Celtic Studies collection.  It takes up, well, a lot more than these shelves.  On top--a bleached buck skull and an antique fiddle I can't play.

First shelf: my songbook (I made it), a drinking horn (Shrew made it as a custom piece for me) and a bunch of mythology and a few large-format books. 

Second shelf: a photo of me standing on top of a dolmen on the grounds of Blarney castle, an antler I picked up from the side of the PA turnpike, a Brigid's Cross I brought home from Brú na Bóinne, a bobcat skull some dear friends us as a wedding present, and one of those fake distance signs.  Behind, more mythology and a bunch of history books.

Third shelf. a photo of me that you can't make out, some travel, history, and poetry books, and the beginnings of my linguistics section.  Those small blue books are all Middle Welsh myths and poems I've translated, and the red ones are Old Irish.  The white book next to them rewired my brain a while back--it's Thurneysen's A grammar of Old Irish.  And it was the key to a language my brain needs like food.

Evasive

I can't tell you much about what I've been doing, but I can tell you that Jayme, our local wonder designer and knitting master is now a capital M Mother.  Jayme gave birth to her daughter this morning.  I'm waiting for additional specifics with a big old grin on my face.  Good going, Jayme. 

Apart from that, there's nothing to see here.  Move along.  Don't you have work to do, lazybones? 

I will admit to distributing a number of fun little bags to some friends.  Rachel has one, and Rho, as does Thorny.  And I actually sold one, which was exciting. 

Now leave me alone.  I'm busy, already.  Sheesh.

Visiting

You know what's even better than working from home?  Being informed that the powers-that-be want you to charge eight hours but only work five.  I never ever ever want to go to an actual office again, I'm so spoiled now. 

Today's early quitting time could not be a nicer gift.  Since Scott and I grew up in this part of Virginia, we anxiously await stealing time with all of our far-flung friends who decide to come home and visit their folks over Thanksgiving.  Which means that I start thinking about possible guests and what they may want.  Which means I start obsessing about the house and cooking.  I know that none of our friends or relatives will perform any white-glove tests in our home, or demand a specific food, but taking care of this huge, valuable present Scott and I bought each other seven years ago is never a bad idea, and I use welcoming  people I love as an excuse. 

I also try to use some of that manic energy to improve parts of the house that only matter to me, since I'm here far more than any of our friends or family.  To that end, I decided that the closet in my studio needed an overhaul.  It's a crappy closet, as most closets built into knee-walls are.  I tore every single thing out of it, banished old shoes and clothes, donated bags and bags of clothing and shoes Scott and I don't need anymore, and re-purposed some old shoe shelving to hold spinning supplies.   

For the first time, this frustrating closet, with the worst hanging system in the world, a small door that offers poor access to the sloping right side, and a puny shelf above is actually working the way I want it to.

The ironing board is accessible, the only things hanging on the nearly-useless j-bar are a few garments I need to mend or iron, and my spinning and felting fibers are all laid out on labeled (labeled!) shelves.  In the section hiding to the right are whole fleeces waiting for processing.  Now, I just need a working doorknob to protect all that fiber from a wool-stealing cat. 

Folklife, homelife, and wedded bliss

As I mentioned last week-ish, during that phase when I was posting zippo, I went to the Smithsonian folklife festival with Bodwin, Ruadhan, Mapgirl, and Kevin.  It was blazing hot, but the festival covered Virginia, Northern Ireland, and the Mekong Delta.  So we couldn't miss it.

I tell you, I have never considered so decorating a vehicle.  I am a slug, I tell you.  Entirely devoid of artistic inspiration.  I don't think you can appreciate the insane amount of work that went into this bus from here.  Just trust me--they worked hard.

In addition to the wacky bus, there were some cool exhibits, particularly on ancient Ireland.  Shocker, me focusing on that.  Lookit!  A mini roundhouse.

I want us to make a full-sized roundhouse so badly, but it never really occurred to me to make a little one to use at demos.  I may have been hit in the head too many times for the thinking parts to be working right, these days.

And there were some repro tools, including a nalbinding needle,

And some lovely repro pots

And a cool repro stone figure

Tommy Sands was playing at the festival, so I filmed him singing "There Were Roses" (big download, there)  If you're not familiar with Tommy and you're at all interested in pacifism or peace in Northern Ireland, get familiar with Tommy.  And have a few pints with him if you ever get the chance--he's loaded with good stories and generally wheedles lots of free drinks out of the publican. 

We also went to our friends Barry and Sarah's wedding up in Pittsburgh.  Where I took horrible photos because I am just too shaky sometimes.  Espresso doesn't want me to be a photo-journalist. 

I came away with clearer photos, but none of the happy couple together.  We had a lovely time, and Barry and Sarah seemed to have a good time too, which is very important in a wedding. 

And then I went right back to the two sweatshops, one for web monkeys (I finished the bid bad new site), and one for Crazy Lanea, tailor to the Celts.  Here is the larger portion of the fabric pile I started with. 

About two-thirds of that has been cut into pieces for clothing.  I'm actually sewing several things for myself this year, because the pile of fabric I was hoarding for personal use was taking up far too much space.  I'm a bit panicked over how much work I need to do before next Saturday, so, er, let's distract the crazy girl with cat pictures before she cries, shall we?

Scott got a sander:

So Yarrow got a new toy:

Which he proceeded to defend rather viciously:

That face generally comes right before Speedwell falls prey to his  housemate.  Poor Speedwell.  As usual, he hid from the camera.

Back to sweatshop.

Not dead, or missing, or sick

Just working really really hard.  The big new site launches Thursday afternoon, so testing testing testing. 

And Deadwood.  Though Deadwood is gone now.  Sigh.  How could they cancel that show? 

And the Transformers, which I never saw as a kid, and Rowan never saw as a kid, but Scott and Bodwin were excited about.  It was, um, very smashy.  And they do lots of that tight-frame CGI-stuff, which looks to me like lazy animation.  I think MTV is to blame.  Still fun though.  And the pontificating robots apparently ring true to fans.   

And the Smithsonian Folklife Festival--pictures and film coming soon.  Tommy Sands--good as ever.  Food from the Mekong valley--good as ever.  Unfortunately, um, a Mummer from Aughakillymaude was threatening to impregnate me with some braided wheat and a horse costume.  Now, obviously, his understanding of physiology and reproduction was sketchy.  And he  didn't understand why I avowed Scott would be quite displeased or why I disliked the idea so intensely.  Some boyos can't take a hint.  To make things worse, he claimed the Mummer-induced pregnancies also only last six months.  Since when has prematurity been something to shoot for, exactly?  I thought full term was still the way to go . . .  when I was living in Dublin, I did work on that whole birthing reform legislation project, and they were rooting for full-term pregnancies, breast-feeding, and better prenatal care for rural Moms.  The North can't be that different, can it?  Thankfully, I was with people who supported my right to avoid Mummer freakiness.

Also, a great deal of sewing happening, and cutting fabric, and plotting, and some minor sock-knitting. 

Oh, and rereading book five of the Harry Potter series.  Scott's company is hosting a sneak preview tomorrow afternoon, and he got us tickets.  So I decided a quick re-read was in order.  A quick re-read of nearly 900 pages.  I hope the movie is good--I shunted aside a Puitzer-winning novel to support the cause, so I'll be hella pissed if the movie is bad. 

The Dog, the tunes, and The Areas of My Expertise

Because I know my place in all of this, I'll tell you what you're here for . . . Kayo is going to be fine.  He has the sort of injury dogs, and people for that matter, get from landing straight-kneed in a hole or coming off of a jump.  He gets some pain-killers for a few more days, and the ban on fetching has to continue a bit longer, and he gets to take some meat-flavored glucosamine, chondroitin, and mineral supplements from here on out.  Our charming vet did continually refer to Kayo's "advanced age," though, which concerns me.  Scott and I have decided that the next trick we'll teach him is "Be four again, Kayo!  Be four!  Good boy." 

Also, Scott pointed out last weekend that I still had a bunch of Borders gift certificates left over from Christmas.  But did I succumb and buy books?  No, I did not.  I bought music.  Well into the sixth month, and I remain mighty.  As promised, I've only bought knitting books, and very few of those.  But damn it, it is a pain in the ass to buy music at Borders.  Their stores have some asinine pricing system that randomly sells some CDs for 11 bucks, and some for 18 with no real middle ground and for no clear reason.  Also,  their stock is terribly limited, particularly for those of us who don't go in for MTV or classical.  But we're a bit closer to having all of the recorded Tom Waits and Bjork, and I added another Wainwright and a touch of Winehouse to the mix.

And now for the books . . .

The Areas of My Expertise by John Hodgman.

Being a devotee of hobos, I was bound to like this book.  I was pleased to see someone finally cover the great hobo-wars of the first half of the twentieth century, and the extensive list of hobo names (I just can't manage to settle on one for myself).  Also, I am happy to now know of the old furry lobsters.  We miss you, furry lobsters.  We do.

But the book did upset me a bit.

Apparently, Chicago is imaginary.  No Chicago.  It's all a lie.

Which seems to suggest that Rachel and Meg and Jonathan have some explaining to do.  Why the lies, friends?  Why the lies?  So much talk about an imaginary town . . . I just don't know what to think.

Right.  Read the book if you like well-written fake history and trivia. 

Remind me

The next time I have some hideous allergic reaction to the world, possibly blended with a virus, and the mucous is getting me down, and I'm balancing the evils of pseudoephedrine hydrochloride vs. the evils of sinus and ear pain and pressure, nay, even the threat of sinus and/or ear infection; remind me of this day.  Remind me that, while I may feel a bit better two hours after I take Satan's little red pill; the morning after Satan's little red pill will make my teeth itch, and my jaw ache, and my stomach churn, and all of the mucous will have just plain come back.  Because even though I have this big brain that can remember songs and stories and strange facts; and even though the meth manufacturers of the world have blown up so many houses that the US finally decided to put things that contain pseudoephedrine hydrochloride back behind a nice counter where it's hard to reach them . . . some of the Devil's medicine still lives in my house, and it tempts me with nonsense like "maybe I've overcome that particular side-effect."  Evil, evil pseudoephedrine hydrochloride.   I may be shaky, but I can still throw you away, you bastard pills.  And I can wait you out, mucous, because I have all of Firefly on DVD, and the complete Lord of the Rings, and lots of Jane Austen films, and I'm not afraid to watch them over and over again. 

Addendum:
It occurred to me, Gentle Reader, that you probably gave me the benefit of the doubt and assumed that I wrote that gibberish above and promptly got back into bed.  Er, no.  I am a both a smartass and a dumbass, remember.  I got dressed; explained to Scott that I had to go to work so as not to miss a very important meeting; commuted into the city (75 minutes worth, thank you Metro); tried to work; sweltered in our 90 degree office; realized I was turning into a zombie and likely to accidentally eat someone's brain if I wasn't careful; then realized I wasn't really going to be of much help in that very important meeting; forced myself to eat a muffin instead of a brain; gave up; sighed; was reminded by a coworker that, as a salaried employee, I indeed have and am expected to use sick leave instead of subjecting others to my disgusting maladies; banged my head against a desk for a few minutes; commuted home (another 75 minutes--just enough time to finish my book but not long enough to be forced to use its pages as tissues); and collapsed on my couch, buried under very demanding pets, all of whom are apparently without a shred of compassion.  Let's see if I can be as smart again tomorrow.