March 2009 Archives

Restless today. Still haven't fixed the valve flat that spontaneously burst into song (or rather, loud hissing) on my way out the door yesterday.

Rather than fix it (which would have made me late), I simply grabbed an alternate bike and zipped away at top speed. Miraculously arrived five minutes early for brunch. Thank you, fastbike.

Indulged myself shamelessly in every way I could think of this weekend - though not in the one that really counts.

Spent money on the following:

mimosa et tartine et salade des fruits
tiny garnet nose-jewel
the good hummus
pedicure

Took a day off the bike(s) today to rest my knees, but even moreso my poor back. Walked to the spa.

Making soup. Really really distracted today by impure thoughts which will no doubt simply remain in the realm of fantasy, which is disappointing, but on the other hand I must be less depressed to be having those thoughts again. For a couple of weeks there even the lure of hot boy(s) was doing nothing to raise my antennae. (You know I'm depressed when...)

Hello, lovelies. When last we left our heroine in a huddled sad heap on the floor, things were looking bleak indeed. They're still looking bleak, but her mood has improved ever so slightly.

Put it down to a few uninterrupted days on the bike(s), or to a bit of judicious flirting, or to whatever you'd like.

I've been taking advantage of the still-pretty-fracking-chilly weather to keep knitting a few late-March items for self and friends. Ordinarily among spring's many gifts (hayfever, the nagging feeling that one ought always to be outdoors doing something fabulous, and that since one isn't, one is wasting one's life) is a sudden and total loss of interest in the knitterly arts.

I felt the first fingers of that beginning to take hold a couple of weeks ago, but then it got cold again (not that it ever really pushed fully into warm, mind you; there were just hints and vague promises), and so I kept knitting. And now I have a pretty pair of mittens that didn't photograph at all well in the incandescent lighting, but you may take my word on it - they are sweet.

And I am knitting another pair for a friend who massacred his first pair by the simple expedient of wearing them on the bike in a rainstorm. I am thinking that however pretty that Koigu stuff is, fabled in song and story, it doesn't hold up very well. I mean, one rainstorm, c'mon.

So the replacements will be in less-gorgeous but hopefully sturdier yarn that's already been road-tested by yours truly.

There's a whole thread on Rav about knitting for the bike, and I wonder if I ought to post some real-world feedback from my various knit-recipients. Enh. Too complicated.

I was telling my dad, finally, after 10 days of utter silence, about the various bad newses to which I have been subject lately, and he commented that any one of them would be enough to make a sane person's head spin.

Which would explain the impression of her I've been doing lately. I dunno. It seemed like I should just be able to handle it all.

Of course, that is how it always seems, with me. It's like a disease. I expect that nothing will ever break my back, and then what happens is that my body takes that challenge literally, and I end up with my back out for months and months.

Yes, the poking with needles seems to be doing something. I mean, something in addition to giving me strange bruises in even stranger places. It seems, thankfully, to be easing up my mobility a bit, and if I'd just stop doing laundry and twisting myself into unfortunate contortions in my sleep, the pain might even abate a bit.

Me: I hurt my back in my sleep.
He: Alone?

Sigh.

Maybe this is just me, but it really seems that there ought to be at least one cute guy who finds it a turn-on that I enjoy adjusting my chain tension at two in the morning.

And yet...I don't hear any volunteers.

Kitwich hates the sound of tires being changed, primarily because the first step is to drain the air out of the currently mounted ones so you can take them off the rims and put on the new ones (or in this case, the old summer slicks). That hissing sound sends her scrambling for the shelter of her covered litter box - ack! zoop zoop zoop - all hunkered down low along the ground like a mongoose.

I love working on my bikes, even though the amount of work I know how to do on them is limited. Whenever I get home, I am always kind of reluctant to stop riding and go inside. Working on the bike is another way of spending time with it - of giving it some love.

I've heard mechanics refer to it that way, too - gently admonishing people who've neglected their routine maintenance - "You need to give your bike some love."

So, I lube their chains, and adjust the tension, and pump them up, and kiss them and tell them they're beautiful, and - most importantly - ride them, lots. Hello, bikes - I love you.

Top 5 Reasons Boywich Rocks

1. He loves me no matter how shitty a mood I am in. ("It's still you," he says.)

2. He is every bit as geeky as I am about bikes, sci-fi, and most every other geekable subject.

3. I am comfortable enough with him to tell him how I really feel, no matter how dark and desperate that is.

4. He's funny as hell. I always end up laughing when we're talking, even in the middle of massive despair.

5. He understands when I just don't want to talk anymore.

Bonus extra-special thing: He doesn't expect or even want me to be perfect. I can be late, sad, scared, grumpy, angry, childish, and any other damn way, and he still loves me. And almost always understands how I feel. I mean, really, gold freakin' star.

Top 10 Questions Asked of Lizbon This Week

Q1. Are you okay?
A. Sort of.

Q2. What are you going to do now?
A. No fucking clue. Shut up.

Q3. Can you come out and play?
A. No.

Q4. How is your back?
A. Terrible.

Q5. Do you have your new bike yet?
A. No.

Q6. When will you have your new bike?
A. No fucking clue.

Q7. What are you doing now?
A. Drinking coffee. Knitting. Sending out emails trying to get work. Watching TV. Hating.

Q8. Have you cleaned the cat box yet? (This from Kitwich)
A. No. I still can't carry the cat litter from the grocery store.

Q9. Is there anything I can do?
A. No.

Q10. Are you going to let this stop you from being a fiction writer?
A. No fucking way.

I have no idea how to say this, so I will just say it. I did not get into graduate school. Anywhere.

None of the words one might use to describe it - disappointment, dashed hopes, crushed flat on the sidewalk like old ugly gum - seem adequate.

I suppose I had too much riding on it, on a personal level.

I had a lot more riding on it than the first time I applied, when I got into one school that was far away in a city I didn't like, in a program that would have put me into debt for decades, and decided not to go. I had a good job at the time. I wasn't ready to drop everything, to change my standard of living. I just wasn't ready.

This time, I was ready. I am ready. I have been for a while now.

I don't know what to make of this, except - and please just let me say this without telling me how wrong I am to even think such a thing, without piling on the platitudes. I know it's hard to hear someone you like say such a thing, but I need to say it. Because I mean it. Because this is how I feel.

I don't know what to make of this, except that I am maybe not going to be a writer the way I'd always imagined I'd be. The way I always felt, deep down, at the hard substrate layer of myself, in the bedrock, that I was meant to be.

I am too old for this. I am too old for the plucky, give-it-another-shot-someplace-else strategy. And there is something to the idea that if this is the right time, and I am in the right place, and in the right frame of mind, and ready to do the things it will take, that it should have - and would have - worked. I would have gotten in.

Maybe just to the one school that felt right to me. That was what I expected, actually. Just the one school. And it would have been fine - heck, it would have been wonderful. I was prepared to be delighted.

I was not prepared for this, and I didn't know what to do with myself afterwards, except get on my bike. But I couldn't get on my bike, because my back still hurts, and I don't want to do what I usually do, which is to leap back into my normal activities too soon and keep it from getting all the way better.

So I didn't get on my bike. I got on the couch and cried. I called Boywich.

When things are really, really bad, I told him, he is the only one I can bear to talk to. So he's the only one who knows. And it is likely to stay that way for a few days.

Why am I telling the blog? Well, it may be because I don't really know most of the people who read. I don't interact with you. There are exceptions to that: I do feel that I know a couple of you, and that we are friends. Friends in perhaps a different way than the people I see every week. But in a way that has its own specialness.

That's not why I'm telling you, though.

Sometimes when one is writing a blog, one is conscious of writing to the people who may be reading it. But sometimes one is just writing to oneself. This is one of those.

I just need to write it down, I guess. Which may make me still a writer or it may not. I don't know. I've been wishing for a more creative space lately, a space I felt I could paint in. A space surrounded by more creative types than my apartment is. I was thinking of moving closer to the school I thought I'd be going to. Now, obviously, that isn't a reason, and moving is expensive, of course, but I am still a little attracted to the idea.

We shall see.

Note: Headline stolen right off the cover of Astronomy magazine.

Unexpectedly laid up on the couch again. I hope I hope I hope (times 100) that it won't be for more than a day. Though I doubt it.

The ways of bad backs are mysterious and unpleasant. Made an appointment to get stuck with needles. At this point I will try (almost) anything.

I've been in a mitten-knitting frame of mind this winter, partly because a lot of people asked for them and partly because my one pair started to unravel and I needed to make myself some replacements. There is something cool about that, namely:

a) I've been knitting long enough to have a pair of mittens I made begin to unravel (they lasted several years, too - made 'em out of some leftover Mountain Colors Weavers Wool I'd bought for a gift project).

b) When I need a new knitted object, I can just -er- knit one. There's a measure of self-sufficiency and instant gratification there that's lacking in most of the rest of life. For the rest of life, you need to call upon fairy godcreatures and such. Which brings me to the following:

Top Three Wishes of Tonight

1. My back to stop hurting so I can go get my bicycle.
2. A delightful lover to appear out of nowhere and present himself for my continuing amusement. I have one in mind but perhaps it is pushing my luck to attempt such a specific request?
3. Something chocolate.

PS. Later addition: Damn. My laptop has just died a weird and jiggly death. Can I add a new or, better yet, cheaply repaired laptop to the list?

We've moved into that sketchy early-spring phase wherein the heat is on when you don't want it on and not on when you do, and so I have been pulling out some of the heavy knits that I normally can't wear in the overheated indoor climate of a NYC winter. (You expats know whereof I speak; steam heat + little control = windows open in winter)

Apparently Kitwich has been waiting to get her paws on them all winter.

Woke up feeling inexplicably decent this morning (I use that term loosely, as always). Could be that I've now had two days of 7 or 8 hours' sleep in a row. Could be that I needed to turn that air purifier off so the room would be quieter and not have a funny smell while I slept.

Could be that my body senses that this interminable winter is nearing its end. Could be that I saw you know who yesterday and that just made me feel better, even though I got nothing tangible in the way of -er- nooky out of it. Some people's presence is just like sunshine, I guess.

Oh my dears, I have no pics for you. How can I show you what I wanted to show you on the way home tonight?

The lit-up skylines, like row after row of angular Xmas trees. The Goldfrapp song leaking out of my head where my iPod had placed it, apparently very firmly, earlier today. The piles of dim sum making (admittedly) uncomfortable cargo in my stomach.

The inevitable flitter of my innards as I flirted but tried not to be noticeably flirting. The regrets at not having managed to forcibly commandeer That Boy for my diabolical purposes on some previous evening. Maybe I should have played rougher.

The champagne bubbles of amusement at the text messages exchanged earlier with Blondie. Me: Dude, you said this is my girlfriend just in time. I might have kissed u. He: Her first words were did u sleep with her?

Hahahahahaaaa. Why yes, love, I did. About a thousand times in three months. Why do you ask?

Oh wait, that would be my answer.

So, my Big Question to the Universe is:

Why is it so frickin' difficult to find a suitable lover to play with? Hot enough and sweet enough and free enough and not interested in getting in my face about my choices in life.

It doesn't seem like such a tall order. Heck, I like 'em short, too. Or not short. Whatever.

Of course, the list of requirements is a bit more involved than that. But not so very. I don't care if he's married, really. I don't care if he's a bit of an idiot when it comes to women. Actually those conditions (or lack thereof) are specific to a particular candidate who shall remain nameless but who is still lighting me up like an airport runway whenever I see him and frustrating the hell out of me when I don't (and when I do, really).

Honestly, darlings, I would have been glad to "settle" for a little romp with Blondie, had he been available, and it's slightly tragic that he's not, because nothing less would be a worthy distraction, and he's only worthy because he happens to be made of candy.

Okay, I know. No pictures are adequate.

I've had three false starts in the past few days. I start to write something and then realize I'm just not in the mood, and why force myself, since it will only sound forced.

Still not sure if I am in the mood, but at least the coffee is right today. After the death of the French press beaker, which shattered in my hands while I was doing dishes one night, I ran out (or rather, shuffled - since I was precaffeine) and bought this. I've had one before, and liked it.

What I didn't realize was that the one I had before was smaller.

So I've been futzing with it, the first two or three days drinking the equivalent of three or four shots of espresso mixed with hot milk, and having the lid of my head blown off. The next couple of days trying to tone it down by, variously, not pouring all of the magic elixir into my cup, or adding a little hot water to it, or (today) simply reducing the amount of coffee and water I put into the thing in the first place.

And this morning I hit upon the right formula, apparently, since it tastes great. Still not the same; I swear I can taste the more finely groundness of the beans, and I still wish I had my French press back, and to that end I suppose I shall be fussy and order myself a replacement beaker, even though I've been forewarned by many customer reviews that it, too, will break one day while I am washing it.

It will be nice to have both, actually, since I do love espresso; I just prefer it black with sugar, and yet I have to have the au lait in the morning. Hey, as that stranger in the five and dime store told me, I'm eccentric.

Not sure how he figured that out on the scant evidence of watching me refuse a plastic bag and simply slip the espresso maker into my little cloth purse thingy. But honestly I can hardly argue with him.

Speaking of which, I am itchy with bike anticipation. I am waiting for ONE PART. Oy veh.

In other words, suffering the torture of the damned, watching other people get their builds done and ride away in glee. Haunting my shop every day in hopes that the thing will magically appear and that I'll be forced to leave one of my existing bikes as a hostage whilst I ride away on my shiny new pony.

(No, they wouldn't make me leave a hostage; I'm paid in full - but have you ever tried to ride two bikes at once in NYC traffic?)

Side note: people do do this; it's called ghost-riding. You ride one while holding the bars of the other one and wheeling it along next to you. It's difficult and not terribly safe and you run the risk of being pulled over by a cop and having to prove that the extra bike is not one you just stole.

There's another method, which I watched someone do just the other day, which is to hoist bike #2 onto your back and carry it while riding bike #1. This, too, is out of the question. I could carry a frame. I have carried a wheelset (and boy did I feel like a little superhero doing that). But a built-up bike? Nope.

No, the irony of it all is that to pick up my new bike, I will have to ride the friggin' subway. Ugh. Already dreading that part. So much so that I've mentally gone through a series of complex schemes trying to figure out how to get a friend to ride my extra bike back for me, either all the way to my place, or to one of their own apartments, where I could pick it up, but then how do I get there....you see the trouble.

Sigh. I think I need to go for a ride.

I am certain that the bicycle will once more fill a social role and again become a means of transport and not just an object of leisure.

Now they're in the process of undoing all that and, even if the change varies from country to country, I can see that there is a whole new way of political thinking. - Eddy Merckx

This is my favorite finished object in a while. It's lush and warm, and the color is just on the edge of being no color at all. I feel a little (just a little) like Grace Kelly when I put it on, though I seriously doubt it looks that way to anyone else.

I've knitted so many things this winter, but they're all little biddy ones - neckwarmers and mittens and hats upon hats - mostly for other people. It seems weird that I haven't finished a single sweater for myself this year. Usually I knit one or two a season. I've got some on the needles: Ysolda's Snow White, and my own little V-neck in sport-weight handpainted yarn that's a lovely dark blue-green.

I dunno. It's been strangely satisfying to only knit items that can be finished in a few hours. There's so much variety involved in jumping from one project to the next - a different set of colors, yarn that feels different in the hands, a different problem to be solved.

I'm not much of a multitasker - not sure if I've ever said that before, here - but I do like being able to move from one thing to the next because it's completed and I'm ready for something new.

I'm not sure whether that makes me a process knitter or a product knitter. I think there may be a third way: perhaps I'm a project knitter.

I like the feeling of moving through each part of the whole: yarn choice, rolling into a ball, starting (though I honestly hate casting-on; it always feels so tenuous), increasing and decreasing, winnowing down to the end, binding off. Soaking in eucalyptus bath, putting on or giving away. Hoping it fits.

PS. It occurs to me that this scarf suits the way March feels to me; not quite spring, not quite winter.

Life's been on fast-forward lately, and sometimes that means I take a little break from posting. Or I sit down to post and find that I am telling more than I'm comfortable with or not enough to be interesting.

Anyway. Happy snowy-ass Monday. It's always hard to discern actual snowfall amounts when you live in a city, because the stuff immediately gets piled to either side of road and sidewalk, and then you have impressive berms flanking canals of slush.

I went into town today via mass transit, which I hardly ever do, but I had various businesses to attend to, and decided to pass the time in between by visiting my favorite cafe. Where I saw my favorite handsome fellow, who'd been out working in the snowy mess all day, poor lad.

'Twas nice to see him, in a charged-air sort of way (for both of us, I think), and we flirted a bit, and then he left to get back to work, and I left to get my head shorn, as I am wont to do.

Made plans with my hairdresser for wildly coloured extensions in springtime, wished I'd brought enough dough to get them put in right this minute - I need a pickmeup.

Came home, hung out with cat creature, ate, ate some more, watched TV until the cable went kaput.

That sort of thing.

I am mostly catching my breath today. The weirdness of my weekend cannot be quantified with existing technology - or it's like gravity; sometimes behaving in eccentric ways that defy both Newton and Einstein. No, I'm not making that up; it's headlines.

I am not going into detail; those who must know already do, and the rest can just imagine for themselves. You know, like a Mad Libs. Hell, why don't I just write one for you? To play along, just fill in the parentheses with the words of your choice.

Anatomy of A Weekend

Friday: Lizbon gets a text message from (noun), inviting her to (verb). She writes back, explaining that while she'd love to (same verb), she can't because she has to bring (noun) to (place).

Later that night, Lizbon gets asked to (verb) by another (noun). She declines, saying she hasn't (past-tense verb) in (amount of time), and doesn't plan to start now.

Still later that night, Lizbon gets asked to do a favor, involving carrying (plural noun) to a/an (adjective) event. She agrees, and then gets asked to (verb) in an official capacity. She agrees to that too.

Even further later that night, who should walk in the front (noun) but the most (adjective) (noun) from her past. She says hello, how are you, and instead of responding to her question, the (same noun) says, Lizbon, this is (name), my (noun).

Then Lizbon is tired and desperately wants to get on her (noun) and (verb) home.

Saturday: Lizbon takes her (noun) into (place of business) to get some (verb) done to it, and gets asked to help out with a/an (type of event). She says okay. She (verb) very fast, and then comes back, to cheers and thanks. She then gets invited to a (type of event), but says she can't, because she has a date with a (noun).

Later that night, the (same noun) suddenly begins playing with his own (part of body) in the middle of the (place). Lizbon is (emotion) and really wants to (verb) away, but can't think of a way to manage that gracefully.

So she pretends not to have noticed. She walks the (adjective) (same noun) back to his (means of transportation), and feels obliged to (verb) him goodbye.

She feels very (emotion) by it all, and wants to fly fly fly home and wash her (part of body) out with soap. She hopes to never hear from (same noun) again, but supposes she will have to (means of communication) him the jig is up.

Sunday: Lizbon very very gladly spends time with several of her (adjective) friends, and tells them the tale of her (opposite adjective) weekend.