Dark Yarn Production

I make things with yarn.

Usually dark yarn.

And I write stories.

Usually dark stories.

(I get jokes.)

I’m working and trying and fighting to do more of both.

This hat was fast to crochet together. And then it wasn’t because it turned out to be enormous. So I tried to heat it and shrink it and then generally beat it into being a lesser hat. It would not.

So I unraveled it. A very zen experience in patience and a reminder of the impermanence of objects. Most unlike me. Then I took a breath and made it again. Also kinda unlike me. Pleasant when a story or a character surprises you.

It’s still a pretty enormous hat.  It’s not my head, which is probably biggish, like all my bits. Except, you know, boobs. So it’s possible the pattern has an issue, not me. Which is nice for a change.

But zen moments and work and trying aside, I have a newly-made-by-me hat. It’s warm and it cuddles my head and it’s a lovely dark red. Gives my brain lovely dark ideas.

I’m ready to start on my new things and eager to see what stitches and words are on my next page.


Some days, the lasagna is the victory. 

Today, I’ll take that. All of it. 

It’s not gluten-free or vegetarian. The cheese is real and brimming with dairy. There is oil and wine and fats of all flavors in that thing. 

And I made it. 

No self-effacing. It’s gorgeous and glorious and the smell is almost as good as the feel of the fork sinking into the pasta. Yes. I’m writing soft-core food porn now. Just wait until I get to the garlic orgasm. 

Look. I don’t do perfectly proportioned meals, overflowing with organic vegetables. My proteins aren’t lean. We won’t broach the offensive amounts of sugar in my kitchen. 

Some days I regret that and want to do better. 

But not today. 

Because my gods, does the divine, oozy, succulence in that picture taste as good as it looks. An Italian mother would think I’m good enough for her son. (That and my baby-making hips.)  That’s how good I did with this thing. 

It’s awkward for me to say out loud when I do well. It’s painful and awkward and I only do it when…well, I don’t. But I’m trying. 

No. I know.  It’s not a win/lose. It’s not a succeed/fail. It’s a journey and a trying and…

Who am I kidding-

Some days I suck without limits. 

But today-

Today I made lasagna. 

I did something really well and I’m saying it. 

So I win. 


Marital sheets? Death shroud? Swaddling clothes?

Let’s talk about prehistoric, cracked, dusty lady bits.

Because that’s what the fates of 2017 have brought me.

I could not feel more old and useless today. Now, I know, KNOW, in my heart and brain, that birthing a baby has nothing, NOTHING, to do with worth as a woman. I would Muay Thai any one who suggested such a thing.

But when the coffin of that path is closing on your own failing, crumbling uterus, it’s dark and scary inside that box. (Ha. Box.)  You hear the hinges creak and you shiver. You picture a certain life curling inside itself until it’s gone and nothing. A vanished thought. A forgotten dream. A not-clear nightmare.

Getting older doesn’t bug me. I have good make up and a killer hair stylist. It is what it is. But letting go of things. Chances. Maybes and what ifs. Seeing drift away something you maybe kinda really wanted. That’s what pricks.

Not to say that wonderful things mightn’t be in store. I know they are and I’m bouncing exited for all of them. And  let’s be honest. It’s easier to visit Anne Boleyn’s grave without a jet lagged infant. Pasta in Italy is simpler. Touring wine country is quieter without a toddler. And with less spilling. Well, maybe. There are many gorgeous sites and perks along this particular journey.

And not that the death knell has fully sounded for me and that.  It hasn’t. Always room for surprises. But the bell ringer is surely climbing the tower.

But for now, while I do have wilting bags of eggs and a suspect stove, I also have a new day. Another chance. A fresh and fragrant reminder to love the travel and unexpecteds ahead of me. As well as the time and space to enjoy fully who is actually in the seat traveling beside me, and not who isn’t.

Still There

Still there. Frozen. Willing to make it to the other side of the thaw.

I really can’t call myself a runner. Feels fake and pretentious and smacks loudly of imposter syndrome. Much like my feelings of calling myself a writer or actor. But let’s just go with all those for just a paragraph or two.

If you’re foolhardy and masochistic enough to subject yourself to long runs, there’s a point of absolute despair. At least that’s how my legs and mind have seen it. It’s before the halfway point. Still miles to go. But you can’t see the end, no matter how you crane and squint and struggle.

You have two choices. You stop from pain. Or you keep putting your feet down and make mental offering to the gods that if you keep moving, eventually, you will get there. And they’ll get their pins of flesh.

Because you really want to get there. You’ve put a few bucks on this and spent some hours and want to post a picture of the end with a smile.

You’re still there. Frozen. Stuck. No where to go but through or back and either one is a path of barbs and booby traps.

Same mindset for many things. Finishing a novel. Learning French. Pushing out a baby. With booby trap taking on a whole new meaning of pain.

Same, I suspect and am learning with fear, for the challenges of love and relationships.

The fates have gifted me with a truly lovely young man. Young. Man. Handsome man. My fantastic boy.  I smile when I think of him. Smile more when I get to see him. The best ones are the secret few only he gets to see.

Yes. The fates give. But, the fates also want you to work for what you’ve been given. They are a snarky mistress, the fates, and they do delight in peril of the mind and heart.

Something happens to my brain in the best of our times. I can not help but not just acknowledging but dwelling on the hard bubbling just below the soft, lucious days and moments.

There are things I can’t do for this young man. Not won’t. Not haven’t friend. Can’t. Laws of chemistry and physics. And that makes me think about running away. Let him have the space for the fates to bring him the one who can.

I am quiet and surly and brooding and a nightmare asshole the size of a Gatsby mansion.

And then he touches my cheek and I melt and any thought of running away  sounds ridiculous and I want to slap fully any stupid brain that would suggest such idiocy.

Sharp, prickly difficulties aside, It’s a beautiful place to be frozen. With this tremendous person who inspires and challenges and cares. And warms you until you can feel the icy edges surrendering and you believe it will someday be warm again.

So for today, I’m still here. Still there. Still learning to enjoy every second of light and heat among the cold. Deep enough and sinking deeper so that I’m afraid that if I last until the thaw, everything will flood and at least some of me will drown. But I’ll risk that. I’ll take my chances on swimming. And I won’t waste a second fretting on what the next season brings.

Because I have coats and shoes and hats for them all. And I’ve seen his closet. Maybe he does too. If not, I’ve loved the heat and the ice and the singing in the rain.