<p>I got a copy of <a href=”http://www.powells.com/biblio/0674018249″>this</a> the other day. I thought it might be nice to have a good collection of Emily Dickinson’s work, and you know, this was published by Harvard and all.&nbsp; It’s supposedly the authoritative one-volume edition of the extra super-duper authoritative multi-volume edition by the same scholar. Cool, right? </p>

<p>Pop quiz: What is the first thing you think of when you think of Emily Dickinson’s work? If you&nbsp; said her puctuation, in particular her liberal use of the dash, then you get a gold star. And I don’t mean some little old en dashes here and there, I mean big, bad em dashes, emmmmmm-dashes, even. If you’ve ever seen handwritten copies of her work, you can see that the dashes are physical, active parts of her work. Some of the dashes are up to an inch long.&nbsp; In my opinion, Emily Dickinson poems without those bold em dashes lose their urgency, they lose their physicality.&nbsp; In case any of you are unclear on the difference between an em dash and an en dash, I will illustrate. These are em dashes:</p>

<p style=”MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt 1in”>Because I could not stop for Death—</p>

<p style=”MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt 1in”><span face=”Times New Roman”>He kindly stopped for me—</span></p>

<p style=”MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt 1in”><span face=”Times New Roman”>The Carriage held but just Ourselves—</span></p>

<p style=”MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt 1in”><span face=”Times New Roman”>And Immortality. </span></p>

<p style=”MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt 1in”></p>

<p>These are en dashes:</p>

<p style=”MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt 1in”>Because I could not stop for Death – </p>

<p style=”MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt 1in”><span face=”Times New Roman”>He kindly stopped for me – </span></p>

<p style=”MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt 1in”><span face=”Times New Roman”>The Carriage held but just Ourselves – </span></p>

<p style=”MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt 1in”><span face=”Times New Roman”>And Immortality. </span></p>

<div><p>In non-professionally type-set work, you generally find an em-dash written as a double hypen (–) and an en dash written as a space, hypen, space ( – ).&nbsp; They get their names because an en dash is the width of an ‘n’ and an em dash is–you got it–the width of an ‘m.'</p>

<p>Anyway, of course an authoritative edition of Dickinson’s work would keep those em dashes intact, right? Wrong. En dashes, every single blasted one of them.&nbsp; At first I thought maybe some editor or slap-happy typesetter got their hands on them and changed them to fit the press’ particular style. There is, afterall, contemporary disagreement on this issue. Here’s a <a href=”http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dash”>Wikipedia article</a> on the stylistic issues regarding em dash vs. en dash use:</p><blockquote dir=”ltr”><p>Traditionally an em dash—like so—or spaced em dash — like so — has been used for a “dash” in running text. Newer guides, including the <em>Elements of Typographic Style</em>, now recommend the more-concise spaced en dash – like so – and argue that the length and visual magnitude of an em dash caters to grandiose Victorian era taste. However, longstanding typographical guidelines such as the <em>Chicago Manual of Style</em> still recommend unspaced em dashes for this purpose. Furthermore, it is also argued that using an en dash here can lead to confusion, since the primary semantic role of an en dash is to represent a number range.</p></blockquote><p>But it wasn’t a stylistic issue. The introduction? Chock full of em dashes.</p>

<p>Plus, note, I said there is <em>contemporary </em>disagreement on the matter. Can we agree, please, that Emily Dickinson is not contemporary? </p>

<p>Thank you. </p>

<p>Heck, she <em>is</em> Victorian, at least chronologically speaking, and certainly grandiose. So let her have her freakin’ em dashes, okay? </p>

<p>Thank you.</p>

<p>P.S. Lanea, I thought you might be interested to know that Paul Muldoon was the editor on the most recent <a href=”http://www.powells.com/biblio/7-0743257588-1″>Best American Poetry</a> volume.</p></div>

You may know him as Will Oldham. You may know him as Palace, Palace Brothers or Palace Music. You may know him most recently under the wackiest of all pseudonyms, Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy. You may even know him from his cameos in funny little independent movies like Junebug. But truth be told, you’ve probably never heard of him at all. Don’t let that stop you. He’s genius. He’s pure curl-up-in-a-fetal-position-and-suck-your-thumb-because-you-can’t-believe-how-wonderful-his-is Genius. According to the Guardian, he’s the greatest American songwriter of the decade. I’d agree with that. You’ll want your liner notes, too, because his lyrics might make your brain explode they’re that good. I’ve been an obsessive fan of his for years now, and I still don’t have all of his albums yet– he’s both that prolific, and they’re so good that you really need some time to fully sink your teeth into them. It always gives you something to look forward to, though. If you want a good place to fall in love with him, start how I started back with Ease Down the Road. I listened to almost nothing else for about 3 months, because there just wasn’t any other album that could measure up. So, yeah, you’ll want to pencil in some time on your calendar.

What does he sound like? Do you still really need to know that when I tell you he’ll change your life?

Okay, fine. He’s a lot folky, a little country (more so some days than others) and he has this high, crackling voice that will break your heart in a way that feels so good, you’ll beg for for him to break your heart some more.

(So, yeah, this is still a poetry blog. Really. We just thought since we both have so many other things constantly rolling around in our heads, we’d mix it up with other cultural pursuits on occasion. Okay? ‘kay.)

We’ll start talking about the big hard poems again soon, once our poor heads recover from work and such.  Until then, listen to William Elliott Whitmore.  I found out about the guy because he opened for the Pogues when we saw them a few months back.  He has the best-sounding banjo I’ve come across.  Banjos are all about their tone-rings, and his is perfect according to my ear–raspy and deep and percussive.  If he weren’t a thousand times more talented a picker than I am, I might roll him and steal his banjo.  Instead, I’ll just tell all y’all to give him your money.  Give him your money, dammit.  Give the boy your money.  He’s skinny, and he really needs a sammich.  And probably a clean glass of water, from the sound of him.

Oh, and this will only appeal to we precious few nutbags  .  . . he’s another crow person.

The bluebird can sing
But the crow’s got the soul

You’re damn right, Willie.

Even richer, Whitmore’s albums have photos of these art pieces he makes that are wooden boxes with bleached animal skulls inside, and some dead flowers.  Sometimes he brings the boxes on tour, sort of like Gillian Welch and David Rawlings and their antique box of musical accouterments, but so much, er, bonier.

If you hear he’s been kidnapped, don’t worry.  We’ll give him back once he promises to make regular appearances at our parties.  Pinky-swear.

. . . all work and no play make Crazy Lanea a something something.
. . . all work and no play make Crazy Lanea a something something.
. . . all work and no play make Crazy Lanea a something something.
. . . all work and no play make Crazy Lanea a something something.
. . . all work and no play make Crazy Lanea a something something.
. . . all work and no play make Crazy Lanea a something something.
. . . all work and no play make Crazy Lanea a something something.

Not dead, just crazed.

Ten hour days, followed by evenings filled with my volunteer job.

Must launch four brand-spanking-new federal websites in one week.

Must make giant festival happen in .  .  .  holy hell  .  .  . 50 days.  Anyone wanna volunteer?  Pretty please?  We need your help.  Seriously.  And we’d be happy to take some of your money too.

And, apparently, people still expect me to shower, wear clean clothes, and possibly iron occasionally.

I promise, I am making progress on a number of projects.  I finished an inkle-band, I made some socks, I un-dazzled a skirt, I got some gorgeous linen for a project for Skutai . . . and my camera needs batteries.  I would insert pictures of my garden, but, er, batteries.

Metro-knitting is boring to look at.  Imagine a picture of another sock.  Do not, however, imagine the gorgeous Jaywalker I was making, because it has betrayed me and must be destroyed.  It’s not the sock’s fault, honestly.  Metro-knitting plus metal needles equals gauge issues, which went unnoticed until the weekend, when I was knitting at home and able to try said Jaywalker on.  And then cry.  The sock is 80% done and doesn’t fit.  But I must rip it, because I must own this yarn forever.

Oh, and in case you were wondering, kittens are not conducive to sleep.  Yarrow does not respond to any form of veterinarian-approved kitty-discipline we can find.  And he drools when he’s happy.  And Speedwell thinks he is a necklace.  A nine pound necklace with nose-tickling fur and claws.

I’m trying to try to start the Print O’ the Wave Stole using the freaking gorgeous yarn that Juno sent me a while back.  No promises until the terrifying deadline passes.

Er, send help.  Or a maid.  And a landscaping crew.  And maybe some wine.

I got to see the wonderful Ann and Kay of Mason Dixon Knitting  fame on Tuesday at Politics and Prose, and to hear their lovely voices and have them sign my copy of their awesome new book.   And I also learned to love my neighbors even more than I already did.  And I met a woman with my name, which almost made both of our heads explode even with the different spellings.  And I had cake and a latte almost as big as my head.  It was quite an adventure.  Lemme ‘splain.  Be prepared to sit a spell.

I’ve lived near D.C. for most of my life (call me a city goat and I may break your nose.  I’m not sayin’, I’m just sayin’).  My Mom worked at Children’s hospital when I was a kid, and she took us to the Smithsonian every month or so.  The museums are free, astronaut ice-cream is practically free, and cheap and free are each very important to single moms.  I think the Smithsonian also figured in my Mom’s diabolical plan to make us obsessed with reading and learning so that, one day, she could borrow books from us, and also maybe describe her progeny while using words and phrases like "cum laude" and "engineer" and "my daughter translated this."  I grew up in that golden age when children could clamber all over a steaming-hot fiberglass Triceratops sculpture in front of the Natural History Museum, picturing ourselves as dinosaur rustlers, or something.  We got to scale the Awakening too.    You don’t know victory until you’ve beaten your much-larger brother up the arm into that raised hand.  JOY!  I’m pretty sure lawyers ruined both of those treats for you whipper-snappers. (I get to call people youngsters now because I am an Aunt, and it is my prerogative to act old if and when I feel like it.)

But not everything was astronaut ice-cream and dino-rustling.  D.C. has had some really bad times.  My Mom’s years at Children’s coincided with that ugly time when both crack-cocaine and HIV/AIDS turned on D.C.’s babies.  The federal government unloaded St. Elizabeth’s on the city without also handing over a decent operating budget, and suddenly hundreds of mentally ill veterans were homeless in the capital, sleeping on heating grates, and then freezing to death when the grates were blocked off by some misguided federales who thought it looked bad to have homeless anywhere people near the Capitol.  And then the mayor had some legal problems.  Maybe D.C.’s designation as the "murder capital" of the U.S. in 1991 was the nadir. Who knows.   Anyway, things started to look up as crime rates began to fall across the country in the mid-90s, but even when I decided to transfer from AU to CUA during grad school things still looked bleak for D.C.  My folks worried about me walking around Brookland at the end of the millennium.  They worried a lot. 

Now I’m back in D.C. on a daily basis, and the change is astounding.  I was at CUA for a reading last week, and the campus is well lit, the Metro stop has an obvious but apparently friendly police presence.  The crime rate in the city has declined drastically. 

I’m coming to a point.  I promise. 

Politics and Prose is about an eight block walk uphill from the closest Metro stop.  Now, I love a good walk, and I love a good bookstore, and the weather was gorgeous, so I knew I was in for a great afternoon.  But eight blocks uphill at the very beginning of sandal season here-abouts leads to blisters on the little toes, you know, especially for we delicate flowers.  (Please scream "I AM A DELICATE FLOWER, DAMMMIT!" with me.  Thanks)  So there was some Newskin purchasing, and Newskin application thereafter, which required me to be messing with my feet while Ann and Kay were arriving, and my attempts to keep these lovely ladies from noticing me playing with my feet, cuz, you know, that’s no way to make a good first impression.  And maybe some clumsiness ensued, and somehow my wallet disappeared. 

)*&#&)%#Q#+)!()@&*$#_*&$_!#*V (And maybe some near-crying, and a little spontaneous prayer typical to we folks from Catholic families, no matter how far we’ve fallen, and then the fretting about losing my Metro pass and elevator card, not to mention cash and cards and ohgodohgodwe’regonnalosethehouseandstarveohgod.  Oh, the lamentations!)

And then it came back, entirely whole, not a dollar or a card missing.  Some nice man saw me drop my wallet on the sidewalk and raced across the street, followed me into the bookstore, and gave it to a clerk there when he couldn’t find me.  I had it back about 20 minutes after I noticed it was missing. 

Nice man, I owe you a beer.  And a big hug.  And maybe even some socks.  I wish you’d left your card or something. 

So after the drama there was the relaxing with the cake and latte, and the sock-knitting while listening to our wonderful knit-blogging stars.

And then, while waiting to have my book signed.  A woman ahead of me in the line instructed Ann and Kay to sign the book to ‘Nea, short for Linnea.  And Ann said, "Oh Lanea, wow, you comment."  And Linnea looked bemused, and I piped up and said "No, that’s me."  And then I found out that Linnea’s first name is Amy, just like mine.  And we compared notes, and tried to keep out heads from exploding with the coincidence of it all.

And then I walked back to the Metro stop, downhill this time, and in the dark, all the while safe and warm and with my wallet and books and everything.  Life is good, and our capital is healing.

And all of that storytelling should have distracted you enough that you didn’t notice my complete failure to take any pictures at the signing.  What can I say–the wallet incident made me forget that I had my camera.  But if you scroll down to the picture of the girl in the lovely lace shawl, you can see my orange-clad arm: http://www.masondixonknitting.com/   

I’m sprung, girls.  There are no two ways about it.  I am in love, and that means I am in trouble.  And this time, it’s trouble squared.

Yarrow is gorgeous, but evil. 

And Speedwell is gorgeous (this picture does not do him justice), but evil.

These two are hell on paws.  Fur bags full of trouble.  You can see it coming on when Yarrow becomes distracted and Speedwell starts looking like Elvis. 

Cats who can do impressions of Elvis, Johnny Cash, Hank Williams Sr., or Liza Minnelli grow up to be cats who steal cars.  Don’t even get me started on the dangers of cats who can do a good Shane McGowan.  Just, er, call the vet now if you have one of those, and hide the children. 

These guys go from pretending to rest to attacking their house-mates:

And just like all the worst Kitty-gangs, they will never dime each other out.  Even as Speedwell was trying to eat him alive, Zen Master Yarrow was all "There’s nothing to see here, Lady.  Move along. Nothing to see."

Shortly after the incident above, there was some wanton destruction.  Yarrow has a taste for yarn.  Scott tried to laugh it off when Yarrow was attacking a sock as I was knitting on it.  But I knew trouble was brewing.  This is a wool house, after all. 

Well, Saturday Lisa and I went to spend a gift certificate to Aylin’s  Woolgatherer my old employer gave me.  We shopped for yarn, we came back to the house.  Lisa swore up and down the cats were sweet, innocent little guys and that I was paranoid.  She must be on the take.  We met up with the fellahs and went out for dinner.  When we got home, I found this:

That’s not so bad, you’re thinking, right?  Wrong.  This yarn was in a bag.  The bag is no more–shredded beyond recognition.  The red Megaboots Stretch skein?  It’s crunchy, there’s so much kitten spit on it.  The mussed-up Lorna’s too.  My friends, this was just a warning.  This is the wool-eating kitten’s equivalent of a horse-head in my bed.  They’re telling me to stay in line.  They’re going to eat my stash if I don’t handle things carefully. 

I can hear them plotting now. 

But the bad part is I’m making excuses for them.  I keep trying to convince Scott to let them sleep with us at night, even though they spend the night alternating between trying to eat each other and trying to crawl inside my nose.  I had both cats sleeping on my head for most of Friday night, becoming acquainted with my sinuses and tonsils. 

But really it’s ok, because they apologized.  Yarrow purred a lot, and Speedwell hugged me and apologized to the yarn.  That scratch on my thumb is nothing.  It was an accident.  You don’t know them like I do  . . .

And then yesterday, while I was trying to document a make-under I’m giving a would-be great skirt that was attacked by a Bedazzler in some foreign land, Yarrow offered to help.

Help the skirt into a coffin, that is.  They eat linen too.  Send help.  There are new socks that need protection.

No, wait, I was over-reacting before.  They don’t mean to be mean to the wool.  On the linen.  They were just stressed out.  It won’t happen again.  They love me.  Yeah.  They love me.

Help.

A Long Long Way by Sebastian Barry

I had the distinct pleasure of seeing Barry read from this recent novel on Thursday at Catholic University’s Irish Studies lecture series.  Barry is one of those rare writers who is equally skilled in poetry, drama, and fiction.  More importantly, Barry is one of those rare writers who reads his work exceptionally well.  He left his audience breathless, either with grief or laughter, time and again.  If you have a chance to see him read, don’t miss it.  I’ve seen a couple hundred readings in my life.  I think this was one of the best. 

The Booker-prize finalist of a book chronicles the last few years in the life of Willie Dunne, the child of a Dublin police officer.  Willie, whose father is a Catholic Unionist, volunteers to serve in the British Army in WWI.  While Willie is in the service of the Crown, the Irish Revolution gets underway with the Easter Rising, and the Irish reaction to Irish soldiers in the British Army changes dramatically.  Willie is forced to consider his feelings of Irishness, citizenship, loyalty to his father and ancestors, and the collapse of his engagement all while undergoing the terrors of  one of the bloodiest wars ever. 

Like most of Barry’s work, this book is a piece of family history.  It follows the same Dunne family that serves as the center of Annie Dunne (Willie’s sister) and  The Steward of Christendom (about Willie’s father).

Barry is reading again on Monday at Politics and Prose in DC.  Head there, whether you’ve read the book or not. 

Knitting and kitty pictures are coming soon, I promise.   Suffice it to say, kittens don’t think people should sleep when they’re used to sleeping, but in shorter, sporadic spells.  Yarrow is a Zen Master, and is also quite fond of disembowling fake mice.  Heavens forfend he ever gets a real one.  Speedwell wavers between being endearingly affectionate and downright possessive of me.  He may be jealous of Yarrow’s muttonchops and his athletic ability.  Kayo thinks both cats should move more slowly and accept his licks.  Water-guns are in my future.

I’m taking the Metro to and from my new job, which means I get a little bit of extra sock-knitting time in the morning, but lots of extra reading time.  Expect only small bits of knitting for a while, and lots of books.  Here are several book reviews, all thrown together.

If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things by Jon McGregor

I picked this book up because it is the author’s first novel and it was short-listed for the Booker Prize.  I love first novels, just like I love first albums.  That first fruit is packed full of energy and sweetness and light.  The words are generally chosen carefully, the images are beautiful.  If it’s successful, the artist may be able to make wonderful things in the future, but they’re likely to face the pressure of recording or publishing contracts, critics, bills, and all of the other things that get in the way of artistry.

One of the blurbs on the cover refers to this as a "prose poem of a novel."  I think that’s spot on, at least when referring to the opening pages.  The book is set on a working-class street in a British city.  We follow several of the folks who live there.  The narrative jumps from one point in time to another.  Something terrible happens, but we don’t know what until well into the book.    We have a great amount of insight into speech patterns, but the tone is familiar enough that we get very little exposition.  It turns the book into a mystery of sorts.  I loved it.  I wish I could read it for the first time all over again.

The Last Report on the Miracles at Little No Horse by Louise Erdrich

I’m really falling in love with Erdrich’s writing.  This novel made Erdrich a finalist for the National Book Award.  I’m a bit surprised she didn’t win it.  Like many of Erdrich’s novels, this one is set on an Ojibwe reservation.  The main character is a priest with a mammoth of a secret, who is being interviewed about the possible canonization of a recently deceased nun who figures in other novels in the series.    The novel tracks the priest’s life, his role in the local community, his life before the priest-hood–it’s good stuff.  I’m hesitant to reveal much, of course, because I love the unfolding of a story I know nothing about, so I assume others do too.  Most reviews give the priest’s secret away, as does the back cover of the book.  But I think you should ignore all that, and just start at the start.  You can, however, consult some reviews here and here and here.

Tales of Burning Love by Louise Erdrich

I think this is the weakest Erdrich novel I’ve read so far.  In short, it’s the story of a man named Jack, who drives his businesses and marriages to fail, and of several women who marry him.  I love two of the characters, Dot and Eleanor, but I’m not sure why the others are appealing to anyone.  The prose is lovely in parts, a touch overdone in others, but very good as a whole.  The structure is intriguing, as are most of Erdrich’s books, because she reveals more about each character in little treasures hidden throughout the chapters.  She is an elegant writer, and I guess this is her most inelegant work because a few of her characters seem less appealing than I want them to.  It’s still worth reading, though.

You’ll have to excuse my lack of blogging recently.  I’ve been on vacation for the last week or so, burning through leave at my old job before I start my new job.  The Vernal Equinox was here a couple of days ago, and it really feels like I’m staring at tons of new beginnings, and lots of appropriately spring-y goings-on.  I’ll catch you up, visually. 

I’ve spent a lot of time reading, far too much time cleaning, a fair amount of time grocery shopping, cooking, and baking:

These are lemon berry muffins I’m working on . . . I think I have a really good new recipe in the works. 

I’ve spent some time knitting, though not as much as I wish:

These are some wool socks for my Mom, who is apparently overcoming her wool sensitivity.  These are the test.  They’re made of Wildfoote in the Elderberry colorway.  Chris gave me the yarn–thanks Chris!  I’ve got another pair of Trekking socks almost done, and I’ve made some headway on a cabled sweater I started a while back.

But mostly, I’ve been making some serious acquisition runs.

One acquisition run, which fell before I got the new job, let to many many stitch markers:

Bird and spiral bead variety (I had a serious weakness, here, and you’re seeing it.  Why would you need that many markers in one set?)

Glass cane flower bead variety.

Crackle-glass bead variety.

And agate leaf variety.  These are the only ones I’m likely to keep.  Sheesh.  See what happens when I abuse Joseph Campbell lectures on PBS?  I already had far more stitch markers than I really needed. 

Another acquisition run took me to the Scarlet Thread, a great local embroidery shop.  I found these:

Which are horn and antler floss cards and laying tools.  I bought every little bit of hubba-hubba goodness they had and begged them to order more.  There is a third laying tool, and it went to live with Olwyn and the girls. 

And then, of course, there is the mammal-acquisition project, which has led me to these guys. 

You can’t tell to look at it, but this bigger, older cutie above (who needs a new name) is playing with the same cord as this younger, much smaller cutie below (who needs a new name):


They should be moving in with us this weekend. 

Tuesday, my final planned excursion went awry.  My Mom and I forgot that most of the shops in Middleburg are closed on Tuesdays, so we had a great lunch and sighed over the locked doors to our favorite places.  I had to go back this morning to bring some donations to the Treasure Hound, which is the thrift shop owned by Friends of Homeless Animals.   I popped into Hunt Country Yarns first, of course, because I needed spinning fiber.  That wily Bob apparently hypnotized me into buying this haul:

of Tussah and Bombyx silk, gray carded Merino, Wensleydale, and a couple of skeins of Bearfoot.  Now, on a normal day, that would be a serious score, and I’d be done.  I mean, I have Wensleydale wool to match my Wensleydale cheese:


Who could ask for more?

But no.  See that black something in the top right corner in the upper picture?  That’s the first thing I saw when I went over to the thrift shop to make my donations.  If you’re not sitting . . . well . . . don’t fall down.  I almost did.  So sit. 

Are you sitting?

I now have a Singer Featherweight.  I bought it at the thrift store.  It doesn’t have a case or a manual or a box of accessories, but that’s all right with me.  I have a working Featherweight of my very own. 

And as if that weren’t enough, I went straight from the land of the Featherweight to collect my dog, take him for a trek at his favorite park,  and then bring him to the vet.  We had a scare this week after finding a strange new growth on our pup.  The Doc asperated the lump, and was pleased as punch to tell me that my Kayo doesn’t have cancer.  Knowing he’s healthy is even better than getting all sorts of great stuff.  I even let Kayo talk me into delaying his bath another day, since he’d been so great at the vet. 

So I try not to mention work too often, since I know many of us have more work stress than we need.  But I am blissfully between jobs at the moment, so I’ll give you a peek into the recent string of events.

Last several years: I worked at what should be a great job, but wasn’t, because I had a very unpleasant coworker and management repeatedly chose not to do much to help.  I had an Albatross hanging around my neck, you could say.  I do say it, in fact, rather frequently.   I warned my managers about a month ago that if something didn’t change I would quit.  Apparently they didn’t take me all that seriously.

Last two weeks:  I started job-hunting in earnest.

Last Thursday: I met with the VP of a federal contracting company and their client, a honcho at the Department of Education.  The VP called me right after I got home and made a very generous job offer.  To work for the Department of Education.  Instead of the War Machine DoD. 

Last Friday:  I started telling friends at work that I’d be leaving.  Then I got to see William Whitmore and the Pogues at the 9:30 club with my fine fellah.  Best.  Day.  Ever.

Saturday:  Breakfast, a wonderful walk in the woods with our dog Kayo, a visit to some possible future feline members of our household, and then dinner and drinks with friends.  Some chanting along the lines of "I’m gonna quit my jah-aaahb" broke out sporadically.

Sunday:  I took Scott to meet some cats we are considering fostering, and then went to celebrate our friend Morgan’s fantastic new job with a bunch of the gang.  It was ridiculously warm.  There were dogs and kids and delicious burgers.  Ahhhhhhh.

Monday: I submitted my resignation and expressed a desire to use up all of my vacation time between Monday and the Friday two weeks hence.  I bounced up and down a fair amount, left work early to interview with a communications company, and then decided against pursuing that opportunity because the interview had been moved so many times and the people attempting to hire me were perpetually late.  And then I got all giddy over the idea that I could just refuse job offers because it drives me nuts when people are late.  An embarrassment of riches, I tell you what.

Tuesday:   I started training my friend John to do my job, and left work early to visit the lovely yarn shop Uniquities and newly relocated Scarlet Thread.  I bought gorgeous bone and horn embroidery tools I maybe possibly don’t need.  We had dinner with Sean, Bodwin, and Lisa.  There was some minor fleece-aquisition plotting. 

Wednesday:  Another half-day at the office, some errands, and then I went to Wolf Trap to run the merchandise table with Dana for the Tinsmith/Niamh Parsons show, and hang out with Mary and plot new projects for Tuatha.  It was a wonderful thing to see Tinsmith playing Wolf Trap.  Wonderful.  And it was even better to talk to so many people who had specifically come to see Tinsmith.  Tinsmith sounded great.  Niamh sounded great.  We sold a fair number of CDs and heard from a lot of people who are looking forward to this year’s Potomac Celtic Festival.  And some of my favorite folks came out to the show, so we got to drink some lovely beer and crack some ridiculous jokes, and wallow in the bag of un-polished amber Mary brought.  Mmmmmm.

So I don’t have to go to my old job again until next Friday, when I’ll pack up my office and have an exit interview, and then go out to lunch with the folks I’m leaving behind.   I’m going to wallow in all of this vacation time.  And I’ll even take some pictures of the non-job stuff I’ve been working on.  I do still make stuff–I promise.