The shortest best worst week.

I always take the week after a big race off completely from running.

I don't do my shorter speedwork-type runs during the week. I sleep in to the BIG WHOOPIE late hour of 7:30am on Saturday. I drink on Friday night without worrying about how I'll feel in the morning's early hours.

And I feel zero guilt.

I bask in the glory (and waning soreness) of having finished a big race and think nothing at all about having bacon with all three meals.

It is, in a word, the Best.

That was last week.

Unfortunately, last week was also my first week back at work after my sabbatical, so that made it the Worst week, in a way. Not that I hate my job at all, but it's just that I loved my sabbatical weeks so much that, by comparison, it was totally the red-headed stepchild week and I wanted to slap it or make it stand in the corner the whole time.

Also, because it was my Post-Race Break Week, it was also very short.

Especially when I got up on Saturday to go out for my first long-ish run since Seattle, after sleeping in a little longer than normal for a training day, and found myself trudging through a short-ish six mile trot under actual sunshine.

Ew.

See, usually, for training purposes, I get up early-ish on Saturday morning, so that I can get my miles in under cover of darkness or at least clouds. And by 8am, the clouds were disintegrating faster than I could make it around my tried and true six mile loop and, obviously, any shade of darkness had vanished into full blown Day.

And the whole time I was out there, semi-baking beneath the rapidly revealing sun ball, I kept thinking that my break week had seemed awfully short and how come the weeks never seem that short when I'm at the end of my training and staring down a 12 mile run.

But I think we know the reason to that, so I won't bore you with any more of my brain's idle minutia on that topic.

On another running related topic, however, I signed up to run San Jose in October.

Because I guess I can't go back to Life Without Running any day soon because I've changed my lifestyle (read: eating lifestyle) to accommodate Life With Running and that means I eat just whatever I want, really, and imagine that my 20+ miles a week will handle it.

Without that 20+ miles a week? Well, my bikini and I would have a falling out. Specifically my ass cheeks would be falling out. And other parts that become excessively jiggly without the requisite running of miles would follow suit.

And I think you know that if I don't have an event out there, just looming in the distance with PR implications and the potential for public self-shaming, I'm probably not going to do these long runs that get me to my 20+ miles/week and that is when things start falling out of bikinis.

I'll need all my parts IN my bikini soon, so no flaming out now. Must get back to it.

So, I did my six on Saturday and then a few miles of speedwork this morning with the dog, which wasn't so much speedwork as it was trying to run while simultaneously trying not to catch the whiff of the poo bag I got the pleasure of carrying throughout mile 3, and after another day of speedwork this week, I'll go out this Saturday and run seven. Likely at an earlier hour so that my precious dewy flesh doesn't scorch under the sun ball and so that the sidewalks and bike lanes will be devoid of double strollers and zombies carrying trays of Starbucks.

What's in that coffee, people, that you must cart it around in bulk?

Anyway.

I'll be back on the Supah Technical Training Schedule so that, come September, I'll do some 11 and 12 mile runs so that potentially maybe if I'm lucky I can go for a PR in San Jose come October.

Which will now be a little bit harder since I came to find out that my time in Seattle was actually a blistering 2:23:57, rather than the initially reported 2:24:00.

For the record, when I registered just now, I put my predicted finish as 2:20:00, which might be a bit of pipe dream, although not as much as my Super Secret Predicted Wish Finish time of 2:TEENS:.

If you feel like crossing your fingers for me from now until October, I'd be ever so grateful.

#1 Tomato Day

#1 Tomato weighed in at a healthy 16.2 ounces.

I don't even know what to say in this post because I feel like the photos make it pretty obvious that I lost my mind this weekend because The First Tomato arrived.

*pause for stunned disbelief*

I like that I always say that as though the stork brought it to my house in a diaper.

As though it were some sort of surprise because I hadn't been prodding any tomatoes on a daily basis and cooing to them to RIPEN UP ALREADY BITCHES or anything. Even though that's exactly what I've been doing.

But since I took a million pictures (most of which I will spare you - you're welcome) and screamed a hundred times with retarded excitement and then made my favorite Tomato Worshiping Recipe, I will walk you through my favorite holiday of the year: #1 Tomato Day, just as it happened. You can feel free to scream like a maniac at any point in the reading of this post, too, because, I know, this is more exciting than any other holiday.

It's OK. You're with Finny now and I understand.

See, Bubba and I were sitting out on our patio awaiting the delayed arrival of our friends who were coming to visit us from Kansas City via the most ridiculous string of connecting flights created by man.

And since it was taking them longer to get to our local airport than it would have if they'd, say, decided to get lunch in Greece, we had some time to kill and we chose to spend that time masterminding the ultimate summertime alfresco din-din.

You don't usually hear alfresco and din-din in the same sentence, do you? That's a shame and I'm proud to change that horrible trend right here, right now.

So, obviously, Job One was to figure out what type/cut/preparation of meat we would have. Chicken was out because one of our guests has a patented hatred for all things remotely chicken and also because chicken is just not all that mastermindy. You know what I mean.

Bubba decided steaks would be the meat du jour, and because I like to be contrary, I decided I wanted lamb chops. So, because we are the ultimate compromisers, we got both so that I could have my way. Always so fair in our house.

I'll spare you the drawn out details of our decision making process through to the point where we began discussing The Vegetable.

See, when masterminding an ultimate alfresco din-din, The Vegetable is not always the exciting portion. Ususally we just say "Big Salad!" and then I go toss all the farmshare and garden bits into a bowl with whatever lettuce and we call it a night.

But then it dawned on me - do you know what would be The Ultimate Alfresco Din-Din Vegetable?

DO YOU?

Tomatoes.

Garden fresh, hand picked right here, right now, still warm from the summer sun, Tomatoes. And then if they were made into my favorite tomato salad and left to mellow in their own juices for a while ohmygod the greatness and ultimateness would reach unconstrained proportions.

But the tomatoes...they're not ready. Or are they?

And this is when I headed over to the plants to palpate the hugish tomato which has been hanging on my plants since Day 1.

You remember? This guy whose bloom was so enormo and who has grown to be so enormo himself that I began to wonder if there'd been a mixup in the hospital because this was too big to be a Better Boy?

You remember.

Well, when I attempted to wrap my tiny lady hand around his impressive girth (WHOA PORN ALERT) to test him for doneness, he, uh, fell off. Right then and there.

Plunk. I'm done.

So, TEE DAH - we were having my favorite tomato dish for dinner. WOOOOO!

First, though, I spotted two other tomatoes hanging around under there and picked them, too. And then I took all these pictures because of their gorgeousnessocity.

My hands were at maximum capacity trying to hold all these together.

And then I picked some cucumbers, too, because they were, like, right there.

And after carefully weighing in the three tomatoes (which tipped the scales at over 2 lbs total) and cucumbers, I set to work on Finny's Tomato Salad, and then I shared it with four other people which went against every fiber of my being.

You tell me for sure, but doesn't it seem like this cucumber is smiling?

The one thing I did not share, however, was The Tonic, or so I call it, because I'm a dork.

See, when you make this salad, and toss it up and let it sit and mellow while coming in and stirring it from time to time, it generates this luscious pool of liquid in the bottom of the bowl.

A blend of fresh tomato juice, olive oil, cucumber juice, basil, garlic, salt and red and black pepper that is, how shall I say this, All Healing. And I say that with some authority because last summer when I was at death's door for no reason during the hot summer months, I made this salad, drank The Tonic and LO I healed.

So, anyway, I made this salad last night, and before serving it, I strained out a good bit of the liquid and had myself The Tonic. Which is different from my normal G&T for obvious reasons but is more healthful and doesn't make me fuck up my knitting if I drink too much.

Whatever.

The Tonic.

Anyway, I recommend this. Also, I think this is something people do in other cultures where they make a lot of ceviche and they call the resulting liquid "Whiskey", so I feel justified in pushing my particular bizarre beverage on you since other people in other lands do this and they don't think it's weird.

So, I present to you, #1 Tomato AND The Tonic. This is a big day.

And I thought that I'd learned something from that tank top.

When I posted our new Craft: along projects this month, with one of them being that lacy Summer Scarf, I *knew* I'd be at least making the scarf, if not the swimsuit cover-up too, because I have kind of felt like knitting since I finished Bubba's sweater and it wasn't a total steaming failure.

And, since this scarf was a "very easy" lace pattern, with only two repeats to keep track of, I though oh this will be a cinch and I will finish it tonight and won't I be so proud of myself.

Wrong.

See, I was under the false assumption that I'd learned something from that tank top I knitted. That lace one that came out *thisclose* to perfect ('cept for the too strangly straps and the too-shortness of the length BUT WHATEVER). I thought I'd learned how to keep my brain about me when I was knitting lace and not get all ginned up and off-pattern as I'm sometimes apt to do.

Well, I didn't learn from the lace tank top. And, apparently, I also didn't learn from the two pairs of lace knee socks either.

Because I have tried knitting this scarf THREE TIMES already and had to rip it back after finding my rows decreasing by 2 stitches after the first repeat.

WTF?

Where are these stitches going?

Why is this scarf arching me?

Anyway. I've decided that this pattern, for me, is a jerk. Because if I can't sit down and NOT DRINK MY G&T and then still not get this thing done properly in an evening, then it's getting put away until such time as my brain swells to the size of normal human girl proportions.

Until then, I do believe I will try my hand at crafting a swimsuit cover-up for the Singer contest (and this month's Craft: along project - don't forget!) because somehow I feel like I'm the boss of Tshirts more than I am of yarn at this point.

I will clarify that by saying that I will be converting yet another Tshirt into yet another piece of clothing that is not a Tshirt. I mean, obviously, since I just told you I was going to make a swimsuit cover-up.

You know what I mean.

Thankfully AIDS Walk is only about a week away, so I know I'll have some new Tshirts in the house to dispatch at will.

OH! And if you are of the generous nature and would like to sponsor me for AIDS Walk (this is the only thing I fundraise for, so don't worry I won't be back here every five seconds being, like, "Hey! Gimme money for whatever thing I'm doing right now!" because I won't. That shit bugs me, too.), feel free to hit the sidebar there to donate on my AIDS Walk page, or just click here and go on with your life. And, hey, also feel free to ignore this entire paragraph - I will still love you just as much.

And also, please don't take my experience with this scarf as any indication of how your own Summer Scarf will come out, because there are already photos in our pool of successfully started scarves that look super normal and lovely and that is because most people have the ability to knit a "very easy" lace scarf with only two repeats.

Yes, I just admitted to being incredibly inept. I think we all feel better with that out on the table. It's fine.

But, if you do attempt the scarf and you do have the same experience as I did, well, then we can hold hands and skip down the sidewalk together humming the theme song to Laverne and Shirley (Why L&S? Dunno.) knowing that at least we're not alone in our knitting inabilities. Sound good? I thought it would.

Ok, off I go to find a Tshirt that needs bossing around.

They don't miss me.

I hadn't intended to immediately come back and report on whether the garden actually missed me, but given their obvious response, I feel I should provide an update.

Their response, when translated by me, Vegetable Whisperer to the Stars, boils down to, "We don't need your ass around here. Thankyouverymuch."

Oh.

I've been back at work going on three days now and this was apparently all the garden wanted in the whole wide world so that they could get things happening in a meaningful way because yesterday I found the #1 RIPENING TOMATO HOLY SHIT, silks (SILKS!) on the corn and buds all over my new kumquat tree.

You see me. I see you. Let's get on with our lives.

Dude. Your silk is showing.

DUDE! YOUR SILK IS SHOWING!

Stop talking, idiot! She sees us!

I don't have anything funny to say. I'm a kumquat, that's funny enough.

So, not only does the garden not miss me, I do believe my presence might have been keeping it from its regularly scheduled business of making food.

Or OR maybe the garden took my being home as an indication that it, too, should take a breather, and so spent the last two months sort of hanging back (except for the beans, who are apparently of the ALL WORK NO PLAY variety) finishing knitting projects and taking their dog to the beach.

But who can say? These vegetables can be so coy.

Anyway, that's all I came here to say. That I spotted the first (and there are actually a few) ripening tomato last night and then nearly stroked out in the garden as I tried to convey the magnitude of my discovery to Bubba.

And then we petted the corn. Ok, *I* petted the corn while Bubba stood there and mumbled something quietly to himself about poorly made life choices.

And then, while he was holding his head in his hands, I whispered some sweet nothings to my beloved new kumquat about how I would eat each and every fruit he produced and feel free to challenge me with a bumper crop oh tiny dwarf kumquat I love you and such.

Ok, that's all then. I promise I'll talk about something else next time besides the garden.

Adopt a Crop update: Let's see if they miss me.

I go back to work today after two months off on sabbatical and since you're all wondering (like I am) what I'd be doing if I weren't at work, allow me to show you:

First of all, I'd be picking beans. Because that is what I did every day since they started producing. Because they are very productive plants and Bubba and I live in constant fear of being forced to flee from our homeland by The Beans.

Then, I'd go stand by the corn and try to figure out, via self-snapshot, how much taller it'd gotten in the last five minutes. Because that shit grows in immeasurable bounds by the moment.

Ok, so its growth is probably measurable, but not by any method we're using. Because we are using only two measurement tactics:

• Is it knee high by 4th of July? YES, check.
• Is it high as an elephant's eye? Depends. We'll need to borrow your elephant for that.

There's an ongoing debate in our house about whether the corn was supposed to be "High as an elephant's eye by 4th of July" or just "Knee-high by 4th of July" with its final height expected to be "High as an elephant's eye."

That raised eyebrow is Bubba silently questioning my methods.

Since I've never encountered corn much over knee height by early July, I don't see where this overacheiving 4th of July Elephant's Eye corn would come from. Bubba, however, disagrees. He being of midwestern (and therefore All Corn Knowing) descent, claims that these two sayings are actually one enormous corn height saying and then he turns his back and refuses to hear otherwise.

Specifically, it's "High as an elephant's eye by 4th of July" or nothing at all, for him.

Whatever. My corn has tassles, and so that is now more amusing to me than its height. Which may or may not be that of an elephant's eye. And now I never want to say, "4th of July" or "elephant's eye" ever EVER ever again.

Yay.

But we can say, Tassles. Tasssssssssseeeellllllllllllles.

After the drama with the corn, I'd move on to inspecting the cucumbers WHICH, I will say, are promising abundance. Abundance of such greatness, in fact, that it prompted the ordering of a larger capacity food processor that has a more, ahem, accomodating food tube through which I can push (via food pusher, don't think I'll be using my fingers) many MANY round lemon cucumbers for the pickle chip making.

Let this also be your official announcement that your first 2009 Adopt a Crop crop: Lemon Cucumber has arrived.

"I'm #1! I'm #1!"

I'll admit though, I've wanted a larger food processor for a while. And between the largeness of the cucumbers and the inability of my 3 cup processor to handle the rigors of, say, a pie crust or this bread recipe, it was determined (by an expert - Me) that I needed, immediately, the largest food processor I could possibly store in my house.

After I got rid of five things. And, so far, I've gotten rid of three things. To the point where I'm sure I can fit this in my cabinets if I just do some magic Forcing It, a skill for which I am well known.

We will soon be forced through a food tube and that does not seem glamorous at all.

After doing impulse shopping at the behest of my cucumbers, I would go over to the tomatoes and sit down for a lengthy lecture, during which time I would counsel them on their lackluster effort in ripening for me.

These are not my tomatoes. Obviously. They are red. That's how you know.

See, we picked some of our neighbor's tomatoes (they said it was OK - these are the nice neighbors you know) that were all nice and red (and in some cases, orange) and ripe and put them into some pasta with some fresh basil that's growing right next to MY tomatoes so that they'd know we were cheating on them because COME ON ripen up already.

It was a crime of passion, this tomato adultery.

So, sure, some of their tomatoes are small and anus-looking, but they are ripening more every day and are still good even if they're not ours and Better Boys. And do you know why they're still good? Because they're red. And ripe.

If someone had told me this was a fake toy tomato, I'd have believed them.

Which is more than I can say about our tomatoes, even given their enthusiasm for putting out slowly ripening fruit.

Just imagine this multiplied by 20 and then you'd have an idea of what's going on out there.

Oh, and not like I need to tell you, but I'd go over to the cilantro and give it the finger. Because it's been bolted for weeks now and, just for fun (because I secretly hate it), I've let it bloom out and go to seed. Because I don't even want to waste my time pulling it out. It should have to sit there and think about what it did.

Really though, that bed needs a bit more greenery, BUT STILL, I'm mad at it.

Stupid fast-bolter.

After that, I don't know what I'd do. Maybe ride my bike to Pilates or the library, take a nap on the lawn with the dog, bake something, work on the scarf I've got going, plant more stuff in my new landscaping, read my beekeeping book...you know, whatever might strike my fancy.

If I were still on sabbatical. Which I'm not. So you can all stop hating me now, and if you want to see pictures, you can check them out here.

I'm going to take this slideshow off the sidebar now because, well, I don't need my Sabbatical Self showing off while I'm Working.

She's such a bitch, that one.

How things went with the race.

And that is Mt. Rainier. On a clear day. I stared at it a lot.

You'll recall that I did not do any hill training for this race. The one with the scary looking elevation map?

You remember.

I didn't end up doing the big training I thought I was going to do because I realized it would suck and I didn't want to spend my sabbatical time with guaranteed suckage. I was willing to face the consequences in Seattle because, my thought was, one day of hill suckage is better than a dozen, which is how many I would have spent running hills at The Dish had I actually gone through with my Big Talker hill training.

I'll just have one day of suckage, during the race itself, and that will be better than many days of torture leading up to something that's so obviously going to suck regardless, was my thinking.

Well, I'm so happy and proud and gloaty (not a word) to say I WAS SO RIGHT!

Sort of.

See, it didn't suck that much at all, these hills.

I mean, it wasn't like I was all, "WOO! HILLS! Someone pinch my behind because I think I'm dreaming!" or anything but at least I didn't approach the first hill shrieking, "Oh shit. It's The Hill."

Some lady next to me did, though, and I never did see her again after that so I'd wager that perhaps she might have benefited from some sucky hill training.

Me though? It was so not that bad.

I recall running the hills and thinking that they were way scarier represented as peaks and valleys on the dramatic-ass elevation map and also congratulating myself on my intense laziness that prevented me from going through unnecessarily torturous hill training.

And, new thing I learned from a legit runner friend of mine was realized on these Oh I'm So Scary hills - running downhill like a jackass is way fun.

I ran down all the hills like a maniac. You know, like little kids do before they find out that you can easily fall and scrape your face off or snap an ankle running like such an asshole. But it was a stupid kind of fun in which I indulged because:

1. Real Runner Friend told me she does it
2. I wasn't doing the full marathon so felt perfectly fine behaving like the fraudulent running impersonator I knew the marathoners to consider me to be.

So yay! I fly down the hills past so many people! And hey marathoners - enjoy that extra 13 miles once we get into the city! Woo!

I did not, for the record, scrape my face off or snap anything important but I do believe it was this ill-advised activity that had my quads sore for the following two days. Although I can walk while bending at the knees now, an ability about which I could not boast four days ago. Especially given the careful planning that went into descending the single shallow step off my friend's back porch. Fucking precarious, man.

As for the rest of the course, beyond these mild hills, it was pretty entertaining and scenic.

Please note that none of the entertainment and only part of the scenery was courtesy of the race organizers.

While I may participate in these Rock and Roll races, with their many stages of live bands and what not, I have zero interest in listening to the worn out cover songs they play or, even worse, the original songs they've constructed in their parent's basements.

Instead, I have my iPod turned up to Maximum Annoying Sound Blockage and progress through the race with Marilyn Manson scream-o-ing Armagoddamnmuthafuckingeddon in my ears so that I don't have to bear the brunt of old dude band music or those people who insist on talking to their race buddies about useless minutia between strained breaths in an effort to pass the time.

Really? Do you think it's necessary to comment on how nice is this weather anyway we're so lucky for, like, the 80th time in four miles? Just stop talking and try to get a handle on your breathing before you pass out and have to be carried to a medical station on the back of some dude's bike.

Another weird thing about this race was the frequency with which people randomly fell down.

Yes. I will admit I laughed quietly to myself while hoping I wasn't dooming myself to a similar fate by making silent fun in my head.

It was weird. Twice I saw two seemingly able bodied people totally bite the dust for no apparent reason and then not get up. I'm not sure if it was the shock of the catastrophe or exhaustion setting in, but both falls were detrimental enough to where they were still lying on the ground (with medical help approaching - I'm not cruel!) when I passed by.

In an effort to spare myself being struck down by a stray bolt of lightening, I chose to Learn Something from those poor souls and just watch where I was going and not drag my feet.

Lesson learned. I did not fall down.

Although, there was a moment where I thought the whole race had lost its mind and everyone might start falling down when the entire pack in front of me veered suddenly to the right and began pulling out cameras and cell phones.

(Yes, I too, was curious about these people that carry cameras and cell phones during a BQ race, but let's not get into that. You know how I get.)

Turns out there was an impressively huge and gorgeous bald eagle just sitting there on a branch hanging over Lake Washington. With only the clear blue sky hanging behind his form, he was truly a stunning sight to see. Something you don't see every day. And if you live somewhere other than Washington or, like, Alaska, you probably just don't see at all. Which is why I feel justified about my very honest and sincere reaction to this Sight of Beauty.

When I saw the eagle, I admit to yelling (I could hear myself over Marilyn, so, it had to be loud), "HOLY SHIT. THAT'S...WOW."

Because it was, well, wow. To the point where the alarmed runners on my left side, who were initially startled by my outburst, just smiled and laughed and agreed that, "Yeah - that shit is pretty wow."

Thank you. I thought so, too.

Beyond all that, the drama was kept to an unprecedented minimum. There was no seventy year old dude in American flag shorts. There wasn't any barefoot hooker bouncing along in front of me waving to bystanders as though they were going to tuck a fiver into her sports bra. There wasn't even a near death experience as I tried to take in my Luna Moons and water around hour one.

In fact, the biggest drama of all happened before the race, when I was trying to navigate the logistics of getting my body to the starting line and that ended up being no issue whatsoever because my sister, BLESS HER SOUL, told me I was an idiot for thinking she'd let me take the bus anywhere at 4am and hello, I'll just drive you to the race start because Tukwila is 20 minutes from my house.

Oh.

And then, when we saw the traffic stacking up four miles before the off-ramp to Tukwila, she shortcutted us, as only a seasoned local can, through some windy backroad that dropped me off one wooded block from my corral.

Well. Look at that. And everyone else is still waiting in line on the freeway. Including the stupid shuttles. And probably some buses.

Wuv you, Chelle.

It was super excellent. To the point where I never even thought twice about the fact that she'd Surprise! woken me up an hour early because, in setting her alarm clock the night before, had accidentally set her clock back an hour. Thankfully, it only takes me about 2.5 seconds to go back to sleep and that extra hour where I didn't have to circumnavigate the globe via bus and shuttle was probably my edge for this race.

This race with hills. In which I achieved a PR. And did not make a hot public mess of myself in my sister's city. And got to trot along with the 4:13 marathon pace group masquerading, albeit briefly, as an actual marathoner.

Those people look good. I think I need a trainer.

Next up, San Jose in October. I *may* try to train my way down to a 2:TEENS:00 time, but we'll see.

Race fries. With feta. It improves the sodium reuptake levels. Yes, I just made that up.

Craft: along 2009 : July

Dear Donk,

There's no traffic on the freeway (well, let's say there's less), it's hot enough to inspire Bubba to install our attic fan (YES) and, whoopsy, there wasn't a lot of action in the Craft: along photo pool for June.

And so I believe this tells us that summer is here.

Summer is here and HELLO baking isn't as fun as it was, say, back in November when I was wearing all my clothes and trying to warm the house by any means necessary.

But, for those of you who did man up and bake - I bow to you. You are a strong people.

Particularly, NutsyCoco who worked through the Carrot Cake Cookie recipe without wavering and actually made the homemade frosting, which is I'm sure the thing that would have put my WT version over the top.

So, I'm lazy, we know this.

But - Nutsy - congrats! You're this month's Craft: along winner!

So, send me your home address (and full name, unless you want your mail arriving Attn: Nutsy Coco, which is fine by me, but you know) to finnyknitsATgmailDOTcom and I'll send you off your prize. I promise it will not include winter items like a snowman kit or anything.

I get it, y'all - summer = fun outside time not let's heat up the house with cookies time.

SO - for July, let's go with projects that are useful in the summer. Like, say, a Tshirt transformed into a swimsuit cover-up OR a quick knit summer scarf.

The deal with the Tshirt transformation is that you can transform a Tshirt into anything, for the purposes of our Craft:along (including a swimsuit cover-up) OR you can make a swimsuit cover-up from whatever materials you desire (including a Tshirt) for the purposes of Singer, our Craft:along and your own selfish needs.


The beauty is that you stand to win TWO prizes because Singer (you know, those folks that make all them fancy sewing dealies) is hosting a Swimsuit Cover-up Contest through 7/16/09 and you could win things like a sewing machine, dress form or MakerShed gift card by adding your project photos to their photo pool. And, you know, if you win our July Craft: along challenge, you could win, like, something else that's not any of those things.

Sound fun? I thought it would. And I'm about to do AIDS Walk SF again, so, you know, I'll have some extra shirts.

ALSO - don't forget - if you are feeling knitty, you could bang out a quick summer scarf for use in the office, in the event that you're about to go back to work from being on sabbatical for two months and GEEZ they keep your building like a goddamn ice box even though we're all super concerned about conserving resources.


I'm just saying that I've heard other people might work in similar conditions. Where you bring bunny slippers to work in July because as soon as it hits 80 degrees outside, the office goes all Alaskan tundra and shit.

So, yay! New projects for July and none of them involve turning on the oven. Just upload your final project photos to our pool by the end of the month if you want to win The Mystery Box* and to Singer's pool by 7/16/09 if you want to try to win that fancy ass machine.

xo
Finny

*While The Mystery Box could be anything, I will tell you it's not a boat. And if the people at Twentieth Century Fox weren't such outstanding douche bags, I could link to something that would explain what I mean.

Nevermind.