I do this because I'm self-involved. Enjoy.

UPDATE: If you wanted to be interviewed but didn't leave your email address, please shoot it to me at finnyknitsATgmailDOTcom so I can send you your questions. Stupid Blogger doesn't give your email unless you have it listed on your Blogger profile, so there are a few of you for whom I don't have an email address. Sorry, y'all.

I like to consider Kristin at Going Country something of a kindred spirit. Not because we lead similar lives (hardly, she's on a farm in NY and I'm in a suburb in Silicon Valley), but because we have a lot of weird things in common which I find amusing.

I won't get into all those here because it's none of your beeswax, but I will say that one thing we have in common is our interest in ourselves. Like, I am very interested in ME and she is very interested in HER and in that we have bonded in a way that only two very self-involved people can.

A weird awkward way that involves swearing and the sharing of cocktail recipes. Whatever.

SO - what I'm saying is that when she offered to interview readers with questions that SHE would make up for THEM, I saw it as a perfect chance to:

A. Challenge her to create questions to which she did not already know the answers.

B. Spend some time talking all about my favorite topic, Me. Yes, we know I'm very self-involved, so don't look at me all like that.

Turns out the whole challenge thing wasn't a challenge for Kris - because she's that way and so now I'm here to make good on my part of the deal in which I answer her interview questions for your amusement and my own.

Please to enjoy.

1) What one song always reminds you of a particular event or time in your life? And what was the event or time?
Cyndi Lauper's, "Girls Just Want to Have Fun" reminds me of riding in the back of my mom's car on the way to swim practice. Every time I hear it (which, granted, is rare these days) I can practically smell the chlorine in my nose.

2) What's your favorite thing about your husband?
In addition to the fact that he's SUPER handy and can fix nearly anything, he is also THE most hysterical person I know. The fact that he vowed to devote the rest of his life to entertaining me with his hilarity is very satisfying.

3) What's the single best food or dish you've ever eaten?
Quattro fungi pizza in Rome. Hands down. I think there was some fucking truffle oil on it, too. Just to make it all the more ridiculously good. I ate the whole thing even though I was so stuffed and was sitting at a table of extremely hot Italian men. No shame.

4) What's the worst food you've ever cooked yourself?
Tofu. Stupid boogery, goopy, "Martha says it's good so try it" tofu. Sucked ass, that tofu. And, as such, so does Martha.

5) How (or from whom) did you learn how to knit?

I learned from instructions I printed off the Internet. Which is how I ended up knitting "the weird way" instead of "the normal way", like everyone tells me. For the record, The Continental/German/Traditional Method is not "the weird way". YOU'RE THE WEIRD WAY.

And now you know some more ME things because, obviously, I don't talk about ME enough on MY blog.

I should be ashamed of myself, but I'm not.

However, in the name of fair play (and in an effort to not be a total beotch), I wanna interview one of you guys, too. If you'll have me, of course. I do love to know all about you lovely nice people who come here and brave my bitching, even if it's just so I'll know to whom I should direct the police later when you become a stalker.

To play Finny's Going to Ask You Five Potentially Embarrassing and Inappropriate Questions game:

1. Leave me a comment saying, "Interview me! I'm not afraid!" or something similar.
   
2. I'll email you five questions that will likely have questionable content or swears.
3. You then update your blog with answers to my questions (no editing the questions) and link back to the original post.
4. And you can decide whether you want to include this explanation and offer to interview someone else in that post.
5. If you go this route and people want to be interviewed, you do it.

So, if you don't blush easily or like the challenge of truthfully answering sketchy questions, feel free to indicate your interest in a Finny interview in the comments. If you just want to comment but don't want to be interviewed, I totally will not take it personally because I would be wary of me, too.

xo

I'll stop after this. Promise.

At the risk of alienating all of you with never-ending school banter, I will say that this is the last post on school because BAM, it's over.

I've been graduated.

Meanwhile, did you know that's the grammatically correct way to say it? Learned that during my undergrad, yes I did.

From a psychopathic professor who would put my hand to his scratchy bearded mouth and yell into it.

My undergrad was weird.

This time around though! Also weird, I'm afraid.

But less mouth-to-hand screaming, so that was a relief.

Could have done without all of the rank hippies eating themselves free of the cover crop rows, lunatics running rampant in the greenhouse breaking plants, blind high stoners wandering aimlessly through lab messing shit up and the general teenagery Santa Cruz-ness of it all, too, but I guess that's part of the fun?

Sure, fun. Let's call it that.

LIKE FUN!

Heh. I love it when people said that back in the day when nobody used swears. "You're 23? Like fun you are!"

Anyway, random.

And, hey! I have time for random again! I mean, sort of.

Like yesterday when I searched up my final grades and found that I did, in fact, get all As and then took that as a cue to conduct a little activity demanded by my dear friend, Shelley.

See, she's been on my case for oh 2 years or so to put my As up on the fridge and take a picture.

And then a hundred other people said that to me over the last two years as I bashed them about the head and ears with my test and course scores because I'm terribly self-congratulatory.

I'm also overly-familiar, rudely blunt, foul-mouthed, unforgiving of poor grammar and spelling and not that good at mowing the lawn.

And now that we have some of my most heinous flaws out there for you all to ogle, check this shit out:

I call it my Shrine of Self Congratulation.  Also Where the Tonic Lives.

That's right. I kept all of my school paperwork and tests organized for just such an occasion and also because I'm self-indulgent and sentimental.

It's making me nuts that the folders are out of chronological order.

Now, contrary to my previous declaration, I didn't actually get all As on all things. I mean, yes, I did get all As on my final transcript, but there were a few exams here and there where I didn't get As. Thankfully, some of the professors are tech-fearful and don't use the online learning system so I couldn't see all of my final exam scores, but one of them is less fearful than others and I know that I got a C on a final last semester.

A C! I know. Horrid. Still though, I got an A in the class, so let's pretend I never told you. I need to remain pure in your minds.

Instead, look at this and swoon. That's what I did and, because I'm also terribly self-involved, I assume that's what everyone will do.

Perhaps it's my self-involvement that fetched me the 4.0 transcript that I've always wanted. Or maybe it was the fact that this was horticulture and not, say, organic chemistry.

Or maybe it was the socks.

Definitely the socks.

And since these guys served me so well for the last two years in school, I thought they might have enough juice left to get me through another interview yesterday.

For a job I REALLY want.

A job that's REALLY cool.

And REALLY scary. So scary and cool that I will probably need to wear these socks every day for the first six months of the job if I were so lucky as to get it.

I need to learn how to darn socks.

It would appear that my lucky socks are running out of lucky. Or lucky is running out of the toes? Or? Whatever, they have holes.

Either way though - now you're safe. No more school talk on the blog.

We'll just go back to talking about Oh noooooooooo and the garden and dongs, ok?

I make no promises about it during NaNoWriMo though. Which I'm hoping to do again this year after a two year hiatus. And during which I *may* write up a short story compilation covering the crazy of my last two years.

But not on the blog! You are free from schoolishness talking and grades and shit like that.

Be free!

2:35:28

Well then, I ran and I finished. Not as fast as I originally planned (unfortunately I added my predicted finish time when I was running 10 minute miles OH so long ago and before injury), but I'm not hurt or blistered or all that hobbly today.

It's a nice feeling, you know, to not die from doing something you signed your own self up for.

To quote a wise man (Bubba), "This was your big stupid idea."

But I won't lie and say it was super easy. I mean, it's still 13.1 miles of running. Let's not kid ourselves about that. Running, for any distance, is never just easy like Sunday morning. I have just discovered that when considering distance running, there are different activities that coincide with the mile markers.

Like, miles 1-3 always suck ass. In an "I don't understand how I'm supposed to go on for 13 miles if I can barely barely breathe without snarfling or set a pace that feels right" kind of way. But I knew this. I have never gone on a run where the first 2-3 miles weren't just a total pain in the ass. This is when I always doubt that running beyond 3 miles is actually possible or going to happen.

Miles 4-6 are usually my best. I tend to check my watch a lot at the beginning of any run waiting to pass the 30 min mark because I know that beyond that, for at least a few miles, I'll be in my comfort zone where I breathe in a regular way while still running at normal speed (read: not running in that super slow way where bystanders are thinking, "She knows she's not running right? Because that is not running.") I also spend this time trying to situate myself in a pack of not-gross people so that in later miles I won't spend my extra energy hating their American flag shorts, being grossed out by their inexplicably bare cellulite or baffled by their protruding beer bellies - all while we run the same speed and I wonder how I got lumped in with all the weirdos. And, also, what is wrong with me (has my ass jiggling increased to the point where I can only belong with the other gelatinous runners?) and I should be ashamed of myself for thinking mean thoughts about people who are at least as equipped to run this race as I am.

Miles 7-10 are my slow and steady miles. This is when my speed (however minimal in the first place) takes a nose dive. I settle into my "survival" pace. I start to pick landmarks in the distance to focus on. I do a lot of checking in with my parts to make sure that there's no blistering, aching or stabbing pain going on. I look longingly for the "Sports Drink Ahead" signs and I make up names for other runners to keep myself entertained.

Miles 10-12 are when I put those perfectly appropriate names to good use. This is where I came to know (and avoid) "Farmer-Blow", "Big Farts", "Someone Give That Woman a Tshirt", "Bitch Who Talks on the Cell Phone", "Walks and Sprints But Don't Worry Because I Always End Up Ahead of Her", "Flag Shorts" (yes, he was there) and "Nice Dreads". I have to occupy myself so that I don't think about the fact that my legs each weigh two hundred pounds and if I stop or slow down even more (not possible) that I'll probably never start running again and will get to the finish line dead last.

The last mile. The mile between exhaustion and relief. It is a gloriously desperate mile. It is the mile where I stop seeing "Farmer Blow" and start imagining the finish line banner everywhere I look. There are more spectators over the last mile and, thank god, because this is where I'm most likely to bring shame upon myself by collapsing in a gooey heap of giving-up, which I will not do with so many people watching.

It is an interesting method of self-preservation, my vanity. At the end of the day, I'm a very self-involved and vein individual that prefers solitude when behaving disgracefully and will continue to behave appropriately as long as there are people watching.

Meanwhile, I ignore the much faster runners who are long since finished and strolling lazily along the sidelines with their finishers medals, wearing flip-flops looking all, "Hey, we already finished and don't you wish you didn't slow down at mile 7 because you could be me right now eating a plain bagel and trying not to vomit."

It is an emotional mile and one where I'm acutely aware of the look on my face and my posture because now is when I know spectators are looking for the tortured faces of people who never should have tried to run a half marathon. I'm determined to look like I meant to do this. I put on my best, "I'm totally loving this and living in the glory of the moment!" face while I try to figure out which of my internal organs is shutting down.

13.1. And, btw, when did a tenth of a mile hurt so bad? Geez man. Seeing that big 13 mile marker and then realizing that I had to turn a corner and hit the gas for .1 miles to the finish line really tried to kill me. I was determined to do The Big Finish to the finish line but I'm sure it didn't look like a Big Finish to anyone but me. I'm sure it looked more like a "Hey, she's still breathing, that's something..." kind of finish to most spectators, but inside I felt like I was sprinting. While dragging tugboats behind me.

Crossing that finish line was the best feeling ever. Well, not as good as *walking* around aimlessly looking for an orange wedge and a bottle of water with my wobbly legs, but pretty fucking good. Also very good was managing to see Bubba and The Dog at the starting line, Mile 4, Mile 10 and the finish line cheering and wagging, respectively since I know that they probably traveled as far as I did just to make that happen.

And then I had Celebratory Cheeseburger and Race Fries to restore my salt balance and allow me to properly absorb the water in my Sprite.

See, I'm very technical.


P.S. I am signed up for another, albeit shorter, race.

So many scary things are not scary anymore

Spring semester, summer semester, my first self-chosen and scheduled crop, my first business event wherein I sold my farmers' produce as originally imagined over a year ago, my first licensed sales of CFO goods - all of these scary ass things are not scary anymore because they're done.

WON AND DONE - as I keep nerdily saying to myself in my head.

As you know, I got The Straight As in spring semester and, as of yesterday, I got The Straight As in summer semester.

One A is still straight As so shut it.

Which isn't as hard to do when it's just one class, it's only six weeks long and 67% of your grade is either farmwork or visiting farms.

And that 67% isn't a randomly generated by my brain number either - that's the way the instructor structured the class. 67% participation in and notes from farmwork and field trips, 33% final exam. Which I aced.

I assume.

I actually have no idea what my score was on the final, but I am going to imagine a big fat 100% on the top because that's the kind of delusional fantastical nerd that I am.

So yay for that - my streak is still alive. And for Bubba taking me out to celebrate my A-ness, which is reason it itself to keep getting As.

THEN, though - OH THEN - there was my first self-chosen and self-scheduled crop: the wily pak choi.

If any vegetable can be wily, it's pak choi. I guess.

See, my instructor/boss/department head who gave me this supah fun job growing hydroponic basil, decided that I should (after one solid week working on the basil process) SPLIT the system and grow something else.

You know, because school + small business start up + grower job with two crops (remember the hops?) isn't enough - I need something else to occupy the 35 seconds when I'm not freaking my shit out over one of those other things. Or my garden. Or the front yard meadow that's now also growing four kinds of squash. Or my many bruises and wounds from this newly discovered mountain biking business.

You know - whatever on those things - let's learn something else. I NEED ANOTHER CHALLENGE NO.

But alas, when one's instructor/boss/department head throws down a very relevant challenge, who am I to reject it?

No one, that's who. I can't do it. I must attempt the challenge.

Thankfully, the challenge wasn't too terrible even though it involved math AND science to some degree and involved the potential for failure to some other greater degree. Like, if I fuck it up, we'd have 1/2 as much basil to sell at the market and ZERO pak choi and that would be boo.

Plus, the clucking hens at the market would be all, "You know, other person who used to grow all of the crops, when you were growing all of the crops, we never went a week without all of our hearts' desires. This new girl must be a fucking idiot." or whatever.

But who can be bitchy around such cute produce? NO ONE THAT'S WHO.

They're crazy, these women, and I don't want to enrage them.

And I did not.

31 2 pak bundles went out and only 4 remained. Good show, my pretties.

The #1 pak choi harvest was glorious and very nearly sold out (there were only a few paks left and we split them up among ourselves at work) and also very good.

This is a Thai peanut stir fry that I made last night and GOOD. If you're nice, I'll share the recipe SO BE NICE.

Then, on the heels of my first pak choi harvest last Friday, I had my first business event in which I actually sold produce sourced from my farmers' gardens (plus also mine - which, thank gawd because this place is crawling with fucking produce).

Why, hello there beautiful fresh produce from so many different yards and gardens! You look purty.

See - my vision for this business was to amass and train enough home farmers so that I could patchwork quilt together enough backyards (and front yards, fronts are good, too) to create an urban farm. Because you know there's not shit for space in Silicon Valley beyond that which we pave and park cars on or on which we grow many many stores and freeways.

Thus, the idea for crowdsourced farming was born and BAM! last weekend, it came to life. Albeit on a small just-getting-started-up scale and while standing back to back with a real life farmer who works one piece of land like a normal person.

Also, this guy is super nice and obviously adorable. I will be visiting his farm on my way to the greenhouse and I will help him in those fields as promised. Because I'm obviously flush with free time BUT WHATEVER. I'm a sucker for a farm - this is well known.

OOH - and I made and sold my first food stuffs thanks to the blessing (and financial ass raping) of California's new Cottage Food Operator License.

Lil' Jam Jars. It's a thing. A single fruit, small batch thing.

Yeah. I will say that while being able to make and sell my jams, jellies, herb mixes and honey is great and people like it and totally buy it and it makes smiles appear on their faces, I don't really appreciate the price tag of the permit itself.

Or those of the food handler's course I had to take and the health department's inspection fees and all of that nonsense.

AND OH IS IT NONSENSE. It is. Bureaucracy makes me want to scoop out people's eyes with snow shovels.

Really now.

But whatevs - I sold lots of my Lil' Jam Jars and I'm taking my show on the road to other events because, again, not enough to do...I must do more things...more scary, scary unknown until I do them things.

This is my life now.

998 questions and a bitch ain't one.

So...um...I guess I owe you guys some answers.

Because when I said you could ask me anything - you really didn't hold back.

Which, obviously because you guys are you guys.

Well done, you guys.

Let's get down to it then. So that we can get to the Super Special Secret Guest Post 999 and then the BIG HUGE THING NEWS on post 1,000. Also, there's a prize on that post. A Finny type prize. Which you can take to mean whatever you want. 

For those questions though...

Am I still knitting?
Um, sometimes. OK, no. More like, rarely. OK - truth, truth - annually. I have a sweater that I started two years ago and I've picked it up once each year since. I'm now an annual knitter. Don't tell the blog header.

How come you don't have air conditioning?
Because we live in a house that would be better described as a sieve. In our >1,000 square foot house we have 17 windows. Seriously. That's the actual number I came up with when I walked from tiny room to tiny room counting on my fingers and toes. 

I nearly ran out of fingers and toes!

In a house the size of my shoe!

Ridiculous.

Best parts are that one of those windows is in a closet and that NONE of them close securely. That means that we have sweaters with a view of our neighbor's driveway AND that air conditioning our house wouldn't so much be like air conditioning our house as it would be like air conditioning AROUND our house which is, No.

Um, how do you know when green tomatoes ripe?
Because they are soft when you squeeze them and smell like a ripe tomato. Also, they taste like a ripe tomato, so just pick one that feels/smells about right and taste it. If it's ripe - YAY. If it's not - BOO.

What ever happened to the Ugly Librarian Sweater?
It has been hanging in my closet ever since that post went live from shame. As soon as I admitted it was Ugly, I haven't been able to wear it. I'm very vain and self-involved, in case you'd somehow missed that.

If you missed that somehow, wake the fuck up. 

How come Bubba and I don't have any kids...
Because this.

How is that front yard meadow is working out...
Eh, it's OK. I mean, it's the summer so it's not all WOO! like in spring time, but it looks just like our golden hillsides in this golden state which is to say the meadow is golden. AKA it looks like it's dead and that we are neglectful homeowners. 

I'll be working out some of the kinks in the meadow this fall so that it looks less like "Um, does anyone live here?" next summer and fall than it does now. 

Do you even knit anymore?
See above.

How I decided that sewing as a profession wasn't for me...
Yeah, so remember when I made the Not Ugly Car Trash Bag? Yeah. Well, I put it up on Etsy for a while and offered my services for a price. Like, I'd sew you a custom Not Ugly Car Trash Bag for some price (I can't even remember now how much) and then *gasp* someone wanted me to make it for that price.

Actually, I should say that they wanted me to make a dozen of them for that price. For some event they were having that involved hair dryers, a corporate promotion and the Hamptons.

In a week's time.

And because I don't know how to manage my time but I do know how to piss it away, I told them I'd do it and then I spent every non-work waking hour fulfilling my obligations. 

Then, after I'd fulfilled my obligation and resumed normal sleeping hours, I swore I'd never do it again because LOATHE.

My sewing machine and I did not get along well during our inseparable time together and I'll tell you right now that it is only because I WILL NOT WELSH ON A PROMISE that I did not spike that soul crushing machine on my dining room floor.

Also because my dining room floor could likely have not taken that kind of impact. 

But really, it was about the fact that I needed that machine so that I wouldn't disappoint this person/company to whom I had made this promise and so I did not get all Office Space on its ass even though it sooooooooooooorely deserved it.

Sunuvabithing machine that breaks needles going through quilter's cotton COME ON.

What ever happened to all that crap you wrote for NaNoWriMo?
Well, firstly you're right to call it crap. Because it was. And - HEY HEY - it still is because I have not gone back to edit a single word of it. Any of the three years I've done it. 

That's right. Three years in a row I wrote 50,000+ words in the month of November for NaNoWriMo and have done dick with the results.

Nothing. 

They're all sitting on my laptop in Scrivener gathering dust and my growing hatred. 

They're all unwashed garbage unfit even for my compost bin. 

Sure, they might be something if I cared one big rat's behind to go in and edit them, but I have bigger tastier fish to fry about now and all of those words can just sit there being the awkwardly constructed sentences and the plot holes that they are until such time as I see fit to pick them apart and reconstruct them into completely different sentences and plot holes.

Maybe.

One day.

Doesn't mean I won't go at NaNoWriMo again this November. And it also doesn't mean that this year's NaNoWriMo 50,000 words won't be the same variety of horseshit. But it probably means that this year's words will end up a similar looking pile which I will ignore forever.

Also, no you may not read any of it. Because I'm pretty sure it's not even written in English or a modern language any of us understand. 

Just come to this blog for proof of that fact.

Ever think of cleaning up that language?
Fuck that.

Don't you think you're becoming an alcoholic? 
Probably. It's my most effective coping mechanism, so coping with that realization has had unfortunate results. I am keeping it mostly in check though, so please don't alert the authorities or my mother. 

You're shaving your heads and moving to Nepal for a year.
No and no. 

When are we going to play? 
Checkers? Scramble on the cell phone? Hopscotch? Name that tune? I don't know. Email me at finnyknitsATgmailDOTcom and, when we're in the same hood, maybe we'll work something out. Meanwhile, if you do play Scramble on the cell phone, my username is finnyknits (shocker) and I do want to play. So there.

Who gets invited to your fantasy dinner party?
People who like whatever I happen to be cooking that night, clean up after themselves, bring booze, like dogs and don't mind eating outside because our dining room is small.

I don't really have fantasies about dinner parties at my house because, frankly, the idea of it stresses me out. 

Honestly, I'd just like to have over people I already know so that there's no pressure to remember names or cater to anyone's bullshit dietary needs.

Whose singing voice do you wish you had? 
Pretty  much anyone's but my own. I am a terrible singer. It's awful, really. Not that it stops me from singing - I totally sing - but I get mean looks and people throw trash at me, so I try to keep the public singing to a minumum.

I guess if I could choose, I'd have Billie Holliday's singing voice. She is one of my favorite singers and her voice is unequaled in the world today. 

What would you title your autobiography? 
I'm not for everyone. 

What top ten CDs can't you live without? 
I don't think I've handled a CD in years, but I'll play ball. Though I'm going to go with artists because I can never choose one album over another. That's a job for someone like Bubba who knows music better than I.

FYI: I don't know dick about music. Bubba's been trying to educate me for years by asking me "Hey, name the band!" when something's playing on the loudspeaker somewhere. I never know the band. Literally, not ever. Even if it's the Rolling Stones. 

OK, maybe once I got it when it was AC/DC, but it's a super rare occasion. To the point where Bubba will look visibly relieved that there's evidence that his wife may not be a total music retard. 

The fact is that I mostly just like genres of music rather than particular artists. And I can always tell you the genre I'm in the mood for. 

Like, when Bubba asks me what I want to listen to, I'll say something like, "Oh! Something doodly-doo!" which falls into the jam band genre or "Lady jazz!" which means, well, vocal jazz or "WAAAAAAAAA" which means hard rock (I think the genre is technically called ScreamO, but that's lame sounding. Instead we call it WAAAAAA because that's the sound they make when they "sing".)

I mostly like Doodly-doo, Lady Jazz and WAAAAAAAAA.

You get it? Kinda. 

Best I know how to describe my fucked up music taste is to say that I know the sounds I like and these people make those sounds.

(in no particular order)

1. Billie Holliday
2. Volbeat
3. Dave Matthews
4. John Hiatt
5. Sarah Vaughan
6. Seether
7. Widespread Panic
8. Theory of a Dead Man
9. Django Reinhart
10. Warren Haynes

What are your phobias? 
Failure. 

Arriving at my death bed regretting not having done things that I TOTALLY could have done but didn't do because I was lazy or afraid.

Grasshoppers. They jump at your face and that is wrong.

Horses. They have enormous teeth that could totally bite your face off.

Chimpanzees. Because they ripped some girl's face off. 

I think I have a face issue. Maybe I have a face phobia? No. That makes no sense. 

Militant religious evangelists.

Who is a real hero in your way of thinking? 
Anyone who makes their own way in the world rather than adhering to the norm. 

People whose default setting is optimism and positivity.

Each of my best friends.

My grandmother.

What Olympic sport would you chose to medal in? 
The biathlon. It's the coolest of the Olympic sports. Or maybe the high dive. That shit is just amazing. Also, I'd like to know that no matter how high the dive, I wouldn't belly flop because OW.

Were you born in the wrong century?
Probably.  A future century where all my beefs with our current century have been sorted out and we all have jet packs fueled by something biodegradable like religious evangelists' limbs.

Can you tango?
Nope. 

What's the worst thing you've ever tasted?
Grilled beef liver. Thought it was a small piece of steak. Was tragically wrong. Had to spit it out on the ground. 

The dog liked it though. 

What's the best? 
Warm Brandywine tomatoes fresh off of my plants. 

Do you believe in ghosts? 
Eh. Not in any real way.

Who among your friends do you admire the most and why? 
I don't really admire one over the others, but of close friends, I admire certain things about each of them THE MOST of anyone I know.

Does that make sense?

Like, Kelli's dedication to writing and her bravery for moving to a new place for the sake of pursuing her own happiness.

And Shelley's bravery for moving to a new country - TWICE - in pursuit of her own happiness.

And Decca and Fo's Blaze Your Own Path Despite The Norms approach to working and managing a household.

Bubba's ability to figure out how to do anything. And then do it. Well.

Elke's ingenuity with languages and how well she knows herself. Also, her fantastic German-ness. 

Dave and Aimee's adventurous spirits and the fact that they're the best travel and ski buddies. Plus Dave's ability to out-swear me.

I could go on. 

I really admire people who go in the direction of their own happiness and don't accept what the world tells them they should be doing. Bravery. Competence. Dedication. Adventurous spirit. These are all good things.

What book do you wish you had written? 
Winterdance. Which would mean that I would have raced in the Iditarod. Which would be incredible.

What movie will you watch every time it's on no matter how many times you've seen it? 

Tombstone. Cold Mountain. Sixteen Candles. A River Runs Through It. High Fidelity. Australia. Say Anything. Star Wars. Out of Africa. Indiana Jones. Tommy Boy. Legends of the Fall. Lots of other ones that are even more shameful than these. 

Who did you lose your virginity to and how? 
Some dude. In the normal way.

Do you believe in god? 
No.

If you had to swap lives with a friend for a month whose life would you choose? 
My friend Christine who's living in Paris right now. She just spent a year in Zurich and that's just awesome.

What food or beverage have you always wanted to try but haven't? 
I've always wanted to eat at the French Laundry, but haven't had the chance yet. I've also wanted to try durian because I imagine it's tragically bad and I want to know *just how bad*. Or, as the case sometimes is with things that *everyone* says is awful - *just how great*.

Why do you run? 
Because this.

Where does the name "Finny" come from? 
From here.

What language would you like to speak fluently? 
Italian and Spanish. I'm much closer on Spanish, but I haven't spent as much time with Italian because of my one million other hobbies.

Actually, fuck that shit, I'd rather be able to speak Greek. Or Japanese. Or Arabic. Or Pashto. Or something that would completely freak people out to hear me - a blondish American girl - speaking fluently.

What celebrity do you have a crush on? 
John Cusak. Matt Damon. Renee Russo. The Rock. Pierce Brosnan. Nicole Kidman. Mike Rowe. Val Kilmer. Johnny Knoxville. 

Have you ever been arrested?
Yep. 

Ok, so that ought to do it. Every single one of your questions has been answered in one way or another and the window for question asking is now closed.

That's mean, isn't it?

Whatever...on to post 999 and the Super Secret Guest Blogger who you've probably already guessed.

Then...1,000 and the BIG HUGE THING NEWS.

I'm going to go jump in a lake now.

You have a sabbatical, too.

Not that everyone in the whole wide world of you guys wants to do exactly the same things that I do while I'm off work for two months but I bet you'd like some of the things.

Right?

Well, I thought I'd share them up.

Kinda like when we go on our ski trips and I keep a running photo album of our day's adventures so that anyone who cares to see me faux-speedskating in my full body polypro long underwear and hood can get a good laugh from the safety of their office back home.

I'm a giver like that.

And so I thought, why not do the same thing with this sabbatical, since you know I'm taking a million photos of things since I have the time and also so that, if you need a brain break in the day, you could let the photos roll for a few minutes and act like you're the one on sabbatical - all staring down contractors wrecking your yard or running around on the beach with the dog or, say, fucking up a lot of crafts just because you have the time.

Sound fun?

Well, I guess we'll find out. Since I'm going to update a Sabbatical~along photo album (to live on the sidebar there --->) with the photos I'm taking of my random activities for the next few months.

And because someone (Hi Sara!) asked just *what* I thought I'd be doing during this time, this gives me a good opportunity to share that list with you guys so you'll know what to expect in the photos while also fulfilling my own self-involved desire to create a bulleted list of activities.

For fun, you know. I'm all about fun. And bulleted lists.

• Bike to pilates
• Bike to the library
  
• Run an out of state race
• Take a beekeeping course
• Watch the Giants play awful baseball
  
• Landscape my backyard
• Continue my Italian classes
  
• Take the dog to the beach. Lots.
• Finish knitting Bubba's sweater
• Sew this dress
• Go to the spa
• Backpack with Bubba
• Work in the garden
  
• Visit all my best friends
  
• Cook everything I've not yet made from my stockpile of recipes
• Create in real life all the project sketches in my notebook
• Read a lot of books (or just some)
  
• etc, etc, etc

So, you know, that's some stuff you might see in there. Also, some random events that'll crop up and I'll be able to go do because WTF! I have the time. And you may not see a lot of photos of me biking places because self-portraiting while riding a road bike is really just not the safest thing for me to be doing.

Notice that "Crashing my bike into a parked van" is no where on my bulleted list. That's important.

And, hey, if you have fun ideas of shit I should do while I'm off, leave me a comment and maybe I'll do it. And then maybe I'll take photos and put them on this reel and then you'll sorta feel like you're on sabbatical, too, in that vicarious I HATE YOU FINNY kind of way.

Good times.

Alright. Let's go do some shit.

Look at me go!

I realized that I'm becoming a greedy blogger and should prolly change my ways before someone calls me out on it. I mean, my eyeballs are primed and steaming to read the daily posts from some of my favorite bloggers every morning, and then after reading these luscious insightful posts - what do I do? I might post a comment, but beyond that I go back to my daily ways slurping my tea and working my fingers to the nub without posting myself.

Rude!

I know.

Ok, now there may not be hordes of folks out there shining their eyes like red ripe apples anxious to read what exactly I think I'm doing over here in Finnyland, but if the day comes, I want to be ready.

Summary: I'm going to try to post more. If not just for me (Uh-huh, I'm wildly self-involved, member?) then maybe for my few sets of loyal eyeballs. And I'm not going to get all, "Why hasn't anyone commented on my fabulous post? Does the world hate Finny? I'm going to go eat some worms." Because that is boring. Instead, I'm going to try to use this blog for good instead of evil which will inevitably mean more gumming about the plants, crafting, kitchening, summering, etc that happens here everyday. It's fun at Finny's! Really.

Ok, self-pep talk over. Guess who wandered in when I got to the office this morning? New puppy, Kona! Bless whoever came up with our dog policy here at work, because there is nothing that takes off the dull sheen of a weekday morning like a giddy pup. Does he care that I have only come to visit him in his office lockdown once since he joined us? No. Does he care that I nearly creamed him with the door when I kicked it open? No. And he also does not even care when I wipe off his puppy kisses right after he plants them on me. In fact, I think it encourages him.



This is him sitting just like he was asked to for the photo. Clearly, he's a genius. As soon as we reconstruct our shabby fence (there are currently slats laying haphazardly about the yard from our last storm) I'm hoping to have a friend for Kona to play with.

On a separate note, I had another convo with Me last night that I'd like to share in order to further illustrate specifically what kind of nutcase I truly am...

Me: Dude, are you really sleeping on the couch at 7pm?

Me: No, I'm resting my eyes and listening to the Giants game.

Me: You lie.

Me: No really, they're losing right now -- see?

Me: Ha, whatever. You know their record this season, they're always losing.

Me: Oh hardy har har, Barry's about to hit 714 you know?

Me: Yes. Weeeeeeeeee. Isn't there at least ONE other thing you could be doing while the game drolls on in the background?

Me: Fine. I suppose I could start cutting out fabric for Backtack 3

Me: Now we're talking! Ass off couch, woman -- get the scissors and the machine!

Me: I don't recall saying anything about sewing any fabric.

Me: Oh come on! It'll be fun! Don't you want to see how this pattern will come out? You've never made anything from this pattern before?

Oh crap, I've said too much...

Regardless, good night near the tube listening to the Giants lose and Barry NOT hit 714 while I cut, pinned and began sewing (I got talked into it) my Backtack 3 project. With any luck, Knittale will not be horrified with my black, white and OTHER choices for this project. On a positive note, I'm really liking how this pattern shapes up when it's all cut out and semi-standing on my dining room table sans-fill. Mental note: Buy fill this weekend. Softie looks bizarre like uninflated balloon without it.

Finny news update: Hubby gets home from Vegas today! Woo hoo! No more salami and peanut butter for dinner! Yes. That is right. I eat random food (if any) when I have no one else to cook for. Parmesan asparagus, chipotle grilled chicken and greek spinach salad exist only with hubby in the house to eat (and PRAISE) the food.

Praise comes in many forms, people.

Granted, Rocket would love some extra snacks, but according to her ever expanding waistline (cats have waists), she is getting extra snacks somewhere.


It appears that Rocket exists in ball form now. Don't tell her that bikini season is rapidly approaching, it'll make her hit the bowl even harder.

And with that, I leave you to your day. Now I can go read up on Farmgirl's lambie encounters, Africankelli's wanderlust and Monstercrochet's escape from the cube farm without my daily case of guilt.

Happy Made Up Holiday!

We always call this "Made Up Holiday" instead of Valentine's Day.

I guess it's because we don't like to be told what to do and when to buy candy, so we rebel in the best way we know how: make up a snarky name, act all above everything and then go about doing the same shit all the true Valentine's Day Believers (who we call SUCKAHS) do but with a sense of superiority because Well, this is for Made Up Holiday, so I'm not buying into anything, really. I bought this tub of peanut butter cups and Bubba's sending me flowers because we want to, not because any holiday told us to. REALLY.

Our web of delusion is really coming along well, don't you think?

Anyway, this keeps us from feeling like part of The Machine or like we're a slave to The Man or have fallen victim to any other scary The's, so whatever.

Our interpretations are a little off, anyway, so perhaps that's the fine line keeping us from becoming the SUCKAHS we make fun of for buying carnations off the street from the dude with the giant teddy bears.

No Godiva chocolates in this house.

Who needs red roses when TJ's has calas for $3.99? I bought these for myself. Happy Made Up Holiday, me! I hope I score.

No breakfast in bed around here. But I did wear my purple Wrightsocks on my run. Festive.

Bubba sent me orange roses to work yesterday because he knows I love orange and because he knows that getting flowers at work is a very favorite self-involved thing of mine.

I don't think it's still considered traditional if you shove a Valentine in with your farmshare fruit.

Anyway, Happy Made Up Holiday, people. I hope Santa Valentine brings you things you really like and that someone cooks you dinner AND lets you sleep in while he walks the dog.

Or whatever it is that you like.

xo
Finny

Running Update: All tapered

Hearkening back to last year when I reached the same point, I laughed out loud a little bit this morning as I cruised into the driveway from finishing up the last run of my 1/2 marathon training because...

My taper week was done.

I was all tapered out.

Tapering was finished.

TAPER!

POOP!

SLAM SHUT!

I'm a six year old in the morning, is what it comes down to. I'm assuming you know this joke when I make this reference but if you don't... Anywaaaay...

I finished my last training run for this race and thus finished my week of tapering. This run,- a gloriously short and grilled-cheese-fueled 2 mile run through the neighborhood without the accompaniment of my watch or iPod - put an excellent and short lid on Taper Week which started with my Run That Doesn't Suck from last Saturday.

This is where I did NOT call it a "Fun Run" like a douche, but where I skirted convention and just ran down all the streets I always see from my standard route but never get to tour because I Must Stay On-Route.

I can be so bossy.

That was a grand little run, I should say, too. I just went wherever the hell I wanted and when I ran out of fun streets to tour (plus, was getting sweaty since the dumb sun was all OUT and everything - stupid 8am) I just ran home and went about my day like a normal person without catastrophic runs or debilitating exhaustion or inexplicable boob pain.

AWESOME.

And then Tuesday and today I ran shortie 2 milers at what I perceived was a fast pace, but what I'm sure was more like a normal person's running pace.

Have I told you I'm slow? I am. It's fine. I get there eventually with my slow and steady wins the race pace and try not to make comparisons between how fast I'm "running" while old people with those four pronged canes are walking nearby at nearly the same pace.

Makes me self-conscious, those canes.

And now I'm actively involved in the pastime known as Psyching Thyself Out To The Point of Mild Nausea.

See, the time, she passes so quickly. And it's moments like these, when I'm mere days from staring down the barrel of a 13 mile run, that I think to myself, "Self - what the fuck were you thinking?"

And then my self says back, "Duh bitch, you were there when we hit Submit on the registration page, so don't get all weird on me."

Tomorrow I'll go to the race expo and pick up my bib and a pacing wristband (free) and then not buy any of the hokey crap that they sell like seat covers with the race emblem embroidered on the front.

Then on Saturday, I will not run at all and will instead engage in some champion sleeping in until about 7am (we suck at sleeping in here) when I will probably walk the dog and try not to think about in 24 hours I will be standing at the starting line to run 13 miles.

I'll do these mind-numbing calculations all day until I get to the point where I am sure that "24 hours from now I'll be done and eating race fries" and then I'll start to fold and refold my shorts until it's time to leave for the race.

Because. I. Am. Crazy.

Here's to hoping I don't make a shameful heap of myself in 55.5 hours.