I have always loved textiles, but I have successfully managed to fight the urge to weave. There were some close calls (the freecycle offer of a floor loom - Erin!) but with a studio came a very generous offer from Pasha.

Meet my new Leclerc 24" 4 shaft table loom. I need a book and classes. Weaving is complicated stuff. Much terminology. Many finicky bits.

Tomorrow, we are going to eat our way around the city. Breakfast at home, then a streetcar ride to the Ferry Building where I'll munch on Grapefruit and Jicama Salad from Out the Door, crab cakes from DeliCA rf1, and a tasty chocolate morsel from Recchiuti. We can walk it off before dinner at the newly opened Kasa and then home for cake and champagne. Who has a food blog now?

It was a scorcher today, so we stayed in the shade and had a tea party. Here are the cheeky monkeys waiting for their food.

I didn't look too hard for toothpicks, they're probably on the household list of controlled substances, along with tape, glitter and ketchup. I made do with carrot-topped satay sticks.

Beatrice has taken to wearing a string of pearls everywhere, so very proper.

And who needs cucumber sandwiches or strawberry shortcake? It's not that type of tea party.

My mother-in-law tells me that I have a tendency to hide my light under a bushel basket. So here is something that I am very proud of over at the other blog I write for - I know, Shock! Horror! Another blog? And finally some knitting related content.

So I blame my doldrums on yesterday's gloomy weather. In stark contrast, today was sunny and bright. The wading pool was filled and I spent some much needed time in the garden. Most of it was with my ailing abutilon. Armed with a scrub brush, I went to war against scale - alien bugs that attach to the branches and suck. They produce some sweet substance that ants go ga-ga for, so they have a special symbiotic thing. Damn ants.

And speaking of symbiotic, it's that time of year again - wedding anniversary. During our 9 years together, Mr. Knitsonya has withstood much too much increasingly avant garde poetry. I love him for it.

I didn't call my dad for Father's Day. We have had a complicated relationship. It devolved into one where I did most of the calling, so I stopped. Here are two poems from an ongoing series simply called Notes for Dad.

Aug 18
I remember you through tomatoes
that touch of sugar saying summer.
Sliced with bread, soft cheese,
a tang of salt and bite of pepper.

June 16
The times that I think of you
a prefabricated regret
and knowing that we both waste
time, waste opportunity.

My dad will probably call on my birthday, then I will call him a month later on his. We've never made that relational leap to parent and adult child. The irony is that I have put so much work into the dissection of my relationship with my mother, largely ignoring that there's nothing more than memories where my dad is concerned. It's all very bittersweet.

I go back and forth with bangs. They require a certain amount of maintenance that I usually can't be bothered with. How did the girl who amassed obscene quantities of makeup and jewelry end up like my thrity-something self? It's a reverse metamorphosis. But back to the hair - I woke up and decided it was time to switch it up a little. Then cleaned the mirror and tried my own looks à la Tyra Banks. Fierce!

I can't believe it. Summer just around the corner, another school year over, and birthday season approaches.

Yes, I have a studio. A place to house my yarn and felt and fabric. A place where I can leave my knitting and sewing machines out and ready to use. Because this is San Francisco and I'm not independently wealthy, what I have is essentially a storage room in the basement of an old Victorian. I'm down there with the water heaters and the coin-op washer and dyer. The upside? It's 300 square feet. I'll post more photos as I get organized and more moved in.