Betsy Phillips's Blog, page 37

Oh, Hey, Remember My Short Story Chapbook?

It appears that it is finally on the verge of coming out. Jesus, Crawdad, Death will make its debut at the Southern Festival of Books and then there will be some kind of local event of some sort and I’ll probably go up to Detroit and do something there.

The cover is hilariously awesome, like what would happen if Judas Priest was all-women.

You’ll be able to order it from Third Man Records, if you don’t live here or in Detroit. I’ll put up a link when I have one. I mean, even if you live here or in Detroit, you can order it online, but you can also go get it in person.

I reread it last night and I was surprised by how much it seems to have been written right for this moment–full of angry women trying to do the right thing. Plus some murder. Plus some refusal-of-murder.

I hope you all like it.

I’ll Just Say It Now

I think Kavanaugh is going to get confirmed. Even aside from the rapey bits, he shouldn’t. He’s lied repeatedly. He had huge debts that are mysteriously gone and he has assets a man with his salary shouldn’t be able to have. But those things don’t matter and how he’s treated women–how so many people think women exist to be treated–doesn’t matter.

A thing I keep thinking, too, is how the default is still that women don’t know our own experiences–that we’re misinterpreting or misremembering or mistaken–and we wouldn’t want to ruin a man’s life over the flighty unpredictable nature of a woman’s inherently broken mind.

That’s supposed to be the kind position. “We believe you believe something bad happened to you, and we feel sorry for you, but we don’t believe it actually happened.”

An ocean of women, women as far as the eye can see, women in their 80s in nursing homes, little girls just old enough to be coaxed onto laps, women locked in convents and mental hospitals and prisons, women free to own our own homes and run our own businesses, women in public, women in private, wave after wave of women, endless unceasing recitations of our pain and we’re all nutty and slutty. None of us are telling the truth about what happened to us, but we’re too damaged to realize it’s not the truth.

Like how the fuck do you think you get an infinite army of damaged women, in the first place?

It’s almost as if there’s some brutal hazing ritual we all live under the threat of and most of us are subjected to.

I fucking hate it. I hate that our word counts for nothing.

Look How Cute This Is!

My plan was to just do thirty circle squares, but I think that’s going to be too small (even though she is, as she reminds me, just a little girl) and I think I’m going to have plenty of yarn, so now my plan is to do the thirty circle squares and then thirty regular squares and checkerboard them.

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Baby Blankets Galore

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I tucked my ends on all three afghans last night. Now I just need to throw them in the wash. I love all three of them for different reasons. The top one has a really nice weight to it. If that baby doesn’t feel cuddled when wrapped up in it, I don’t even know.

I like the modifications I made to the pattern for the second one–turning it into a rectangle, modifying the tops of the shells so they laid flatter.

And then I just love the fuck out of the pattern for the third afghan. So simple, but so good looking.

Now I’m ready to get started on the hand-dyed afghans. First up is my smallest niece:

There she is with the yarn we dyed at the beginning of the month. There’s the yarn after I wound it last night. And there’s my first square. Look how good that looks! I can’t wait to see how the rest of the yarn works up.

Lovely, Boring Weekend

I told the Butcher that I have come to believe that, even though they serve the same purpose, cardboard boxes are clutter and wicker baskets are storage. So, I’m getting some baskets to put my yarn in.

I’m also just madly in love with this pattern.

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It’s so, so very satisfying. I’m going to use it again. I even voluntarily added picots!

My parents’ asshole friend’s cancer has returned. It probably returned six months ago when he first started having new medical problems, but he decided to play “fuck around all summer” and only now when to the doctor.

I’m deeply conflicted because I, in general, believe you have the right to neglect yourself to death. But when you have a wife who depends on you and friends who love you, it does feel like you have an obligation to do your best to be present for them. So, I’m kind of pissed at him for breaking my parents’ hearts. Which, granted, is not fair.

And then I wonder why they’re friends with this asshole in the first place. But you know, it’s because that’s what they’re willing to find acceptable in a friendship. They think it’s okay to be treated that way. And, truth be told, to treat others that way.

So, there you go.

Declutter

I’ve decided the next big thing I’m going to do for myself is hire housecleaners. Which means I have to declutter this motherfucker, so they can come in and work. And, frankly, I am as overwhelmed by the prospect of decluttering as I am by anything.

I think what I’m going to do is just set a timer for 20 minutes and do as much as I can every day in 20 minutes. The house isn’t that big and I don’t have piles of clothes or small aisles of a horde to navigate. But ugh.

I almost wonder if I could pay someone to come organize my house so that I can pay someone to clean it.

Hand-Dyed Afghans

I just have to finish up this baby blanket and then I think I’m ready to get started on the hand-dyed afghans.

I’m going to do the three kids’ blankets first, because they should be fairly easy to knock out and they’re ready to go.

Then I have three artists’ blankets: Julie, Jennifer, and Lesley.

Julie’s is dyed with all the stuff from my life and it’s waiting on walnut season. I also think I’m going to redye the pokeberry because, whew, this late in pokeberry season, I’m kind of thinking I might get a fuchsia instead of a pink. But I think what I’m going to do for the walnuts is get an aluminum pan from the store, the kind with really high sides, like you’d put a turkey in and I’m going to put the yarn and the walnuts and some water all in there and stick it in the oven. That should give me a very similar color over all the skeins and it means I’ll be dyeing on one day, once, instead of all week. This is the square I’m going to use for that afghan, though, obviously, in my hand-dyed colors.

Then for Jennifer, I’m going to do all the copper yarn I dyed. That’s also ready to go, in the amount the pattern calls for. Here’s the pattern I’m going to use. I’m not sure how it will work, but my plan is to go from the most teal on the insides to the most copper on the outsides of each motif. I think it’s going to be amazing, but I’m a little nervous.

My plan is to do Lesley’s last with the yarn I have left over from the previous five blankets and with this yarn I picked up last weekend, because, damn.

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But also, real talk, these three skeins of yarn cost me the same as what it costs me to get ten skeins of undyed yarn. Just economically, if I want to do projects that are hand-dyed, I need to do the dyeing myself.

That’s going to be a little trickier because what I want to do is transform this table runner into an afghan. On the one hand, it will be simple enough. Just add more motifs. But how to border it? I’m going to have to think really hard about the lessons I learned from the sunflower afghan.

I Like Nothing I Used to Like

It’s September. I’m not sure I’ve read a whole book for fun all year. I haven’t read or written any short stories. I don’t turn on the TV. I was enjoying an audio book while crocheting and it got to a part where a character was being really stupid and I just lost interest in going back to it. I’ve given up on a bunch of podcasts I, in general, have enjoyed.

“Given up” is too strong a word for it. I just didn’t go back to them. I drifted away and lost interest.

I’ve even been having a hard time blogging. Right now I keep staring over at this blanket and thinking I could get a little bit in on that before I have to get in the shower. It would mean abandoning this. I’m okay with that.

I don’t even have anything fun planned for October here.

This should be depressing, but I feel free. Happy.

Nothing brings me pleasure. Not in the sense that I am unhappy. But that doing nothing, wanting nothing, being alone with my thoughts or music or both, this state of “nothingness” makes me happy.

I’m really feeling the weight of the rat race–that we all must be striving and trying and wanting and buying. That everything is commodified. That everything I love will be taken from me and turned around and sold back to me and so my only power, limited as it is, is in choosing how to spend my money.

It’s empty for me.

I just want to like things and dislike things and feel the stakes are low. I don’t want to feel so fucking compelled to participate–like I “have” to read this book or watch this show or have this many stories in the pipeline.

There are enough real “have to”s in the world. I’m so fucking tired of my entertainment (both that I consume and that I make) being turned into one. No, I don’t have to find out what happens next. I don’t have to keep hearing no until it’s a yes. I don’t have to keep up with the things everyone else is keeping up with, even if it’s “so good.”

Pleasure can’t be coerced. Not for me, anyway.

So, I’m enjoying neglecting to be compelled.

Title

My editor likes Dynamite Nashville: The blah blah blah we’ll figure out the exact wording of later. Me, too, a lot.

Stranger

I’m trying to support a friend going through a difficult life change and, honestly, one of the hardest parts is how blindsided and confused I am by the behavior of the person instigating the changes.

It’s like a funhouse mirror version of the person I thought I knew.

Ugh, this week. This year. This country. These people.

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Let’s contemplate this baby nephew trying to get some pizza, insisting on drinking out of a regular cup instead.