I have an awful headache. I wanted to go out to party for Halloween last night but I have been so sick, I couldn't drag myself into costume. So we went down to the Century instead, on Pearl St. across from the Hyatt, and amused ourselves as normal, with Otis the owner and a bartender we didn't know. (Usually we go early in the week when Adam's tending bar. He's funny.)

I posted a couple of atmospheric little essays on my Livejournal but didn't get much of a response. Chita was being super cute and I figured people like essays about cats. I'm reposting them here, since I should've put them here in the first place: I got Chita via (e:strip) after all!

So, revised, edited, updated, and shortened, here I will post my little observational essays, but I'll do it in two parts. :)

Part the first: Rainy Caturday
being more a rumination and observational piece about life in my house on a rainy Saturday morning in autumn.


Chita is reciting moody emo poetry all over the house because it is raining and she cannot go outside. Well, she could, but she knows she would be miserable. But she is miserable in here: all there is to do is alternately chase and be chased by Remi, all over the house.

Moo, says Chita. Moo?... Meoo. Ao?... Prrrmao? Rao. She is disconsolate. It is steadily pouring, and across the street, on St. Joe's new all-weather fake-turf playing fields, teenage boys in sodden long-sleeved shirts are sprinting around after soccer balls, while adults in raincoats watch with strangely close attentiveness. It's not a game, but some kind of specialized practice. I can't believe they can keep their feet and not die of hypothermia.
Someone's blasting something from their car stereo, which I think sounds an awful lot like the shit people listened to when I was in high school-- has nothing happened in music in a decade? I swear it sounds like Lit. Or maybe Matchbox 20. Seriously, guys. Just the same song over and over, two guitars and a bass drum and a drum set, and one of the boys has terrycloth wristbands and a tight t-shirt and a whiny but clear voice, and tells the microphone with his eyes closed and his mouth wide open about how terrible the world is.

Moo, says Chita, forlornly, broadcasting her discontent from the kitchen table where she crouches, bored. And then the mailman shoves mail through the slot in the door and she comes tearing into the living room, badly startled. The song which I couldn't really hear ends on a harmonic of drawn-out guitar, and the car door slams.

Chita slinks back into the living room. Rrrrrrmm, she mumbles to herself, rolling it in her throat. Rrrr, rrrrmmmm? Inng?

I hear Siamese are very chatty. I can't imagine why anyone would want that. I have quite enough operatic narrative out of my little whiny emo mongrel.

Rrrm, she says, picking her way over to the couch so she can sit on Z and lick herself. She'll be quiet for a while now.

This Livejournal user posted a video she took when she encountered a group of protestors lobbying for Proposition 8. She simply walked up to the group with her phone out, and they attacked her.

"
    

theremina

The Face of Proposition 8 from Theremina on Vimeo.

I was on my way home from the Lakeshore district when I encountered this group of supporters of Prop 8. After turning my vidphone on, I was screamed at, physically intimidated and eventually attacked by one of the more aggressive sign-wavers.

Approx two dozen people were standing under the I-580, chanting "Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve" and "Mom and Dad, not Dad and Dad", etc. There were at least three counter-protesters present as well.

For several minutes prior to shooting this footage, I watched from a distance. One of the Prop 8 supporters lunged at a solitary man holding a "Vote No on Prop 8" sign. She didn't actually touch him, but she got right up in his face, screaming. She was loud enough that you could hear her several blocks away. As far as I could see, he hadn't provoked her in any way beyond the dissenting opinion stated on his sign. The man seemed to remain quiet and calm throughout. Witnessing this, I decided to turn on my phone's video application and approach.

Proponents of Prop 8 have gone to great lengths to try to deny the inherent fear, anger and bigotry fueling their camp's desire to ban gay marriage. However, these Prop 8 supporters (and many other protesters I've seen in recent weeks) were visibly enraged and screaming themselves hoarse in their righteous indignation over the recent legalization of same-sex marriage in the state of California.

Having documented this clash between fellow Oaklanders, I'm putting it online because I think it's important to convey to as many people as possible --supporters and dissenters alike--- just how irrational, hysterical and potentially dangerous the situation actually is. This is bigotry, blind rage and senseless hatred of the saddest kind."

Now I don't remember what I was going to post. Dang it. I came to post something pithy, and then paused to read posts, and now I don't remember what I was going to say. D'oh.

(e:tinypliny) mentioned something about a novel-in-a-month, that someone else on here is doing? I'm assuming she means National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo, which is next month.
The object of NaNoWriMo is to write 50,000 words in a month.
I have done NaNoWriMo for... five years, I believe. I have never failed to clock in over 50,000 words during the month.
2002 I wrote a space opera with pirates and sort of ninjas, though I didn't manage to get any dinosaurs in it. It was very angry-feminist, which I think not enough space operas are. I reached 75,000 words and then my grandmother died and then I went on a trip to Germany, so I didn't finish the novel, but I won NaNo.
2003 I wrote a historical novel about my ancestors. Well, I tried to. But it turned into a really really smutty romance novel, which skeeved me out so much I never finished it. This was my first clue that perhaps a lucrative career in young-adult fiction was not to be mine.
2004 I had begun to catch on to the fact that I could write 50,000 words without a problem, but I couldn't finish a fucking novel. So that year, my goal was not the wordcount, but to get a coherent story. In 20 days I wrote 94,000 words and made a complete novel. It was about a young Welsh girl who gets kidnapped by Viking raiders (ca. 1000) and falls in love with her captor, a Dublin Norseman. It had a lot of sex in it, and did indeed go from start to finish. Unfortunately, the ending sucked, and most of it wasn't very good. Some of the sex scenes were good, though. This is notable for being the only novel I had actually intended from the beginning to be a romance/erotica novel.
2005... What did I do in 2005? I think I had caught on that yes, I could hit the wordcount goal, and yes, I could theoretically write a whole novel, but so far I had failed to actually create a *salable* novel. So that year, I "cheated", and rewrote an existing novel i'd started working on in January of 2004. (It's "cheating" because you're supposed to start fresh, from 0, on Nov 1.) The novel was about, well, it's changed a lot, but at the time it was about a young, very hunky, very duty-bound Iron-Ageish barbarian, and his forbidden love for the virginal daughter of a nobleman from a "civilized" neighboring city. I'm actually working on this novel right now, but I'll come back to it.
In 2006 I had a different idea. I worked on a time-travel novel, about a woman from an alternate version of current history-- only with magic-- and a man from Bronze Age Ireland. I hadn't planned on this, but it wound up being mostly sex scenes. Really surprisingly hot ones, too.
So, 2007. I know I did it in 2007. I almost didn't, and then I did. At the last minute, kind of halfheartedly. I can't find any reference to what I wrote, except that I mentioned on my LJ that everything I tried to write turned into porn.

Which brings me up to now. I will probably do it this year. But I'm working on the 2005 project again. Now the virginal nobleman's daughter has been changed to a courtesan spy from the distant but sinister empire to the south, sent to secure favorable trade agreements for her people, but waylaid by bandits and rescued by the virginal hunky barbarian hero, who his marked by a god and is sworn to celibacy. Of course they fuck, but there's more to it than that.
I think I'm doing well-- I finally came up with an ending that makes sense, after five years. The coherent draft is up to 40,000 words, and I'm rather proud of myself because the first sex scene isn't until... well... oh. Crap. I forgot. OK, well, the heroine and (virginal!) hero have known each other for at least twelve hours when the first sexual scene happens, though there isn't full-on actual-fucking sex until at least the third chapter. Which is better than the last draft.

I don't know about y'all, but I find the virgin heroine to be kind of boring really. But a virgin hero! Now that's hot. And I don't know why.

Today I finally took back the bottles from the party I had mumblemumbletwoweeksagomumble. It was $10 in bottles and cans. Work it out. That's a dang lot of bottles to haul.
I used canvas grocery bags. I only had four bags. I didn't think I'd be able to fit much, but at least I'd save a few plastic bags.

Everything fit. And when I say "everything"... well, I spent $130, and redeemed the beverage deposits too.
You can fit a damn lot in a canvas grocery sack. And it's super easy to unload the car too. Filing that one away for future reference. I should do as my mom does, and promptly return said grocery sacks to the car, so they're there next time I go. But, we'll see.

On the way home I weirdly hit every green light. I came out onto Amherst St and the light to cross Elmwood was green. I didn't hurry, figuring it would change before I got there, but it didn't, and I sailed across Elmwood. Likewise, Delaware, which had me incredulous. I never hit that light. I even hit the light to turn left onto Colvin from Amherst-- the green arrow had shut off, but there was no one coming so I could turn left on the green light.
It was freaky. It was weird.
I came up Colvin and hit that first light after the railroad underpass-- it was red, but turned green as I approached.
Coming up, I could see the Hertel light was green. it was an old green. But I knew if I pushed it a bit, I could make it.

But some fuddy-duddy in a baby blue four-door sedan was in front of me, and slowed down, and slowed down, and the light turned yellow, and they stopped. I was annoyed. I was in a little bit of a hurry, since (e:zobar) needed the car to go in for an afternoon meeting and I wanted to get home in time to get some lunch down his skinny gullet before banishing him to the corporate world.
So I sat behind this fuddy-duddy at Hertel, annoyed.
After a moment I noticed that the car was moving. Not rolling. Bouncing.
I looked through the rear windshield. I could see... a drumstick.
The driver was rocking out, with drumsticks, on the steering wheel, thrashing along to a song. To the extent that the car rocked.
I could not see if it was a man or a woman. I could see sleek dark hair, and that was all. It wasn't a tall person, or it was someone with the seat adjusted low. Tough to say.
Intrigued, I followed them up Colvin, hoping that when I got into the right lane so I could make my right onto Kenmore I'd see them. Alas, the left lane was moving faster-- someone was making a right, so I was far back. But as we came up to Kenmore, someone was making a left, so I passed the fuddy-duddy pale blue car.

It was a girl, a young woman, probably younger than me. She had stopped drumming, though her radio was still up loud. She was sitting, looking very mild-mannered and not particularly hardcore. I rolled my window down, even though there was a tiny bit of snow falling and it was gross out, to try to hear what she had been rocking so hard to, but the car in front of me had a bad muffler, so I heard nothing, and had to make my turn without finding out.
Since she'd stopped rocking out, the good song was probably over anyway.

But I swear, she had drumsticks in there.

It's the final countdown!!
Just kidding. But I've had that song stuck in my head for like three days now. When (e:zobar) writes a blog, he winds up to it for a while.

Just wanted to post an update: It took me six hours of pedaling like a maniac to finish reading Kushiel's Dart.

I admit, somewhat shamefully, that I kind of skimmed all the sex scenes. This is unusual for me. I admit with no shame that I totally dig the sex scenes even in bad books.
And I even kind of like s/m D/s stuff, a little bit. Not like I'm into the lifestyle, and not like I'd ever let some dude make me scrub the toilet for his sexual kicks, but who doesn't like a little light spanking, maybe getting tied up a little, maybe a blindfold? And who wouldn't want to read about a reasonably hot chick getting tied up and kinda liking it? I figured it was win-win: I like smut, I like spankings, what's not to like?
But either the book wasn't well-written, or the bike seat digging into my assbones was just too painful. I was like, She's getting fucked again? Man can't somebody just get shot or something?

There was a lot of flowery language. Which maybe if I was lying in bed with a cup of hot cocoa and a box of truffles and a delicate lace hankie on a rainy day, would push my buttons, as it were. But as it is, I was just like For the love of GOD will someone DIE so we can get ON with things?
No good. I'll have to reread it sometime while not torturing myself.

But, as an exercise scheme, it seems to have worked. I'd never have done the extra half-hour today if I didn't have like, fifteen pages left. Because not only does the book start out slow? It winds up slow! There's like 30 boring pages, 300 pages of action, and then another fucking boring 30 pages.

It makes me feel a lot better about the novel I'm writing, I tell you what. I've been down on myself for not having good pacing, but I'm doing better than this published and popular book I'm reading.

I met someone at Pennsic with a tattoo from it, which now that I've read it, is kind of... well I am sure the person wants me to say 'perverse' but on reflection it mostly just seems sad to me. The character in the book gets a tattoo to mark her as being a whore and celebrate her liberation from it. And doing that to myself as a woman in the real world of the 21st century? Eh not so much.

Though I was just reading the blog of a woman who got the last words of James Joyce's Ulysses tattooed on her wrist:
"Yes I said
Yes I will
Yes."

Which on the one hand is like, aw, how liberating! But then the rest of the blog was about her struggles, as a hardcore slut, to learn to love herself at last. And I thought, Hm. I mean, still, yes, good tattoo, but on the other hand, now it's got me humming the song from Oklahoma about the girl who can't say no.
Mm... I suppose, on balance, it's clever. And I guess I'll leave it at that.

Now I have Queen songs in my head because (e:Paul) is being Freddie Mercury.
(e:Zobar) just turned our furnace on. He changed the air filter first, good boy. (I had gone out and bought it last week.) Remember-- change your air filter to cut down on the dust and debris that gets recirculated through your air ducts. Particulate material is a lung irritant and can make you more susceptible to asthma and colds.
According to the hoodoo we used to spout at my old job, anyway.

I am procrastinating on my Halloween costume. I will be in a boobilicious corset, because I cannot bear not to do so on Halloween. I never get an excuse to wear them. But I have a new one that, unlike last year's costume, *actually fits me*, plus I've learned to sew so now I have no excuse not to have a chemise under it that actually fits. So I should be a bit better turned-out.
Corsets are so comfortable when they fit properly. I wish I could wear them every day. I bought a pattern to make myself one, a shorter one that would look a bit more natural under normal clothes (for history geeks, in the first decade of the nineteenth century the fad was for a "natural" silhouette, meaning that women who look like me wore short corsets to hold their boobs up, but didn't bind their waists or hips as in the previous decades where the fashion had been a flat-fronted silhouette. So a Regency-era corset [think Jane Austen] would look approximately the way a modern brassiere would under clothing, as bras are also meant to approximate a "natural" silhouette), but I haven't done it yet. (I'm going to bone it with reed, which I also have purchased. Rustproof, unlike steel; breathable, unlike plastic. But it will take a while to make said corset.)

Anyhow.

On another note, remember how I posted all that vintage porn a while back? And I talked about doing re-enactments of it, and how fun that would be? I am thinking seriously about it again. I need to finish up the costumes I've been collecting. And I need a photographer. Wouldn't that be awesome? Really classy artsy faux-Victorian nudes/ semi-nudes? I just think that would be so cool to do. I've got to get the rest of the lingerie sorted out, and practice authentic hairstyles, but I just think that would be fun. It could be Art!






(Doesn't she look like she's in an antique shop? I love that photo.)

Not only will Z and I be joined by my little sister for Halloween, but also one of my teammates-- my former team captain and now coach, in fact. None other than the legendary Mia Mauler, who was teaching that class at Allentown Athletix and wanted to teach it again this year but cannot swing it. (As an aside, Bill was rather rude to her about it, which only solidified her decision that she couldn't do it.)
So, alas, I am no longer eligible for a discount there. Which is OK, I suppose I'm not a gym rat after all.

Instead, I'm a bit of an idiot. I went on Amazon and bought a bike trainer so that I could use my expensive bike, which I have not ridden in two years, indoors over the winter. It was cheaper than the cheapest exercise bike by a lot.

This was not idiotic. No, what was slightly nutty of me was my decision that I would save time and sanity by decreeing that I could only read novels while riding the bike.

What's wrong with that, you ask?

I'm totally fucking addicted to reading. I don't mean that the way people use the word, i.e. I do it all the time and can't live without it.
No. I don't.
I can go months without reading a book. I do go months without it.

• Because* I'm addicted.

If I crack open a novel, you can bet your ass that within, if not sentences, then usually within about ten pages I will be completely and utterly oblivious to the world around me, and unable to set the book down. I will take it to the bathroom, not because I like to read on the toilet (I don't) but because I can't put it down that long. I will take it everywhere I go. I will not sleep, and will read it while eating. Until I have sucked the whole thing down, usually in record time. (I read extremely fast. I don't spell words out; I see the first and last letter, and sometimes when in full swing will parse whole phrases at once. I tend to skip parts of paragraphs and never realize it, so ravenous am I to read more, more, more.
Once I have finished the book I am not satisfied. I must sit and digest it. I must revisit the parts I liked best. Sometimes I hit the last page, flip back, and start over again at the beginning without even a pause. (Sometimes I get a glass of water first.)

If it's a series, it's so much worse. And in August, a friend loaned me a trilogy. A thick-spined paperback trilogy, and said I'd love it. Well, shit-- that'll take at least three days, probably four, with a sleepless night in there somewhere. I don't have that kind of time to devote to complete blank deadness to the world. ...

And while I'm doing this, raptly devouring, there is no real world to me. Z can talk; I don't notice. The sun rises and sets, and i only notice if it's too dark to read. (I don't look up, but keep squinting as I fumble for a light. if the lamp is too complex, I will get up and walk to another room with an easier light switch, without looking up.)

I'm like this when I'm writing, too, incidentally.

At any rate. Now I'm only allowed to do this while atop my bike, assbones aching and knees creaking (it is helping my awful knees, though!) and sweat rolling down my face and back.
It's a terrible idea.
Two days in a row I've had to put in a second session on the bike. The first day I barely made it 25 minutes; the book started slow. The second day, I had gotten to the interesting part. I rode for 45 minutes, and then, three hours later, could not take the suspense and crawled down the stairs for another 15 minutes on the bike, and then a guilt-induced abs-and-weights session. (My core is sadly underpowered, and I've been having serious difficulty getting back into skating because while my thighs could go all day, and my lungs nearly that long, my body, the abs and back that keep me upright on those skates, are screaming after about twenty laps.)

Today I did an hour just before lunch, and then, after circumstances conspired to make it impossible for me to attend practice, I slunk back down and did another full hour. The story has picked up. I'm more than halfway through the book now.
There are two more books.

I am determined not to cheat. I want to know how long it takes me to read a book. I want to know that I rode the whole way through that book. And there is no way, *no way*, I could devote this kind of time to tedious exercise if I weren't totally and completely absorbed throughout. The only exercise I like is skating, but it's going to destroy my body if I don't cross-train, exercise some opposing muscles. I'm having knee problems again, revisiting just a tiny bit of the dull searing pain of last year, just enough to make me frightened.
I did order myself new skates, as well. Lighter weight, hopefully closer-fitting. (My leather boots, Reidell 122s, purchased in July of '06, have slowly stretched out until they slip and give me blisters.) Higher-quality, as well, with built-in arch support and a heel cup to prevent rolling. I may need to get better arch supports, but they're bound to be better than what I'm using now, which are made of duct tape and cut-up bits of old gel shoe inserts.

Anyway. They don't look exactly like this but sort of do. They're factory seconds, with cosmetic blemishes on the boot somewhere. I'm thinking of painting them, or gluing decoration to them. We'll see.

Aw, crap, the "Upload" button doesn't work anymore. I know I need to upgrade Firefox, I just don't have time. I perpetually have 35-45 tabs open, just with things to read, not things I want to bookmark, my bookmarks are chaotic enough so I don't' want to save the session. It's just... too much. So I need to wait for a time that I've winnowed the open tabs down to nothing... anyway, I can't upload photos. So instead, here's a link to the photo of my new skates. Which will, if you truncate the URL, tell you where I got them, and where I recommend buying all your shit if you ever need skating supplies or clever roller-derby-related t-shirts. ("My Pivot Can Beat Up Your Pivot" is a good one, followed closely by "I just scored five times, I need a beer!")

The kielbasa thing was tasty, probably about a B on the overall scale of Things I've Made Lately. (e:zobar) theorized that it shouldn't be sweet; I wonder if that would work at all. I definitely think there should've been sauerkraut or cabbage in it somewhere because kielbasa always makes me want cabbage.

The bread pudding was more like a B+ or even A in terms of Things I've Made Lately. (e:zobar) isn't a big dessert man, and this won because it wasn't too sweet.

I'd take photos, but I know I'll never get around to getting them off my camera, plus neither dish was particularly attractive-looking.

I am going to resolve to blog with more photos in the future, but today I have been utterly useless, and will have gotten a ridiculous amount of sleep, so I wouldn't want to mess it up by being too constructive.

I am recovering from throwing a party last night. Before you all feel left out, it was a party to welcome the 2009 season rookies to the roller derby league, so I couldn't invite y'all, or I would've. It's the first party we ever threw in this house for more than, like, two other people.
(Four years ago we threw a "political party" for the presidential election. I'll let you guess whether that one wound up being a downer.)

My house is not trashed, of course. This wouldn't be right. But there are beer bottles everywhere. Full, empty, and in-between. I am planning on simply "paying it forward" with the full ones-- I'll put them in storage and bring them to the next party that happens, of course. And the empty ones will be rinsed and sorted and returned for deposit, naturally. But the half-empty ones...
It breaks my heart to pour full beers down the sink. So out of curiosity, I poured them into an empty juice bottle instead.
I filled a 32-ounce bottle with the half-empty beer bottles.

Well, hell, man. In the past, if I don't finish a beer, I'd save it to use as a hair rinse. (No lie! The natural acidity conditions the hair strand and makes it lie smoother. The odor actually rinses away.) But 32 ounces of beer! That's a lot of fucking hair rinse. It'll go moldy before I get to it.

I thought this over for a couple of hours, as I sat around totally unable to function. (I didn't drink that much, but my hangover took the form of being unable to complete a thought. I was happy and stupid as a goldfish all day today.)

Finally I lit upon a solution.
I had bought kielbasa, figuring on just chucking it in a roasting pan and eating it with some fall vegetables, as a way to get through a jar of horseradish I had to buy for a recipe that needed... 1 tablespoon. (I hate that. Horseradish doesn't last. But the recipe wouldn't really work without it.)
Kielbasa... in beer.

I cut up two onions, put a pat of butter (and daub of bacon grease, left over from breakfast) into a cast iron skillet. Sauteed the onion while I chopped up two or three carrots. (I bought a five pound bag of organic carrots for like five cents at Wegmans, in a fit of insanity. What the fuck do two people do with five pounds of carrots?? I'm putting carrots in everything.) Threw the carrots in with the onion. Cut the kielbasa into half-inch semicircles or so. Tossed it in.
At this party, one of my teammates had found my sister's Nerf gun, and much fun had ensued with people trying to shoot apples off one another's heads, William Tell-style. (Sour Grapes, #23, is a formidable markswoman, among other things. Don't fuck with her.) This was never successful, as a Nerf dart is not heavy enough to remove an apple. But the apples fell a lot nonetheless, because none of us went to finishing school. (You know how in movies they balance books on their heads in finishing school? That.)
So I had a badly bruised apple or two. Cut that up, threw that in too.

Two or three tablespoons of brown sugar, the scrapings of a nearly-exhausted jar of Weber's mustard, some mustard seeds.

Mixed it all up in the skillet. Then I poured in beer until the skillet was nearly full and everything floating just a little.

It's in the oven and smells really awesome. I put some potatoes in there to bake; I have no idea when the sausageness is going to be done, so I'm just going by when the potatoes are soft enough to impale on a fork and cut up and eat the hell out of. I dunno how long that'll be. Maybe an hour, all told? I put the potatoes in first thing, before I started making the kielbasa thing.

Then I was confronted with a plate full of assorted baked goods left over from the party. There was a bit of yellow cake, diced and generally smashed up (no frosting). There were cornbread muffins with whole wheat and a tiny bit of bran cereal in them. I had planned on using up some honey whole wheat bread I baked this past week, but there was so much other stuff...

I crumbled up three cups' worth of baked goods, and dumped them in a lightly floured 1.5 quart casserole dish. Then I heated 2 cups of milk on the stove until a skim started to form on the surface, whereupon I dumped in 4 Tbsp of butter and let it melt. I cooled that to room temp, and meanwhile whisked together 2/3 cup sugar, 3 eggs, 2 tsp or so of cinnamon, about a tsp of nutmeg, a tsp or so of vanilla extract, and 3 Tbsp of whiskey.
I poured the scalded milk mixture into the egg mixture once it was cool enough not to cook it, and poured that over the crumbled up bread products. That's in the oven and is supposed to cook for 50 minutes or "until it sets", based on the Internet recipe I followed most closely.

I have no idea how either dish will turn out. I could have created a monster here. We'll see.

But it's a theme dinner!
1) Waste not want not
2) How many calories can you cram down your gullet?
3) Booze.
Both dishes incorporate leftovers that would have otherwise been useless, both dishes are, let's just say, nutritionally dense, and both dishes incorporate quantities of alcohol. Yay!!!

I can't think of any better way to spend a slightly-chilly autumn evening, can you?

That's all, really. I hate everything. Everything is a pain in my ass, or oppresses my soul, or whatever. Hate it hate it hate it! I hate everything.

• does a little dance*

There we go. Hey, at least I did something constructive about it-- I added a journal here!!

AGGGHGHHH.


Oh, I posted photos of the completed rollergirl embroidery:

And Fi's cat Remi.