Dye Jobs (and a cat)

 As part of my "stop the burnout" summer*, I've been dyeing, and experimenting with how the colors play together. I'm using Greener Shades acid dyes, with fairly imprecise measurements (I don't have a dedicated dye powder scale, so I just scoop and eyeball it).  These are all on Knit Picks Bare Hawthorne skeins. No handspun in this lot.

"Rabid Peony" 

I dyed this before seeing Barbie, or it might have survived. Instead, I tried an overdye with my trusty Amethyst at 2% and a shot of Ruby, and got "Mixed Berry." I think it's an improvement.

"Mixed Berry"

Trust River Blue and Amethyst, for the win. 

"Be Cool"

This is the same hank from two sides. I was trying to see if blue and red dye made purple easily. I know my color wheel, red and blue make purple, but in practice--in acrylic paints, at least--that theory does not translate well. The interwebz assured me that the dyes mixed well and true, and they do! I was trying to achieve a version of one of those rocket red-white-blue popsicles you see around in ice cream trucks or wherever. The purple is faint, but this gives me hope that should I mix the last of my Ruby and my River Blue, I will get an interesting colorway in actual purples.

"Rocket Pop" 

"Rocket Pop"

And if you've gotten this far: one melted Patchwork Terror. It hasn't been that hot here (we've been lucky!), but it has been humid, and despite shedding another cat every time he touches carpet or upholstery, he's still wearing a fur coat.

I'm melting...

* I've been writing, too. 80K and climbing.

The Patchwork Terror Turns Four

We acquired PT because Murdercat was becoming too much for poor Tinycat. He wanted to play. She did not. He wanted to jump on her. She did not want that. And he is twice her size, there was not much she could do. We saw a post on the neighborhood list-serve for a kitten...twice...because the first home would not keep his rowdy little self and no one wanted him.

He needed us, Murdercat needed a kitten (this was my pitch: we're getting a kitten for the cat!) and so he arrived in October of 2019, sassy and fearless and very interested in when dinner was happening. 

He remains sassy, opinionated, assertive, and social without being a cuddler or a lap cat in anyway. He's Murdercat's bane and best friend, and he actually respects Tinycat's authority and space. 

 He wants your butter. Or your whipped cream. Maybe both.

His usual hangout. 

BFFs. Though now they cannot both fit on a single cushion.

Look at that little face. 

In Translation (also, baking)

So, Nightwatch on the Hinterlands got picked up for Turkish foreign rights, and lo, this arrived in my mailbox this week. 

I love the cover art. It's kind of strange/cool to see your story in words you can't read, except for the proper names. While this isn't my first foreign rights sale, it is the first time I've gotten a copy. Pretty cool.

I would love to have more to report, but it is February. It's not even an especially dark month here (it should be raining. It isn't. That will change at the end of the week.), but it's a drag on the spirit. Nothing major, just many littles coming together to make a much. 

Thank the gods for steady D&D games and the friends that make them possible. 

And because I am (not so) low-key D&D obsessed, I took yesterday, Presidents' Day, to spend mostly in the kitchen, making D&D associated recipies. I've made Lord Eshteross's Maple Ginger Cookies with Turmeric (from Exquisite Exandria: The Official Cookbook of Critical Role) before, and they turned out splendidly this time as well. I don't actually own that cookbook yet, mind, so I can't speak to the rest. 

I do own Heroes' Feast, the official D&D cookbook (Shan, who is not Icelandic in any way, practices the Icelandic tradition of giving books as gifts on Christmas Eve. She figures cookbook and gaming is just doubling up on the awesome, and she is not wrong.) I did a test run of the vedbread (the D&D name in the book, and I have no idea what its real name might be).  It's a sort of savory not-at-all-cinnamon roll, where the dough is instead rolled around a combination of mushrooms, shallots, and cheese, and the dough itself has a fair bit of cheese worked into it as well. Tasty. A little more substantial  than "bread that accompanies soup" and more like "light lunch." They seem like a thing that may come with me to events where someone says "bring something savory, not a main dish, not a salad."  

And because I spent the day making dishes for my long-suffering husband to wash up, I feel better about the multiverse today. Also, I have tasty things to eat for lunches and snacks. 

And February is almost over.

consider this your holiday letter

Happy December! If I seem enthusiastic, it is because the quarter ended last week--the teaching in the classroom part, anyway--and while I am not done with work (grading final projects, setting up next quarter's class webpage), I am at least done with the part that requires me to wear shoes for the next month.

Unfortunately I am not able to grade without typing, because that isn't much fun at the moment. Took a dive on a run the Monday before Thanksgiving--there was an oncoming bike, and I was busy watching him when I stepped into the dirt and sidewalk adjacent ground cover, rather than where I was stepping. I thought I had clear dirt. I found a pernicious root. I had time, as it tightened across my foot, to think oh fuck and then splat. A very stretched out, fully extended, but at least running uphill at the time splat.

Half of me hit the dirt, literally, and that half--except for a few neat scratches on my ribs--was fine. The half that hit the sidewalk was less fortunate. I got myself up before the poor cyclist could even dismount to assist, and toddled off toward home. At the time, I thought the scraped up knee was the issue. (Running tights are tough. Not a scuff on them, but the skin underneath was shredded.) I'd caught myself on the palm on that side, elbow flexed at about 90 degrees, wrist mostly flat, and everything straightened and moved. I feared for the wrist, but it seemed fine, and it was.

The elbow, however, having absorbed a great deal of force and shock, was sprained, which I discovered about the time I got home and tried to flex is beyond that 90 degrees in either direction. Oh ho ho, that wasn't happening. 

Since then, I have learned how very many things elbows are involved in besides bending, and how very unpleasant--or impossible--some of those things become. I have also learned how much of my yoga practice relies on straight elbows. 

I have not learned that I am bad at convalescing because I already knew that, and merely confirmed the continuation of that particular quality.

I could, and can, still knit, which is good! Because I have things* to finish by Christmas Eve. 

*Like that orange octopus D&D dice-bag beside Tinycat, except that one is mine.

Books and Cats: WINDSCAR edition

My copies of Nightwatch Over Windscar have arrived, and y'all, they are beautiful. 

But do not simply take my word for it. Here are photos of cats reacting to these gorgeous books invading their space. (Not present: Murdercat, which is ironic, since he's the one who gets a cameo in the book.)

Tinycat attempts here to ignore both the book and me, but she's secretly impressed. 

The Patchwork Terror is super impressed with the cover art. The colors are amazing. 

And if you want your very own copy, well, it's available for preorder in all the usual places, and it will arrive in your happy hands on Nov. 8. 

what I have been doing instead of writing

Please be advised: the iPhone's camera is fine, but I may have been asking too much, and also I am not an especially gifted photographer. Don't judge.

This summer I spent mostly outside on the deck, binging Dimension 20 and, appropriately, painting D&D miniatures. Because it is monster season, aka October, aka Halloween Month, I share with you the biggest and finest of my monsters. 

Behold the beholder! He's an obnoxiously colorful fellow. I don't see why beholders need to be grim and dark (the one I am painting for my godson is, but this one is a celebration of neon). The beholder is an iconic D&D monster, right up there with the mimic, and one of my favorites. But not my very favorite....

 

This is my favorite, both in D&D and personally: the red dragon. 

Of the D&D dragons, I like the look of the red and the green best, and but if I have to choose between acid and fire, well. Fire. Obviously. 

New Book Announcement: NIGHTWATCH ON THE HINTERLANDS

 Y'all! I am super excited to announce, reveal, shout from the rooftops my new, upcoming novel, Nightwatch on the Hinterlands, coming October 19, 2021.

LOOK AT THIS COVER. 

I pitched this book to my agent as "HALO meets D&D meets a mystery".  Its working title was Tin Can Fun Fur. And it was a blast to write. 

While it's set in the same world (multiverse?) as THE THORNE CHRONICLES, it has a different narrative vibe (and it's, like, 100 years in the future).  No princesses here. This is dirtside, street-level mystery-solving, with a cast of xenos and plenty of small-p politics.

If you're a fan of arithmancy in action, or want to see more tenju, alwar, and/or vakari, or just think OMG this cover! Is the inside as cool as the outside? (yes)--well you are in luck, because...

Preorders are happening now at all the usual places. 

See you in October... 

mended

When there is absolutely no way to invisible repair the clapotis, repair it boldly. The patch keeps the same pattern, but sets it at an angle, and adds an extra corner at the bottom because why not. 

And! Nearly a year after tearing a hamstring, I'm back road-running. The healing period was spent running laps up, around, and down the 7 flights of parking structure, which kept the cardio and let things heal and made other things stronger. (Of course I did not rest.)

I also changed my gait completely, a mix of necessity and intent, which I'm given to understand one shouldn't do? Or something. Whatever. I am far happier than I thought I'd be to be running again. I look forward to it, even.

And! It doesn't hurt. I had forgotten what that's like.

I came late to running--in my 30s--because I'd always believed I wasn't built for it. I pronate pretty badly on a heelstrike, which is my "natural" stride, and end up pulling my body weight forward, rather than pushing off from the ball of the foot. Turns out I could, and did, muscle my way through for a while, with a scattering of IT and piraformis injuries (treated with months on an elliptical). But the hamstring, boy howdy. There was ouch and then there was ouch and then there was literally unable to touch my toes. Like, could not. Pain override.

It was the yoga that clued me in, hard. I couldn't do things I'd always done. A quick search told me what this was. Torn hamstring! Tendon?! I had to let that heal. And that meant I was going to have to stop running.

I was terrified. There was no gym access! Walking isn't enough! I'd get...well...fat.

And here let it be said: this is not about fat-shaming. This is about body dysmorphia and eating disorders.

here. have some flowers.

They are probably a sign that my basil is finished, but they're pretty. 

 

happy slightly belated birthday, tinycat

Tinycat on the eve of her 13th birthday

Technically, her birthday was yesterday (we think. One does not know with rescues, but why not choose Valentine's Day when the date is "sometime in the middle of February"?). She resembles here a small, disgruntled owl for two reasons: one, she hates to be photographed, and she always knows when that is happening, and two, because Murdercat is closer to the food dishes than she is, and even though no one will be fed while I am playing paparazzi, she resents even the possibility that he might eat first. The Patchwork Terror is out of frame, which is why that ear is cocked, but she's not mad at him. 

I note here that typically before dinner, it's PT who will straddle her body--while they are both standing, because she is that small--and tug her ears while they're waiting for me to put down their bowls. (She forgives him for it, and goes to hit Murdercat in the face. Things are not fair among cats.)

She is very sweet to people, however--guaranteed purring, all about laps, responsive and alarmingly clever. She is also demanding and particular and stubborn and we love her. 

I leave you with Tinycat, still annoyed by the paparazzi, but in possession of her pillow, and so not about to be moved.

Happy New Year

 This winter break was especially short--just shy of two full weeks, which seems a lot until you realize there were two holidays in there, and all the website-building and asynchronous video recording and general class-prep stuffed into that same time. Then it's oh god, teaching starts when? and a cocktail. 

Of course I still found time to procrastinate the knitting of my cardigan and avoid making those videos a bit longer  to do something fun. Nous got the figure for me last fall ("that hat!" he said, "those boots! And the tiny skulls!"), and she's been languishing on my sewing table, daring me to find time to paint. So finally, I did. She took the last couple eps of S3 of The Repair Shop and the whole season of Bridgerton. 

The photo quality is Aging iPhone SE in the miserable winter afternoon light, which lets me say honestly that she does look better in person. I am by no means a pro painter, but my eyesight's holding up and my hands are steady and I'm improving. 

Also, I'm really proud of those tiny skulls on her braid and belt. 

Anyway, I thought she was a fine way to spend the waning week of 2020, and a good first creative accomplishment for 2021. 

antisocial

Early advice from my mother: write nothing down you don't want someone to (be able to) read. If it's written, she said, anyone can read it. Maybe someone you didn't intend. If it's written, there's no guarantee of privacy. Nor should there be expectation of it.

(My mother basically taught me that people kinda suck, or at least enough of them do that you gotta be wary. I don't think she was wrong.)

Also early advice from my mother: think before you speak. 

I am not so great at the second--sometimes deliberately so--but the first one stuck with me. I wouldn't keep a diary of anything real because, little cute lock or not, someone might read it. (I did not think of writing in cypher, like Anne Lister; if I had, maybe I'd've written more, and there would be juicy details for someone to decrypt after my death. But see? That's even the point. Anne Lister's diaries got decrypted and fucking published. I would be long dead and would not care as a result, but even so: Mom would be right. I wrote something, and people read it, and I had no control over it. Would have no control. Oh, fuck the verb tenses. You get it.) 

The point is, I am less likely to write something potentially inflammatory than I am to say it. Even on social media. Maybe especially on social media: I don't pop off with the first thing that comes to mind (and out of my mouth, snarked for the benefit of whichever cat is in the room and possibly Nous, as we are in the habit of saying the shit we'd never write to each other, just so it gets said). If I say some shit to somebody online, boom, there it is. There it stays. Then everyone else who can read and access that page sees it, and suddenly my snark has an audience, and well, we know how this works. Proliferating toadshit. I'm not allergic to opinions--oh no, heavens, haha, I have a few of those, and they are not always kind--but I don't see the point in sharing them for their own sake, either on my wall or in someone's comments. I don't want to have a goddamned brawl. I hate the drama. 

Therefore I avoid posting in Facebook threads, even among my very locked up friends list. I avoid Twitter threads for the same reason, plus, you know, totally public (and I'm a woman and a teacher). I hesitate to post here, even, which is... kinda antithetical to having a blog in the first place. 

So I'm gonna try and write more this year. Here, I mean. Even if I am talking to the echoing emptiness of the internet...that isn't really too different from talking to my cat(s) (except Tinycat, who always answers). I probably still won't post a lot of inflammatory stuff because all the reasons. You want to hear what I really think, catch me at a con and I'll tell ya. 

How Rory Thorne Destroyed the Multiverse

Hey hey! Big news! I can now show you the freakin' amazing cover-art for my novel, How Rory Thorne Destroyed the Multiverse, coming from DAW on October 8, 2019.


And, and! You can even read the first chapter right here.

Rory Thorne is a princess with thirteen fairy blessings, the most important of which is to see through flattery and platitudes. As the eldest daughter, she always imagined she’d inherit her father’s throne and govern the interplanetary Thorne Consortium.

Then her father is assassinated, her mother gives birth to a son, and Rory is betrothed to the prince of a distant world.

When Rory arrives in her new home, she uncovers a treacherous plot to unseat her newly betrothed and usurp his throne. An unscrupulous minister has conspired to name himself Regent to the minor (and somewhat foolish) prince. With only her wits and a small team of allies, Rory must outmaneuver the Regent and rescue the prince.

How Rory Thorne Destroyed the Multiverse is a feminist reimagining of familiar fairytale tropes and a story of resistance and self-determination — how small acts of rebellion can lead a princess to not just save herself, but change the course of history.

Preorder available from... 

Amazon

Barnes and Noble

Indiebound

Book Depository

proof of life

It's spring, blah blab April cruel months blah blah. But here in SoCal, it's when the Renaissance Festival happens, which seems strange since I grew up with summer Ren Faires, but whatever. I do not miss the summer temperatures when one is laced into a leather bodice.

Here is proof that Nous and I are not, in fact, dead. Or even particularly sunburned, because a) sunscreen, duh, and b) hats!

It was opening weekend, which can be a little chaotic, but also the one cool day for the next five and, probably more important, since it's just the end of the first week of spring quarter (and my HS class is on spring break), there were no assignments requiring commentary over the weekend, so we went. I mean, we can't miss Faire. (I don't think I've missed a Faire since college days, when I used to work at one. That belt in the photo? From those days. And because it's peeling and basically disintegrating, this was its last Faire year.)

Anyway. It was not a year of big purchases, but I did find some fresh roasted coffee in a thoroughly appropriate blend. I AM deviant. And I am a witch* because that is what we call women who will not have it with the patriarchy, and who also might know a few things about herbs or spells or who make things or, you know, whatever. (Like knitting. That greenish bit beside the bag is a tea-cozy that looks like a bubbling-over cauldron from this pattern here.)

*Which is not to say I am a Wiccan--though I was, once, and I was deviant about that, too, which is why I'm not anymore.

Anyway, I will leave you with one more piece of photographic evidence of my witchery, because everyone knows all witches have black cats, and I have TWO.

Sometimes I need visible proof that they actually do like each other, and also just how much bigger Murdercat is than Tinycat, and how much she does not give a shit about that.

tiny horses, part one

So here is a thing that I do: customize model horses*. I started doing it when I was a kid, when Breyer was the only game in town. And I sucked. I kept trying, though, and even though I never got amazing, I got better. I hated the prep work: sanding, filing, carving, basically all the sculpting. Hated it. Perhaps because I've never had the facilities to really get into it--torches, inflammable locations, a concrete floor--but even if I had, I just don't like sculpting that much. At its core, model horse customizing is about artists doing painting and sculpture work on a model equine body. There comes a point when talent supplements skill, or it doesn't, and I've pushed my skills about as far as I can.

 

Anyway, I stopped customizing a few years ago, when we moved from the student housing apartment to something 100 square feet and a bedroom smaller. Even then, I wasn't doing much; poor light quality, an excess of cat hair. But after we moved, I packed up most of my remaining models (after the massive purge of the early '90s), except a fistful of the tiny ones that were gifts or models I particularly loved. I had two sad unfinished mutants, too, but too bad for them. I was done. 

Then I discovered this summer on Amazon that Breyer makes blanks of my favorite scale (1:32) for sale, specifically to get kids into the hobby, and... I succumbed. I bought some paints. I dug out my reference materials, and my files, and my carbide scrapers, and my sandpaper. 

Summer's a good time to paint; I can take over the dining room table for storage, and I can paint outside on the patio where the light is good. I had to buy a magnifying lamp because fucking aging eyesight, and because I like the tiny ones. I got the warmblood "family". 

Then of course I started with my mutant, who had been one of these guys before the judicious application of candle flames and epoxy modeling paste. I straightened a leg and a head/neck and gave him better hair. I love the wild patterns you can get on a Clydesdale, (I love wild patterns in general, which are of course the hardest to paint) so I elected to try a grey sabino with some roaning and a lot of white. I did a little googling, found a couple of horses I liked for inspiration, and got to it. 

And then, in three drafts (a horse pun!): Day one: basecoat blocked in. Day two, roaning and sabino pattern added. Day three, mane/tail, hooves, eyes, skin, etc. He still needs a name (yes, he. The models are accurate. This one's a gelding.) 

* You can also show model horses. Live. Like, you take your horses to a place with a bunch of other people and you set them up on a table and you take them into "the ring" for their classes and people judge them on realism and on artistry. You can do this with original factory finish horses or your customized models. This is a thing that I also did, which I why I know I am not a brilliant artist. I stopped showing long before I stopped painting because I am competitive as hell. 

the cat days of summer

For what is there to do in summer other than lie about in the garden? Tinycat favors lounging tomato-side, on eight inches of weathered table. Murdercat prefers the cool dirt of the Norfolk pine pot. The pots are the same size, for reference. 
Of course these photos are terrible, because the moment Tinycat realizes she's about to be photographed, she'll move. A woman's gotta move fast around here. 

in the garden of the gods

No, really. That's the name of the park: Garden of the Gods. I wasn't being all writerly. I'm not sure which gods had this garden, but they sure like red sandstone. Possibly they tried and failed to raise tomatoes? I don't know. Not much grows willingly in that climate except scrub oak, scrub pine, and sage.

So we made our annual pilgrimage back to see parents, and while we were there, we got an unexpected opportunity to go hiking, and we leapt upon it. If I had my way, that is all we would do in Colorado: stay in the mountains and hike around. But his parents cannot travel into that kind of altitude, and at the moment, neither can mine, so we spend much of our visit sitting or walking slowly through Manitou Springs or Old Colorado City (read: tourist trap shops). And this trip, given all the toadshit of spring, we didn't feel like we could take time to stay in the mountains, even for a day. I told Nous not to stop the car as we drove over Vail Pass, or I'd jump out and disappear into the trees and that'd be that. Woman goes feral in forest. 

Anyway, the Garden of the Gods is basically a park full of big-ass red sandstone rocks that people climb in contravention of safety regs, and sometimes fall off of. It gets mostly road traffic, or people hiking on the paved bits around the biggest rocks (that, see above, people like to climb on in contravention of safety regulations). Locals use the trails, but it's not the kind of hiking that's strenuous enough to attract hardcores, and yet takes enough time/requires enough effort that the casual tourist wouldn't make it. And, you know, it's at 6400 feet, so that's enough altitude that people unused to it feel it. And it can get hot down there, and the trees in the park are mostly scrub. The yellow orb of death is brutal. (You see how I say down. My ideal is up there over 7K, closer to 8-10k. Tall trees, cold air, not much of it.)

We got lucky: clouds and abnormally cool.  The hike itself wasn't hard--maybe 250 feet of elevation change, no glacial rivers, maybe 3-4 miles. We'd had rain the night before, too, so the dust was minimal, but not enough to make mud. Which, you know--fortunate. I hadn't brought hiking boots. I had to do this hike in little Merrell trail/water shoes with basically mesh sides. It was five kinds of awesome and despite the altitude-induced headache (stubborn! we hiked at the same speed we would've at sea level, and paid for it) it was totally worth it. Next time, though, I am just bringing the damn boots.

And here, we see Nous in his guise as two-legged bighorn sheep. He cannot resist climbing out onto ledges. In his youth he might've tried scrambling up the big rocks and been one of those unfortunate, smashed-flat people. Fortunately he has aged into wisdom.

Now we're home again, and it's back to work on WIP. Which...well, here is a blog post! You can guess how that WIP is coming along. Tomorrow, back to work.

black sand, dancing skies

The Lyft driver was horrified.

"You're going where?" she said. "To do...what?"

Iceland, we said. To climb a waterfall and walk the black beach at Reynisfjara and hike Thingvellir

Thingvellir, site of the Althing

and ride horses. No tour buses, no sitting in hot springs, no fancy dinners. Rain gear, good boots, lots of layers, wool socks. Maybe the aurora borealis, if we were lucky. Probably not a lot of beer. Certainly not a lot of people. 340K on the whole island! Long stretches of nothing and no one. Lots of sheep and horses. Silence, I said wistfully. Maybe somewhere I can't hear any cars.

"Have fun," the Lyft driver wished us. But she sounded doubtful. (Her upcoming vacation, a weekend in Denver, was to be spent drinking and partying and otherwise not exerting herself one more iota than necessary. I do not judge this, but I also do not want it.)

Maybe it's that Nous and I are not good at vacations. We haven't been on one that lasted more than a day (visiting family does not count) for 15 years. Perhaps we could've offered that as excuse to the Lyft driver--we don't know how to relax in long stretches. And also, to us, hiking is relaxing. Seeing new landscapes is relaxing. Nous getting some quality time with his camera is relaxing.

We got our wishes. All of them.

I mean: we went to Iceland in September and did not need our rain pants. It rained exactly twice: the afternoon we arrived, and on the return from Reynisfjara.

Glymur, in Hvalfjordur

Which meant, when we went up the Glymur waterfall trail, it was sunny, and our (very enthusiastic) guide decided to take the long way, which involved crossing a glacial river twice, barefoot. No tour buses. You can't see Glymur from the road. You have to earn it.

No lie: I felt pretty badass, afterwards. And I was also very glad of my wool socks (one of my earliest pairs) which prevented blisters from lingering damp and sandy bits that stuck to me after the river crossings.

We saw the aurora borealis that night, of which I have no pictures, because I was too busy watching them. They looked like  bands of silver and the faintest hints of green. Like ghosts moving on the vaults of the sky.

And then, finally, Reynisfjara, which was my Must See from the very first time I saw a photo. We drove out of Reykjavik, past farms of sheep and Icelandic horses, past Eyjafjallajökull (capped in clouds, quiet, brooding), past a parade of waterfalls fed by the glaciers.

There is something about this long stretch of black sand, studded with rocks, ringed with basalt columns on one side and crashing grey sea on the other. Just listen to it. I wish I could share the rest: the wind, the cold salty tang of the sea, the grit of the sand. But this will have to do.

rug therapy

Friend T, she who makes amazing pastries and cooks like fucking Top Chef, said she could never knit because it requires too much patience. (And I think...but you make pastry by hand. And you make fancy food that requires attention. I don't understand how you don't have patience).

And I said--pff. It's not patience. It's therapy. When I feel like I have control of nothing, and/or when the writing's gone to shit, I impose some order on unruly sheep fur and feel better about things.

It has been a summer in need of therapy, and since I acquired BRUISE and a spinning wheel in July...

I made this rug.

The BRUISE was spun, then plied, then knit (garter stitch) double-stranded with a single-ply merino in a truly 80s electric blue, and then felted. And although it is supposed to be my rug, for when I work at my desk...Skugga wasted no time in deciding it was his. We'll negotiate, cat.

slivers of sunlight

We didn't get totality, but we got weird reddish light and we didn't have to leave our patio and this table made an excellent pinhole viewer. 

I call this eclipse a win.