For Reals

This is an actual book:

Knits Men Want

The 10 rules every woman should know before knitting for a man: plus, the only 10 patterns she'll ever need.

And this is the summary:

"For as long as women have been knitting, they’ve been knitting garments for men only to have men hide their lovingly created pieces in drawers and closets.  Men aren’t being intentionally cruel; they’re just not comfortable in knitwear made with bright colors, itchy yarn, or flashy designs. In this book, the author presents ten hilarious essays, each based on a rule that helps women knit for men successfully."--Amazon.

This actual book was published for the first time in 2010.  Yes, exactly right – last year.

I really, really wish knitting was a euphemism for something – anything, absolutely anything – else, but, alas no, knitting is just knitting.  Hilarious essays?  I bet.

Dear Men:  really?  You “want” knitting?  I thought all you wanted was snacks & sex*.   How completely illuminating.  And, somewhat retarded.  But as one of you (a man) did write this book, it must be true!

Now doesn’t this explain everything? Most especially the state of the publishing industry.  And the reason why we must keep the word “retarded” in circulation.  I mean, is anything more retarded than a book about men wanting knitting?  No, no there isn’t.  I think I might just take some knitting needles, eschew the “only 10 patterns I’ll ever need” and poke my fucking eyes out with them.  Yes, yes I think that’s the only reasonable thing to do with knitting needles.  Save me, blindness, from this retarded crap!

So, supercute imaginary boyfriend (or similar), I’ll tell you now that while I know you would look even supercuter than the fellas in the book with a handmade reversible scarf, I will never, ever be able to give you what you want.  Best you know this now.  God forbid you’re disappointed in my lack of traditional craftiness.  Or worse, cold, without a non-itchy non-flashy sweater.  I know your Laura Ingalls awaits you and trust you will be happy and warm and cuddly together, knitting one and purling two.  As for you, Bruce Weinstein, I'm not only outraged you're a published author, but shocked you've actually sold copies of this book.  But, then again, I suppose this means you can get anything published these days.  How about this: 

Weapons For Women

The Evolution of the Knitting Needle

I can really see this taking off.  For Reals.

*Thanks, SF - very helpful as usual.

Wait For It

Sooner or later you will become the person you made fun of.

Trust me, it's only a matter of time.

Raunch

Beware of befriending, via Facebook, BBM, or the like, the children of your friends. Everyone needs their secrets, don’t you know?

To whit, a BB message from the 13 year old daughter of a dear friend:

‘I like big dicks’.

I am not joking, nor am I exaggerating.  This is a direct quote because as you must know, I do not talk this way.  But that’s not the point.  The point is WHY IS SHE TALKING THIS WAY?!   What does she know of dicks, big or small?  Has she seen small ones, and thus knows she prefers big ones?  Does she know what a dick is?  What is going on here?!  She’s 13!  THIRTEEN! 

Pause, reflective pause.  It’s not her fault, really.  I blame the media.  And Lady Gaga and Rihanna and all the other celebs they idolize who believe it’s totally proper to leave the house without trousers and with push up bras for tops, who sell hyper-sex and ultimately make everything so sceazy (scuzzy and sleazy) and in your face.  This new raunchiness is overt and meaningless.  None of this stuff – nudity, sex, lingo - really means anything to anyone anymore, especially someone who had no context to begin with.

While Rihanna’s new tune is pretty great, I wonder how many kiddies have any idea what  the excitement of those whips and chains is all about.  Do they know what this means?  Of course (hopefully) not.  Did I have any idea, at fourteen, what Depeche Mode’s Master & Servant was all about?  The butler, right?   Of course it’s nothing new, but somehow now it seems different.  There’s just so much more of it.  It’s a veritable onslaught.  Am I being naïve?  Are things really out of control?  Have we lost all innocence and romance?   When did it become de rigeur for kids to use words like dicks and tits and everything else as throwaways without consideration or meaning?  Am I turning into Tipper Gore?

Maybe, she said with a sigh.

Maybe I just want to channel some JT and bring the sexy back.  The times of little note passing and downturned eyes and giggles and blushing of girl memories that turn into butterflies and crazy-fast heartbeats and stolen kisses of bigger girl memories and finally the anticipation and seduction and sexy (not just sex, sexy) of now memories.   When all the other stuff – the nudity, the sex, the lingo – becomes commonplace to the point of meaningless you demystify the magic, the mystery and even the anticipation.  Quelle buzzkill.

So, sure, saying at 13 you like big dicks is (hopefully) like saying you like big spaceships: it’s (hopefully) otherwordly.  I know she’s a good girl and was just messing around with some friends.  Of course I will never tell her parents.  Of course I will be there to talk to her as a somewhat cool non-parent adult, because regardless of how cool your parents actually are, as a kid you never think they’re cool until you’re older.  Having non-parent adult influences and sounding boards are important for a kid.  If I do say so myself, I think I did a damn good job with our discussion on Chris Brown.  It does make me a little sad – shocked that phrasing like this has reached her peer groups’ vernacular and it’s cutting them all off from the SLOW AND GRADUAL natural progression of things.  Thirteen, people.  Thirteen.  I know for damn sure she won’t become one of those girls out in a pack at night in one of those butt & boob dresses drunk-tripping over impossible heels – you’ve seen these girls – she’s way too sensible for that, but for how long will she be able to stay sensible with the onslaught she’s being hit with on a daily basis?

 I think a nunnery on speed dial is the only solution.  Don’t you?

Holy Brit!

Oh, London, why did I stay away so long?

And, no! I did not bring back this incredibly grumpy weather!  It’s now been five times across the pond for me and each trip has been marked by perfect weather – it never rains while I’m in London - obviously the city has a true affinity to me and my finicky hair.  Thank you, London, thank you.

Now, I’m a big city girl at heart and no big city gets to my heart like London.  This is a BIG statement, I know, but it is so true.  There is a majesty and grandeur in the city that is impossible to replicate anywhere, and, yes, that includes New York because what London has that New York doesn’t is a sense of order and civility amidst a city bursting at the seams in all high point action:  culture; fashion; politics; music; history.  It’s a perpetual mindblow, yet you never feel overwhelmed, jostled or simply pushed around.  It’s clean and proper yet edgy and fresh.  Modern and traditional.  Multicultural and unmistakenly British.  The dichotomies are endless and fascinating.  It’s Everything.  Everything.  

The best part of this specific trip was being able to see it, as if for the first time, with my Mom.  It was her big 6-0 birthday gift from us and (lucky me) played tour guide for four days.  This was an all encompassing job – filled with the pressure of making all the decisions, navigating the wondrous Tube and also dealing with Mom’s never-get-excited-ness.  I didn’t want to spend the trip trying to wow her, trying to have her see what I saw in this amazing city, but I also didn’t want her disappointed.  You can’t force these things, so I did my best to play things low key (hard for over-excitable me) and crossed my fingers she’d see the light. Well, testament to this amazing city, my never-gets-excited-Mom was, and I quote, “impressed” with London.  I mean, that should say it all, right?  This is truly the equivalent of being touched by the hand of God.  Impressed!  Of course she was!  It's London! Victory!

She loved the cleanliness, the people (even if she didn’t understand a word they were saying, she loved listening to them all the same), the shopping, the sites (although the Crown Jewels were “nothing special” Nothing special!) the buzz and busy-ness.  Wandering around Soho and Covent Garden with her was a treat, more so wandering the grounds of Kensington Palace, listening to her oral history, including personal commentary, on the Royals – quite illuminating.  The British Museum and a look-see at the Parthenon Galleries offered an interesting perspective on the “bring them back” debate that the Greeks have been waging for years (Greece wants the bits of the Parthenon back).  Mom says shut it - Greeks should be honoured that the Brits have dedicated an enormous part of their museum for these foundations of history, more people go to London, so more people will see them there.  Huh, good point, Mom.  We had some pints, saw a show (with the extremely tall Rupert Everett and his new face!), went to Jamie Oliver’s, walked until we couldn’t anymore and were amazed at how much Greek we heard around the city (which actually sucked because what’s the point of having a secret language when everyone else can speak it too?). 

All in all, a great birthday trip for a great, great lady and a perfect reenergizing trip for me.

So, what's wrong then?  Not wrong, per se, more a curiosity: you see, when I think of London what first pops into my mind is always Covent Garden, at Christmastime.  My mental image sees snow and the city is lit up and it’s so festive -  it’s so perfectly Christmas.  This isn’t a real image though, it’s made in the movies, Love Actually & Bridget Jones, to be exact, and it’s a sham – I’ve never been to London at Christmas (just as I’ve never been to New York in the Spring).  This is wrong.  So, so wrong.  It's imperative I head across the pond to give London a true reckoning:  my favourite city, at my favourite time of year. 

Who is coming with me?   

London, OY !

Who goes to London for the weather ?

ME!

Sun, Sun, Sun, here it comes ...

Ta 'till next week, kind friends.

xxoo.

Head Shift

I’m wired for understand.  I need to know how things work, why things are, what makes things happen.  Unleashing this why, to me, is the most important thing.

It is impossibility difficult for me to let go of this:  to realize and come to terms with the sheer obvious fact that some things are not for understanding.  Some things are only for accepting.

How do you get there?  How do you give up the need to understand and live with accept? 

I. Don’t. Understand.

Savour

When you eat your Smarties do you eat the red ones last?

Do you suck them very slowly or chew them very fast?

Ah, the things we remember.

What do you do?  Do you eat those red ones last?  Do you savour the last bite of whatever deliciousness you’re eating or power feed?

 

I could win awards for speed eating.  I’m not sure how or why this habit developed but I eat really quickly.  I don’t savour the last mouthful of anything either – the more delicious the (sweet) treat the faster it goes down.  More, please!  :)

What I do savour though, is the last of things:  lovely notepaper I bought on holiday about 8 years ago that I can’t imagine running out of, so I use a few sheets and then tuck it away again (yes, I purchase stationary whilst on holiday because in a prior life I was most certainly a proper Victorian Lady); the last few chapters of a book I’m enthralled in and now, my latest hang on, the last episodes of Friday Night Lights. 

It’s Season 5 and then, that’s it.  We say goodbye to Dillon, Texas and I don’t want to.  I love this show so much it’s hard to articulate, it’s simply that good.  Most people will tell you it’s about football, but it’s as much about football as Harry Potter is about magic. FNL is about growing up and deciding who you want to be when obstacles come in your way to prevent you from making the choices you want.  It’s about dealing.  Sure, there’s teen angst, but when presented outside the soap-y parameters of 90201 you realize that the messages coming across are not limited to the under 20 set – they’re messages for life - for me and for you.  There are no stereotypes, only layered complex characters that have grown up or simply grown over the last 5 years.  It feels odd calling them ‘characters’, as to me and I’m sure to those that watch, these people are real (and not in my delusional unicorn fairy way) – they do the wrong things, they don’t look TV terrific all the time, you don’t always like them, they often make you angry and sad and happy and frustrated and all the things real people make you feel in the real life.  I don’t want to give up any plot points.  I’m not going to spoil anything for you.  What I am going to tell you is to do yourself a favour and watch this show.  Maybe by the time you get to Season 5, I might be ready to watch the last few episodes, but it’s hard to say when I’ll be ready to say goodbye.

Clear Heads

Full Hearts

Can’t Lose