Red Hat Rant...

What IS it about the combination of red and purple, liberally encased in glitter and feathers of every sort, on women of a certain age that gets on my last nerve? In the spirit of disclosure, I must admit that I’m about 1 ½ years from being counted in that age group. I’m 48. And I’ve already warned my friends: NO RED HAT STUFF when I turn 50. Of my closest friends, only 1 has turned 50 so far. The rest are further away from contemplation of that year. But we’ve already had that discussion. The Red Hat Society (www.redhatsociety.com) started out innocently enough. Based on the poem by Jenny Joseph called “Warning,” a woman in Phoenix decided, around 2001 or so, that she was going to have fun as she grew older. She decided, like many others, that old age is a gift, not a burden. Ms. Joseph’s poem has become the Red Hat anthem, reading in part: “WARNING – When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple With a red hat which doesn’t go and doesn’t suit me.” Red Hatters (and others) seem to particularly enjoy the last stanza of the poem, which states: “But maybe I ought to practice a little now? So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.” The poem is empowering to some women, giving permission for them to be themselves after they’ve spent most of their adult lives caring for others. The notion of the Red Hat Society is not a profound one…they want to have fun. After all, we have enough doom and gloom in our lives. We should be able to gather with our gal pals and just flat-out enjoy each other and our lives. But somewhere along the line, it went a little sideways. Some women (not ALL of them) choose to indulge in an orgy of bad dressing and sometimes seem to claim a sense of entitlement that goes beyond “assertive” and borders upon “obnoxious.” That’s just wrong. As far as sartorial sense, there seems to be (again, in SOME women) an overabundance of polyester and spandex on mature figures; and an overabundance of glitter, feathers and flashing red pins. More disclosure? I like purple. It’s my favorite color – in all its shades. From the nicest lilac to periwinkle to a nice vivid shot of regal purple. But not paired with red. And not paired with anything flashing. And only if it fits appropriately so that I don’t look like a wayward Fruit of the Loom grape. I also like red. One of my favorite suits is a cardinal-red color that I think looks just spiffy. I’m just giving my opinion, but I have to tell you that, for me, if I’m over a certain age (and over a certain weight), the only time I should be wearing anything red and flashing is if there’s an ambulance wrapped around me. Let’s face it, there aren’t too many people who’re young who look good in spandex ANYTHING. Much less red and purple stretchy stuff. And the red shoes with the purple ensembles? Only if you’re Dorothy and on your way back to Kansas. Let’s digest that whole “over 50” thing. I know some absolutely fabulous women who are well past 50. They don’t need to be defined by bad wardrobe decisions. They’re so comfortable in their skins that I rather envy them. So should there be a cut-off for the Red Hat age group? Many would undoubtedly say no. But many women I know who are over 50 – and several well near the end of their 60s – say that the whole thing is an excuse for bad dressing and bad manners. At a recent event I attended, the Red Hatters were out in force. Admittedly, there were a few who were just darling. One woman was in a lovely lavender tweed suit and it was outstanding. Her outfit was tailored well, there was just enough of each color and the outfit fit her – she didn’t compete with what she was wearing. On the other hand, there were several women who came in and caused me to say to myself, “What was she thinking?” Even another friend of mine (who admits to being “well into” the Red Hat age group), when faced with a gaggle of Red Hatters, said to me, “Oh my.” But really. Are we still where we need to define ourselves by our outfits or “colors”? I would think – or I would hope – that by the time I feel the need to further define myself, it won’t be just by what I’m wearing. And anyway, the only time I want to be seen in feathers is if they’re angel wings.

Ahhhhhhhhhh, Spring!!

Ahh, spring! I can open my windows, listen to the birds sing and hear children playing outside. Feel the breeze blowing and hear the leaves rustle in the trees. Oops, I almost got to that point, except that, coming down the street is some jerk with subwoofers rattling the bolts off the frame of his car and a bass rumbling so loud that our canary has just vibrated off his perch. I can no longer hear my husband, and he’s sitting next to me. Ahh, spring! Mind you, I love music. That is, music defined by the dictionary as “the art of producing significant arrangements of sounds, usually with reference to rhythm, pitch and tone color, especially if pleasing to the ear.” I think that means songs excluding heavy breathing and phrases that begin with, “Oh baby.” And it means excluding that 4-letter word beginning with the letter “F” and phrases about rotten women, telling how “real men” put them in their place. I don’t want to preach and sound like somebody’s mother (even though I am somebody’s mother), but come on! Yes, everyone has a right to listen to music. However, that doesn’t mean that when you’re in your yard, I have to listen to your music – when your yard is half a block from mine. And it doesn’t mean that when you’re driving up the street, I have to listen to your radio. Don’t even tell me “if it’s too loud, you’re too old.” I’m 48. I grew up in the 60’s and 70’s and I had those battles with my parents about turning down the record-player and the radio. So anyhow, when you’re driving and those speakers are blaring, how the heck do you hear anything else? And do you care that by the time you’re in your mid-30’s you probably won’t be able to hear anything? I read about a visiting assistant professor from Tulane University in New Orleans who founded an organization called Noise Free America (www.noisefree.org). What a concept! We’re bombarded by noise during our every waking hour. Do you realize that from the moment we awaken, we’re virtually assaulted by noise? We get up to an alarm or clock-radio, we turn on the stereo or TV and our day starts. We drive to work or commute on public transportation. We work in noisy environments. Then we go home to our after-work chaos. Most of us live in suburban areas and don’t even realize what a truly quiet night is. The problem with all of this noise is that if we try to tell someone we’re bothered, whether by a loud stereo or an obnoxious cell phone conversation, we’re seen as the aggressor. Yes, my neighbor’s noise may bother me, but might their reaction bother me more? What a pity we’ve lost the sense of community we once had. And how sad that we’ve lost our manners. What happened to a sincere, “Oh, I’m sorry I was bothering you?” Instead, we hear, “Get lost, *^&%.” Maybe, instead of Noise Free America, we should start an organization called “Bring Back Courteous Americans.” For a while a few years ago, we were all very nice to each other. As a sign of normalcy returning, we seem to be getting back to our old selves. What a shame.

Babies, Babies, Everywhere...

While browsing the Internet recently, I came across an item which has caused some discussion among a group of women I talk with. Katie Holmes, the once wholesome and now glassy-eyed object of Tom Cruise’s uber-affection, is due to give birth soon. Unless you’ve been living under a rock, there’s a good chance that you know this. Or you know someone who knows this. There’s consternation among the Holmes clan, since Mr. Cruise is insistent upon Katie having a “silent birth” as recommended by the tenets of his belief in Scientology. I’m not out to knock Scientology, and I don’t write for South Park. For all I know, there ARE aliens out to get us. Far be it from me to be arrogant enough to believe WE are the only intelligent life form out there. Unlike Mr. Cruise, however, I have had children, and I have had labor. Ok, it’s not like it’s portrayed on some cheesy TV shows. You don’t HAVE to bellow your lungs out in order to give birth. But you also have to remember that you’re attempting to push a pot roast through a Cheerio. And that’s not easy work. Another thing you have to remember is that women generally like telling their birthing stories. My mom’s was pretty succinct when we chatted about how I was born. “They knocked me out. I woke up. You were here.” Oh, ok. My sister is still a little perturbed that both of my labors were under 3 hours. Suffice to say that hers were NOT. And we still refer to my youngest brother as “The Gas Pain” because my mom was due any day and was a little uncomfortable, telling my dad, “it’s just gas.” Forty-five minutes after that statement, The Gas Pain was born. For my first son, I was at the attorney’s office where I was working, sitting at my typewriter (this was pre-PC days, folks) and typing my, “I would like to start my maternity leave tomorrow” note. My water broke. My maternity leave started right then, and 2 and a quarter hours later, he was here. After calling my mom to tell her that he was born on the same day as their anniversary and the birth date of The Gas Pain, she said I was full of horse puckies…until she heard him squalling in the background. For the second one, I almost didn’t make it to the hospital. My labor coach’s teen daughter was chatting on the phone with her boyfriend. Yep, THAT was pre-cell phone. And that birth took one hour and 10 minutes. My mother asked me why I had a child so close to Christmas and I asked her if she had pre-planned to have me three weeks AFTER Christmas. See? It’s like guys telling a fish story, only women usually have the proof – the kid – that theirs WAS an ordeal. I do believe that it’s best to remain calm at birth, no matter which side of the table you are on. I do believe excessive noise is not necessarily good – they have epidurals now and they can fix it. However, I have yet to run into anyone in recent times who has had a totally “silent” birth, at least while they were conscious. I believe that birthing is a special miracle. It’s the occasion of a new life coming into this world. No matter how you do it, I think the most important thing is that it should be private and safe. I think that, sometimes we focus on celebrities just to get our minds off the natural disasters, the wars, the genocide and all that other stuff in the news. Birthing stories are fun to share when you’re with a group of girlfriends. And they make great additions to the family history. Playing them out in the tabloid press and on the ‘Net just seems to be a little over the top, even for the over-the-top times in which we now live.

Dichotomy

Some people ask how I, a practicing Catholic, feel about abortion. They often think I "support" abortion because I support a woman's right to choose. And I've explained it this way. Jesus, the original liberal, sat with sinners and tax collectors. He befriended everyone he could and his ministry is one of INclusion, not EXclusion. I am not perfect. I have made mistakes in my life. I have paid for some, and will undoubtedly pay for others as time goes on. I don't see myself as judge, jury and executioner. I have had friends who have had abortions, and they don't take the decision - or its consequences - lightly. They live with that EVERY day of their lives. My job, as a practicing Catholic, is to support and nurture my friends. It's to be there to discern with them where they should go. And to be there with them when they go - to metaphorically hold their hand. If a friend comes to me and says, "Look, I've decided to terminate this pregnancy," it is simply NOT my place to say to her, "You can't do that becuase you'll roast in the eternal flames forever." My job is to say, "Ok, have you thought out all your options? Do you want to talk through some of this?" And then be there for her when she does want to talk. Or accept that she doesn't. Does that make me an accomplice? No. It makes me available to her as a friend. She will, I assume, be living with this decision far more than I will. It seems to me that I can be more helpful to her if I can help discuss her options; and if I can be there for her when she needs me. This seems more Catholic than being the person who castigates her for her decision or who makes her feel that she's less than nothing for having made a very difficult choice. What if it's a friend who's using this as a convenience? Well, I don't know anyone like that. But if I did, yeah. I think - I KNOW - that I would say, "You know, I don't think you've thought this through; it seems to be a pattern here. Maybe you need to change some behaviors here and re-think this decision and your options." But ultimately, this is up to every woman and her God. Would I do this? Most likely not, being at the end of my fertile time. What about rape? Honestly, I can say that I do not know. How would it feel to carry a child who is conceived in violence, but is, in itself, an innocent byproduct of that violence. Do I have the ability to separate the child from the act - and then raise that child to be the best it can be? I don't know. Maybe I won't ever have to know. But I want to be able to think that I'm a compassionate human being. Made to be LIKE Christ, but not BE Christ. I am, after all, a PRACTICING Catholic. I've got a long way to go before my Catholicism is perfected.

Garter Stitch

Garter Stitch, that staple of knitters everywhere, makes a lovely piece of fabric. Except that it's mind-numbingly boring to do!! I'm working on a garter-stitch vest. You slip the first stitch of every row as if you're purling and then you knit. And knit. And knit. The panels for the vest are 36" each. There are two. Then you pick up the stitches for the bottom band. I'm using Wool-Ease (Lion Brand) in an oatmeal and a mushroom color. They will make up a nice vest that I can wear with anything. But it's mind-numbingly boring! This is my first "real" knitting project...my first project that will get me out of "scarf school" and promote me from a "facecloth freshman" to a "sweater sophomore." So I keep at it. Why does a person knit? Well, aside from its current popularity in the Hollywood set, I knit because it is very meditative. Kind of like a rosary but using yarn. It requires a certain level of concentration, much like yoga. And like yoga, once you find your rhythym, you breathe into the knitting. I can lose myself in needlework. Then, when the project is completed, I have a wonderful piece of something I have created myself. Whether for my home or for others, it's a tangible part of me that I have created - it can't be purchased, at least how I've created it. Lately, it seems like everything is available to us. Everything but time. TIME spent in the needlearts is time given back to yourself. It's a gift. It's a gift you give even if you don't give the project away. Because you've invested the time. I'm watching Farenheit 451. It's a scary movie about a "future" society that has banned books. The characters live sterile lives in a society that seems uninterested in personal accomplishment or artistry. In our increasingly connected, yet oddly disconnected world, knitting and other needlearts connect me to the women who taught me. They connect me, via the Internet, to other members of the "Secret Society of Fiber Fondlers" (you can see us at any craft store, petting the yarn or stroking the embroidery floss). They even connect me to people "live and in person" when I pull out my knitting in public. Invariably, someone asks if it's hard. I tell them no. And they watch me. And maybe, they get the idea that they can do it. And maybe they do. But even if they don't, they can still see the art is being practiced.

Why?

So what possesses the average writer, knitter and reader to create, maintain and post to a blog when there are (a) so many things to write; (b) too many projects to knit; and (c) all the books one's heart could desire? Well, maybe it's a way to spread the joy a bit. I'm opinionated. And I have published works before, but this is personal. It's like my knitting. It's a piece of me that's given to you. If you read it, peachy. If you don't - just don't tell me; my feelings will be hurt!