Us women have the most important job when it comes to home projects

 

Us women have the most important job when it comes to home projects

20 April 2024

Have you ever had the dubious “honour” of assisting your husband or partner when he’s wearing his handyman-hat?

 

Now don’t get me wrong. A bit of home DIY is always an exciting thing. Especially if it’s a project that I’ve requested. If you catch my purely selfish drift.

 

Putting something up in the garden fills me with great excitement. Adding a repurposed shelf, a mirror, or a picture is awesome. And then I’m all eager. Usually asking for weeks before the handyman-hat gets donned and the task is done. And I so get it. For the handyman in question, one has to work up the energy or perhaps appetite to do such a job. Sometimes it’s actually easier to have a whole bunch of these type of things that need to be done. And then rather than stretching them out and doing the odd thing here and there, simply waiting until you’ve got a veritable collection of handyman chores that need to be accomplished before you dust off the tools and work up the appropriate amount of relish to get cracking and tackle it all together.

 

However…

 

Something unexciting like redoing the wiring on the toaster, or sorting out the messy bird’s nest of wires behind the TV does not even slightly fill me with enthusiasm at all.

 

Dreary to the extreme. Yet I do know, that these kinds of projects are equally essential. Yes, they’re tedious. But it’s important as well.

 

Now the problem comes in when I’m roped in to assist. I’m a helper by nature. Eagerly throwing myself into any task to aid someone. Always willing.

 

But when you have the questionable distinction of being responsible for holding screws in your hand, or handing tools to the handyman, it’s not all that thrilling at all. Then there’s the vacuuming afterwards to remove all of the debris. And usually, inevitably, there are some supposed essential and critical bits, that have somehow become surplus to requirements. Why are there so often screws and all manner of odd assortments left behind once something has been assembled or “fixed”? Perhaps the makers of such items like to just throw them in there. You know. To add a dangerous element of surprise and confusion. Drawing out the torture? Evil bastards!

 

Alas, as a seasoned handman-helper, I’ve become accustomed to this. Hence there’s always a random jar or old ice-cream tub in our garage. Filled with leftover bits and bobs. Who knows, one day they might even be needed.

 

So to every other handman-helper out there, I feel you. The pressure can be unbearable, but somebody has to do it.

Duct Tape and Cable Ties - The modern man's answer to everything

 

Duct Tape and Cable Ties - The modern man's answer to everything

16 April 2024

I have a certain family member, who delights in seeing any potential breakage in his home, his car or anywhere else for that matter, as a challenge to whip out some duct tape, and create some magic.

 

Forget the old super glue or finding-a-new-screw method. That’s so old school and yesteryear. Why bother, when a good old strip (or rather a multiple amount of strips) of duct tape can do a much better job. Creating a delightful addition to a formerly beautiful item of furniture, or whatever else tickles your fancy. I suspect that this guy, finds the addition of a colourful strip of blue or silver duct tape far more aesthetically pleasing to the eye. Creating a wonderful uplifting effect on a previously functional item.

 

In fact, he takes his artistic creativity and flair to the next level. Not merely “fixing” something, ensuring that it looks almost the way it once did before he "fixed" it.. He rather opts for a quirky curve to a former straight up bedside lamp. Clearly improving on what was once there. After all, why not?

 

And then I started thinking about it a bit more. Doesn’t My Grantie do exactly the same? Our snackwhich maker is a missing a screw that we cannot find an exact replacement for. Hey, no problem! Blue duct tape to the rescue. Is it pretty? Hell no! But does it work? Hell yes! Problem solved.

 

Which started me thinking even more. Is this creative fixing obsession, merely limited to the humble duct tape in order to cure all ails? Why no, there’s another equally awesome fixer-upper solution to any problem that the humble duct tape can’t fix. Yip, you guessed it, cable ties. We have a variety of colours and lengths. And boy, does he love those bad boys.

 

And then once I started investigating, it came to light that the original family member I mentioned first, is also a firm believer in the restorative properties of cable ties.

 

Do you think there’s a pattern emerging here? Do they teach it at Boy/Man 101. Maybe there’s a subsection of the course material titled, “Duct Tape and Cable Ties – How to effectively use these on anything and everything”. Perhaps the follow-up module is titled, “Uplifting a once-broken item into a fixed creation of unequalled beauty”.

 

But hey, I’m not going to knock it. I’ve got a few fixer-upper tricks up my own sleeve as well. Albeit of a slightly different variety. Dinner a bit boring? Hey, presto! Just add garlic. Supper need a spot of pizazz? No problem. Cream and mushrooms will perk that unappetising sucker right up. Still no culinary joy? Fear not! A spot of chilli will effectively nuke and mask absolutely anything.

 

So, there you’ve got it. Men have their go-to tricks. And us gals have ours.

Please note that certain names were not mentioned in this blog. In order to protect "the innocent"...

Man-logic. Evidently it's a real thing.

 

Man-logic. Evidently it's a real thing

26 March 2024

Man-logic. It’s a foreign concept to me. Unchartered territory. Though I’ve been on the receiving end of it often.

 

I wonder if men feel the same about girl-math? Because that is also a real thing. To be fair, so is girl-logic. So there is that.

 

We all have our own unique reference system. Possibly based on something as random as our gender. So weird, given how advanced humankind is, and how far we’ve come, that so very often it still resorts to which bits you’ve got.

 

Grant and I love watching Survivor. I know. Judge me if you want to. But I’ve simply always loved it. Maybe it’s just Jeff Probst. Then again, who could really blame me? Because just look at him. He’s Jeff Probst. Which is more than enough explanation. Need I say more? So why am I rambling on about Survivor? Well, whether you know the principle of the game, or whether if you don’t, I’ll give you a quick rundown. Eighteen strangers are dropped off in a remote location. And they’re usually divided into two teams of nine contestants each. Think NO amenities. No spare clothing. I don’t like to think about bathrooms and how they go about that particular necessity, but basically there isn’t any. Which is why I choose not to think about it. Occasionally, if the producers are feeling generous, they’re given a bag of rice. Yet no flint to make fire. No pots. No bedding. Nothing. They’re basically given a water bottle, access to a well and a big pristine beach, mostly with a bit of a jungle attached to it, and then they’ve got to figure it out. Rewards like flints, cooking utensils and fishing gear can be acquired by winning challenges. Every three days or so, a contestant from the losing team (after a challenge), gets voted out. And so the numbers dwindle. Until you’re eventually left with one ultimate survivor. On day 27 or something. Can’t remember.

 

But basically, in order to eventually win and become “The Ultimate Survivor”, you need to make alliances. The big twist in the game, is the fact that the people that you include in your alliance, will eventually be voted out. By you. Yet, you need them to vote FOR YOU at the final tribal council. Really clever twist. Now what I find ironic, is that so very, very often, alliances are based on gender. Kinda like, “we’re a bunch of girls – let’s stick together”. So weird. I had always imagined that there would be more important factors to consider. Yet, more often than not, it’s once again simply decided, because you’ve got the same equipment. It is odd, right?

 

So what exactly is girl-math? Well long ago, shortly after Cole was born, I was a real porker. And I decided to join Weigh-Less. As they do every single week when you go for your weigh-in, they quite obviously get you to stand on a scale, and they record your weight on your very own chart. Really nifty, so you can track your progress, or lack thereof. And I remember weighing myself at home, just before I left to go weigh in for the first time. And I couldn’t help noticing that there was a 400g difference between my scale and theirs. And so, since the first week, whenever I weigh myself at home, I automatically take off 400g off the number on the scale. Cause why wouldn’t I? More than nineteen years later and I still do it to this day. It’s girl-math and it suits me perfectly. Regardless, I can fault that particular logic. Makes sense to me.

 

Anyway, so the point I’m trying to make, albeit rather lengthily, is that men and women are supremely different. On so many levels.

 

So take my beloved Grantie, as an example. We absolutely LOVE our cats. But for longest time, there has been a ginger tomcat that comes calling after we’ve gone to bed. He doesn’t cause a fight or anything. At least not anymore. He simply saunters through the cat flap and helps himself to the virtual smorgasbord selection of cat food that we’ve got. For our cats. Now don’t get me wrong. I don’t mind. Feeding the hungry and all. But My Grantie takes it very badly. Mostly because initially this ginger cat used to terrorize our cats and fight with them. However by now, they’re used to him. They just steer clear when he’s around and lay low. Watching him with extreme boredom from a safe distance. Which somehow incenses My Grantie even more. Where’s their fighting spirit? Why don’t they stand up for themselves and boot him out? A contributing factor, is also the fact that this is indeed not a poor homeless and hungry stray. He lives a mere three houses away from us and has a very happy home life, I’m sure.

 

Regardless of this hapless cat’s circumstances, Grant takes exception. He’s got a low-level radar system, that stays primed and ready, right through the night. Cat flap noises often causes him to get up and investigate the cause. Even though we’ve got two cats. And they both use the cat flap too. What can I say? Boy-logic at work. Though to be fair, once Grantie’s meds kicks in, he sleeps deeper. And occasionally the offender does trespass without being caught in the act. Now as for me? I could sleep through a bomb going off. Or a band rehearsal. And have done so many times in the past. The band rehearsal. Not the bomb. Noise doesn’t faze me in the slightest. Still marvel at the fact that I woke up for my babies in the night when they were little. It’s a miracle!

 

So My Grantie has devised a cunning plan to thwart the ginger cat’s unwanted presence in our home. A deterrent, if you like.

 

A wooden rocking horse ornament. Yip. A rocking horse. I. Have. No. Words.

 

The wooden rocking horse is meticulously and strategically placed just inside the cat flap every night. So the “perp” gets sufficiently frightened and deterred, should he want to enter.

 

Yip. Every single night.

 

Grantie recently went to Joburg for a work trip for two nights. And every night he reminded me to place “the fierce beast” just inside the cat flap.

 

So here’s the next obvious question. Does it work? Is it an effective deterrent? Is the tomcat appropriately traumatised by the horror of a beautifully ornate wooden rocking horse?

 

Well, of course not. I suspect he thinks we’ve merely decorated. Or placed it there to welcome him.

 

Regardless, it gets placed nightly without fail. Much to my amusement. And I think our cats’ and the tomcat’s too.

 

Boy-logic. It is absolutely priceless. And I do love it so.

 

Either which way, it’s got huge entertainment appeal. So I’m all for it.

 

 

1st Kiss vs 1st Fart

 

1st Kiss vs 1st Fart
9 October 2014

Now this is true.  What causes more stress and discomfort, when entering a new relationship?

The first kiss?  Or the first fart?

Most likely, this largely depends on the sex of the person.

Now I can’t really answer for men.  Obviously.  But in general, they seem to encourage bowel movements of any kind.  And see them not only as a victory, but as a measure of manliness, and virility.  It truly boggles the mind.  Flatulence is celebrated.  Heralded as acts of greatness.  Boasted about.  Greatly admired.  And worse of all – shared.  With pride.

They’re pretty indiscriminate with their audience.  Anyone is fair game.  And they’re not really selective about venue or place either.  Quite literally, the world is their oyster.  Many have a fondness for confined spaces like cars.  Or open public spaces too.  I’ve often wondered if they’re similar to dogs, in that they like to mark their territory? 

Now I’m quite naturally not referring to my gentle and “sweet” smelling man.  Or not only to him. My family is rife with men.  Generally, they rejoice in farting.  Crude but true.  Don’t believe me?  Just ask the long suffering women in my family.  The wives, husbands, and sisters.  They’ll concur. 

As for women?  We don’t share the same enthusiasm as men.  We don’t celebrate flatulence.  We ignore it.  Pretend we don’t do it.  And simply never think about it.

The first kiss in a relationship is very special.  Hugely much anticipated.  Especially by the ladies. 

It is dreamt about.  Savoured.  And over the years, often taken out of the memory bank, and recalled with fondness.  Usually with a great deal of embellishment added for good measure.

I can’t exactly recall my first kiss with Grant.  I’m assuming it was pretty terrible.  Most likely uncomfortable and new.  Noisy.  All awkward and nose-bumpy, as we had to find our rhythm.  Our angle and our perfect head inclination spot.  In addition, we were rather young.  And I was probably a bit of a kissing novice.  I mean, how many boys have you kissed when you’ve just turned seventeen? 

But as for the first fart?  Well, Grant claims that it happened one night when we were sleeping. 

Yip, rather convenient if you ask me.  As I can’t defend myself.  Most likely he made it all up.  I was unconscious after all.  Defenceless.  Perhaps he imagined it?  Is he really a good character witness in the middle of the night?  It could’ve been a dream.  And surely he was unconscious too?

As for him?  Well, naturally I may not reveal the exact details.  Suffice it to say, that it involved a spade.  And jumping.

And I still laugh to this day, when I think about it.  And so does he. 

Which is pretty darn perfect.  An odd but special memory none the less. 

And isn’t it just true of true love.  A patchwork quilt of memories, all sewed together with love.  From the silly to the serious.  Special one and all.

Thus, for that simple reason, I cherish it all.  The first kiss and the first fart.  Yet, because of the laughter, and the shared embarrassment, the fart sticks out by far.

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Dads and dating daughters - Exhibit B - Grant and Amber

Dads and dating daughters - Exhibit B - Grant and Amber
22 June 2014

Having been the dating daughter of a doting dad, it is now very peculiar, enlightening and intriguing to have crossed over.  And to witness the whole ritual.  From the other side of the fence.  I am now but a bit player.  And though we are just on the cusp of having a dating daughter, it is interesting to watch my Grantie being thrust into the role of the heavy-menacing-father. 

I’ve been on the receiving end of this game, having been the daughter.  But now the tables have turned. 

Thus it is very funny for me to witness and play spectator to Grant’s acceptance of the fact that Amber is growing up.  That not only do certain boys like her, but she likes them back.  Each potential candidate is blessed with a horrendous nickname.  And teasing ensues.  Much to her horror.  Though I think it’s actually a gentle jousting game that Amber and Grant are playing.  Entering into verbal sparring.  And one I think that both of them begrudgingly enjoys.  It’s a rite of passage.  Expected behaviour from both parties.  And they’re playing their parts.  It’s as if it’s been scripted.

Last Sunday, Amber was invited out to the movies, with a whole bunch of school friends.  About fifteen of them, or so.  But she clearly was the special friend, and guest, of one boy in particular.  I was firmly instructed by Amber, that her “friend” would buy her snacks.  She’d buy her own movie ticket.  But he had said that he would take her for an ice-cream afterwards, get her popcorn and a cold drink (she bought them both some tokens for the games arcade).  So sweet.  At twelve and a half, I feel that this is fairly safe.  And lots of fun.  It’s not a one on one.  It’s a group outing so to speak.  Nothing really untoward about it.  Also, I’d rather her enjoy the friendship of boys.  While it’s still very much friendship based.  Sometimes, saying “no” to little things like this, just ends up pushing them towards it.  Making it more exciting because it’s not allowed. 

Anyway, lots of faffing about what to wear.  And clear directives given to me, days in advance, to simply drop her off at the entrance of the Mall.  As I was sure to embarrass her.  As if!  Firstly, I’d never just slow down to sixty and let my daughter out of the car at the entrance with no supervision.  In addition, I’d do my level best to contain all embarrassing tendencies.  Like swearing, flatulence, whistling, singing, whipping out her baby album, telling silly jokes, recalling humiliating anecdotes from when she was little, like the time when she was three and she….. etc.  And I told her this.  But I was willing to concede that I would take her.  As she was convinced that Grant would be even more embarrassing – doing his whole heavy-menacing-father-thing. 

Until I had an unanticipated disaster, needing me to cart both of my boys around somewhere urgently.  At exactly the same time Amber would have to be dropped off.  Which meant that the heavy-menacing-father, would have to drop her off.

Amber’s nerves were shattered.  But dressed for her “date”, hair all straightened, and butterflies packed firmly in her tummy, she left with her dad.  The very same heavy-menacing-father, I had pulled aside, and asked to please go gentle.  She wasn’t going to marry this boy.  There were just twelve.  Going to watch a movie.  With a whole bunch of friends.  He could ease up a bit.  And give the boy some slack.

I was so disappointed that I couldn’t take her.  And dearly wanted to be a fly on the wall.  But I packed my boys off in the car and we dashed away too.  And then, a few minutes later, I got a call from Grant.  And all he said in Afrikaans (which is really strange, because my Grantie is English and usually only converses in English) was, “Hy is sooo oulik!”.  Which means, “He is sooo cute!”.  Apparently “the boy” (who’s a full head shorter than Amber), walked over to Grant, looked him straight in the eye, shook his hand, spoke in a loud clear voice, and introduced himself.  I believe Grant was putty.  Amber later said, that “the boy” told her he’d practiced the whole handshake-eye-contact-introduction-thing in the mirror at home.  So sweet.

There will be lots more of this I suspect, as my beautiful daughter is growing more beautiful by the day.  She has an inner warmth, gentle kindness and glow that is magnificent.  It’s still going to be a long road for my Grantie.  I reckon I’ll be having lots of calming talks with him along the way.

Perhaps he should take a page from my uncle’s book.  When my cousin brings a new boy home, he simply gives him a number.  Says there’s no point learning their names – they won’t last long in any rate.  Not that she’s dated all that many boys in the past.  There’s only been two really serious ones.  Maybe the odd casual date along the way.  And to be fair, she and “Thirteen” lasted about two years.  We all just called him, “Dertien”.  Never by his real name.  But alas, their love never lasted.  And now she’s back together with “Twelve” again.

True story.

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Most beautiful girl in the world

 

All dolled up for the school sokkie this past weekend - gorgeous!

Under-The-Butt-Nut-Hut

 

Under-The-Butt-Nut-Hut
4 June 2014

Yip, some phrases are really awesome.  Marvellously descriptive. 

And “Under-The-Butt-Nut-Hut”, fits the description for men’s undies to a T.  Though depending on your preference, it could by to the Y-front.  Alphabetically speaking of course.

It is such an awesome and very clever play on rhyming words.  One can’t help but love it!  It’s catchy and quirky, and it puts a smile on my lips.  And I bet, it’ll do exactly the same for you too.

In much the same way, women’s bra’s are sometimes referred to as “Over-The-Shoulder-Boulder-Holders”.  And I suppose the size of the boulders depends, on the individual women.  If I lose weight, my boulders diminish.  Sad fact. 

Though I don’t think men suffer from the same affliction.  Irrespective of weight or actual physical size.

For them it’s always EXTRA-LARGE.  Right? 

And what would a g-string be?  Bum floss?  And men’s boxers? 

I love word play.  And clever word play even more so.

The English language is truly wonderful.  It delivers many similar gems up to me all of the time.  I suppose the same goes for most other languages too.

I think I’ll have to put this one in to play.  And very soon too.

The next time I head off to Woollies or wherever, to get the men in my home some underwear, I’ll most certainly try it out. 

I’ll find the first available assistant, in the men’s department.  Or the boy’s for my youngest.

I’ll tap him or her on the shoulder, look them straight in the eye and say,

“Can you please point me in the direction of the Under-The-Butt-Nut-Huts”.

I shall not revert to the use of the word jocks.  Nor boxers.  Neither briefs or undies.

It’s always fun to nuke unsuspecting victims in your path…

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If women were like men...

 

If women were like men...
24 April 2014

If women were like men, life would be very, very, very different.

We are truly a different species. 

But if we weren’t, exactly how would life be different?  What unrestricted freedoms would we have?  How would life be altered?  What would we now be allowed to do?

And so, having a great fondness of lists, I decided to compile one myself.

If women were like men:

• For one, we’d scratch our vajayjay’s in public.  All the time.  With no self-awareness or embarrassment whatsoever.
• We’d never shave our armpits.  Ever.  We probably wouldn’t care about our fuzz.
• Compulsory leg shaving would become taboo.  No more awkwardly balancing on one leg in the shower, while doing the dirty deed.
• We’d most definitely pee in public.  Though having to squat would probably take away a bit of that magic.  And having to wipe too.
• We’d burp out loud, with a great sense of glee.  Hitting our chests with pride.
• Farts would be encouraged.  Heralded as great achievements.  Seen as signs of virility.  And hold special significance.
• We’d welcome chest hair. 
• The beauty industry would go bankrupt.  Fizzle up and die.
• The word “selfie” would be discontinued.  The habit of taking selfies, too.
• We’d fondle TV remotes like they had magical, mystical properties.  And protect them with our life.
• No one would ever change the loo roll.
• Loo seats would permanently remain up.
• Washing baskets would be phased out.
• Crockery would no longer be produced – paper plates would suffice.
• The fruit and vegetable industry would crash.
• The diet industry would come to a dead halt.
• There would no longer be any romantic comedy, romantic, chick-flick, or drama’s produced in Hollywood.
• A whole bunch of actors would be surplus to requirements and retired – Hugh Grant, Colin Firth, etc.
• The movie genre, “musical”, would no longer exist.
• Meat production would have to be stepped up and escalated. 
• Houses would no longer be built with bath tubs - showers only.
• Daily soapies would no longer be broadcasted on TV.  Nor would infomercials, and talk shows.
• Houses would no longer bear trinkets.
• No effort would be expended on colour coordination – either for the home, or personal wardrobe.
• Long pants would only require two variations – one pair of blue jeans, one pair of black jeans.  At a push, a pair of beige chino’s. 
• Chicken would be reclassified as a vegetable. 
• Words like, "stunning", "fabulous", "peeps", etc. would fall into disuse.  In addition, excessive use of exclamations in written word, will also come to an end. 
• The psychology, psychiatry and therapist industries, will cease to exist.  As no one would ever open up enough to discuss their emotions and their issues.
• Soup would no longer be regarded as a main meal option.
• Electric blankets and hot water bottles would no longer be used – real men don’t feel the cold.
• Virility and manliness, would be judged by the size of your technological devices, i.e. cell phones, laptops, PC’s, tablets, TV Screens, amount of buttons on your TV remote, etc.
• A beer a day, would be seen as a carbohydrate.  A vegetable too.  An essential part of the daily dietary requirements.  In fact a health risk, to not indulge.
• The music genre, R&B, would be discontinued.  In addition, artists like Kenny G, will be flogged.  His saxophone will be chopped up, and bits will be sent to the corners of the earth, so that it can never be reassembled ever again.  Pan flutes will receive a similar treatment.
• Sport would become a religion.  We’d all be side line coaches, from the comfort of our couches.
• All telephone bills would be drastically reduced.
• The word “small talk” would be referred to as the habit of indulging in brief phone conversations.
• Nobody would ever comment on the weather, or make “small talk” with other people while standing in queues.
• There would be pockets of lost people everywhere, cause no one would ask for directions.  Ever.
• Laundry would be outsourced.  Commercial laundry services would spike, whereas the manufacturing and production of washing machines, tumble driers, and irons, for domestic use would be discontinued.
• The floral industry would take a terrible down turn.
• The haberdashery and greeting card industry would close down all together.
• On the odd off chance that gifts are bought, nobody would ever wrap them.
• Lap dogs would never be carried around in little baskets.  Instead, a lot of preference would be given to big dogs.  And all animals would be required to walk by themselves.
• The term “hair-care-regime”, would mean washing your hair.  With shampoo.  Not necessarily conditioner.  Hair dryers would be defunct.
• Wrinkles would add character.
• Bellies would be embraced and revered.  Seen as a sign of wealth and opulence.  Indulgence too.
• Only three pairs of shoes would be needed.  One pair of sneakers/takkies/trainers.  One pair of lace-up shoes, other than sneakers/takkies/trainers.  One pair of slops or sandals.  At a push, you could dish the middle pair.
• Instinctively, we’d know which way to turn taps open, or turn a screwdriver.
• The war movie genre would show exponential growth.
• Sports like fishing, darts, hunting, wrestling, boxing, etc. would expand, whereas sports like synchronised swimming, netball, and ribbon gymnastics would fade away altogether.
• We’d install our own programmes on our computers.
• We’d instinctively understand the complexities of the electrical mains.
• We’d naturally gravitate towards hardware stores.
• We’d change our own light bulbs.
• Crafting?  What is crafting?

Yes, the list would indeed be pretty endless.  We’d also be able to tune our own TV’s.  Have our own barbeques.  And so on and so forth.

But how empty a world it would be?  No depth, no colour, no magical, marvellous, womanly mystery.

And thus, though I would most certainly enjoy some of the perks of being a man (like peeing standing up), I most definitely am not prepared to give up my womanly comforts.

Like scatter cushions, pretty ribbons, lengthy phone conversations, leisurely hot baths, a love of salads and fruit, romantic novels, chick flicks…

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My husband is jealous of my relationship with my phone

 

 

 My husband is jealous of my relationship with my phone
13 March 2014

Urgh!  Husbands!  What are they like.  So needy.  So demanding. 

Mine is quite often terribly miffed with my phone.  But I think I’ve finally figured it out – he’s just plain jealous.

Jealous of the time I spend fondling my phone, staring at it lovingly.  Touching it all over.

And to be fair – he’s right.  I do.

My phone is my portal to the world.  My connection with many people.  Via numerous different channels.  There’s emails, and Whatsapps, Instagram and Facebook, Twitter and sms’, and my beloved friend Google.  Quite literally the world at my fingertips.  Not to even mention the fact that it has become my camera.  The place I record my memories and every notable occasion in my life and in the lives of my children and those I love.  I take it with me on walks up the mountain.  Walks along the beach.  Drives in the car.  Nestled in my pocket.  It’s my mp3 player, with all of my favourite songs.  To be fair – it’s my technological heaven.

It beeps constantly, and I find it terribly hard to ignore.  And thus, during family time, I try and simply put it on mute.  Face down.  So the often lit up screen doesn’t divert my focus from the real people in my life.  The ones I care about the most.  The ones that actually need my attention.  And deserve it too. 

My best, is the way it allays boredom on car journeys.  Even short little ones, when I’m in the passenger seat.  Especially when Grant’s the driver, and he’s on a business call, or lost in his own thoughts.  Though I am perfectly capable of holding a verbal conversation, whilst busy on my phone.  My multi-tasking abilities are finely honed.

It’s so delightfully distracting.  And what happens is that with one simple glance, I get transported.  My fingers flying over the screen.  Taking in all that is on offer. 

The side tracking possibilities are endless.  And they do just that.

And yes, I am often pre-occupied with it.  Busy, you see.  But there’s just so much out there.  And it’s forever pinging.  Demanding my attention.  Needing my touch.

And so for my husband, perhaps his feelings of discontent are justified.  Warranted even.  But here’s the thing…

Do I whinge about the time he spends fondling the TV remote?  Staring at it lovingly.  Touching it all over.

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Men knitting - apparently it's the new yoga

 

Men knitting - apparently it's the new yoga
4 March 2014

Ya, right!  As if knitting can be like yoga.  Relaxing.  Soothing.  Satisfying.  Calming.  Rewarding. 

Actually, come to think of it, they maybe kinda have a point? 

But I must be honest – the whole concept of men knitting, tickles me.  It tickles me pink.  Many other colours too.

Which is probably pretty silly.  I mean why can’t they knit if they want to?  Why does it have to be a female pastime only?  How narrow minded and sexist.

Still it strikes me as being a little bit odd.  Strange even.  A little bit off kilter.

It’s not as if I mind them knitting, I just find it unusual.  I can imagine it being a peculiar sight.

Imagine chugging along to work on the tube or the train, and at a quick glance to the left, you notice the bloke next to you, head bent, look of concentration on his face, knitting away.  Perhaps quite comfortably and familiar with the task.  Not looking down at his handiwork at all.  Maybe having a little chat with the elderly lady across from him, or seemingly staring out at the view, taking all of the sights in.  Even worse, if he continually peers down, at a complicated pattern on his lap.  Many colours intertwining, a few needles holding different kinds of yarn, dangling along.  How intimidating!!!

And weird!

Yet, apparently, the trend is growing.  And growing fast.

So who are these mysterious male knitters?  Are they geriatric old men, helping their wives finish the knee blankie they’re knitting?  Is it a skill passed on from their grandfather?  Or even their grandmother?  Did they learn from days gone by, when they perhaps “knitted” fishing nets?  I mean who can tell?  How often do they do it?  Why do they do it?

Well, blow me down.  Supposedly they’re not old at all.  They’re young.  So “they” say.  Career men, in high power, stressful jobs.  Men requiring a means to offload and distress.

I suppose as an alternative to playing golf, snorting Coke, fast women, fast cars, and developing a drinking problem, it surely holds merit.  Great appeal even.

Do they break out, and go all flashy with pattern defying ARAN style jerseys?  All cables and twists?

Across some countries in Europe, they’ve taught the skill of knitting to male prisoners.  I would imagine that violent crime in these prisons have subsided.  That inmates are less prone to frustrated outbursts.  And that they do possibly find a sense of inner calm.  It is seen as job creation, and prisoners sell their wares on the outside.  Through an initiative, created just for that purpose.  Earning a bit of cash.  In addition, they make little gifts for family, children and loved ones, on the outside too.  How amazing!

But never mind that, a new latest trend amongst male knitters, is knitting retreats.  Forget golfing weekends away.  Fishing trips too.  And I suppose that crosses hunting trips right off the list as well.

The new, must have get-away spoil, for the man in your life?  Well a weekend away – knitting.  With likeminded men, with the same passion and hobby.  An honest to goodness knitting retreat.

I can just picture them on a porch.  Sitting in their rocking chairs.  Wearing their leathers and their studs.  Caps and tattoos.  Beer at their side.  Dartboard to the right.

And at their feet?  Bright balls of wool.  And satisfied smiles on their faces.

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Enough said - kind of encapsulates it perfectly

 

So manly. So purple. So wrong...

Look all I'm saying, is if it's good enough for Russell, then it's good enough for me.  And/or my Grantie - I might just have to teach him after-all.

 

Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha! Now there's a catchy title!

 

Boys on the line, keeping themselves occupied and sane. Well done!