Some girls are wired for the gingham apron, hot apple pie, white picket fence life. Others are just wired for disaster.
Domesticity. It giveth and it taketh away. Its small comforts are often eclipsed by the Swiffering away of a Saturday afternoon or its lukewarming of a once-hot sex life. But occasionally domesticity actually leaves the realm of the, well, domestic and actually becomes somewhat exciting.
My couch and I were enjoying some quality one-on-one time this weekend in my dust-filled, Ikea-furnished apartment when I decided to Make Myself Dinner. The concept of a hot, quality, DIY dinner occurs to me maybe once every couple weeks, when I run out of cereal and/or milk and am feeling adventurous. This particular night I was going to make some rice and vegetables, -- yes Mom, VEGETABLES -- a 2-pot affair.
The difficulty scoring for a Femme Fatality DIY Dinner goes something like this:
EasyPeasy: No Pots - Cereal / Cheese & Crackers / Ice Cream Sandwich.
Getting Up There: One Pot - Pasta / Soup / Just a Giant Pot of Gravy*
Downright Difficult: Two Pots - Soup AND Sandwich / Rice AND Vegetables
Impossible: Two+ Pots - Who owns more than 2 pots? Seriously.
*I have never actually eaten just a Giant Pot of Gravy for dinner.
The 2-pot affair is tough for a couple reasons. Timing, concentration, and focus all become paramount. Also, even if you do own 2 pots (fancypants) you can't possibly own more than one spatula. Just doesn't happen. So stirring in the correct order become important, so to not infect your rice with more than the necessary vegetable juices or to get your rice seasonings -- yes Mom, SEASONINGS -- all over your vegetables before your big Moment of Combination.
This fateful night I just wasn't really feeling it. The rice was too sticky, the vegetables were too mushy, one of the burners wasn't even working and I had to switch things around. Things got even trickier as I began receiving a steady inflow of flirtacious emails from my Myspace crush and had to come up with witty, attractive comebacks between fluffing the rice, rinsing the spatula, stirring the vegetables, repeat.
To simplify things, I aborted the 2-pot affair. I rushed the Moment of Combination and streamlined down to a One Pot Dinner. I rinsed the spatula for the final time, laid it down on the stove, and rushed back to check my inbox.
Suddenly, the (frankly, pretty unappetizing) aroma of my DIY dinner became much more pungent and poisonous-smelling. Out of the corner of my eye, I see steam pouring out of the pot. A lot of steam. A lot of billowing, black steam. I run over to the stove to see my spatula - my one and only kitchen utensil, and a brave little soldier - ON FIRE. In my haste to condense my 2 pots into 1, I left the burner on and then carefully laid the rinsed spatula right on top of it. I threw everything I could grab - spatula, DIY dinner, washcloths, a week and half worth of dirty dishes - into the sink and turned off the burner while pouring water all over the stove (because, naturally, I don't own any baking powder.)
It was a crushing blow to my grown-up ego. Plus now I'm down a spatula (RIP, little guy) and an entire stove, as all 4 burners are covered in melted plastic. So what's a girl to do? Find reassurance in a Domestic Chore Difficulty Chart, of course:
EasyPeasy: Saturday Morning Chores for the Kids - Dusting / Vacuuming / Putting Clothes in Hamper
Getting Up There: Operating Machinery - Laundry / Dishes / Plunging Toilets
Downright Difficult: Chores Necessary to Life - Cooking / Not Infusing House with Fatal Fumes
Impossible: All of the Above, Plus Baking and Carpooling.
That, and never breathe a word of it to the Myspace crush.
Femme Fatality
Boom Chicago
vrijdag 17 augustus 2007
All My Role Models are Fictional.
...and dudes.
Lindsay Lohan, are you kidding me? Arrested for drunk driving and cocaine possession, an astonishing nine days after leaving rehab. At the rate this girl's going, she'll be funding her habit(s) later in life not by writing a tell-all book, but about nine seasons of "Days of Our Lives" scripts.
I was hoping the backlash against the smug, Scientologist, slapping-your-already-screwed-kid-with-a-retarded-name starlets would be a generation of smart, hip, independent young women. Instead we get to escape from our own sordid - though admittedly middle-class - lives by reading the exploits of spoiled, skanky rich girls who have made the leap from annoying to seriously fucked up without mussing their mascara. Or sleeping for the past 96 hours.
If these girls want to learn a little about sacrifice and responsibility without stressing their delicate brain cells (which I'm pegging have a half-life of about 4 years,) they should pick up the new Harry Potter book. That dude puts his lovelife on hold, shelves the Firewhisky, and goes to try and solve the nagging little problem of total evil, at the age which Lindsay was phoning in Herbie the Lovebug.
Or they could opt for retro Brit and pick up a Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (who practiced mysticism! Also a crazy religion!) tome. Sherlock Holmes also managed to hunt down and contain total evil - this time in the form of Professor Moriarty (who, like, isn't as hot as Ralph Fiennes but, you know, has a nose) - while succombing to his own nasty cocaine addiction! But you'll notice, girls, that instead of participating in car chases through the parking lots of Santa Monica with a .13 blood alcohol level, Holmes spent his wide-awake nighttime hours doing things like memorizing every single type of tobacco or playing with his chemistry set. Or faking his own death and going into hiding. Lohan, take notes on this one in particular. We'd miss you but, you know, not.
Or, man alive, what about Harry Angstrom? There's a flawed antihero for them, and a cautionary tale of what happens to young hot-shots when they grow up. Owen Meany! A metaphor for faith and sacrifice, plus he's adorable! I mean, Humbert Humbert has an affair with his 13-year-old stepdaughter and he's still more sympathetic than these trussed up Hollywood whores.
I know I should feel sorry for these women, having fame and riches thrust upon them. But it's a wide world, and there are far worse things that can and do happen to other people everyday, who all manage to continue living. There's something to be said for the role glamour plays in our lives, but it can probably fit in half a column on the back page of Cosmopolitan. There are literally hundreds of millions of words written in our collective legends. stories, and history books about heroism. And, I promise, not one of those words is "Lohan."
Femme Fatality
Boom Chicago
Lindsay Lohan, are you kidding me? Arrested for drunk driving and cocaine possession, an astonishing nine days after leaving rehab. At the rate this girl's going, she'll be funding her habit(s) later in life not by writing a tell-all book, but about nine seasons of "Days of Our Lives" scripts.
I was hoping the backlash against the smug, Scientologist, slapping-your-already-screwed-kid-with-a-retarded-name starlets would be a generation of smart, hip, independent young women. Instead we get to escape from our own sordid - though admittedly middle-class - lives by reading the exploits of spoiled, skanky rich girls who have made the leap from annoying to seriously fucked up without mussing their mascara. Or sleeping for the past 96 hours.
If these girls want to learn a little about sacrifice and responsibility without stressing their delicate brain cells (which I'm pegging have a half-life of about 4 years,) they should pick up the new Harry Potter book. That dude puts his lovelife on hold, shelves the Firewhisky, and goes to try and solve the nagging little problem of total evil, at the age which Lindsay was phoning in Herbie the Lovebug.
Or they could opt for retro Brit and pick up a Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (who practiced mysticism! Also a crazy religion!) tome. Sherlock Holmes also managed to hunt down and contain total evil - this time in the form of Professor Moriarty (who, like, isn't as hot as Ralph Fiennes but, you know, has a nose) - while succombing to his own nasty cocaine addiction! But you'll notice, girls, that instead of participating in car chases through the parking lots of Santa Monica with a .13 blood alcohol level, Holmes spent his wide-awake nighttime hours doing things like memorizing every single type of tobacco or playing with his chemistry set. Or faking his own death and going into hiding. Lohan, take notes on this one in particular. We'd miss you but, you know, not.
Or, man alive, what about Harry Angstrom? There's a flawed antihero for them, and a cautionary tale of what happens to young hot-shots when they grow up. Owen Meany! A metaphor for faith and sacrifice, plus he's adorable! I mean, Humbert Humbert has an affair with his 13-year-old stepdaughter and he's still more sympathetic than these trussed up Hollywood whores.
I know I should feel sorry for these women, having fame and riches thrust upon them. But it's a wide world, and there are far worse things that can and do happen to other people everyday, who all manage to continue living. There's something to be said for the role glamour plays in our lives, but it can probably fit in half a column on the back page of Cosmopolitan. There are literally hundreds of millions of words written in our collective legends. stories, and history books about heroism. And, I promise, not one of those words is "Lohan."
Femme Fatality
Boom Chicago
This Blog is Not About Harry Potter.
For a world-wide, history-making, literary and cultural phenomenon, it's incredible that it's still so shameful to be caught reading Harry Potter.
It's a tricky enigma. Do you go to the bookstore at midnight to stand in the giant line of Harry Potter fanatics (towering above most of them, whose median age is roughly the number of years I've been legally drinking,) banking on the probability of running into a colleague being greatly reduced due to the late hour? Or do you visit the bookstore during reasonable business hours like a normal person, carrying around a Noam Chomsky book until the very last second at the register when you look over your shoulder, swallow your pride and swap it out for the kiddie book, mumbling something about a nephew who's a big reader?
As a species, humans are, for the most part, infinitely forgiving. We are blessed with the ability to look the other way when Aunt Carrie has a little too much to drink at the reunion and takes her top off during the egg toss. We will grit our teeth and hold our tongues when our boyfriends show up wearing white socks with their black suits. Many of us RE-ELECTED GEORGE W. BUSH. Infinitely forgiving.
But God forbid you run into an acquaintance while standing in line to buy tickets for License to Wed when clearly you should be seeing Transformers. Or how about the moment someone comes to your door while you're jamming to Britney Spears? You might wrinkle your nose at somebody who eats at McDonalds, but you would never stop being their friend. Yet friendships have clearly been won and lost - unapologetically! - based on the contents of your iPod. We judge the worth of a person based on the pop culture they consume.
And so we have the Alan Greenspans of the world, and then we have the Paris Hiltons. We have the Ann Coulters and the Keith Olbermanns. We have the Fugazis and the Spice Girls. It's ideological war, and there is no right or wrong. Some people are always going to think others are vapid idiots or pretentious assholes, and they're all going to be right. Like it or not, there's no accounting for taste.
So how do we heal the world? How do we bring together the right and the left, the high art and low art, the dreamers and the realists?
Come on, guys, that's easy.
We kill Voldemort.
Femme Fatality
Boom Chicago
It's a tricky enigma. Do you go to the bookstore at midnight to stand in the giant line of Harry Potter fanatics (towering above most of them, whose median age is roughly the number of years I've been legally drinking,) banking on the probability of running into a colleague being greatly reduced due to the late hour? Or do you visit the bookstore during reasonable business hours like a normal person, carrying around a Noam Chomsky book until the very last second at the register when you look over your shoulder, swallow your pride and swap it out for the kiddie book, mumbling something about a nephew who's a big reader?
As a species, humans are, for the most part, infinitely forgiving. We are blessed with the ability to look the other way when Aunt Carrie has a little too much to drink at the reunion and takes her top off during the egg toss. We will grit our teeth and hold our tongues when our boyfriends show up wearing white socks with their black suits. Many of us RE-ELECTED GEORGE W. BUSH. Infinitely forgiving.
But God forbid you run into an acquaintance while standing in line to buy tickets for License to Wed when clearly you should be seeing Transformers. Or how about the moment someone comes to your door while you're jamming to Britney Spears? You might wrinkle your nose at somebody who eats at McDonalds, but you would never stop being their friend. Yet friendships have clearly been won and lost - unapologetically! - based on the contents of your iPod. We judge the worth of a person based on the pop culture they consume.
And so we have the Alan Greenspans of the world, and then we have the Paris Hiltons. We have the Ann Coulters and the Keith Olbermanns. We have the Fugazis and the Spice Girls. It's ideological war, and there is no right or wrong. Some people are always going to think others are vapid idiots or pretentious assholes, and they're all going to be right. Like it or not, there's no accounting for taste.
So how do we heal the world? How do we bring together the right and the left, the high art and low art, the dreamers and the realists?
Come on, guys, that's easy.
We kill Voldemort.
Femme Fatality
Boom Chicago
Welcome to Femme Fatality
It’s tough to be a girl these days. The boys have taken over the internet and have bridled the forces of technology into a cyberhaven of boobs, poop, nutkicks and sports scores.
On the flip side, seeking solace with our fellow females usually means the less-than-satisfying combination of Desperate Housewives and a pint of low-fat ice cream. For all the times you had to choose between Star Wars parodies and farting contests with the boys or dancing to “Like a Prayer” and discussing your cycle with the girls, say no more: I feel your pain. Here’s your middle ground between Superbowl and slumber parties—where smart is sexy, funny is fashionable, and moxie is required.
Femme Fatality
Boom Chicago
On the flip side, seeking solace with our fellow females usually means the less-than-satisfying combination of Desperate Housewives and a pint of low-fat ice cream. For all the times you had to choose between Star Wars parodies and farting contests with the boys or dancing to “Like a Prayer” and discussing your cycle with the girls, say no more: I feel your pain. Here’s your middle ground between Superbowl and slumber parties—where smart is sexy, funny is fashionable, and moxie is required.
Femme Fatality
Boom Chicago
Shoes and You.
What is it with girls and shoes?
If there's one thing that drives me crazy, it's the stereotypes about girls. Don't get me wrong, I love stereotypes. They help us view the wide expanse of the world and break it down in neat little negative categories. For example, we all understand celebrities are a little douchebaggy. Music guys wear sideways baseball hats. 80s kids still skateboard. Stoners are lazy and like crappy internet videos. Suddenly the world is so much more graspable.
What I take issue with are the actual stereotypes about girls: That diamonds are our best friends. That we're emotional to the point of irrationality. That we'd all get married tomorrow if only someone, anyone would ask. But the one that is just perplexing to me is the thing about girls and shoes.
Girls Love Shoes. There's no denying it. Some even have entire sections of their closets roped off for their shoe collections. This manifests itself in pop culture in horrible ways, like the episode of Sex and the City I watched (to my detriment) last week. One of the girls - the less slutty one with reasonable hair - had a shoe fetish so out of control that she allowed a skeezy shoe salesman (who had a foot fetish - this is clever writing here, folks) to massage her feet in exchange for free shoes that looked like instruments of medieval torture. And, horrifyingly enough, none of her friends seemed to think this was out of the ordinary. Even more horrifyingly, I admit that I got so caught up in this particular plotline that I watched the entire episode...and then the two that followed. Yikes.
But the weird thing is, like every stereotype (you know, celebrities wear white ties, music guys spell things with z's, 80s kids have terrible hairstyles, stoners are lazy and watch terrible internet videos,) there is a nugget of absolute truth to this thing about girls and shoes. I've never owned a pair of high heels, but I do own scores of pairs of Chuck Taylors in varying shades. And I don't just mean radically different colors. I mean various shades and styles within this spectrum of radically different colors. I have an olive green pair, a forest green pair, a kelly green pair... black hitops, black lotops, black slipons, black with Sharpie designs on the toes, black with pink laces....
And though I hate the idea that girls can find happiness in this shallow, materialistic compulsion, I constantly find myself adding to my increasingly inexplicable collection without an ounce of self-awareness. Like the sea turtle migrates, like the moon waxes and wanes, like the stoner continues to plunge the darkest depths of youtube, I find myself in thrift stores, in shoe stores, in sports stores, online, offline, broke, rich, in a hurry, or spending the whole day compulsively buying shoes. Because I am a girl. And I guess the sooner I embrace it, the sooner I can start soothing my irrational emotions, find a nice fella, and settle down with a gigantic rock on my finger. Finally.
Femme Fatality
Boom Chicago
If there's one thing that drives me crazy, it's the stereotypes about girls. Don't get me wrong, I love stereotypes. They help us view the wide expanse of the world and break it down in neat little negative categories. For example, we all understand celebrities are a little douchebaggy. Music guys wear sideways baseball hats. 80s kids still skateboard. Stoners are lazy and like crappy internet videos. Suddenly the world is so much more graspable.
What I take issue with are the actual stereotypes about girls: That diamonds are our best friends. That we're emotional to the point of irrationality. That we'd all get married tomorrow if only someone, anyone would ask. But the one that is just perplexing to me is the thing about girls and shoes.
Girls Love Shoes. There's no denying it. Some even have entire sections of their closets roped off for their shoe collections. This manifests itself in pop culture in horrible ways, like the episode of Sex and the City I watched (to my detriment) last week. One of the girls - the less slutty one with reasonable hair - had a shoe fetish so out of control that she allowed a skeezy shoe salesman (who had a foot fetish - this is clever writing here, folks) to massage her feet in exchange for free shoes that looked like instruments of medieval torture. And, horrifyingly enough, none of her friends seemed to think this was out of the ordinary. Even more horrifyingly, I admit that I got so caught up in this particular plotline that I watched the entire episode...and then the two that followed. Yikes.
But the weird thing is, like every stereotype (you know, celebrities wear white ties, music guys spell things with z's, 80s kids have terrible hairstyles, stoners are lazy and watch terrible internet videos,) there is a nugget of absolute truth to this thing about girls and shoes. I've never owned a pair of high heels, but I do own scores of pairs of Chuck Taylors in varying shades. And I don't just mean radically different colors. I mean various shades and styles within this spectrum of radically different colors. I have an olive green pair, a forest green pair, a kelly green pair... black hitops, black lotops, black slipons, black with Sharpie designs on the toes, black with pink laces....
And though I hate the idea that girls can find happiness in this shallow, materialistic compulsion, I constantly find myself adding to my increasingly inexplicable collection without an ounce of self-awareness. Like the sea turtle migrates, like the moon waxes and wanes, like the stoner continues to plunge the darkest depths of youtube, I find myself in thrift stores, in shoe stores, in sports stores, online, offline, broke, rich, in a hurry, or spending the whole day compulsively buying shoes. Because I am a girl. And I guess the sooner I embrace it, the sooner I can start soothing my irrational emotions, find a nice fella, and settle down with a gigantic rock on my finger. Finally.
Femme Fatality
Boom Chicago
It's a Hard-Knock Puberty
Leave it to America to make the bad news of imminent womanhood even worse. This is the story of my sex-ed video.
I was having a conversation the other day with some of my girlfriends. They both grew up in England, whereas I hail from the sub-par public schools of ye olde U S of A (though what those letters stand for, I couldn’t tell you. Just kidding.) Anyway, in the Unified Sections of AntiEngland, the video they decided to show us to break the news about our monthlies was set backstage of the Broadway musical Annie.
Man alive, girls, we might have to have a whole other blog on the subject of Annie.
I LOVED Annie, with a deep fiery passion in my not-yet-developed breast. My sister and I ran through 3 or 4 cassette tapes in about as many years, playing the soundtrack over and over until the tape literally fell apart. We would run around and around in circles to “Hard-Knock Life” like participants in some frenzied tribal spirit-killing ritual. I grafittied Annie on my bedroom wall with a burnt sienna Crayola Crayon (and denied it up, down, and sideways until my dad told me that if I was lying I’d be sent to prison for forgery.) And, to this day, I still nurse a little crush on Albert Finney.
So here was a video I could relate to. These girls were LIVING THE DREAM! Imagine being 10 years old and getting paid to run those frenzied circles…in front of an audience…in New York! Awesome. Until the sex-ed video introduced the concept of “The Line” to the poor, youthful audience in their collective last moments of childhood innocence.
The Line was, literally, just a line, painted on a backstage wall, against which the actresses playing the orphans – and, even worse, Annie herself – were measured once a month. And when, inevitably, the little girl hits her perfectly natural growth spurt just before the “breast development and appearance of hair in new places” phase of puberty and her head reaches The Line…she was out of Annie. No longer a lovable, singing, dancing street urchin. Rather, unemployed. At age 12.
Horrifying, right? What a dream crusher. Why would you ever reveal the existence of The Line to a roomful of 10-year-old girls? Even more perplexing, how could it possibly relate to this squirm-inducing chapter in our health textbook?
I still can't answer these questions, but I can try and explain the thought processes of this clearly written-by-committee educational video: The Line's Silver Lining, if you will. Once you hit The Line (and subsequent unemployment, depression, alcohol dependency and other symptoms of a general downward spiral) you’re not long for your first period. And then, You’re A Woman.
(Big, long pause for…applause? Cheering at our great fortune? A hand-holding circle of Kumbaya? More like a stunned, confused silence. Aaaand cut to: poorly animated diagram of fallopian tubes!)
For the record, though my parents DID fill my head with forgery-related paranoia, they neglected to fill me in on the whole menstration thing. Oh, I knew how babies were made (and more importantly, that “sex” wasn’t having a crush on someone at school, which I once mistakenly believed for four, glorious minutes as I told my hysterical parents that I had sex “just about every day at school” – turns out, you can go to jail for that, too.)
So now, not only am I grappling with the horrifying knowledge of The Line (did my softball team have A Line? How about my family?!) I’ve also finally learned the big secret of what’s in those pink cardboard boxes my mom brought home from the drug store every month. That’s America for you: present the best thing that could possibly happen to a young American girl, reveal its seedy underbelly, and then reveal the even seedier innerworkings of that underbelly.
The British sex-ed video? Some spectacular bacchanalia of light and sound with blockbuster production value and such stirring emotion that, by the end, you're not only happy to be alive, but positively gleeful at being a woman.
Well, mates, at least we've still got that Revolutionary War victory to hang over their heads.
Femme Fatality
Boom Chicago
I was having a conversation the other day with some of my girlfriends. They both grew up in England, whereas I hail from the sub-par public schools of ye olde U S of A (though what those letters stand for, I couldn’t tell you. Just kidding.) Anyway, in the Unified Sections of AntiEngland, the video they decided to show us to break the news about our monthlies was set backstage of the Broadway musical Annie.
Man alive, girls, we might have to have a whole other blog on the subject of Annie.
I LOVED Annie, with a deep fiery passion in my not-yet-developed breast. My sister and I ran through 3 or 4 cassette tapes in about as many years, playing the soundtrack over and over until the tape literally fell apart. We would run around and around in circles to “Hard-Knock Life” like participants in some frenzied tribal spirit-killing ritual. I grafittied Annie on my bedroom wall with a burnt sienna Crayola Crayon (and denied it up, down, and sideways until my dad told me that if I was lying I’d be sent to prison for forgery.) And, to this day, I still nurse a little crush on Albert Finney.
So here was a video I could relate to. These girls were LIVING THE DREAM! Imagine being 10 years old and getting paid to run those frenzied circles…in front of an audience…in New York! Awesome. Until the sex-ed video introduced the concept of “The Line” to the poor, youthful audience in their collective last moments of childhood innocence.
The Line was, literally, just a line, painted on a backstage wall, against which the actresses playing the orphans – and, even worse, Annie herself – were measured once a month. And when, inevitably, the little girl hits her perfectly natural growth spurt just before the “breast development and appearance of hair in new places” phase of puberty and her head reaches The Line…she was out of Annie. No longer a lovable, singing, dancing street urchin. Rather, unemployed. At age 12.
Horrifying, right? What a dream crusher. Why would you ever reveal the existence of The Line to a roomful of 10-year-old girls? Even more perplexing, how could it possibly relate to this squirm-inducing chapter in our health textbook?
I still can't answer these questions, but I can try and explain the thought processes of this clearly written-by-committee educational video: The Line's Silver Lining, if you will. Once you hit The Line (and subsequent unemployment, depression, alcohol dependency and other symptoms of a general downward spiral) you’re not long for your first period. And then, You’re A Woman.
(Big, long pause for…applause? Cheering at our great fortune? A hand-holding circle of Kumbaya? More like a stunned, confused silence. Aaaand cut to: poorly animated diagram of fallopian tubes!)
For the record, though my parents DID fill my head with forgery-related paranoia, they neglected to fill me in on the whole menstration thing. Oh, I knew how babies were made (and more importantly, that “sex” wasn’t having a crush on someone at school, which I once mistakenly believed for four, glorious minutes as I told my hysterical parents that I had sex “just about every day at school” – turns out, you can go to jail for that, too.)
So now, not only am I grappling with the horrifying knowledge of The Line (did my softball team have A Line? How about my family?!) I’ve also finally learned the big secret of what’s in those pink cardboard boxes my mom brought home from the drug store every month. That’s America for you: present the best thing that could possibly happen to a young American girl, reveal its seedy underbelly, and then reveal the even seedier innerworkings of that underbelly.
The British sex-ed video? Some spectacular bacchanalia of light and sound with blockbuster production value and such stirring emotion that, by the end, you're not only happy to be alive, but positively gleeful at being a woman.
Well, mates, at least we've still got that Revolutionary War victory to hang over their heads.
Femme Fatality
Boom Chicago
Guerilla Knitters!
Most girlie activities are inherently uncool. Unless, of course, they fall into the following two categories: they happen to be adopted by a celebrity; or they are adapted to become somewhat dangerous or mischievious. Perfect example - knitting.
We’ve all been knitting for years, right? My grandma had me crocheting the shit out of purses and pound puppy collars at the tender age of eight. But until a few years ago, we all had to do it in the privacy of our own homes, late at night, lights turned low, desperately hoping our friends thought we were at some glamorous, exclusive shindig, rather than the cold, hard truth.
But rewind a few years when knitting all of a sudden became super hip? Gwyneth Paltrow and some other starlets were caught knitting sweaters on set (when you’re eighty-five pounds, you tend to get kind of chilly under all those movie lights) and all of a sudden the busses and subways and baseball games and coffeeshops and public parks are positively bloated with girls and their little yarn satchels, clickity clacking away. And suddenly, we’re WARM again! AND hip! It was great!
Now some inventive urban folks have succeeded in satisfying category #2 and have taken knitting to the next level, warm and fuzzy graffiti. Check out some of these excellent photos of this bizarre, time-sucking phenomenon.
Strange? Maybe. Pointless? No! Speaking as a person who is constantly running into poles and columnesque structures with cars, bikes, and my own body, I find I am really embracing this trend. Instead of adding to my extensive bruise and scar collection, a spectacular bike crash turns more into receiving a warm embrace from an old, woolly friend.
Femme fatality
Boom Chicago
We’ve all been knitting for years, right? My grandma had me crocheting the shit out of purses and pound puppy collars at the tender age of eight. But until a few years ago, we all had to do it in the privacy of our own homes, late at night, lights turned low, desperately hoping our friends thought we were at some glamorous, exclusive shindig, rather than the cold, hard truth.
But rewind a few years when knitting all of a sudden became super hip? Gwyneth Paltrow and some other starlets were caught knitting sweaters on set (when you’re eighty-five pounds, you tend to get kind of chilly under all those movie lights) and all of a sudden the busses and subways and baseball games and coffeeshops and public parks are positively bloated with girls and their little yarn satchels, clickity clacking away. And suddenly, we’re WARM again! AND hip! It was great!
Now some inventive urban folks have succeeded in satisfying category #2 and have taken knitting to the next level, warm and fuzzy graffiti. Check out some of these excellent photos of this bizarre, time-sucking phenomenon.
Strange? Maybe. Pointless? No! Speaking as a person who is constantly running into poles and columnesque structures with cars, bikes, and my own body, I find I am really embracing this trend. Instead of adding to my extensive bruise and scar collection, a spectacular bike crash turns more into receiving a warm embrace from an old, woolly friend.
Femme fatality
Boom Chicago
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