The other evening I watched a film in which Meryl Streep played a mother who was dying of cancer. The title of the film eludes me. Rene Zellweger was her daughter, and William Hurt, her egoistic husband. I enjoyed the film. The cancer and family themes were handled with minimum schmalz-effect. Meryl and William can do no wrong, in my eyes, and I have yet to be disappointed by Rene Z. I just love her name, for one thing.
I was reasonably gripped until Rene donned the cutest, darlingest hat. Suddenly I was oblivious to dialogue and plot and lost the thread as I peered at the screen to get a closer look at the gorgeous embroidery (or was that border trim knitted?) and to study the shape for future reference.
This was a pleasurable hat distraction.
Later, I became aware of my teeth gritting and my blood beginning to boil as Meryl was wheeled around wearing what looked like a badly-crocheted dishcloth on her balding head. Who on earth did they assign to design the Chemo Caps for this film? Was this just a bad, sloppy piece of handiwork, or a not-so-subtle indication of Meryl's increasing deterioration? As if we hadn't noticed.
And why, when she was wheeled out for a perambulation through the snowy pre-Christmas neighbourhood, was she sporting a dashing knitted, red and reindeer number which she wanted to show off to all and sundry? What was the message here? Put on a brave hat in public, but make do with a ragged dishcloth at home? I would rather wear a wet dishcloth than a badly crocheted imitation.
At the other extreme, I was again distracted by Uma Thurman's hats in "BeCool". I am definitely going to copy the white, peaked cap with the chain. I'll pass on the simpler knitted cap, although I was pleased to see her evident enjoyment in wearing it.
I am still bugged by Meryl's dishcloth and am playing with ideas for a "BeCool Cap" à la Urma, for myself, as well as for cancer patients. Why discriminate? The t-shirts say: "Fuck Cancer". My hats will scream: "Cancer Ain't Cool, But I Am!".
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Muffin Mail
Finally got to the post office to mail Jody's knitted muffin. This time I decided not to risk parking on the "disabled" spot and waited, with unaccustomed patience, while observing an obviously sprightly woman park in the forbidden area. SHE didn't get a 35€ fine.
My restraint paid-off and, after a few minutes, a child clambered into the disgustingly large, ecology-defying, automobile which was occupying two spaces. I caught a glimpse of the mother in my rearview mirror, fired-up the engine and revved a little, thereby warding off any wannabe takers of "my space". Bristling with pride at my powers of endurance as well as having resisted the temptation to maim the offending vehicle without anyone noticing, I became aware of mounting aggression and competitiveness as I noticed a man waiting to move-in on my patch.
I revved again, flicked on the indicator, and manoeuvered my economically viable VW Polo into a position which left the man no doubt as to who was boss here. No sign of mum, so I "killed" the engine. At last, she appeared, tried the handle of the driver's door and ... it was locked. Her little darling, who was hanging out of the car window, had whiled away the wait by playing with the central locking device. Mum searched, and searched in the depths of her spacious handbag (Louis Vuitton, I bet!) for her car keys.
I couldn't be cross with her. I can never find anything in my (cheap but cheerful) handbag. I'm convinced it is inhabited by a mischevious spirit who takes great delight in hiding my mobile phone, lipstick and lighter. I once tried to light a cigarette with my lipgloss and ended-up with a fetching smear of pink gloss gracing my chin.
Car keys were found. Beautiful, well-dressed, mum climbed into her Rich-Bitch Mobile and proceeded to reverse out of the two parking spaces, edge forward again, turn the wheel first this way, then that, reverse again, tentatively while I watched, fascinated. Again I asked myself, "Why is it that these people who possess such huge cars do not know how to drive them???!!!". I had to grip the edges of my seat in order to hold myself back from leaping out, grabbing her by the strap of her handbag, flinging her out of the way, and un-parking the damn thing myself.
"Patience!", I reminded myself. Also, I hadn't forgotten the guy, poised, behind me and focused instead on keeping him at bay, all the while maintaining an air of nonchalance which belied the fact that I was even aware that he existed. To prove my point, I reversed dangerously close to his car, at which he edged back, nervously. I gave him a surprised?? yet friendly and casual wave. Beautiful Bad Driver gave me a thankful wave as she drove off and I returned the greeting as I parked neatly and expertly on one of the two spaces.
"You'll have to write what's in this package for the customs", said the man at the post office counter. "Gestrickte Torte", I responded. He just shrugged and said, "You'd better write it in English". So I wrote: "Knitted Muffin" on the sticker provided, wondering whether the U.S. customs would translate that into "Hash Brownie". Now there's an idea!
My restraint paid-off and, after a few minutes, a child clambered into the disgustingly large, ecology-defying, automobile which was occupying two spaces. I caught a glimpse of the mother in my rearview mirror, fired-up the engine and revved a little, thereby warding off any wannabe takers of "my space". Bristling with pride at my powers of endurance as well as having resisted the temptation to maim the offending vehicle without anyone noticing, I became aware of mounting aggression and competitiveness as I noticed a man waiting to move-in on my patch.
I revved again, flicked on the indicator, and manoeuvered my economically viable VW Polo into a position which left the man no doubt as to who was boss here. No sign of mum, so I "killed" the engine. At last, she appeared, tried the handle of the driver's door and ... it was locked. Her little darling, who was hanging out of the car window, had whiled away the wait by playing with the central locking device. Mum searched, and searched in the depths of her spacious handbag (Louis Vuitton, I bet!) for her car keys.
I couldn't be cross with her. I can never find anything in my (cheap but cheerful) handbag. I'm convinced it is inhabited by a mischevious spirit who takes great delight in hiding my mobile phone, lipstick and lighter. I once tried to light a cigarette with my lipgloss and ended-up with a fetching smear of pink gloss gracing my chin.
Car keys were found. Beautiful, well-dressed, mum climbed into her Rich-Bitch Mobile and proceeded to reverse out of the two parking spaces, edge forward again, turn the wheel first this way, then that, reverse again, tentatively while I watched, fascinated. Again I asked myself, "Why is it that these people who possess such huge cars do not know how to drive them???!!!". I had to grip the edges of my seat in order to hold myself back from leaping out, grabbing her by the strap of her handbag, flinging her out of the way, and un-parking the damn thing myself.
"Patience!", I reminded myself. Also, I hadn't forgotten the guy, poised, behind me and focused instead on keeping him at bay, all the while maintaining an air of nonchalance which belied the fact that I was even aware that he existed. To prove my point, I reversed dangerously close to his car, at which he edged back, nervously. I gave him a surprised?? yet friendly and casual wave. Beautiful Bad Driver gave me a thankful wave as she drove off and I returned the greeting as I parked neatly and expertly on one of the two spaces.
"You'll have to write what's in this package for the customs", said the man at the post office counter. "Gestrickte Torte", I responded. He just shrugged and said, "You'd better write it in English". So I wrote: "Knitted Muffin" on the sticker provided, wondering whether the U.S. customs would translate that into "Hash Brownie". Now there's an idea!
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