Crafty Women Strike Again

            Some time ago I wrote a blog explaining that crafty women are not the same as craftsy women.  However, I am now convinced that they comprise the same group.

            Women for whom crafts come easily are like computer tech experts—they think they can babble along in their own language and others will understand them.  They talk you into making their latest clever creation, and only after it’s too late to turn back, do you realize their trickery.

            Case in point.  Last week was our monthly church activity night for all the women.  Dare I say we have a plethora of activities? From assembling humanitarian aid items to lectures on finance to cooking classes to spiritual instruction, it’s always something different.  Last night was a craft night.  We decided to Arm Knit and make scarves in under an hour.  This is how they look:

            Yay, I told the activity committee.  Sounds easy and fun (see how I get sucked in?)  In fact, I suggested they go one better and teach leg knitting.  That way it could be like a River Dance performance, entertaining us at the same time.  They liked that idea, but not enough to actually do it.

            No matter.  Arm knitting sounded fun enough.  And, like everything nowadays, there are YouTube videos showing you how to cast yarn onto your arms, loop it about, and whip up darling, wooly scarves.  Now, I love YouTube, and I truly hope you have subscribed to my own YouTube channel where I post a new video every weekday, as the YouTube Mom. 

            But watching someone else knit is like watching a video of someone playing the violin.  You can’t just pick up and instrument and copy those sounds.  Okay, apparently some people can, because four of the women had become experts at arm knitting, and were now trying to teach the rest of us.

            The first thing you notice is that this commitment means both your arms are literally tied up for an hour, so sampling the delicious assortment of crock pot soups and stews must obviously come first.  I might add that this is the kind of scarfing I like best.

            Then it was time to “cast on.”  It took me half an hour to master the intricate gymnastics of this, and then I was as good as handcuffed.  Houdini could not get out of these knots of yarn.

            Slowly I began transferring loops on and off, five different women helping me, none of whom were quick enough to say, “I dibs not to help Joni” when the meeting began.  So they were trapped.  And I was trapped.

            The instructors kept checking the video on somebody’s laptop, which made me glad this was not surgery and they were not my doctors.  I began making a mental list of the all the things I would rather do than make this scarf.   Get a mammogram, visit the dentist, and have a Pap smear were among my choices.

            Uneven loopy clumps of yarn began to form under my arm.  Sounds like I need a better razor, doesn’t it?  Or a dermatologist.  After another hour the rows of loops piled up, and we all looked like Greek fishermen repairing their nets on the shores of Santorini.

 

            It occurred to me that we could possibly get hired as Pirates, or at least as lackeys for Pirates; we could market this net-making skill and maybe come home with some jewels or gold coins.  But I’m not sure where you apply for that.

            After an hour and a half my yarn had actually formed a scarf and now my friends helped me “cast off” and sew it together into an infinity scarf.  I have to admit the scarves all turned out gorgeous, and the women were excited to make more of them, as gifts. 

            But I will only be able to do this if I have my team of tutors handy.  Turns out, when it comes to teaching me a craft, sometimes it takes a village.

If you haven't subscribed to this blog, what are you waiting for-- helpers?  Trust me, this is way easier than arm knitting a scarf.  Hey-- check out my appearance on Good Day Sacramento this morning where I showed 10 easy Valentine ideas!

Staying Young at Heart

            Years ago I had a TV talk show in Los Angeles, and interviewed a handwriting analyst.  He took one look at my 4^th-grade scrawl and said, “Well, you’re either very immature, or very childlike.”

            “It’s childlike,” I told him.  Sheesh.  

            But the fact of the matter is that I really am childlike (ask those who know me best), and it’s a trait I’m proud of, because it’s consistent with being highly creative.  But it’s also a great reason to use products made for kids. 

            Think about it logically.  If they can make kids’ shampoo tearless, why isn’t all shampoo tearless?  Just because we’re grownups doesn’t mean we like the sting of soap in our eyes any more than children do.  So I use tearless.

            And when I have a sore throat, why should I spray it with the bitter, regular adult Chloraseptic, when the very same product is available in grape flavor? 

            I’m telling you, manufacturers are onto something with kiddie products, and here’s a bathtub boatload I can’t wait to try:

            Blamtastic Lip Balm SPF 15.  This is a kid-made, cruelty-free balm for both girls and boys, and comes in – get ready—O.M.G. (Oh My Grape), Cherry Nilla, Lemon-liscious, Frenetic Fizz (orange soda), Radioactive (lemon-lime), and Brain Squeeze (sour cherry).  ARE YOU KIDDING ME?  Who wouldn’t want to try those?  You can find them at blamtastic.com.

            Now check out this Violight Zapi Doodle Toothbrush Sanitizer.  First of all, I’m not even aware of an adult toothbrush sanitizer, but I totally want one.  It kills E. coli, staphylococcus, and 99.9 percent of the H1N1 swine flu virus.  As if that’s not enough, it comes with pirate, monster, and cuddly animal stickers.  You can find it at www.violight.com.

            How often do we see a kid with shoes that light up, and wish they made them in grownup sizes?  Okay, maybe that’s only me, but I would totally wear these:

            I’ve been taking kiddie vitamins for years.  Why shouldn’t I have a tasty Flintstone candy now and again?  But there are others we could be enjoying, too. 

Disney has Fairy and Princess Gummies, and other manufacturers make vitamin gummies in animals, sea creatures, dinosaurs, you-name-it. 

            And don’t tell me you’re still using those dusty pink Band-Aids that don’t match anyone’s skin.  It’s as if their scientists scoured the world for every shade of person, and then deliberately picked the one color no one was.  How about Ouchies Bandages Make Ur Own?   What—kids are the only people who can draw?  You’re doodling when you’re on the phone, anyway—why not decorate your own bandages?

            And check out these Rilakkuma Band-Aids in a Paris print:

            Who doesn’t love Paris?  Why is it only kids get to dream of macarons and berets?

            Have you noticed how much stronger the mint flavor is in toothpaste these days?  To quote the entire state of Utah, What the heck?  So get the kids’ versions that won’t make you drop to your knees in pain.

            And why suck on a cough drop that tastes like the underside of a tire?  Buy them in orange, grape, bubble gum, and tropical punch—there are too many to list here.  If you use Mentholatum rub, then get the cherry scented one, already. 

            Remember candy necklaces?  We should still be wearing those!  

             Life is sweeter, quite literally, when you use these products.  And keep a coloring book and some Play Doh by the phone, to play with as you chat.  It’ll reduce your stress level immediately.  Or come over and borrow mine.  I’m saving some crayons just for you.

You can also reduce your stress level by purchasing my books.  No, wait—that reduces my stress level.  I knew it was one of those.

My Valentine Disaster

            Unless you’ve been living under a rock, you’ve seen all the Valentine candies and decorations in every store imaginable.  Okay, maybe not tire stores, because heart-shaped tires would make driving a bit challenging.  But they’re everywhere else right now, gearing up for February 14th.

            And I love Valentine’s Day.  I love pink and red, I love lace, I love sweets, I love the whole shebang.  My daughter was even due on Valentine’s day.  Of course, like the others, she came a week or more late—I already told you how I should have an entire extra kid, based on all my pregnancy overtime.

            But I digress.  What I want to do today is to warn you against making a particular Valentine.  It is darling, it is tempting, but it is deadly. At least it seems deadly if you are a Room Mother and try to teach it to a classroom full of third graders.

              I fell in love with this Scandinavian tradition the minute I saw it—a little paper heart-shaped pocket cleverly woven into a checkerboard pattern.  You can fill it with candies, and make a handle for it so you can hang it on a doorknob.  Cute as a button, right?

            And it’s not that hard to weave the parts and make one.  I mean, if I can do it, anybody can, right?  So I thought I’d teach it to my son’s class as a wonderful Valentine activity.  Eagerly we cut out the two sections.   

            Happily they watched as I showed them how to weave it. 

            Then it was their turn.  They couldn’t do it.

            And then all hell broke loose.  I’m sorry to say hell, but that’s what it was for at least half the class.  One girl bent over her desk, sobbing.  One boy ripped his apart in fury and frustration.  Some got tangled and quit.  Some just stared at me like I was the devil incarnate, for suggesting they do something so utterly impossible.  Don’t even ask me about the looks I was getting from the teacher.

            Finally I asked if they’d like to make a flat, woven placemat instead—much easier.  But it was too late.  My time was up and my activity was a disaster.  I gathered up my construction paper and left.  That one girl was still sniffling.

            St. Bob, of course, has assured me for years that I drove at least 14 kids into therapy because of that day.  But are you telling me that all Scandinavians are smarter than Americans?  Because they’re churning these devil puzzles out by the hundreds, just like the Japanese are making those origami cranes.  Okay, maybe these people are smarter. 

Maybe I should have shown the kids how to make heart-shaped souffles, instead.

You can avoid sending countless children into fits of despair, just by subscribing to this blog.  Then you can read about my disasters and know what not to do.  You’re welcome.

Witness Protection, Part Two

            I promised to tell you about the other time when I wanted to be in Witness Protection.   The first one you read about, last week, when a man walked in on me in a restroom.  There is, of course, waaaay more to it than that, and if you missed that post, you can read it here.

            But today I’m going to tell you about the first time—far more excruciating--and wouldn’t you know it would involve St. Bob again (I’m beginning to assign blame, I think).

            First, I must tell you that I was an LDS Relief Society President 20 years ago, in our local church congregation.  The Relief Society is the oldest women’s organization in the U.S. and, in a nutshell, provides service. Like our unpaid clergy, everyone's a volunteer. Coincidentally I have this position now, as well, but this time I am on my guard.

            And here’s why.  One of my duties is to oversee a great program called Visiting Teaching.  Sounds like personal tutors, right?  But what we really do is assign each sister several others to visit each month, just to be a friend and make sure she’s okay.  Is anyone sick? Unemployed?  Depressed?  Just needs a laugh or a meal or a spiritual uplift? 

          In short, we think of these women as our sisters and try to serve them.  It’s actually pretty cool, because if it’s done right, nobody can fall through the cracks or feel forgotten.  Even financial crises can be met.  

            Here the plot thickens a teensy bit, because every week changes have to be made. Someone moves in, someone moves out, someone calls and says, “I just got a job so I need to visit in the evenings, now,” etc.  This means I am always juggling, always knocking dominoes to accommodate everyone’s situation.  To help organize this mammoth undertaking, there’s a woman called the Visiting Teaching Coordinator who keeps records of visits and lets the various women know their assignments.  And, needless to say, we are on the phone several times a week.

            So 20 years ago, the woman with this job was a delightful gal with grown kids, named Frances Weaver.  As a young mother, I looked up to her as the epitome of a successful mom.  (I’ve changed her name because I am STILL too embarrassed to call her, and ask if I can use her real name.  But it is not Frances Weaver.)

            So one day I’m on the phone again with Frances, when the second line rings.  I have a phone with hold buttons, so I tell Frances to hold on, and I take the call.  It’s Bob, calling from work.

            “Hey, you sexy, hot mama,” Bob says.  “You wanna have a little party later tonight?"

            I laugh and play back with him.  “Ready when you are,” I say.  

            Then as Bob starts to describe his plans, I giggle and contribute to the conversation, shall we say.

            AND THEN FRANCIS SAYS, “Excuse me, I’m still on the line.  I thought I’d better speak up before this goes much further.”

            !!!!!!!!

            And I want a meteor to hit my house and kill me dead that very instant.  I gasp enough air to burst my lungs and then sputter, “Oh—oh—Francis!  Uh… um… can I call you back?”

            Francis is only too happy to get off the line and I stare at the buttons and realize I did not press the HOLD button, but the CONFERENCE button!  

            Aauugghh!  And I tell Bob we have to list the house that very hour, move out of state, and change our names.  I know three realtors I could call instantly.

            Bob, of course, is laughing his head off.  I am picturing Frances telling her husband about this and then word of it spreading through the entire congregation.  I know there is no way I can ever face her again.  I vent about this absolute humiliation and Bob says he has to get back to work.  Now you know what game show hosts do when they go backstage.  They call their wives who become hysterical panic buttons, then they say they have to get back to work.

            That night he comes home and I am no calmer.  In fact, I have thought of even more hideous repercussions. I will be the first person in history who actually did die of embarrassment.  At my funeral people will be sharing what killed me and trying to keep a straight face, like those Darwin dopes who die in ridiculous ways, and then their friends have to keep from laughing when they share the news.

             Bob listens to me, then finally says, “Hey, at least she knows we have a happy marriage.”  

            I stare at him.  This is the good news?  I want to pour a bucket of water on his head.  However, I do not have such a bucket. 

Bob continues chuckling.  After all, it’s fine for a man to have a frisky reputation.  But the Relief Society President?  I can already feel the hives that will be creeping up my neck when I walk in on Sunday, and wonder who has heard about our conversation.  My internal organs are tying themselves into little knots. 

Did I survive it?  Clearly.  Was Frances a good sport who brushed it off to make me feel better?  Yep.  But I still say, if that isn’t justification for being in the Witness Protection Program, then I don’t know what is. 

You really must read my books because they are filled with moments like these that will make your own embarrassing moments so much less painful.