About Me

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Four years into widowhood, after one year of incredible happiness and nearly 14 years of single blessedness. Have given up perfect manicures and pretty hands in order to resume playing the soprano recorder and to see if I can figure out how to play bluegrass banjo. Singing in the shower. Still really, *really* love to knit!

Monday, October 20, 2008

Rants on movies, fashions, and anything else that comes to mind. Oh, and knitting.

I really miss Movie Mom’s work on Yahoo! I appreciate how she analyzed each movie for profanity, nudity and sex, alcohol and drugs, violence and scariness, and diversity issues. I watched movies that I wouldn’t have thought I’d have liked, and enjoyed them, because of her reviews. And I have avoided movies that initially sounded right up my alley but would have grievously offended me had I watched them without checking her “take” first.

Her review of “Music and Lyrics” was right on the money; it was surprisingly tame for a PG-13. And I am inordinately fond of surprisingly tame. I rented the DVD months and months ago and eventually bought it. The send-up of 80’s fashions and videos was hilarious. Sophie’s indictment of inappropriate sexual displays by tween idols made me cheer, and her sister’s mortification at said tween idol’s concert antics was refreshing. Hugh Grant was almost likable. Drew Barrymore was warm and gracious and charmingly ditzy, though I think they overplayed her klutziness. [Same with Julia Roberts in “My Best Friend’s Wedding” and Sandra Bullock in the “Miss Congeniality” movies.]

When are the people in Hollywood going to realize that middle-aged women with serious disposable income [and also people like me] want to see movies that are thoughtful and well-crafted and deserving of a rating better than R? Something of the same caliber as a Jane Austen story but maybe minus the corsets. For that matter, when are the parents in this country going to stop giving their children money to see the drivel that is being produced by the schlockmeisters? If we didn’t support that garbage, studios would sooner or later return to the kinds of entertainment that made them wealthy in the first place.

When are we going to start boycotting the tartification of our daughters and the slobification of our sons? Hey, moms, we don’t have to buy the newest and the latest. It’s our money; we work hard for it! We can stand up to the foolish traditions and peer pressure of the other mothers. And we can offer our sons the choice of wearing a belt around their midsections or staying home and scrubbing the bathroom floor with a toothbrush. Or emptying the litterbox. Or performing a small, anonymous act of service for their neighbors instead of a small, anonymous act of tagging.

When did it become politically incorrect to say “in our family, we don’t [fill in the blank with the we don’t of your choice]”? When did we hand over our spines?

I need chocolate.

Behold: actual knitting progress. About an inch on the cuff of the first Eleanora. This is where I was when I went to church yesterday. I am now done with chart #1 and have just finished doing the math for my modifications of chart #2, to allow for my fuller calves; it’s in my project notes on Ravelry, so that the second sock has a chance of being the same size.



As non-clown-barfy as this yarn is, it’s still a little too busy for the pattern. I really should be working it in a solid yarn to show off all the knit/purl loveliness. But the yarn is the right grist for the pattern, and it feels so wonderful flowing through my hands. I am not going to frog and start over. I may knit it again [someday] in Gloss Lace, where I could probably knit it as written because of the way silk yarn blooms when washed. Something to think about, anyway.

Here is my finished front door.



I wanted to show you a shot of what the duplex looked like when I moved in, in June. But all the pictures I have saved, have the house number, and I am not in the mood to Photoshop them out. What a difference a new door, new roof, and multiple coats and colors of paint make! The porch light was bronze when my friend bought it. The mailbox was black and now resembles an illegitimate child of the Tin Man. [She is still tweaking the color; for now it blends reasonably well into the siding but not so much that the letter carrier cannot find it to fill it with bills and junk mail.]

Here is a link to David Reidy’s blog post and podcast #80 “Stick to Your Knitting”. Take a few minutes to listen to his essay on activism and the responsibility to vote. The music is nice, too. He has all sorts of links that take you interesting places. And a thoughtful review of Alice Starmore’s The Celtic Connection, which you would find in my personal library if you knew where to look. He is also on hiatus until the second of November [school holidays in Australia]. Middlest, you will love his voice.

5 comments:

Jenni said...

I like your red door. It suits you. I am glad that you can stay in a place that is so "you" even if the deed isn't yours.

mama says: said...

Red doors make me squeal with happiness, next house i'm gonna have a red door (and a big porch, with rocking chairs and/or a swing). Movie mom is on beliefnet now - http://blog.beliefnet.com/moviemom/ I definitely use her to figure out what my kids can/cannot watch. We don't do a lot of theater movies, but we rent from Netflix.
Been forever since I've seen anyone from knitnight, missing you!!!

punkin said...

Thanks for the comment on my cardigan. You are right about the buttons - I think I will end up changing them out. The silver buttons I saw will look much better on this sweater.

I am sick of Hollywood trying to influence our culture to be a porn nation. I cringe when I hear of the impression this leaves with other nations. I want to yell "That is Hollywood, that isn't us!" But then again, someone is spending money on the trash. oops - did I step into a rant? rant over.

punkin said...

I like the door!!

Sherry said...

Love, Love, Love your red door! It's just screams Lynn!!! I'll have to come over soon and see it in person.
Much Love,
Sherry