Women are putting shit on their face. 

I’m not talking about zit cream that could burn a hole through your skin, or exfoliators with acid, or makeup that is the consistency of spackle.

No, I’m talking about honest to G-d shit.

Bird shit, to be precise.

While getting ready yesterday morning, I had one ear on mischievous Lemon, and the other on the CBS morning show (although it may have been CNN, I’m not sure what channel we left it on when we went to bed).  The morning show featured new miracle anti-aging, skin whitening treatments.

The first treatment – placenta.  Yes, placenta, afterbirth.  I’ve heard of strange customs like burying placenta in the backyard, but swabbing it on your face?  But, somehow, I’m not as skeeved out by placenta as I am by bird poop.   I don’t want placenta on my face, but I kind of get it – many myths and legends are attached to the placenta, in particular, in burying the placenta – giving a girl baby digging powers, giving a boy baby the power of prophecy (British Columbia), protecting a newborn child from the spirit of a mother who died in childbirt (Bolivia), simply connecting the newborn to the earth (New Zealand).  So, while it’s not for me, I get it – I can see where someone would believe that an organic blob of guck that once nutured a maturing fetus might have miraculous restorative powers.

But, bird poop?  Really, seriously?  Women are paying between $150 and $225 for the miracle Nightingale dung treatment.  I don’t care it’s a cute little Hummingbird – I find it hard to believe that poop from a Nightingale is any different than poop from Philadelphia’s own flying rat, the pidgeon.  Is there really a fortune to be made by hanging out in Rittenhouse Square and scrapping the bird poop from the goat statue? 

And what do scientists have to say about this – when CNN interviewed scientists, they “explained”:

“Bird experts at both the National Aviary in Pittsburgh and the Cornell University Lab of Ornithology were at a loss to explain the benefits of nightingale droppings as a skin treatment. Brian Keller, a dermatopharmacologist and executive vice president of San Francisco-based Bio Zone Laboratories, which manufactures custom private-label dermatological products, offered one possible reason.

“The reason this product may work is the high concentration of urea in the fecal-urine combination in bird feces. Urine has a lot of urea in it and it has long been used as a skin-softening agent,” he says. “It’s obviously shrouded in a lot of mystery.”

The problem with this however, is that the question posed seems to have been, “Doctor, can you explain the benefits?”  What benefits???  There’s no proof there are benefits.  It’s the Emperor’s New Clothes – he’s naked!  Lady – you have bird poop on your face!  High concentration of urea?  Now that’s appetizing – and when they asked the women who volunteered to try these miracle treatments, they said, yeah, it still smells like poop. 

Shit is shit, even if you dress it up in Geisha clothing.  If you visit the Shizkuka website, the spa in New York specializing in this “exotic” treatment, you get a nice little history of Geisha, their flawless skin, and how to solve the troubles of all of that spackle white make-up, the Geisha used this bird poop secret ingredient to cleanse their skin and unclog their pores.  However, when interviewed, the proprietess, Shizuka Bernstein, says about this long secret history, “I’m always trying to bring Japanese culture and tradition to my spa,” said Shizuka Bernstein. “I heard my mother talk about this treatment when I was a little girl.”  I heard my mother talking about this treatment?  This is the source of this ancient, Japanese Geisha ritual?  I heard my mother talking about throwing salt over her shoulder, about giving someone the evil eye, and about how if I made silly, ugly faces, my face would freeze that way.

And who are these women taking the bird poop cure, passed down from Shizuka’s mom to Shizuka?  Not my women, not my friends – we’re broke.  I’m lucky I can afford to put Cetaphil on my face, let alone a $200 pile of birdshit.  Does wealth lead to a sucker, born every minute? – because that’s how often a Nightingale will shit in his cage.

You think when the phrase, “For my 2 cents” was “coined” (har har) 2 cents was worth anything?  I think it probably was – I think once upon a time, unsolicited advice was probably worth something – because it didn’t come from the internet, it came from a face to face conversation, from a parent, a teacher, a mentor, a friend.  Now, with everyone throwing their 2 cents into the mix, you’ve got a pile full of pennies, and opinions that don’t mean a whole hell of a lot.  And, when Oprah chimed in on her show Friday, and addressed Rihanna directly about the beating she took from her still boyfriend  Chris Brown, and said unequivocally, “ He will hit you again” – it joined the cacophony of impersonal voices, and probably fell, although thonderously, on deaf ears.

And my 2 cents – after Oprah??? Worth nothing.  No, if anyone is going to have a hand in giving 2 cents worth of sense to Rihanna, it’s going to have to come from a familiy member, or her BFF. 

And, her dad in the media, seems to be saying something like, justice in this case isn’t possible, telling US Magazine, justice can never be served in this situation . . . He can’t feel the pain she felt. I don’t believe in hitting a woman. I hope everything works out better for them. I don’t feel happy or sad. He’s in the court’s hands. Let justice prevail.”

Oh, no, justice is possible.  Chris Brown is being prosecuted, and if he’s guilty beyond a reasonable doubt based on proofs presented by the prosecution, then there you have it, justice.

And, if he goes to jail – so be it.

Is it justice? 

What’s an eye go for in society these days – still an eye?

Justice has never been as simple or as possible as an eye for an eye.  And, inherent in the idea that our criminal system provides justice, we have to accept that justice will not always be fair.

And, who says it should be or has to be?

Rihanna’s dad says, “He can never feel her pain?”  Well, what does that have to do with justice?  He doesn’t have to feel her pain, he has to be punished for her pain. 

So, punish him.

Rihanna’s dad has also said something about her speaking out, on behalf of all women, and emerging a hero.  You know what, don’t worry so much about her hero-dom.  Just keep her alive.

Because that’s what Oprah really should have said -

He will kill you.

I once had a client who beat his girlfriend into a 2 month coma.  He was charged with Attempted Murder and Aggravated Assault.  He didn’t have a problem with pleading guilty to Aggravated Assault, but about the Attempted Murder, he just kept saying, “I wasn’t trying to kill her.”

Well, you know what – what were you trying to do?  If you beat someone that badly – what were you trying to do if it wasn’t kill her.

And Chris Brown, if you try to push someone out of a moving car while you’re beating the crap out of her – what were you trying to do if not kill her?

And that hero stuff – that role model stuff?  Rihanna didn’t run for a position called “role model.”  She sang a few songs, sold a few records, wears pretty clothes and makeup.  We didn’t elect her to any office.  She is not accountable to anyone but herself – she needs to leave to save her life, not for any other reason.  It’s hard enough for women to leave abusers when it’s private, can you imagine being in the national/international spotlight with a bunch of bloggers throwing in their worthless 2 cents? 

But her self-accountability does go one step further – if he hit you (while trying to kill you, because that’s the only thing that level of violence is meant to do), he will hit any children you have with him.  Period. 

Rihanna is not safe.  That is what’s not fair.  And the only justice, is leaving him, because no matter what happens to Chris Brown — jail, probation, anger management, whatever – won’t mean a thing if she’s dead.

Happy 6-Month Birthday, Lemon!!

Now that you’re six months old, it’s time you had a big girl bed.  So, for your birthday, we bought you a new house.

I know, I know, it doesn’t look like a house, it looks like a box, but you’re gonna love it!

Really, really, it’s awesome in here – it’s like a big playpen! 

See, it’s pretty cool – you have room for all of your toys, your bones, and your daddy! 

See, I told you you’d be really happy here!

I like being a regular – I like walking into a bar, and the bartender immediately opening an Amstel Light.  Before I worked at Rosie’s, I liked going into the store, and someone immediately pointing me in the direction of the new shipment of Koigu.   And, when the coffee shop across the street opened about two years ago, I became a regular – Chris, the owner, would see me coming, and immediately have my large coffee and whole wheat bagel with cream cheese to go, on the counter.  Somewhere along the way, though, this “regular” business at the coffee shop got a tad twisted up – for some reason, Chris thinks my name is Jen, and for some stranger reason, after two years (although, for the past year, I’m not so much a regular any more – Joe makes coffee for me every morning – big AWWW!!! He’s so sweet!), I have yet to correct him.  It’s kind of like my secret identity, like a coffee super hero and I kind of like it.

Joe’s son, Joey, is doing the Reading Olympics, and after his disaster of a 5th grade science project, I decided that adult supervision was required for this project, and I have been reading the books along with him.  The first book, Brendon Buckley’s Universe and Everything in It was excellent, the second book, Shredderman: Attack of the Tagger, eh, not so much.  First of all, it’s pretty stupid to have the second book of a series as a requirement for something like the Reading Olympics, where you have to be responsible for six books and you just might not have time to read the first book in the series that’s not on the list.  Second, I wasn’t sure how I felt about the whole premise of Shredderman, and his secret identity, and whether he really was a superhero.  In the book, Nolan, the nerdy kid, has created a secret online identity, Shredderman, an online superhero who gets revenge against the school bully, Bubby Bixby, by putting a photo of Bubba’s Big Butt on his website (this happens in the first book of the series, probably why they chose the 2d book for a school reading event).  The only person who knows Shredderman’s real identity is his teacher, who becomes his superhero sidekick.  To me, there’s something wrong with this.  Back in the old days, the nerd obtained revenge against the school bully through his wits, guile, better disposition, and all around good person-ness.  And, he did it in a non-anonymous way, and all of the other nerdy kids were empowered by his triumph, too.  Here, Shredderman pokes fun, and humiliates the bully online, hiding behind his dot.com.  Is this really a hero?  Or is this beginning of a snarker (see below)?  Is this how we really want our children to confront bullies?  I don’t think so.  And, when Shredderman exposes another bad kid on his website as the Tagger, the graffiti artist “terrorizing” the town, he does so by spying on them in the bathroom, evesdropping, and a little detective work – and then he posts his evidence online, anonymously – this, to me, is a snitch, not a superhero (and I have very definite ideas about the differences between a “snitch” and a “witness” – a post for a different day).  And, the fact that the teacher is in on it, I don’t know, this is not good teaching to me – and, the quality of Nolan’s school life really doesn’t change because of his anonymous behavior – Bubba still picks on him, and he’s not a hero in anyone’s eyes but his own.

So, why am I secretly pleased with my own secret coffee shop identity?  “Jen” doesn’t wear a cape, fly around, and defend the rights of coffee owner’s everywhere.  She doesn’t slay decaffeinated beans in a single bound.  When we were teenagers, and my brother worked at Kmart, he didn’t want the K-”nuts” as he called them knowing his name – so my brother (Howard) wore a name take that read, “Jake.”  But, what difference did it make if he still had to answer to it? 

I guess it’s not the name, it’s the face.  I am not anonymous in the coffee shop – I can be identified, just not by my name.  If I left my purse on the counter, and a co-worker came in, and Chris said, “Jen left her purse” and the co-worker said, “which Jen?” and Chris described me – “The curly haired girl that looks like Barbra Streisand,” my co-worker would immediately say, “That’s not Jen, that’s Wendy.”  And, I guess that’s why all of the caped crusaders work as “heroes” (as opposed to snitches) for me  - they aren’t really anonymous, they’re just masked – they can be identified on the street, their deeds are visible, and their “secret identity” is really their boring alter-ego – it’s not even really a “secret identity” – it’s almost a separate identity.  If Batman left his wallet on the counter – the guy would say, “You know, the bat in black with the mask,” and everyone would know Batman. 

In Shedderman, there is no Shredderman.  Shredderman is not a man of action, visibily righting wrong, fighting crime, exposing himself to harm – he’s not even an entity, it’s just the name of his website, and it’s disturbing to me that the Reading Olympics at Joey’s school is letting this book lead as an example.

And, well, for me, well, now that I’ve been exposed as not a coffee super hero, I guess I should share my real name – but what would I say at this point – I really didn’t care enough to correct you the first time?  I really don’t care what you call me because you actually have nothing to do with my life?  Oh, and I answered to it because it was easier than correcting you after all this time? 

Hm, probably as lazy as Shredderman.

A snow day! Excellent!  I haven’t had one of those in at least 10 years.  For me to have a snow day, the city must close.  To his credit, and perhaps his only credit, in two terms, Mayor Street never shut down the court system.  And, even though public schools and Catholic schools were called the night before, I was still surprised to get the call at 6:00 a.m.  Frankly, after John Bolaris misfired with the Great Storm of the Century back in 2001, I’m very skeptical whenever there’s even a hint of  a snow day. 

When I was little, a snow day was not a delightful surprise.  It was a right – school kids had a right to have a snow day every few weeks or so – it was as if it were a scheduled vacation, and I would not be denied.  If there was even a possibility of no school, I would get myself so pysched up to stay home and play that if we actually had school, the disappointment manifested in a crazy insane temper tantrum following the failure of a sick out attempt. 

So, in actuality, I have John Bolaris to thank for the return of the thrill of the snow day, because in crushing any faith I had in weather prediction, his sky is falling routine, and the panic that ensued – do you know how many canned goods I ended up with in my pantry!!! –returned the snow day to its rightful position on the calendar – a true surprise and a definite treat. 

You’ll notice, there will be no pictures of snow in this post-snow day wrap up post – because I didn’t venture outside all day, well at least beyond the front step to let Lemon out – who was not thrilled at all about her “bathroom” conditions.  Can you imagine if you had poop/pee on a sheet of ice, and a pile of snow.  Can’t blame her.

No, while Joe  and his son, Joey, played Kill Zone all day,anxiously awaiting today’s release of Halo Wars, I spent the day snuggled with the puppy, alternating between my Kindle, my knitting, and a little nappy nappy.

And, at the end of the day, I had this:

This is Ysolde Teague’s Ishbel from her Whimsical Little Knits Collection.  And, what could more perfect than a whimsical knit on snowy day?

I knit Ishbel with Blue Moon’s Socks That Rock in Rhode Island Red (the last full skein on the right, the sixth skein in from the left).  If you will recall, back in 2006, Knitty D and I went a little bit crazy with our STR purchases – and what have I knit from them – nothing – these six skeins remind me of my hamsters that I had  in college. 

I bought a hamster, thinking I only needed one hamster (when I really wanted a dog, but couldn’t have a dog) – and then I found at the thing was pregnant when squishy bloody thingies started coming out of her.  One baby ended up lame, and needed it’s own cage because the other babies picked on it.  Then, after about a week, Mamma Hamster decided she didn’t want to feed her babies, rather she wanted to eat them – so those five got their own cage.  So, after several months of having three cages of hamsters, those smelly, yucky mice-like creatures were  finally hairy enough to leave my nest.  Two went to sorority sisters, and the rest went back to the store.  When I handed the cage to the store manager, she dropped the cage, the cage collapsed, smooshing and killing the hamsters.  My sorority sisters put both hamsters in a plastic ball, and they got into a fight, killing each other.  So, none of the hamsters survived.  What does this have to do with Socks That Rock – nothing really, except these six skeins got under my skin like those six dead hamsters – what a waste!  Wasted yarn, dead hamsters – my mind does work in mysterious ways.  Anyway, I ended up gifting a couple of them (the yarn, not the dead hamsters), I think, but I still had a drawerful languishing – since I had even more STRs from the Sock Club – from which I didn’t knit any socks.

So, when this pretty little pattern came out – requiring only 360 yards of fingering weight yarn, even though I didn’t really care if I knit it (not that it isn’t a pretty pattern, its just that I don’t really where little scrafy kerchief things)  - it seemed  like a good use of the yarn.  And, voila – unlike my yucky Swallowtail (see below – and by the way, I forgot to mention in that post that another reason why I can’t wear it is not only because it’s ugly, but because washing/blocking did nothing to the texture/feel – it still feels/smells like sheep – dirty), this was the perfect marriage of yarn and pattern – and it’s as lovely as whimsical snowflake.                                        

Can’t you tell, Lemon thought so too?

I may have been able to put a fuzzy halo around my Swallowtail with the aid of Photoshop, but there’s nothing angelic or even remotely lovely about this, this . . . uch, I don’t even know what to call it – because I certainly don’t want this icky thing around my neck.

When I went to Rhinebeck last November, I was all about yarny yarn – yarn you could really sink your teeth into – nothing processed, something straight off the farm, something so organic that if you bit into it, it would crunch like an apple, and juice would dribble down your chin. I was over the handpaint, the variegated, the neons, the pastels – all I wanted was natural – browns, greys, blacks. My yarn store employee/yarn snob purist phase was in high gear.

I found this yarn in the very last booth, from a farm that sold mostly Shetland sock yarn. They (this mystery farm I can’t remember) have a large booth every year, with fair isle sock kits (in naturals – greys, brown, black and white), and single skeins, and very warm, sturdy, workhorse looking shawls and socks knit up. For whatever reason, I didn’t pick up the Shetland, I picked this up – and I don’t even remember what it is. I walked around with it, trying to decide if I was going to buy it, or if perhaps I was going to buy 2 – thinking big, thinking Irish Diamonds, or Frost Flowers and Leaves. I went back to the bin where I had found it, and this other woman pulled a young (not the aged, traitorous Dawkins that’s going to the Broncos, and who will never last five years) Brian Dawkins move, swooping in front of me, snatching the skein from my tentative, outreaching fingertips, and then, gloating, doing  a little happy dance in front of my face. And, I immediately thought, fine, I’ll show you aggressive woman I will never see again, I do not need thousands of yards.  I only need 400 or so perfect yards.  This will make a lovely lovely Swallowtail. So there.   And, I have a handsome, hot boyfriend, so nya nya.  This is Joe and I at Rhinebeck – just thought I’d throw us in here so that there is a happy, successful, positive part of this post (because happiness in life is so much more important than happiness in knitting).

I took my yarn home, and wound it into a ball that night. So far so good. I cast on, still ok, it was only 3 stitches. And then I began to knit. Well, what can I say, I got what I wanted – this yarn was definitely natural – so natural that I felt like the sheep was sitting next to me while I knit – not only did it feel like I was knitting it off the sheep – as it felt — there’s no other way to put this – down right dirty –  it strangely, smelled like little sheepy was in the room as well. I wanted the yarn to be from a farm – I didn’t want the farm as well. 

And, it just looked like crap.  The twist was wrong – again, as if it were not so much spun, but kind of combed off the sheep straight into a skein.  Yet, I persevered – this is all natural yarn, as natural as Crazy Richard’s Peanut Butter, from an honest to G-d farm, combined with a well-established, much knit pattern that has yielded many a beautiful shawl, it’s gotta be awesome, right?  The yarn snob in me said, it must, of course.  

And, I knit on.  The beginning/middle section looked like a fuzzy wuzzy blob, that seemed to be calling “BAAAHHHH!!!”  I got to the nupps.  Not only was it a struggle, but they seemed to be felting as I knit them – butterfly cocoons that resembled shibori balls rather than delicate nupps.  Yet, I thought, blocking, blocking will make it all better.

All of this knitting really calls the question – when does one quit, when one seemed to have had the best laid plans?  Is there ever a right time just to cut your loses?  Or, will you simply be left wondering what would have happened had you finished?

In The Way We Were, Robert Redford says to Barbra Streisand, after they have tried to break up, but because he is such a weak willed, spineless creature, he is going back to her, , “You never give up, do you?”  And she replies, “Not  unless I’m absolutely forced to.”  But, does she say this because she knows she’s already won, she’s getting her way, he’s coming back?  Would she say that if she had the insight to know it was really time to throw in the towel?  

The answer to this question is a simple equation — If pain > potential success ->quit.  Here, while potential success was extremely low, the pain was still less, in fact perservering was almost painless in the face of quitting -  I knit so fast, it certainly wasn’t going to kill me to find out what was going to happen in the last chapter (even though I knew, as if I had flipped to the end of the book – the monster at the end of the book!)  So, for me, following this healthy equation, finishing was logical.  While I in my knitter’s heart of hearts knew this was never going to be a thing of beauty, I would never have been satisified until I had seen it to it’s conclusion. 

Unfortunately, there’s no way to figure impatience into the equation – I wasn’t suffering, but I still wanted it over – and I ended up casting off so tightly, that I couldn’t block the points into the thing, nor could I really draw out the pattern – not that it really mattered, because the thing felted in the blocking anyway – a teeny tiny aggitation, and it was like glue.  There’s no way I can take the bind off out.  And, I know I shouldn’t – because a redo would definitely up the pain ante, and this thing – and that’s all it will ever be – a thing – will never amount to a scintilla of success.

And what of my snobbery?  In this case, perhaps the potential for success aspect of the equation was subject to a bit of puffery – I’m a more than proficient knitter, I usually have good taste in yarn, this was a good choice of pattern, but I don’t really have an equation to determine success without the subjectivity of attitude and ego.  Perhaps there should be a little division by humility (if pain > (potential succes/some humility) -> quit).   But, you knit, you learn, and at Maryland Sheep and Wool, I will conquer.

Oh, did I say something about humility?