Posts Tagged ‘men’

I went dancing last night and it should have been a lovely evening, but it was so disappointing and the very reason I left tango before. Maybe, I need a new gig. Salsa is usually fun. Maybe, I’ll take up golf.

Women preparing to go to a fancy dance:

Shop for a pretty new dress, dry clean an old one, buy new makeup to match new outfit–stockings, jewelry, shoes, purse, wrap/coat too. Iron, bathe, shave legs, wash hair, lotion, powder, pedicure, manicure, make-up, blow dry, spray, tousle, style, last touches on makeup then stockings, bra, slip, dress, adjust everything, heels, jewelry, earrings, perfume, stock purse–mints, money, lipstick. Don’t forget hostess gift–wine, present, food, etc.

What most men do to go to a fancy dance: Shower, maybe. Put on clean clothes, maybe, go.

What women do at the fancy dance: smile, be congenial, make ridiculously small talk, smile some more then wait as patiently as humanly possible for a man to ask her to dance. Wait some more.



What most men do at the fancy dance: dance as often as they like with any number of a plethora of waiting women, or non of them at all, eat, drink, ignore the plethora of beautiful waiting women.

What women end up doing when the waiting becomes so internally dreadful their own heart may truly break for all the preparation they’ve done and for the lack of notice they’ve received: walk, sneak out, try not to run for the door, holding their heads as high as humanly possible for how horrible they feel, drive home in tears vowing never to return again or to let themselves be foolishly swept away with hope and possibility.

What men end up doing when the dancing becomes exhausting, their bellies full, they go home drunk and happy, sleep soundly, vowing to return again and again because this is the sweetest deal they’ve ever come across: beautiful waiting women–younger women, even!–dancing with them, old stodgy coots, because they’re it at this gig! No younger men to compete with, few men at all! What a find! Little input, huge return! What a score!

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Have you ever done something you new was going to get you in trouble? Not law-abiding trouble or physical-harm trouble, but emotional trouble? (I’m sure the answer is yes; you’re human, it’s our nature–but if it’s no, call me, we’ll do lunch; I’ll take notes.) I’m not sure why, but it seems I’m going there again.)

I think, somehow, I can handle whatever I’m getting into and that includes men–which is actually my worst subject. If Men were a class, I’d get an F for understanding, an F for for naivete, foolishness and  the big sucker award. I have this inane habit of believing men at that very moment they are saying something lovely to you, when they are floating in flirt mode, completely enthralled with the sheer act of flirting, like drunkenness. They are often, it seems, oblivious and simultaneously sincere–for example, “do I look like the kind of man who wouldn’t call you?”–and I hand him my number. “If you could be doing anything in the world,” I asked–really, i did, just today–, “what would it be?” A serious, yet intimate, getting-to-know-someone question, that I asked like a school girl and in return saw a blush cross over his face that left me wanting to smack MY own self. Duh, honey? WHAT DO YOU THINK HE WANTS TO DO BE DOING?

When did I get so stupid at the point of impact? When I am alone, over coffee, with gals, I think men are dogs. Truly, not in a horrible mean way, but factually–eat, sleep, play, pee, fuck everything available, begin again.  It’s biology, right? If I can’t control being an interminable dupe, then I can hardly expect men to be all pious w/self control–for WANTING, not acting, w/o consent–that’s a whole other hive of bees I would NEVER defend.

Is it nature, biology, they really can’t help?  I can’t hear through your laughter and jeering? Am I a MORON? (retorical question.)

You surely all know that classic moment when Lucy, from Peanuts, holds the football for Charlie and this time, YES, THIS TIME, he believes, she is going to hold the ball and let him kick it. And we want her to, we route for Charlie, we wish Lucy would behave, we want him to get to kick the ball, yet he never, ever does.

Simultaneously, we hate Lucy, pity Charles, want desperately to make it right for him, but also we think he’s a dupe and why can’t he SEE that Lucy is never going to change.  She is always going to yank away that damn football.

I am Charlie Brown.

What is it, besides masochistic idiocy, that makes me think this one, or that one, or the last one I’m re-circling will ever act differently? Hope? Belief? Optimism?  Or determination that I will not sucker-up to whatever wooing, or even innocent flirting is going on? Maybe, it’s a case of “if I just keep pouring salt into this wound it won’t hurt anymore, it will become numb, oblivious, ouch-less.” I will become IMMUNE. . . OOh, I like that last one. Power struggle to attain detachment. It sounds very Zen, in a not-Zen like kind of way. Hm?

I’ll leave you with that, a mountain of theraputic neccessity, yes? And by the way, I’m going with hope and optimism. Somewhere, I have faith, call me foolish (why not, I have) but I HAVE to believe and for the pesimist I tend to be, honestly, if you knew me . . . this is a good thing, I think.


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This is fun. . . a gut wrenching cough tha sounds like smoker’s hack. I feel worse today than yesterday. Still, I managed to go out, get coffee and soup. The soup lured me out more than anything. Tues. is Manhattan clam chowder at the cafe, served w/a  huge wedge of lemon. Just plug me in and let it drip.

The sun is out still. It’s actually hot. 60-something degrees. It feels silly crocheting wrist warmers when people are walking about in shorts. Where is my winter? The flu deserves a good blizzard. The flu is not sunny.

My father showed up at the cafe, R came out to chat and I just wanted everyone to go away. Conversing was just painful. I finally shooed them both off. Let me just be, slurp my soup, sip my coffee and crochet. Easy, no thought, quiet.

I made these yesterday:

Olive wrist warmers

Carwin says they’re too girly. He’d wear them, but he doesn’t think a straight man would. The right color, the wrong style. I don’t know. What do you think?

So, today I’m making these:

Taupe wrist warmers

These are wider and have a military look to them. There’s a name for what I’m thinking of, but I’ll be damned if I can find it today. Sigh. Anyway, I love the color, taupe, it says. Taupe sounds bland and staunchy. The dictionary calls it “gray-brown,” but that’s not right either. It really has a chocolate milk feel. . . coffee w/two creams. . . tomato, tomato. What do you think?

* I did the dishes. Installation piece #84 has been dismantled*

Now,  if you’ll excuse me, I need to go cough up a lung. . .  


P.S. Will accept donations of homemade soup, Kleenex (white only) and cough drops (lemon over cherry).

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Well, Saturday is nearly gone. The sun has set. The big V-day showcase was rather a bust. But that’s okay. Preparing is often more fun than arriving (except for making money.) I had a blast making the Love Pouches and if they don’t sell by Valentines I’m going to give them away to the cafe crew who modeled my wares. I’d like to make some Valentine’s cookies too. Make it a festive thank you. They keep me in coffee; it’s the least I can do.

Meanwhile, I am working on an additonal Urban man scarf. I’d like to make a man scarflette w/button clasps, but it will take an ubber urban man to wear it. Hey men! Are you ubber enough? 😉

Harvey (my whiz-bang button maker) made some beauties from cherry wood. Beautiful. Photos later.

It’s Saturday night, spring weather . . . and frankly, I’m not ready for spring. It’s February. I want chilly sunny days followed by rain, thunderstorms, windy nights.  Spring quickly turns to summer here. And summer is long. This isn’t a good summer town. Santa Cruz is a good summer town–beach, ocean, sand, barefeet, what’s not to love. Urban pavement and suburban sprawl is not good for summer. Gridlock, heat stroke, noise, smoke, helicopters, yuck.

I know you think I’m jumping the gun somewhat, but I left my windows open today and my neighbor’s cigarette smoke wafted in. Double yuck. Givve me back winter, window lockdown, stormy white noise, quiet, quiet, quiet.


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The Man Collection has begun. I posted 3 Man Scarves on Etsy. Look>>>>>(press “Dahlila.” Go ahead. It won’t bite.) That’s my shop.

 Cole in taupe man scarf

Cole, the super sweet guy in the photos works at the cafe. What a smile! The scarf has a sm. pocket in lemongrass wool. The button is hand lathed black walnut made by Harvey. Harvey is a retired widow, shows up for iced tea at precisely 2p.m. and makes beautiful wood bowls. He even made one for me. 🙂 What would I do w/o the cafe? My little neighborhood family.

 The wrist warmers are modeled by Lola, who works at the cafe too. She has lovely hands.

Lemongrass Wrist Warmers


Meanwhile, Mallie named her darling stray dog Roscoe. I’m glad he found a home. I went to the pound today, and the pitbull (who I’ve secretly named Sweetness) is still alive in quarantine. Couldn’t see her. I saw a lot of pitbulls. I hate the pound. It makes me sad.

In other news, I found ANOTHER dog yesterday. ??? Or actually it found me. I was having coffee when this black lab appeared in front of me. Tail between her legs, choke collar. She was scared, scared, scared. I got some turkey from the cook. She took it from my fingers, but backed away fast. I tried to slip Zephyr’s leash around her, but she wasn’t falling for it. I called animal control. . . again. Sigh.

Unfortunately, the guy was a bozo. I’d been coaxing her towards me, keeping her close, off the street. This dip wad walks right up onto her, calling and waving the leash. (Normally I’d go into a very long rant about stupid people, but I will abstain to save space, but know I was VERY annoyed). Needless, he chased the dog right into the street. (Big surprise!)  I mentioned there were about a dozen other ways he might have handled that. He made a snide remark then drove after the dog–because that’s always effective.

I let it go, with GREAT difficulty. I had work to do, but I gestured skyward w/a grand universal shrug and question mark. Still, I see a letter to the city animal shelter w/this guys badge # on it. Sigh . . . .

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