This hunk of manly man is not the male lead of a romantic movie, but a crewcut handyman named Mike. His TV show, “Holmes on Homes,” is a favorite of mine and many other women whose fantasies include a muscle-bound man who is determined to make us happy, not by wowing us in bed, but by tackling our honey-do list with tireless single-mindedness.

Mike is not afraid to badmouth all the other contractors who have done you wrong – cheated you, misled you, or abandoned you. “He stopped taking my calls!” you wail, and Mike shakes his head and mutters, “It’s just not right.” Then he takes up his sledgehammer and tears down the mess that that other guy left behind. He rebuilds it the right way. He goes above and beyond. The law requires R20 insulation? He’ll give you R30! You asked for baseboards? He’ll throw in crown molding!

Yes, Mike’s thing is pleasing women and I must say, I thrill at the sight of him with a jackhammer in his hands.

There are other TV contractors. There’s the pretty boy who will reno your income property. There’s the cute, hyperactive guy who rebuilds houses for deserving people who then go bankrupt trying to heat them. There’s the studly guy who graduated from Princeton, played in the NFL and now flips houses with his frat boy friends.

These hunky handymen may know their stuff. They may be geniuses with reciprocating saws. They may know the zoning law inside out. But they can’t hold a candle to my Mike. With his iron jaw and his gruff voice belying his puppy dog insides, Mike is the one I want.

Mike is a good listener, he is always on your side, and by golly, he’s going to make it right for you or die trying. What more could a woman want?

At breakfast this morning, the older couple in the next booth were chatting. (By the way, the definition of “older” is someone who is older than I am.)

She: Dan called and asked if you wanted to play golf today. I told him “no.”
He: Wha?? I would have played!
She: You have no business doing that.

And that’s that.

NEW RULES I WISH THEY’D POST AT THE GYM:

Don’t park your gum in the shower stall.

If you shed like a cheap fur coat, please unclog the drain for the next person.

Please wipe down the equipment after use. Especially is you’ve been straddling it. This means you, Lycra Man.

PROGRESS ON NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTIONS

Clean pantry of outdated food, loose pasta, and potato chip crumbs. Done.

Clean out baskets where pet food and miscellaneous items are stored. Done. Bonus: found those keys I lost 15 months ago.

Clean out bedroom closet. Naw. I’m bored now.

THIS ONE’S FOR YOU, MAUREEN

When I returned to the gym after two weeks in France, I had forgotten my locker combination. After watching me struggle for 20 minutes my friend notified the front desk and they sent in the bolt cutters. Is 2 weeks sufficient time to delete a 3-number sequence from one’s brain? Or shall I make a reservation at Shady Acres?

FOOD FOR THOUGHT

A friend sent me this beautiful quote from a book I haven’t read (Their Eyes were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston):

“Ships at a distance have every man’s wish on board. For some they come in with the tide. For others they sail forever on the horizon, never out of sight, never landing until the Watcher turns his eyes away in resignation, his dreams mocked to death by Time. That is the life of men. Now, women forget all those things they don’t want to remember, and remember everything they don’t want to forget. The dream is the truth. Then they act and do things accordingly.”

I believe it is true that women more fully inhabit their dreams than men do. Discuss amongst yourselves.

BRAIN TEASER

Here is a tough workout for your brain from our friends at Mental Floss:

Meet Adrian. She likes chocolate, but not peppermint. She doesn’t swim, but loves to skydive. She hates beer, but enjoys champagne. She drives a Dodge, never a Ford. And she’d rather read a magazine than a novel. Given this information:
Is Adrian closer to her aunt or her uncle?

Answer is here.

And, finally, a mantra for all of you couch potatoes from Steven Wright:

Ambition is a poor excuse for not having enough sense to be lazy.

See you next time.

Barbara Sher

So, as I was saying, I went to France to find myself. In the process, I found some super new friends, a way to silence my inner critic, and a fondness for goat cheese.

Let’s start with the new friends. The self-selected group of people who showed up for Barbara Sher’s Scanner Retreat had a lot in common. We are all pretty smart cookies, we are interested in a plethora of pursuits, and we struggle to find our niche in life. Except for Ray, a friend and invited guest, I was the oldest seeker there, a bit of an embarrassment. You’d think I’d have it together at my age. [Shut up, Inner Critic! Who says you EVER have to have things figured out??]

My fellow Scanners were (to summarize in a one-dimensional and totally inadequate fashion):

An economist from Saudi Arabia who is chafing at her family’s expectations that she will get her PhD, be wildly successful, marry someone appropriate and have children, and also stay at home and take care of them.

An interior architect from Germany who coaches other gifted adults and had to move back home while healing from a skiing accident that put her temporarily in a wheelchair and in a funk. She is also recovering from a toxic job situation where she hung on too long.

An artist and actress from Los Angeles who feels she hasn’t reached her potential, and after hearing about her upbringing by parents who withheld affection and approval, I wonder how she has achieved all that she has.

A college professor from Michigan who is well on her way to becoming another Barbara Sher and is a martial arts expert, a dancer, a mother, and on and on. She’s a dynamo in a tiny package.

An attorney from Switzerland who wanted permission to follow her dreams, to sail around the world, to help people start businesses, and indulge her many passions. She speaks seven languages fluently.

A life coach from NYC who, in her own words, “woke up” after being the perfect wife and mother she was raised to me. She’s the only mail order bride (from the Phillipines) I’ve ever met. Her energy, charm and warmth will carry her far once she sheds the baggage she’s carrying around.

A smart, funny Sarah Silverman lookalike from NYC who is not quite ready to recognize that her well-intentioned father is crippling her and keeping her a 40-year-old child. She is extremely capable, is a whiz at research and helping others, and has zero confidence in her own abilities.

A Spanish education expert who administers government grants and is married to a sound engineer who is a history buff. They were invited by Barbara to evaluate her methods, and offer advice. Until they had to depart early for Barcelona, they were full participants in our group.

Throughout our sessions, it was easy to see what direction everyone else should take and to offer encouragement and resources. It’s infinitely harder to do it for yourself.

All of us have an Inner Critic that speaks with the voice of a parent, a spouse, a friend, or (worse) our own self. That voice tells us we’re scatterbrained, we’re underachievers, we’re jack-of-all-trades-master-of-none, we should grow up and pick a career, we should, we should, we should.

My own Inner Critic tells me things like “There are a million people who are already doing that better than you,” or, “You can’t make any money doing that.” It stops me in my tracks.

My week with Barbara and the fabulous international group of Scanners taught me to say, “So what? This is what I am happy doing and I’m going to do it!”

When she (for my Inner Critic is a Negative Nellie) suggests that I don’t deserve to be happy when so many people are not, I tell her to stuff it. The only chance I have to make others happy is to be happy myself.

So, what makes me happy? Right now (for I have learned to follow my interests wherever they make take me) it is anything that has to do with yarn. I can’t stop knitting. I am teaching myself to crochet. I learn something new every day. I go into yarn shops and swoon at the colors and textures. I am obsessed.

Ironically, I have come around full circle to the fiber mania of my young adulthood, when I raised sheep, spun wool, wove cloth, and sold my handwovens at art fairs. I don’t know that I have the stomach for art fairs any more – sitting in the sun, making nice with strangers, and then schlepping all my stuff back to the van doesn’t appeal to me – but I do intend to set up an online shop through Etsy. If you haven’t seen it, Etsy.com is a marketplace for all things handcrafted and/or vintage. Some artists do quite well, some languish.

I will not make much money, if any. But I will be busy designing, creating, photographing, writing about, and posting my creations, and that makes me happy.

My fellow retreaters are all embarking on their own adventures and we have formed a support group for each other, mindful of Barbara’s dictum, “Isolation is the dream killer.”

During my week in France, I learned to pay attention to what makes me happy and then do it. Sounds so simple, doesn’t it?

Some us just need to get permission.

It’s a fair question. Since I’ve shared such intimate details of my life as my adventures in a street corner toilet and my dog’s penchant for farting in bed, I guess I should be forthcoming about my pilgrimage to southern France.

One day last August I was browsing around YouTube, that repository of lowbrow culture that threatens to put “American’s Funniest Home Videos” out of business for good.

I came across a video of Barbara Sher, author of “Wishcraft” and “Refuse to Choose,” talking about people who can’t settle on a career. Obviously, this struck a chord with me.

I confess that I have Career A.D.D. My employment history is not exactly linear. I’ve been (in roughly this order, but sometimes overlapping) a hotel maid, a spinner of wool and weaver of cloth, a newsletter editor, a secretary, a catalog writer, a secretary again, a PR person, a web designer, a communications manager, a bureaucrat, a newspaper columnist, a speaker, an editor, a blogger, an ESL tutor, and a greeting card designer.

And so, when I read Barbara’s books and then saw her on YouTube, I was reminded that I’m not just somebody who doesn’t know what she wants to be when she grows up, I’m a person who feels bad about it.

The video led me to Barbara’s web site, where I eventually found a podcast in which she talked about a retreat she runs for people like me (she’s dubbed us “scanners”). At these 5-day retreats, she works in depth with a small group of scanners to help them learn to follow their dreams, whatever they may be.

And then I heard the words that had me going to PayPal and clicking the button that said “Buy Now.”

“I’m an old woman,” said Barbara. “I don’t know how much longer I’ll be doing these retreats.”

The next one (her last?) was in October, in (wait for it) France.

I consulted with Keeper, who seemed dazed initially but eventually said, as he always does, “If that’s what you want to do…” (See why he’s a Keeper, ladies?)

I dug out my virgin passport and headed for France, where I spent an exhausting four days walking around Paris before heading to Toulouse, where a driver would pick us up to take us up into the hills for the retreat.

The meeting spot was a little medieval town called Pulcelsi. It’s too small to be on most maps and the locals like it just fine that way. We stayed in the local inn, with a charming courtyard bordered by the necessities of French village life: a bakery, a flower shop, and a church.

Our days consisted of two intense 3-hour sessions with Barbara, a walk around the cobblestone streets of our fairy-tale village, and a much-anticipated 4-course meal from the award-winning chef who owned the inn.

Yes, yes, you’re thinking, but did you figure out what you want to do with your life?

I’ll tell you next week.

© 2010 Mary Hanna

The fog of jet lag and culture shock has lifted and I’m ready to report on my trip. I know you have been breathlessly awaiting my judgment on the nation of France. In case you don’t know, France is the country whose derrière we saved during WWII, only to have them refuse to kiss our own posterior forever after.

Prior to my trip, I collected various opinions about what I would find when I landed among Parisians. The French are snotty, said one friend. They will mock you if you don’t speak the language, said another. Pretend to be Canadian, said a third.

What I found were, with a few exceptions, people who were welcoming, kind, and helpful to one whose French language skills are limited to “bonjour” and “frommage.”

I’ll spare you the travelogue. Suffice it to say that the cities I visited – Paris, Toulouse, Albi, and the little fairytale village of Pulcelsi – are unbelievably beautiful and overflowing with charm and history. I could totally live there. (Don’t tell Keeper. He’s still reeling from our move to California 12 years ago.)

During the 10 days I was living in this foreign land, my training as an anthropologist kicked in and I made the following field notes.

French people love to wear scarves. Each man, woman, and child is adorned with a scarf, tied in an artistic way around their neck. Even the dogs wear scarves. Apparently there is a secret scarf-typing academy where children must master 57 ways to tie a scarf before they are released back to their parents.

It’s not just the scarves that make the French elegant. It’s the way they carry themselves. They don’t slouch, shuffle, or rush around frowning like we do. They glide along, shoulders back and head erect, carrying their stylish tote bags with a baguette and a bouquet of flowers sticking out. Yes, the stereotype is real.

Many people worried about the strikes and protests that were occurring during my trip. In the States, they were big news. In France, they were just another day at the office. French students love to protest and they do it on a weekly basis. No one gets their nose out of joint about the traffic tie-ups; they just sit in their tiny cars and smoke until it’s over.

The day I was to return to Paris from Toulouse there was a national transportation strike. I went to the airport anyway and found people lounging around, talking and laughing. The Air France agents were calm and polite. There was no yelling, no running, no threats of lawsuits. At most, the passengers sighed and raised an eyebrow. I couldn’t help imagining the chaos that would ensue at SFO if every flight were either cancelled or delayed.

Maybe it’s the cheese. The French eat cheese at every meal and perhaps it has a soporific effect. Must investigate!

Everywhere I went, the streets were clean, the landmarks were freshly scrubbed and the statues had been recently gilded. The inefficiency of the French government is legendary, but they do take good care of their infrastructure. And say what you will about Napoleon, he commissioned some great architecture.

It’s not just the wine and cheese and Napoleonic architecture that make the French happy. They actually talk to each other. The streets are lined with sidewalk cafes with all the chairs facing out to the street. There, the locals sip café from their tiny cups (if you want a large cup, you order “American coffee”) and engage in conversation with each other and with passersby. The atmosphere is relaxed, even jolly. Of course, it’s easy to be jolly when your office is closed from 12-2 every day.

At night, the French don’t go ;home to sit in front of the telly. They go out and socialize, especially the men. I stayed in the historic district of Paris (between Notre Dame and the Pompidou Centre) and I can tell you from the 9 p.m. crowd at the Bear’s Den that Parisian men are very friendly, not to mention well-groomed and handsome. They are so friendly at the Bear’s Den that there is a condom dispenser on the street.

I must say that I didn’t find the persistent rumor that the French hate Americans to be true. They may have been mocking me behind my back, but I never saw any signs of being scorned. There was one time when I pretended to be Canadian. It was when I came across Americans behaving badly.

© 2010 Mary Hanna

I have a virgin passport, shiny and unstamped, a neck pouch for my valuables, and a book with pictures of objects to point to, as I’m unable to speak a word of French and might as well pretend to be a deaf mute.

My friends and family, knowing this is my first venture across the pond, are concerned about me traveling alone.

They have provided lots of helpful hints; for instance, the handy neck pouch to be worn under my shirt. I’ve been warned to pin the neck strap to my bra strap so no one knows it’s there, and also to keep my passport in a sweat-proof bag, since it will essentially be sitting in the path of rivulets running from my armpit to my waist.

The perspiration factor persuaded me to buy my own rather than borrow, although two were generously offered. I also invested in a backpack with slash-proof straps and zippers that lock, although there’s nothing to stop a band of thieves pulling the whole thing off my back.

That band will be made up of gypsies, according to my mother. “They’re very charming, you know,” she said. “They’ll use their kids to engage you while they pick you pocket.”

This theory was confirmed by a friend just back from Rome. “They dress like tourists and carry guidebooks,” she said. “You’ll never spot them.”

All this talk about getting robbed is making me a bit uneasy. Of course, they probably issue warnings to Europeans visiting San Francisco: Keep moving, don’t make eye contact with panhandlers, and don’t ask strangers for directions, right? I wonder if they tell them that some people will chase you down the street calling you unspeakable names if you don’t hand over enough money. And that’s just the Muni drivers.

I’m trusting my own common sense, which has saved me from both an attempted purse snatching and a very sophisticated pocket-picking in the past. If I keep my wits about me, I’ll be fine.

I’ll miss Keeper, of course. We have studied the time difference and decided that we can chat before I go to bed (he’ll still be at work). He is looking forward to eating all the food I don’t like while I’m gone. He’ll have curry breath when I return – I’d bet the house on it.

Meanwhile, I’ll be enjoying world-famous eats. My mother-in-law is French and tells me the region I’m visiting is known for having the best cuisine in France, which is saying a lot. I’ve been warned I might be served unfamiliar things (escargot, anyone?) and that I should not ask, just eat. I hope to avoid gaining weight on my trip by walking all over with my bullet-proof backpack.

Wish me luck.

If you haven’t seen it, the movie is about the founding of Facebook by a 19-year-old student at Harvard whose motivation was to be one of the cool kids and meet girls. It landed him billions of bucks, a lot of which were given to lawyers to defend his ownership of the idea and the company.

I’ll leave it to others to speculate on whether the portrayal of Zuckerberg is accurate. I’m more interested in the portrayal of college life.

I didn’t go to an Ivy League School. Rejected by Radcliffe (which merged with Harvard in 1999), wait-listed by Duke, I ended up at DePauw University, which billed itself as “The Harvard of the Midwest,” a claim made by every decent school geographically located between Nebraska and Ohio.

DePauw was academically rigorous and socially regressive, campus life being completely controlled by fraternities and sororities with deep traditions of class stratification and time-worn rituals.

I was not part of the Greek system (rejected by both sororities I had a connection to) so I cannot say what went on behind the heavy wooden doors with the gilded Greek letters on them, but I heard the rumors: lots of drinking, some bizarre hazing rituals, and plenty of information-swapping about which girls/boys to date and which to shun.

The Harvard of 2004 portrayed in “The Social Network” has all of these, plus rampant elitism, misogyny, and serious drug use.

The DePauw University of 1969 may have had all or none of these. I wouldn’t know; I was studying.

Let’s compare a few tidbits of campus life as portrayed in “The Social Network” and as actually experienced at the Harvard of the Midwest:

2004: Elite club buses in a group of female townies, gets them drunk and encourages them to take their clothes off. Mischief ensues.

1969: A group of us break curfew to go to the back door of the local donut shop at midnight, when the crullers are coming out of the oven.

2004: Zuckerberg breaks into the university computer system and steals student photos.

1969: Girls in a freshman dorm “borrow” some trays from the dining hall to go sledding at the local golf course.

2004: Various drugs readily available.

1969: Beer sneaked into dorm is cause for suspension.

My sophomore year I transferred to the University of Arizona, where life was freer and the atmosphere was mellow (sunshine and marijuana smoke on the quad will do that.) There may have been more opportunities for partying there. I wouldn’t know; I was studying.

(Note: Mary connects with her college friends on her Facebook page.)

The recent disaster and tragic loss of life was too close to home to just shrug off. I mean, it is LITERALLY close to home, a mere 15 minutes up 101. But also, it is something that could happen anywhere, not just in areas prone to earthquakes, floods, or hurricanes. It could happen anywhere there is aging infrastructure, and isn’t that everywhere?

The event was so close to home that my first thought was to reassure my family in the Midwest that we were OK. After all, they call me when CNN reports an earthquake anywhere in California. Usually I haven’t felt a thing, but it’s nice to check in anyway.

So, I called my Mom the morning after the explosion to tell her we were fine. She hadn’t heard anything about it and I felt foolish explaining how this thing she didn’t even know about didn’t affect the family.

Except it did. I was riveted by the coverage and actually watched the local TV news, commercials and all, for the first time in many years. Keeper was more sanguine about it, insisting that the term “inferno” was hyperbole. I maintain that if it had been OUR house, he would have found words even more disastrous-sounding.

I first heard about the event from an e-mail from a friend, assuring us that a mutual friend who lives in San Bruno was safe. This friend (the notifier) is a go-to gal and was ready to jump in the car and serve meals, donate blood, or rescue animals. The Red Cross had plenty of volunteers, so Go-to Gal channeled her energy into a scheduled disaster planning exercise in her hometown of Palo Alto. She and her husband are volunteer “first responders” who will help their neighborhood recover from whatever disaster befalls them, be it earthquake, flood, or terrorist act.

She urged us all to be prepared by having emergency supplies packed someplace outside the house in case we are forced to evacuate in a hurry.

Now, I’ve lived in earthquake country long enough to have heard this lecture a million times. I carry a blanket, a first aid kit, and some water (not enough) in my car, but if something happens quickly I’m S.O.L. just like most of you.

The event in San Bruno did prompt a low-key emergency preparedness discussion over the morning paper on Sunday morning, however.

“If we were ordered to evacuate and had only one minute to grab things, what would you take?” I asked Keeper.

Wisely, he answered, “You.”

“Besides that,” I said.

“Corky” was his answer.

“Well, of course, our children are the most important thing,” I said, carefully including Mr. Bobo the Wonder Cat, who apparently would have been left behind to perish by Keeper.

“But what is the second most important thing?”

“My work.”

“All of your writing? It’s on your computer, right?”

“Yes, I’d grab the computer,” said my husband.

“Yes, let’s grab the external hard drives. They have everything backed up on Time Machine,” I said.

“Huh?” was the answer. “Don’t we need the whole thing?”

I had a vision of Keeper risking life and limb to save his monitor screen, thinking it contained his 40 years of literary endeavors.

“Tell you what, “ I said. “You grab the pets and I’ll grab our computer files.”

“It’s a deal,” said Keeper and he went back to reading about pre-season football.

Truth be told, I’m also grabbing my iPhone. I’ll need to call my family.

© 2010 Mary Hanna

Here’s my question. I’d like to know where the hap-hap-happy 14 percent are living because I’m moving there. Or else I want some of what they’re smoking.

In my opinion, humanity as a whole is acting like a spoiled teenager. We’re rude, self-centered, and oblivious.

As I get older, I’m more sensitive to others’ behavior and I’m not afraid to say something to them when they’re out of line, much to Keeper’s embarrassment. But hey, I’m in the majority here. According to the study, 51% of us have called someone on their behavior in public.

While I seldom directly confront people who are behaving badly (for fear they will focus their objectionable behavior on ME) I have been known to comment under my breath.

For instance, when someone cuts in front of me in a line, I might say, “Obviously you are more important than I am. Go ahead and cut in front of me.”

Or when someone fails to return my greeting on the street, I tell them, “Apparently that cell phone on your ear has rendered you deaf.”

Sure, it’s passive-aggressive. And no, it doesn’t do anything to improve their manners, but I’ve come to the conclusion that most people don’t care to improve themselves. They just want you to get out of their way.

Among the rude I encountered this week alone:

A young man at the entrance to Office Depot who let go of the door, hitting me in the face. He went on his way, oblivious.

The young man behind me whose car audio system made my Subaru (and my head) vibrate and throb. And he had his windows closed. I hope he’s saving up for a Miracle Ear.

The young man (I’m noticing a trend here) who persisted in his effort to sell me magazines at my door, despite the “no soliciting” sign and my complete disinterest.

The young women (gotcha!) who walked three abreast down the sidewalk, so busy exchanging words of wisdom (Like, OMG!) that they forced me into the street.

The pet owner whose dog relieved himself right outside my front gate. Pooper scooper, anyone?

And that’s just the last few days.

My opinion of my fellow human beings’ manners is at an all-time low.

Anybody know a cure for rampant rudeness?

No, no! Knit two, purl ONE!

I am now an honorary old person.

Like all Baby Boomers, I have fought the battle against aging bravely, refusing to dress my age, pretending that wrinkles are smile lines, and doing something every day that would embarrass my kids if they knew about it.

We’re the generation that won’t ever grow old, right?  I remember when the words “don’t trust anyone over 30” crossed my moist and dewy lips, and now we’re twice that age.  Somehow we forgot to account for the law of nature – that the old make way for the young. Go figure.

Until now, I have avoided the Old People Place (euphemistically called the Adult Community Center – the ACC).  After all, everyone knows it’s for people with walkers and oxygen tanks.  I mean, even my parents (in their mid-80s) think that such centers are for folks older than themselves, so at 59, I’m MUCH too young to drink stale coffee and play bingo in the middle of the day, right?

Yes!  Yes! A thousand times yes! I’m too young to play bingo!

Still, the lure of finding like-minded people who were free on a weekday morning drove me to check out a knitting group that meets every Friday at the above mentioned ACC in San Carlos.

My first trip, I was in stealth mode. I parked a block away so no one would know where I was going.  I walked perkily to the front door of the ACC with my knitting bag.  The group was right there in the library, stitching and chatting away.

A glance around the table didn’t dissuade me from feeling like an interloper.  There was a lot of white hair there.  But then (aha!) I spied a couple of women who might even be younger than I.  Either that, or they buy the fancy department store moisturizer instead of what’s on sale at Walgreen’s.

The group welcomed me and told me to pull up a chair.  They scooted around, making room at the table, and introduced themselves.

For nearly two hours, they talked about who has the best yarn prices, who were the mean volunteers and who were the friendly ones, and which ACC habitués were lacking in the personal hygiene department, prompting me to surreptitiously sniff my armpits while I pretended to be untangling some yarn.

The gossip was interrupted by oohs and ahs about one project or another and soon I forgot to be self-conscious about being among old people.  We were all just women who loved yarn.

I was feeling all warm and fuzzy (pun intended) when they asked me to join them for coffee hour down the hall.

I followed behind, sat for twenty minutes, and soon discovered that coffee hour attracts certain types:
1. those who are there for the stale baked goods.
2. those who are there to check out chicks (no, really).
3. those who think it’s still high school and don’t want you to sit at their table.

I approached the food table, ready to take a chance on a bagel, when I noticed that the woman in front of me was picking up each an every bagel half and putting it back on the plate.  Afraid that she might be one of those lacking-in-personal-hygiene individuals, I decided to pass on the pastry.

So here’s the deal.  I am not ready to be an Old Person just yet.  I still smell OK, I still drive after dark, and I know how to program my DVR.  That in itself disqualifies me as a geezer.

But, you know?  Old lady knitters are pretty cool.  I’m glad they let me join their club.

© 2010 Mary Hanna