Last weekend, at some point, I decided to learn how to knit. It’s not my first go-round with this because when I first learned I would be an aunt, I signed up for a knitting class. I went, thinking I’d make darling booties and sweaters for my nephew or niece (turned out to be a nephew, who is now — gasp — 23 years old). The ladies were kind of mean and a little discouraging to my 15-year-old self so I gave up with nary a bootie to show for it.

Truth be told I was probably not as committed as they would have liked; not serious enough about the pursuit, and so knitting went the way of my ice-skating phase, my basketball career, my pottery stage and countless other activities I’ve engaged in at one time or another.

I realize I’m late to this party — Amanda took it up and made me mildly interested about seven years ago. Robin knits. So does Angela. It seems like most people pick it up at one time or another and finally, I think I’m interested too.

I went to the fabric store on a Saturday morning and purchased needles, yarn and a how-to book. I ran into Jen, who also knits, who approved the contents of my shopping bag and wished me luck. I began my attempts that evening.

It’s now a week later and I have very little to show for my efforts. I have started over about six times. The photo of the smug, smiling lady on the cover of my book proclaiming, “I can’t believe I’m knitting!” enrages me. I want to cram her needles into her ear canals until she wipes that sappy grin off her face.

Knitting begets violence, apparently.

The book was no help, really. So I went to YouTube for help and got it. I should have gone there in the first place. (Note to Waldo; if you’re over your illness, grab those needles and head to YouTube — skip the book.) However, AND HERE’S WHERE YOU COME IN, you, knitters of Charlottesville and St. Louis — YOU, within the reach of this blog who knit and can tell me WHAT THE KNIT?! Seriously; if you have any tips or advice, please share them in the comments or shoot me an email.

My husband, observing Try Number Five last night said, “Oh honey, look at that! You knitted a birds’ nest. Good for you!”

BLEGH.

Last weekend we went to visit the boy at Christopher Newport University. It was the first time for us to visit him  as a family since he’d been installed in his dorm room as a college freshman. He called before our visit and asked us to bring a few things: a sewing kit (for ripped clothes and missing buttons, apparently), some jeans and his girlfriend.

So the four of us, the husband, the girl, the allergist’s daughter and I headed out on Saturday morning and descended upon his dorm. We were appropriately aghast at the disgustingness of a suite shared by four teenage boys, but it was obvious there had been some effort to clean, so we didn’t mention it.

In the dorm room hall, on a bulletin board was a list of Abreves. that is, abbreviations for the inner language of the dorm or perhaps the college or perhaps kids of that age. Who knows? Words shortened like, “obvi” for obvious and “Space” for MySpace. We stood there, all five of us, reading the list, when the girl, scanning down the list obviously much faster than the rest of us asked, “What’s a ______?”

Now, I’m not a prude by any stretch, and have uttered my share of obscene words, but not in public, not outside of the company of very close adult friends and not as a habit. But the word she said is THE WORD I WILL NOT SAY. It is, in my opinion, one of the most obscene words in the English language. She was completely innocent and followed our stunned laughter and redirecting, “Never mind!” with, “But what does it MEAN?”

I said, “My EARS, they’re BURNING,” as we steered her away from the bulletin board, down the stairs and out of the building. No mother should have to hear that word coming out of her 12-year-old daughter’s mouth.

The boy was mortified and apologized on behalf of his entire generation, his college, his dorm and his floor.

The allergist’s daughter, a worldly college kid,  whisked the girl away and gave her this explanation: There are dirty words in this world, but there are LEVELS of dirty words. There’s the D word, which is bad, and then the S word which is a level worse, but THIS word is SEVERAL LEVELS worse. We do not say this word.

I’m hoping that her memory has already faded. I’m hoping that a new term does not become popular at her middle school. I’m hoping my ears stop burning and I’ll forget the whole incident.

Friday night, the girl attended a lock-in sleepover at the Kappa Delta house at UVa. When she returned, she was a bonafide sorority girl, complete with a bow adorning her perky ponytail.

We joked that the Kappa Delta girls just wanted to enslave a bunch of 6th graders for the weekend; that they needed servers for a party they were having or needed the sorority house cleaned, but no — turns out a bunch of nice college girls wanted to do something nice for a group of Girl Scouts.

So my kid who went off to UVa, very emo and nonconformist, returned morphed into a friendship bracelet-making future pledge.

I am the mother of a sorority girl.

Fresh from three weeks of abandoning my husband to be mom, dad, dog-buddy, cook and driver, I’m feeling grateful for the guy who steps up when my schedule outweighs his. It balances out, as I’ve done the same for him when his late nights run into mornings or when weekend work becomes the norm rather than the exception.

And so, I have a story to share about another dad; the husband of another working mom we’ll call Clementine. Clementine is a busy working mom, an executive in an organization she loves. Her work schedule is longer by at least 20 percent than her husband Joe’s. Still, good old Clem does it all; the work, the housework, the yard work, the kids’ carpool, the shopping, the laundry the cooking and so on. One day, as was bound to happen, Clem had HAD IT. She told Joe that the time had come to balance out the work and given the fact that his work week was much shorter than hers, he needed to pick up the slack.

The couple sat down — and I LOVE this idea — made a list of all the family chores and responsibilities. They made assignments and agreed on who would own what. Joe ended up with laundry, carpool, grocery shopping and yardwork among his list of promised items. Clem was delighted and things definitely looked brighter for their future as a dual income family with several kids.

Joe took a look at his list and did what any man (and any woman) would do in his situation: he outsourced it.

Yep, that’s right. Joe hired someone to come in and do the laundry, someone else to mow the lawn. He negotiated down his role of carpool driver by leaning on some of the “other” moms, and resourced options for online groceries with delivery.

The man’s got brains.

So what, I ask you, did Clem think? Well after she got over the anger of not having thought of it first, she decided she just didn’t care HOW it got done, just as long as SHE didn’t have to do it.

And that, my friends, is the end of the story.

Since mid-September I have been to London, England; Ahmedabad and Mumbai, India; and Frankfurt, Germany. I’m home now for a few weeks and glad of it! Last week I was in Frankfurt, but for the most part I was in what must be the world’s largest conference facility, making it seem as if I was not in Frankfurt at all. We did have one day in the city (this has been a theme for me lately; one day in London, one day in Mumbai, one day in Frankfurt) and since it was a Sunday, “No one works on Sunday in Germany,” we were told, everything was closed. The zoo was open, though, so we strolled about with darling German families and gazed at somewhat German animals.

Two true travel stories: we had Italian food in India and in Germany and had Indian food in Germany. No, I did not have Wiener Schnitzel. I had the best steak I’ve ever had in my life in Germany and of course, had some tasty German beer.

In Mumbai, as a rifle-toting official checked my passport, he said, in heavily accented English, “Oh, like Mick Jagger?” and it just goes to show you that with a name this close to an obviously world famous star, even when you’re 8,000 miles away from home, you still get the same silly comments. People, in fact, are the same EVERYWHERE.

Friends asked if I feel changed by all this world traveling and in a way I do. I feel, for one, like part of the club of people who have gone places outside the U.S. I also have felt what it is to be American in countries that certainly have opinions about Americans. I have experienced what gives us our bad reputation — the arrogance that we embody as we expect everyone to speak English. It has also been interesting, and not a little embarrassing when foriegners are extremely interested in our politics and our financial situation as a country. My national pride faltered more than once when our hosts hinted (politely) that our country’s leadership (and replacement candidates) were less than ideal.

I also developed enhanced respect for the clients I work with who travel the world on a regular basis — those guys who spend more nights in the air than on the ground, who live out of a suitcase and who keep up with work while not entirely sure which time zone they’re in.

I’m still struggling out of the jetlag coma — more tired after this trip because I slept very little during the time I was away. I’m looking forward to getting back to “normal” — being at home for the girl’s basketball games and fall activities, to going to my son’s college for family weekend, of sleeping in my own bed and taking care of my family.

But a part of me is also looking forward to the next adventure, to adding another country to my list, to seeing how other people in the world live and being humbled by the reminder of the tiny space in the world we occupy.