Recently I bought my son a copy of The Dangerous Book For Boys. Okay, I know, I’m a little late to the game here. I read the book that night from cover to cover and saw just how we had failed him. All the knots we hadn’t taught him to tie. All the rabbits we hadn’t shown him how to skin. All the constellations we hadn’t pointed out to him in the night sky.
There was knowledge out there, ESSENTIAL INFORMATION that somebody should have told him about.
I began to wish I had a book. A dangerous book. A Dangerous Book for a Forty-Something Woman. In my dangerous book would be entries on:
How to remember the name of the movie (book, restaurant, TV show) you just saw, read, ate at or TIVO-d.
How to avoid being exposed as somebody who doesn’t remember the name of the movie, book, restaurant or TV show you just saw, read, ate at or TIVO-d.
The One Thing Every Forty-Something Woman Should Never Say at a Party:
1. Oh my god, I can’t wait to tell you. I just saw, read, ate or Tivo’d the most amazing . . . the most amazing . . .you know, that thing, were you with me? Wait, it was something really good. Didn’t we do it together? Wasn’t that you? We were eating. We were watching. I gave you a copy. Did you ever give it back to me? Wasn’t it amazing? I felt so good afterwards. Didn’t you? Not too full. But full enough. You know the eat until you’re only 80% full kind of full.
How to Skin A Rabbit
Buy your kid The Dangerous Book for Boys and a swiss army knife and make him do it for you.