Rip-off Artist

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Now that we have recovered from Land Beaver Day and Beyonce Bowl, it is time to turn my house into a child labor factory and crank out some lovingly homemade valentines. My kids are really looking forward to it because they have no idea what is in store for them.

My mom is a retired art teacher (and by “retired” I mean “not teaching anymore but got her Ed.D. for fun, whee”). When she was visiting over the holidays we went shopping at Paper Source, the store where I could almost justify destroying my children’s financial future for some beautiful paper products. Somehow, as I was hypnotized by the sturdy cardstock and loopy fonts, my crafty mom convinced me that I could make the valentines that were on display in the store. And not just make them, but that I could make them better than Paper Source, and get my kids to help. Please note that I had not been drinking. Much.

So we stole a Paper Source catalog (OK, they were free, but I felt so Thelma and Louise, ripping off someone’s idea!) and went to Michael’s with a long list of supplies. Approximately six days later we emerged, tired and dehydrated, with piles of red paper and glue sticks and stickers. Which all cost more than the pre-made kits at Paper Source. Um.

After talking up the projects for weeks to the kids, I finally made some examples this weekend. They really are adorable, and look like only slightly crappier versions of the Paper Source valentines:
Valentines

But they are kind of hard to make, and I predict my kids will make two before they are bored and things devolve into bribery and threats. Each one took me a good 15 minutes, and I am a really good cutter and gluer. Seriously, that’s on my resume, right next to my law school honors (which are totes going to be put to good use over the next week as I spend 20 hours cutting out hedgehogs and heart-shaped guitars).

My daughter is going to give out the hedgehogs in honor of her beloved Piney Porky McHedgypants. To complete our Paper Source rip-off, we’re writing “Hedgehugs and Kisses” on the back. All of her pre-school friends who cannot read will love it: “Oh, L is so clever with her thoughtful play on words – ‘hedgehugs’! Now can someone help me get this crayon out of my nose.” My son is giving out the guitars, and I’m going to force ask him to write “You rock!” on all of them. He will be pissed off about it probably after the sixth valentine, and will try to convince me that he just has to sign his name because, in fact, some of the kids in his class do not rock at all. Happy Valentine’s Day! Love is in the air.

And even though my mom got me in to all of this, there is something kind of magical about having a grandma who was an art teacher. She can talk me in to trying any art project, and in between the moments of negotiating and complaining, I’m sure the kids and I will have fun. As great as our grandma is, though, this is the kind of bad ass grandma I would want on a road trip. Except for all of the stopping for tickets, it would be amazing. But why didn’t the cops stop her sooner? And how did she not make it to her granddaughter’s dance after all that trouble? Well, at least they all have a good story to tell.

I hope I can say that after we make our valentines this week.

It IS Tricky

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This weekend is big in my house: Groundhog Day on Saturday, followed by Superbowl Sunday. My kids are very excited for Groundhog Day, in part because I told them that groundhogs can also be called whistle-pigs or land beavers, which made us laugh hysterically for what I hope were very different reasons. Here is a romantic land beaver that is OK to look at while you are at work:

Romantic Whistle Pig

Last year we watched the video of Punxatawney Phil coming out of his hole over and over, and let me tell you, it never got any less weird. First of all, the groundhog comes out of a place called Gobbler’s Knob, which no matter how you say it sounds dirty. Second, the grown men dressed in period costumes who pull the named rodent out of his man made den…I am done with that sentence – there is nothing else to add to fully convey how weird it all is. Here is a picture of some of the, oh, 75 or so old men who participate in the offering up of the whistle-pig to Al Roker, King of the Meteorologists, for their annual sacrifice.

Punxatawney 2
Shortly after this picture, Phil was beheaded and made into nuggets.

Once my kids recover from their whistle-pig hangover, it will be time for the Superbowl. For all of you sports fans, it looks like two teams will be playing against each other in between the commercials, and one of them will win.

In case you have not been following The BeyHive or any other important news for the past six months, let me be the first to tell you that Beyonce is doing the halftime show. It should be a good show because (1) she is almost certainly not going to lip sync, and (2) she is trying to make us all believe that Destiny’s Child is not to have a reunion on the halftime stage but OH THEY ARE. I know this because I have extremely well-placed sources Michelle Williams is a terrible liar.

While Beyonce gets a national stage (again) this weekend, I think it’s about time her little sister got some attention, too. Solange is so stylish that she looks like all the best clothes in Anthropologie (not this stuff) combined with all the non-annoying parts of hipsters (not these guys, who might all be lovely people but this is the first image that came up when I Googled “hipsters are annoying”). I could listen to Solange’s song “Losing You” for hours, which I confirmed just today. I dare you to only listen once.

If I attempted to wear any of the outfits Solange is wearing in this video, people would reasonably assume that I was some sort of hobo clown. And yet she looks amazing. Could Beyonce do that? Yes, and probably better than her little sister, but whatever. Interesting fact: that “wahhh!” noise you hear over and over in the song, the one that sounds like someone kicking a bird, or the noise Edith Bunker might make when surprised? That is actually me.

And here is just one more younger sibling who deserves some attention (although I have a feeling he probably demands plenty of attention on an hourly basis). This kid has some sweet moves, which are only enhanced by his mom and older sister’s total embarrassment:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KYChtZtXkN4
Water that lawn, little brother.

The Cat’s Meow

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Every day my son brings home a new book from his school’s “media center” (that is a “library” for everyone over 30). In the fall he worked his way through the school’s nature books, bringing home those classics that all mothers love, such as “Worms Up Close,” “Tarantula Scientist,” and “Parasites Picture Book.” Then, thanks to some street smart little third grader, he discovered the Captain Underpants books and learned dozens of offensive names for old people and body functions.

Now it looks like he has discovered the “pets in uniforms” books, and I am extremely excited. This is what he brought home today:
Police Cat

That is a cat in a police uniform.

I could hardly control my laughter when we read the story before bed. I don’t know if it was the visual of the dressed up cat, or that the cat’s name is Noodles, or that my kids seemed to believe every word of the book – it was just too much for me. Did I mention that Noodles can open doors?

Police Cat Door

The only time I have ever seen a cat make that expression is right before realizing that it had a piece of Christmas tinsel hanging out of its butt. Not that that ever happened in my house.

Of course, Police Cat is about a wily cat that hangs out at the police station, chasing rats and napping, and who somehow saves a family from a fire and then stands around meowing arrogantly while a bastard German shepherd takes all the credit. Then the cat steals the dog’s breath and kills him in his sleep. NO, no, Noodles ends up getting the credit he deserves, and is rewarded with a “Hero-of-the-City Award” and an ill fitting uniform, complete with a tiny cat-sized hat that seems to have holes for his little cat ears.

After we finished reading the book, my daughter reminded me of a story I told her once that can’t possibly be true. I told her about the time that I dressed up my fat, mangy cat Duchess in doll clothes and a bonnet, and put her in my frilly old-fashioned doll carriage – and then pranced down the street with her to take her to my kindergarten class for show and tell. There is no way that happened, right? I mean, I did actually have parents. But I have extremely vivid memories of this. I also remember a mass of kids following along behind me and feeling a little bit like a movie star with my fancy carriage-riding cat. I may have just pinpointed where my obsession with celebrities started.

Anyhow, at the end of Police Cat, Noodles’ new police hat goes flying out the window while he is chasing bad guys in a police car. And Noodles decided he didn’t care because, I don’t know, he’s a big deal now or something. Well, I lost a little respect for Noodles right then. All I could think about is how mad I would be if I had spent hours crafting a tiny police hat for a cat (you can’t just buy those at a store), and then the ungrateful a-hole just loses it like an hour after he put it on his little cat head. Which is why I do not make clothes for cats.

I can’t wait to see what is in my son’s backpack tomorrow afternoon. Sloth Firefighter, perhaps, or Dolphin Mail Carrier? Or maybe Hamster Hooker? I know, hookers don’t really wear uniforms, so that’s probably not even a book. But maybe Police Cat busts a Hamster Hooker in a follow-up.

A girl can dream. And frankly, anything is an improvement over that parasite picture book.

Walk the Walk

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My son walks to school every day, but this week it has been really cold so we have been driving. And to clarify, I mean it has been really, actually cold. Not like, “OMG, guys, it’s normally 76 year round and now it’s 59 degrees, where is my long underwear?!” Yeah, I’m talking to you, friends in SoCal. Today it was so cold that I had this conversation with my son: “Mom, why do you keep squeezing my cheeks?” “I’m just checking to make sure they are not frostbitten oh no TURN AROUND TURN YOUR FACE AWAY FROM THE WIND!”

Now that we’re driving to school, I miss walking with him and his buddies. It’s so nice to start the day listening to elementary school kids talk about their video games and iPhones and all the things that they love that did not exist when I was little.

In honor of my lovely morning walks, please enjoy. The hook of this song is so catchy that I don’t mind the sad lyrics about bad investments and ripping apart socialists. What? Who cares, take a walk.

Keeping It Realz

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Today I am writing at the library because I needed a change of scenery and wanted to get away from my husband blasting Taylor Swift while he works. (Apparently that is who you turn to when you realize that Ke$ha sucks.) Also, writing at a study carrel next to older men wearing sunglasses and cowboy hats while they try to discretely look at porn reminds me of college, when I was particularly creative.

Lest you think that my life is perfect, what with my proximity to porno cowboys and my public library workspace, I’d like to show you my closet.

Closet

I’m not going to surprise you now with an “After” picture where my closet looks like the cover of Real Simple. Those kinds of pictures, with their Instagram filters and perfect lighting, are the WORST. Instead of inspiring me, they make me feel awful and force me to go add a layer of clothes to my closet piles while eating fried food.

I read this article about how Facebook users’ perfect pictures of their vacations and thoughtful spouses and overachieving kids are making us all insanely jealous and filled with envy (did they really need two German universities to reach this conclusion?), so I am really doing a community service by showing you my closet. You are welcome. For an extra feeling of superiority, you may want to pay special attention to the half-torn-off Halloween stickers all over my mirror, the ripped garbage bag full of five year old maternity clothes sitting by the door, or the random sweaters hanging over the lower hangers. Also, please take a good look at the lonely boot sitting atop the mountain of crap and let me know if you’ve seen the other one. I miss it and am afraid it is at the bottom of the pile (i.e., gone forever).

This disaster has been brewing since November. My closet really was reasonably organized for a lovely two week period back then. But every time someone would come over (which was a lot during the holidays), I would throw any loose crap straight in my closet, because who was going to look in there? The house is clean, the kids’ closets are organized, who cares about my closet.

But when I pulled a muscle trying to find a t-shirt the other day it finally dawned on me that, as a semi-functioning adult, maybe I should not live like this. So over the next several weeks and months, I will be obtaining my commercial driver’s license to operate heavy machinery so that I can begin excavating. And I will not show you any pictures of how awesome it looks when I am done.

And this is the boring lawyer in me coming out, but seriously: as willing as I am to show you my embarrassing closet, please remember that there are some things you just should not put in writing.