Kiddy Contraband

My first-grade son brought me an envelope last night from his backpack.

Me: What's this?
Him: I think it's from the teacher. It was in my locker at the end of the day.

It was a white no. 10 envelope with three stamps in the upper-right corner and my son's name (misspelled W-i-l-y-m) scribbled in blue crayoned letters, graduating in size from left to right.

Me: Really? Since when does Mrs. S use blue crayon and penmanship that indicates either underdeveloped fine-motor skills or something other than coffee in her thermos?
Him: Huh?

There was a blue "?" on the back. Hmmmmmmmm. . .

Inside: a tightly folded piece of stationary. On the front, a picture of a beautiful princess with uber-long hair and hearts for eyes, drawn in blue ink. Now, may I just pause here to say that I DO have to commend this pint-sized seductress for changing writing utensils for a bold look on the envelope, and one of higher precision on the letter itself. A practice I myself use. Oh, she's good.

On the back side, I found this:

"I (very large colored-in heart) you Wilym
I am your itmyyrwr (am guessing 'admirer,' and, again, not bad for a first grader)
I am in your clais room"

After I took a moment to let what I was reading sink in, I found myself saying two things simultaneously.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh. . .

and

Who in the hell is this tramp?

Unfortunately for her, it was the latter emotion that prevailed. So tomorrow girls, when I show up with my little Darth Vader at the early-morning classroom lineup, I'll be looking over all of you very carefully. And I'll ferret you out. Because moms know.

Just you try to hide behind this:



Or, God forbid, this:



And just so you know, I'll be the one who looks like this:



Son: Is it from Mrs. S, mommy?
Me: Yes, dear, it is.
Son: What did she say?
Me: That you should live with your mother forever and little girls are not to be trusted.
Son: Oh. Yeah. I already knew that.
Me: Smart boy.

Bad Mother

That's the title of Ayelet Waldman's book, coming out this May. Remember when I teased you with it? It's really so cool to even have it. I keep ogling it. The top of the front cover reads: Bound Manuscript—Not For Sale. As in, nobody else has a copy yet. As in, I am privy. As in, the heady scent of power has gone to my head and I have forgotten what I was going to say.

Oh, yes.

The full title:

Bad Mother: A Chronicle of Maternal Crimes, Minor Calamities, and Occasional Moments of Grace

Though Ayelet (pronounced I-yell-it, which makes her even cooler, and probably louder, than I had imagined), has given me free reign to say whatever and tell whatever I want about her book, I prefer the teasers. I also want to hear what you think.

In her first chapter she sets up two of our cultural signifiers: Good Mothers and Bad Mothers. Basically, Good Mother equals complete self-sacrifice. Bad Mother equals selfishness (per our cultural discourse—not per Waldman, just to be clear).

And then she recaps our cultural obsession with Bad Mothers. The heinous Bad Mothers like Andrea Yates who drowned her five children in Texas. Or Susan Smith who drove her two children into a lake in South Carolina. She talks about the discourse used to describe their crimes. That rather than treat them as anomalous cases or speak of their specific mental issues, we (mostly other women/mothers) talk about their base selfishness.

And then she asks why we obsess about them and why we talk about that selfishness in such a bloodthirsty manner—that 'Bad Mothering.'

She posits that it is because on our turf and in our own lives, we battle these guilty feelings of regret over selflessness or guilty feelings of not enough selflessness. Either way, moms are damned. Either way, 'mom guilt' is lethal and toxic (my own thoughts).

And therefore she wonders if, even if only for a moment, some of that guilty burden isn't assuaged by watching (lambasting) someone who is "worse, far worse, than we are."

And I buy it. Wholeheartedly. It's spectacle. The old art of spectacle. I often think of the Paris Hilton craze in the same way. She's not that interesting. Why the obsession? Could it be because she has become the poster child of the dangers of having too much money? And therefore does she make all of us living in mediocrity and even poverty feel okay about our status? Even though there are thousands of rich kids doing just fine, living responsibly, we have made her the rich kid poster child. Spectacle. Better than anti-depressants any day of the week. Definitely better than self-reflection, God forbid.

But I am always suspicious of witch hunts. I always smell the stench of repression on the hunters.

I don't believe that Waldman writes to vindicate the wrongs of the above mentioned heinous crimes. I believe her only question is, What can we learn about ourselves, as a culture, as mothers, by our own reactions to them? By how we talk about them?

What thinkin'?

A Plug for Child Labor

Conversation between my seven-year-old son and myself, regarding my three-year-old son.

Will: Mommy, Max didn't put away his toys, and I did. (A sentiment I'd heard about 72 times already that day—in one form or another.)

Me: Sit down, please. Let's talk.

Will: Why?

Me: Right here, on the couch. And bring a pencil and paper. And a recent copy of your resume.

Will: What?
(Both sitting now)

Me: Am I to understand from your concern over his behavior that you are interested in the position of becoming his manager?

Will: (grinning) Yes. Yes, I am.

Me: Fantastic. How do your nights and weekends look for the next 15 years?

Will: Huh?

Me: Still interested?

Will: Can I just go play?

Me: I highly recommend it.

BlackBall BlackFinn

This is the new bar in Royal Oak. Brand new. Though if you go to their site, you'll see that they are building their reputation around their "Tradition, Tradition, Tradition." And I asked myself, "Exactly what sort of tradition are they building on, considering they're so new to our town and only around since 1994 at their first location?"

But if you read the news, you'll see what they apparently mean by "Tradition."

Not wanting to jump to conclusions, I made the rounds myself and talked to the staff at local venues. The stories are unbelievable, offered in great detail, and consistent. That's hard evidence to refute. Stories of hordes of BlackFinn employees making the rounds to other bars, causing big scenes, buying drinks for customers, and then telling them to come over to BlackFinn. It's also been carried off in such an organized and methodical manner that it's hard to refute that the impetus came from upper ranks.

Trust me, I was in the service industry. As a 'people,' mass organization is not at the top of our skill sets. If we do anything as a group, there's bound to be a manager behind it. And even then, we barely listen. Really. Any Food and Beverage manager reading this right now is no doubt giving me an Amen, sister. I have no doubt their actions were planned and probably motivated with the incentive that works best on servers (again, much experience here): free booze and less closing sidework. We're very easily bought and sold. As a people, that is.

Their behavior is sad, really. It's like they're the new girl in school trying to sleep their way to the top. Dontcha know what you're doing to your reputation? Dontcha? For God's sake, pull yourself together and have an ounce of respect.

It's not that we're afraid of a fair fight here in Royal Oak. And it's definitely not because we shy away from the 'creative.' Though you can see from my post title, my first instinct was to call for a plain old blackball. But that's boring.

I've changed my mind. I think we should show BlackFinn just how creative we can be. They have announced themselves to the neighborhood by showing just how little respect they have for their reputation. Let's be neighborly. Let's show them that we've heard them. And, let's all stop by to pay our respects.

But just to be clear, they've asked that they not be the aperitif like you might have at Pronto. They've also denied that they're anywhere near good enough for the house-brewed beer you'll enjoy at Bastone. And they'd rather die than be treated with the respect you'd offer the single malt at Goodnite Gracie's. They've actually made it quite clear that they're even beneath a good old-fashioned night cap at Tom's.

Let's be sure that we go to them as they've come to us. Shall we?



And don't worry about flushing the toilet. Or cleaning up your mess. They wouldn't hear of it.

Oh, I almost forgot. Order a water on your way out the door. They love that.

Please feel free to post a note to BlackFinn here. I will be emailing them the link at the end of the day, once we've all had our say.

Scrappy Friday

Don't judge. I love this song.



It's such a Friday song, too. Right?

Play it lots and know that Miss Ive is partaking in her favorite Friday activity: Duking it out with the designers who like to bust her chops all week.

Can you see me warming up now? Running up and down my office walls?

Na na na na na na na, Na na na na na na . . .

I'm gonna start a fight.

My Hot Little Hands

Remember when I posted about Ayelet Waldman and her much talked about New York Times essay about sexually repressed mothers? (No matter how I describe her essay, I greatly reduce it to one flattened-out theme. It's much more. Read it. You'll see.) Well, she wrote. And, I wrote back. And we went back and forth enough times that I felt bold enough to mention our girls' trip—our adventurers' renaissance. I told her we were filming and asked if she would like to be present, in any form. A note, a letter, a word of advice for rookie moms. And guess what she did? GUESS? She mailed me the manuscript to her new book, not out until this May.

I have been racing home every night, running straight to the mail box. And tonight, it came.

This post will be short and sweet, as I have already cracked it (it really made that crackling sound, really) and turned randomly to page 17. And the very first three sentences on the page knocked me out. Am so excited. I'm dying to share, but have to get the green light from the venerable author.

Feel very privileged to have her trust. Would not want to break it. After all, have to keep some secrets for May. Will check in and report back. Hate to tease. Not really. Love it.

Can't even give away the title yet. And it's very bold, like Ms. Waldman.

Hmmmmmmmmm. . .

Distant Dreamer

Okay. . .

Remember my big adventure? And remember how I'm filming it? And remember how I have no idea what the feck is involved with making a short film? Well it turns out, after much discussion with both the director and the producer who are both well versed in legal copyright issues, music is a taboo unless I have paid for the rights.

A transcript from my three most recent phone conferences with producer:

Me: I was hoping we could use something from Modest Mouse on the road trip portion.
Alex: Nope

Me: Maybe we could SING the WORDS to a Billy Joel song on the run through the park.
Alex: Nope

Me: I'm picturing a scene where my sister and I are sharing the ear buds from an iPod and MOUTHING the lyrics to a U2 song.
Alex: (For a very important producer, he doesn't have very impressive phone service. I believe the call was dropped, as I did not get a response.)

So I have to BUY music, MAKE my own music, or BEG for free rights to music.

I only have enough in my budget to purchase a fourth-grade version of Hot Cross Buns, performed on recorders. And I can't sing or play my way out of a bad karaoke joint. Soooooo. . . begging it is. And I NEED help. Please do this. If you have any respect for clean air and would like to keep it free of my own recorder playing, please do this.

Step One:

Listen



The director found this song whilst dusting off his only 'chick' CD to inspire him while story-boarding this film. He made me hear it. "It's perfect for your project. PERFECT." And it is. I was skeptical, as I believe all men think that 'inspirational chick music' sounds the same. But this is perfect.

I have to have it.

Step Two:

Click here. It will take you to Duffy's site 'contact' page.

Then cut and paste from below to fill in fields.


Name: (your own name)

Subject: PR enquires

Email Address: sandinmyswimsuit@gmail.com

Message:

I am writing on behalf of Miss Ive's short film. She is the craziest girl I know and certainly a 'Distant Dreamer,' as evidenced by the fact that she has written to everyone she knows around this world and has nicely requested (under threat of bodily harm) that we write to you. She would love nothing more than to grace her project with Duffy's song, Distant Dreamer. She believes it is possible you will say yes. Remember, she's a dreamer.

{Insert one-two sentences describing a crazy dream of your own} And, now, thanks to my crazy friend, Miss Ive, I am inspired to go do this. Blame her if you will, but please give her what she asks. She's insufferable when she does not get it.

With much gratitude,

(your name)

Okay. Now you know what to do. Do it. Then play this song again. If, at song's end, you DO NOT end up standing in your chair, hands in the air, you have no soul. It's that good.

Katsai

Miss Ive has found a new favorite Etsy designer. And wanna know why? She uses TOILE in her designs. And wanna know why I like TOILE? Because it's so fun to say. Try it. Toile, Toile, TOILE. TOOOOO-WALLLLLLLLLL.

Check it.



And now check the TOILE.



And now check Katsai's site.

Love this one, too. It's got a handkerchief in a very handy spot, which is bloody perfect for weddings and funerals. However, I'm unsure whether this top is exactly appropriate for weddings and funerals. Will contemplate dilemma whilst purchasing recklessly. Come to think of it, handkerchief could be very useful on 'bill paying day,' as well. Shirt is definitely appropriate for that. Will buy several.

A Little Bit Harmful to Me

I went to see Rufus Wainwright perform at the Royal Oak Music Theater Saturday night. Such a haunting voice. Half way through the concert, I realized my face was frozen in the "on the verge of tears" expression. He saved Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk for last. The crowd went crazy.

There's something about guilty pleasures that everyone can get on board with. Right?

It seems like such a light song, given the title. But this verse gets to me, on a much deeper level.

"And then there's those other things. . .which for several reasons we won't mention. . . everything about them is a little bit stranger. . . a little bit harder. . . a little bit deadly. . ."

I was reading Peterman's Eye yesterday about a woman who just celebrated her 112th birthday. The sentiment everyone expressed about her was that she loves the simple life. And, honestly, I had nothing to say other than, "how sad." So I said nothing. If after 112 years, the resounding sentiment of my life is "simplicity," I would die. No pun intended.

And it's not that I don't love the simple things, but they don't FEEL simple to me. They feel huge—and they overwhelm me. And when I feel that way and I look around and see everyone else enjoying things with banal smiles on their faces, it unnerves me. It makes me want to shake them and wake them up.

Nobody will ever say that I "enjoyed the simple life." They're more likely to say, "life was never simple when she was around." And maybe that's not a compliment. And I'm not likely to live to 112. But that's okay.

I like intensity. I like guilty pleasures, even "those other things. . .which for several reasons we won't mention. . ."

So, in the words of the haunting Rufus Wainwright,

"Please be kind if I'm a mess. . . Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk."

Play this song. And then tell me your two guiltiest pleasures. Don't make me come over and shake you out of your banality. Because I will.

The Great Debates

Ahhhhh, the debates. It's all everyone is talking about these days. So I thought I'd just put things to a vote here, tally and be done with it.

We all know what's at the center of all the commotion.


The J. Peterman Portrait dress.

Remember this trip? Well it's coming up and major decisions must be decided upon.

So let's dig right in and start with the tougher issues. The shoes.

These (very Audrey Hepburn)



Or these (a little more grown up)



Don't let the blocks and blocks of Chicago walking deter you from voting heels. 'Fashion first' is our campaign slogan. Hence the J. Peterman benchmark.

On to the hose. There have been a few voices of concern over monochromania.



To break things up, some have suggested nude.



Or, my personal suggestion, to spice things up a bit,



Moving on, gloves. There are six of us dressing alike. We are going for the vintage chic thing. Like these chicks.



See their gloves?

Well, with black shoes and black dress, do you do black or white gloves?

This chick did white, and she looks pretty vintage.



But this chick did black, and she is the definition of vintage chic.



Moving on to the mouth. No. Let's do eyes first. Smoky or natural?





And, depending on what you voted for eyes, what for mouth? Vintage red or natural? I can tell right now, the former would wind up all over the place. But it's cool.





And finally, the toughest issue of all, the hair. I think up for sure (but you can vote down). But if up, high-fashion, modern pony or sloppy, side-parted chignon? Very tough.





These are the issues currently keeping me up at night. Please help Miss Ive get some rest. Vote. Otherwise, smoky eyes will be necessary to hide very, very, very tired eyes.

Oh my God, I forgot the clutch. Must start all over now.

Irish Fare

I went to an Irish pub last night. Ordered the corned beef. Was actually really excited about it. Until every bite, with the exception of ONE, wound up BACK on my plate in a pile of gristle. So gross. How do people swallow that?



Anyway, I'm sure the group of people at the table facing mine enjoyed the show. Especially the faces I was making. At first, I tried to be discreet. Used the napkin. Pretended to cough. By the end, I was spitting it across the room, aiming for the kitchen.

When my waitress cleared my plate with the obligatory, "How was it?," I just nodded to the pile and smiled. Fantastic, I said. More please.

She brought me another Boddingtons. I didn't have to ask. Smart girl. And that IS fantastic. More, please.

And that pretty much summarizes the enigma of Ireland, Scotland and England. How is that they have enough taste to create such bloody good beer, yet none at all when it comes to food? Puzzling.

Shenanigans Revisited. . .

My sister forwarded me some pics of our trip to the mountains earlier this year. Don't you love that? It brings it all back.
Warm weather. . . long hikes. . . bottomless wine glasses. . .Sushi squared. . . and, of course, shenanigans cubed.

No matter how old we get, we get into trouble when together.

Since we were little girls, our vacation days pretty much always looked like this for the first half:



And then, when we were good and tired and dirty, if we hadn't done enough real harm to be banished to the tent or the condo, we spent the second half like this:



All cleaned up. And, thanks to my father, we're thoroughly trained in the fine art of making this transformation in under 30 minutes. He took us to the coin showers in national parks where one quarter buys you 30 seconds of water, and gave us each two quarters—even when we were teenagers—seriously. And now we thank him.

This particular day ended very late. There was a moose sighting, a pretty hilarious "off the beaten path" bathroom break from which we now have a quote that will last a lifetime, tons of sushi and great wine (I vaguely recall that my Twitter feed that night read: Just sushied the hell out of that town), and a pub that served great beer and Guinness fudge torte covered in local wild huckleberries. One for the books.

But this particular shenanigan doesn't end there. No. It gets better.

The following morning, the sun seemed brightly cruel as I packed for the hour drive south to the airport. And could NOT FIND MY WALLET. Which meant I had zero ID with which to board the plane. Which meant I had left it under the table at the pub where I had landed after the Guinness chocolate cake and beer bath had taken me DOWN. Which meant YOU HAVE GOT TO BE FECKING KIDDING ME.

But this is the coolest part about a small mountain town. It's not Detroit. It was still there, full of cash and plastic. Stunning. The pub owner said, Now I know your birthday—checked your license. And I said, Yah... you just gave me my present. Trust me.

Made the flight. Just barely. Light still a bit too bright. Fantastic shenanigans.

Project Bossy

I've written about her before. She's my very favorite blogger.

And she's just put a picture of me drinking beer 'on the job' at her site. And now I love her even more.

Read Bossy. See how bossy reading her will make you? Do it. But don't read with fluids in your mouth. Very dangerous to your machine.

If you want to see the picture of me (no doubt, YOUR very favorite blogger), check her Blog Roll on the lower right, and scroll about two-thirds of the way down. Bonus: click on my pic and it will bring you right back here! See how crafty that girl is? Witchy crafty.)

A Real Nancy Drew Mystery

When I was 21, I worked at and lived in an historic inn near Lake Michigan. I loved the inn. It had a sweeping front porch, like this.



And it had two bikes for guests to check out and use, like this.



On my second day behind the VERY OLD front desk, I saw one of those bicycles crash into said sweeping porch, whilst transporting a woman who appeared to be in her mid-fifties, but cruised, crashed, and dismounted like she was roughly 10.

She was wearing paint-spattered coveralls and ran all the way up the front steps, across the sweeping porch and practically directly into the VERY OLD desk behind which I stood, staring at her with dumbfounded curiosity.

She signed the bike back in, grinned at me, turned, ran through the grand and VERY OLD lobby, up the first flight of VERY TINY and floral-carpet-covered stairs, and from the clammering heard overhead, apparently down the entire VERY LONG, second-floor hallway. And then a door slammed. A door that looked like this.



And required a key that looked like this.



Seriously.

So I spun the book log around and read the name. Nancy Drew was scribbled hurriedly across the last entry slot.

I grinned. How mysterious? So I climbed the stairs to investigate and I looked exactly like this.



Except I didn't have the auburn hair, or the cool magnifying glass, or the dapper, apparently asexual boyfriend named Ned to follow me around and take interest in my every whim for an entire series. But I did look inquisitive. And intrigued. And I looked. . . down the entire way due to the afore mentioned VERY TINY (and VERY OLD) FLORALLY-COVERED STEPS—a mystery unto themselves.

And when I reached the end of the second-floor hallway, I heard singing coming from the last guest room, and banging. I knew that the room was listed as vacant, as were all the rooms in the inn that day. So I knocked. And she answered, still grinning, and singing.

She held a paintbrush in her hand and as I looked further into the room, I saw that she had begun to paint a star on the wall behind the bed. I panicked. My first time left alone and in charge, and I'd let a crazy woman in to graffiti the century-old walls, all whilst masquerading as a teen master sleuth.

In an effort to keep you all from falling off the edge of your chairs so early in the workweek, I will jump to the end of the story.

Turns out it really was Nancy Drew. Nancy Swan Drew, the artist. And she had been hired to paint a guest room that would from then on be known as the 'Nancy Drew' room. And she is crazy, in all the good ways. And she has a magnificent spirit. And she has the heart of a ten-year-old and the wisdom of twenty ten-year-olds. And she taught me many things using sparse and sage words that summer. And I thank her and hope she is well.

Murphy's Law and Broken Furnaces

A week ago, it was fall in Michigan. Real fall. Sweater weather. "I can see my breath at night" weather. And so the furnace broke on that day, of course.

When I heard the "bad news," I was prepared. Murphy, his Law, and I go way back. Way, way back. We chat often, like old schoolmates.

And this time, our chat went like this:

Me: Seriously?
Murph: You know it, honey. (For those of you who have not met Murphy or his Law, he generally stands askew, leaning against a doorjamb and blowing casually on his fingertips. )
Me: Fine. Give me the new furnace. Take my $2500. Take it.

Well, he did. The furnace was installed yesterday. Thursday. You know, that day that peaked at 78 degrees Fahrenheit? The one that, when paired with a gleaming new hotrod of a furnace in the basement, pretty much defines IRONY? Yeah, that one. Apparently, it's supposed to stay that way until after the weekend. UNTIL PAYDAY.



So I called my old friend Murphy.

Me: What's up?
Murph: Nothin'
Me: Wanna go for ride?
Murph: (Smacking his gum in my ear) You bet ya, babe.
Me: Good.

Have packed my shotgun. Might need some bail money tomorrow, girls. My bank account is a bit shy these days. Roughly $2500 shy.

Dancing Badly and Publicly

My friend Becky is coming to Chicago in search of the Lark with me. We have also decided to film the trip. Why?

So we can show it here, of course, and so you all can see just how very cool we are. Planning for the trip involves several conversations in which the girls involved attempt to visualize exactly how this 'coolness' will play out.

Becky and I have spent a lot of time choreographing our dance moves. She is, hands down, the resident expert at the Elaine Dance. That intimidates me. So I've been trying to bring my game up a notch. Maybe some Eighties vintage moves? The sprinkler? The Roger Rabbit?

But Becky, being the fantastic friend that she is, has gone out of her way to reassure me that stellar dance moves are not necessary to achieve film stardom.

She posted this clip of Jennifer Aniston dancing off stage while watching John Mayer play.

And she was right. I do feel much better. Much, much better.

Not that I could ever love Aniston less for her ineptitude. Really. It only makes me love her more.

And to prove it, we'll be dining at her favorite Chicago restaurant after we find the painting. And maybe we'll drink enough wine to dance badly in her honor. Though, if you watch the clip, the restaurant will have to offer buckets-full-of-wine to achieve the same effect.

And on a similar note, as long as we're making fun of 'moves' and ex-Friends cast members, you all should know that my sister, who is also coming, will be doing her very best Phoebe 'run' when we hit the pavement Saturday morning.



If anyone would like to talk her out of it here and now, I encourage it. Watch the 'Aniston dancing' clip again. That should cure her.

Madmen

Am sick today. Am being a very big baby about it, too. Have dressed myself in four wool sweaters and wool ski socks that cover my entire leg. If you don't own a pair of these, you should. Would provide you all with a shopping link, but am too sick and baby-like about it.

So just watch this. Cuz that's what I'll be watching—all day. Just started watching the series two nights ago and have already finished the first season. Love it. Am secretly hoping that Betty Draper will come to my home and make me soup. And iron my clothes, and clean my oven. . .

Many of you share my dark sense of humor, so you'll love this Madmen clip of incredibly un-PC moments from the 1960's.



Now back to bed.

Irregular Party Animal

I'm sure you all remember the infamous Grace-T, my very saucy, one-year-old niece who put me on hat detail for her party. Well the party was Saturday. And, due to all the pressure and breathy phone calls, I was still scrambling and having a fairly full-blown panic attack on Friday, and still no head-topper in sight.

Before I left the office, I called an emergency strategy meeting with our two best designers and one hellofa good project manager. They all took the meeting very seriously, (see how seriously?)



until I mentioned that the meeting was to discuss designing a birthday hat for my niece's first birthday party. I found myself sitting alone in that very same board room almost immediately after that tiny detail was revealed. Perhaps it's because they weren't invited to the party. I'm sure that's what it was.

I was left on my own with very rudimentary tools.



So I decided to bring in the heavy artillery.



Now, had the other professionals hung around, I'm sure they could have warned me that mixing scissors, one VERY hot glue gun and wine is not necessarily recommended. Thankfully, after a quick stop here,



I was sufficiently briefed on the hazards of such combinations.

And after I learned to work WITH the bandages rather than AGAINST them, I produced this.



And after the very-nice-physician-prescribed painkillers set in, plus a little more wine, my real creative "self" began to flourish. My fear of one particularly feisty one-year-old began to subside, and I worked like fluid feng shui—improvisation flying all around. I was the Charlie Parker of birthday-hat decorating.

First I tried this.



Then I saw this.




Yep. Totally fluid, right?



And it didn't stop there. Oh, no. I was on a roll.



And so was the blue paper. I DO have a photo of what eventually became of the dining room walls, but have decided you can probably imagine how that one would look. No need to over-illustrate my point. Or embarrass myself needlessly.

We'll just fast forward to the next day. See how well the hat went over? See the scrunched Gracie mug? See the look of "just keep it on for one more photo and please don't scream or my upper lip will bead with sweat" on her mother's face?



Well, let's just say that there's one more photo I won't be showing here, in the effort to not embarrass myself needlessly, one more time. Let's just say someone was not very happy with her auntie.

And let's just say that picture might involve one tiny birthday girl giving me "the look" and pointing in the direction of the corner, where, apparently, she had made me a hat of my very own.



So thoughtful.

Thankfully, Miss Ive always has a Plan B, especially when infants are involved, and she intentionally created the hat topper from a baby hair clip. Miss Gracie was quite pleased with this particular improvisation. And so Miss Ive was allowed to rejoin the rest of the party.



But no cake.

Miss Grace was in no mood to share her cake.

Maybe next year.