Have Your Cake...

After someone at work mentioned I hadn’t posted in months I made a mental note to post soon. Fast-forward several months later, and look, I’ve actually done it! Yay me!

(Paste gold star here.)

Anyhoo, I hosted a huge summer reading cooking program. Some would call me insane (I prefer ambitious) but we made a boat load of food. Now that I’m on an “eating plan” (the polite term for diet), I’m glad I went all out because I can’t have any of the foods we made, meaning right about now the only thing stopping me from braining someone for a peanut butter cookie is that I don’t feel like calling Hyjentec. We made toaster oven pizzas, BBQ pulled chicken with crackers, chocolate dipped strawberries, dinner salad, peach cobbler, popcorn, carrots with dip, decorated cookies and made cake pops. The kids loved it, one saying, “We should do this again!” before I even had a chance to recover, pat her gently on the head and say, “That’s nice, dear,” and another telling her mom she wanted to do some of these things for her birthday party, which made mom happy since it’s a lot cheaper than a bounce house.

My work here is done.

After watching someone make cake pops from scratch on TV, I concluded the process made the time I amended my taxes by hand seem downright joyful. I went online for easier ways. The easier ways weren’t quite easy enough for me, so I came up with my own because sometimes making something doable sometimes trumps my Martha Stewart dreams.

Sometimes...


Easy-Peasy Cake Pops

Ingredients:
Donut holes (purchased a box of 55 at Safeway)
Vanilla Frosting (room temperature)
Sprinkles (I got the tub, put them in small cups with spoons)
Food coloring (optional)

Other materials:
Popsicle sticks
Butter knives
Paper plate
Spoons
Cups

1. Spear a donut hole with a popsicle stick.
2. Smother said donut hole with delicious, sugary, ooey gooey I-wish-I-was-allowed-to-eat-this frosting. I made several batches in different pastel colors.
3. Over a paper plate, sprinkle the cake pop with sprinkles.
4. Use the paper plate to funnel the leftover sprinkles back into the sprinkle container.

Okay, I’m off to eat some more broccoli now, but feel free to enjoy your cake pops. Just not in front of me, seeing as that would be totally wrong...

Halloween Horror

I was at home pondering the meaning of life when it occurred to me that I should ponder other things, such as:

Who is Quinn Perkins?

Who’s dead on NCIS?


Why does this man have his shirt off every other episode instead of every single one?


Why does chocolate have calories? Where did I put my salon hair products? How come Criminal Minds hasn’t been renamed Random Strangers Want to Kill You? Can I claim my house guest as a dependant? Why does Taco Bell think breakfast starts at 8 am? How come no one else thinks cookies and croutons are a balanced meal when they have the 4 Cs of chocolate, chewy, crunchy and carbs? Why don’t we have robots like on The Jetsons?

I was promised robots!

Since all of this was either fruitless or would be answered during season premiers (that would leave me even more puzzled), I went to the Halloween Store to find a costume.

I should have stayed home and pondered the origins of the universe.

First off, you walk into the competing sounds of screaming fake monsters, screaming real kids, and parents yelling, “Don’t cry! Let’s go to Pet Smart!” I honestly don’t know why kids need to be in the store when all you have to do is dress them as pumpkins and everyone goes, “Awwwwww!”

Elsie asked, “What’s your niece going to be for Halloween this year?” And I told her, “She’s going to be adorable.” Because kids can wear decorated paper bags and everyone will go, “How cute!” Plus kids don’t wonder, “Does this pumpkin make me look fat?” But adults can use Halloween help. After wandering around looking for something that didn’t make me look like I was working at, how shall I put it, “The Rabbit Farm,” I gave in and asked where I could find an outfit with more coverage.

I expected technical difficulty.

I didn’t expect laughter.

Halloween costume shopping while female is a real problem, one that won’t be addressed in a PSA.

Apparently after the first 8 million rows of minuscule costumes, the worker assured me the remaining 3 aisles had at least one covering costume.

One.

Because having two would have caused a hurricane in Florida.

Everything was tiny. Even the nun’s outfit was almost nonexistent. They might as well come with a warning from the surgeon general stating, “This costume may cause you to freeze your butt off, catch pneumonia, and possible forfeit your right to future employment when pictures of you in it are posted on Facebook.” All I could think is, “What’s next, will they start selling us bags of air?”

Probably.

Online was almost as bad. The outfits tended to be gorgeous and expensive or kind of sad and pathetic, such as the “Contestant” costume.

A rip off of the Hunger Games tribute outfit, this costume screams less “President Snow wants to kill me!” and more “I work at Target but they lent me this jacket so I can collect carts in the rain.”

I thought about being a replacement ref; however, since the strike is over that wouldn’t be nearly as funny. Someone suggested Effie, but that cost too much, and I know it’s Halloween, but she’s just too tacky, and the teens will take pictures and post them. So what is a woman to do?

---Put on pajamas, grab your blankie and bottle and be a baby.

---Grab your track suit, and be an Olympic gymnast. You can either put on a stoic face and wear a button that says, “McKayla is not impressed.” Though I'd personally be impressed with any medal, seeing as I lasted exactly 1 day on the high school gymnastics team and spent the rest of the week crawling and asking if someone, for the love of God, could take me to the hospital.

 
 (Nope.)

Or you can put on a big smile and a button that says, “Making Russian gymnasts cry since 2012.”

Seriously, the Russian team looked so sad I wanted to adopt them. Then I remembered how hard it is to get teenagers to move out of your house (though maybe he’ll get the hint if I throw all of his belongings on the front lawn…). Plus their coaching fees would bankrupt a small island country.

---Wear wings. I have a collection of wings from Clare’s and JoAnns. A few were so gorgeous I bought them without realizing their span is so large you can’t walk through the stacks without knocking over books or maiming children. Stick to smaller wings and color coordinate your clothes.

 ---Be something random. At ALA I picked up a few things, including a hockey mask. You can be Jason on the cheap!

 ---Deconstruct a T-shirt. You can go 80s and be a flash dancer with a head band and leg warmers over leggings. If you're like me, you might have these things in your garage already because you never donated them the first (or secon or third) time around.

Or shred a shirt and be a flapper.

Or a zombie.

Or a zombie flapper.

 

Or layer the T-shirts over one another and create a mob of zombie flapper flash dancers. If you go all out, please do us all a favor and post the pictures on Friday Finale and upload the video on YouTube. Because I, for one, would love to see that, yet I don't have enough volunteers to pull it off myself.

If all else fails, bring something cute with you. No one will notice you’re not wearing a costume if you’re holding a puppy AND a kitten. Though I'm not sure exactly where you can find both of two who like each other, plus there is that taking care of them for the next 15 years thing to consider. Perhaps you should simply grab a child. Go ahead and wear your baby on your front. Or borrow someone's baby. I'm sure someone you know is looking for a babysitter.

These prisoners ALMOST make jail look like a fun place to hang out. Kind of like when Martha Stewart finished her sentence, got out looking skinny and sporting highlights and skinny jeans and a poncho and a bunch of women said, "I want to go to jail!"

For me, I just wanted the poncho and the weight loss.

Fire! Fire!

Katniss Everdeen, aka, Girl on Fire, aka heroine of The Hunger Games, got her own Barbie.

(SPOILER---SORT OF…)

I wasn’t sure how they’d pull it off---would they stick to her cool-Lenny-Kravitz-made-this-stunning pre-slaughter reaping dress?

(I want this dress!)

Would they create the post-traumatic stress dress with sewn in state-issued-plastic-surgery-dodging padding which screams, “Look, I’m innocent!” and makes President Snow less likely to send mutts to kill her in her sleep? No, they went with her arena gear.

Or at least the original version of her arena gear.

It’ll be interesting to see if someone will alter this to create a fresh-out-of-the-arena Katniss doll. You know, after she’s been stabbed, starved, dehydrated, hunted like she’s Number 2 of Al-Qaeda, poisoned by venomous insects, concussed, deafened in one ear, burned by balls of fire, wearing filthy one-legged pants and a hood with attached sleeves, her hair matted, face dirty, and overall looking like a traumatized wounded rabid animal on the attack after killing four people to save her own life while nursing someone else back to health. You know, what reality TV producers call her “before” picture. In the next movie they can have Tyra Banks telling her to widen the gap in her front teeth because it will make her unique. Unique and possibly toothless, but unique nonetheless.

Personally I liked the book better than the movie. Except for the boring books I was forced to pretend to read in college, I usually like books better. Books give more detail. Books let you wallow in the scenes you enjoy and skim the ones that give you nightmares. Books let you use your imagination, allowing you to delude yourself that characters described as black are white, followed by you getting called out for tweeting you were no longer sorry the character died because she was blonde in your imagination.
Yes, and in my imagination I click my heels and someone landscapes my backyard for free.

(Reminder to self: start hanging out in Lowes in hopes Yard Crashers will appear…)

The top reason I prefer books to films is writing is cheap. Typing extra words cost 3 cents in ink. Translating words into film costs mucho dinero. Ever see a book turned into a TV movie? I was watching one and wondering, “Where are the plane crashes? She didn’t have a brother in the book, which was set in Georgia not California. I’m pretty sure I’d remember an Argentinean nationalist being in the book. What, did they start letting Universal Studio tourists take turns acting?” I have to remind myself they were given 21 days, $37.58 and a case of Power Bars to make the film, and it’s still more entertaining than anything on the Lifetime Movie Network. (“I think the ghost of my ex-husband’s sister’s dead cat is stalking me!”) There’s the occasional studio that has lost its freaking mind turning books into films, like when they made the Scarlet Letter. How many high school students flunked their “book” reports after watching the movie version? However, with the Hunger Games I realized if the movie had followed the book a tee, it wouldn’t simply be R rated, it would be NC-17 and viewers would need therapy.

That, or it would be a mini-series on HBO called “Game of Thrones: Teenage Edition.”

(SEMI-SPOILER OVER AND OUT.)

Speaking of fires, did you know the American Red Cross provides free disaster parties for libraries? They’re greeeaaat!!! I love them not only because they are free, but because they do a really good job with them. They provide the publicity, bring everything with them, and the only thing you have to do is set up chairs and advertise in E-Vanced. Pretty neat set-up, huh? I learned things about safety that I had not known before. Did you know you are to use the back of your hand to feel for heat at the door? I always thought we felt with our palms. Apparently we’re used to heat on our palms, making them less sensitive. Or did you know there are two ways to stop, drop and roll? If your upper body or hands are on fire, you don't want them anywhere near your face and should hold them to your sides while rolling. Most of us know we should have an emergency supply box. My box consists of hoping I have my ID, my American Express card, and that I'm close to a Marriot or Hampton Inn. (Perhaps I should work on this.) As for emergency numbers, I have 9-1-1. What good is calling my family on the side of the road? Get me to the hospital ASAP! I'm O-, 5-6, my official weight is "Why do you want to know?" and I don't take NSAIDS or aspirin.

To go along with this program I created a special storytime. Comedies joke about fires---maybe your boyfriend bonfire got out of control, or you ran back into the room because you left your wedding shoes in the closet. This means young children are not prepared for an emergency and need some practice. Be warned: you will get dirty looks from parents (see below).

Fire Safety Storytime

Supplies/Skills:
Jeans
No Dragons for Tea
Valuables---an empty computer bag, keys, an empty purse, etc.
A stuffed cat or dog
Table
The ability to set aside your dignity for at least 7 minutes

Extra Books:
Stop, Drop and Roll
Fire Safety

1. Wear jeans for this storytime. Not a long skirt, not yoga pants, jeans. This storytime requires crawling. You don’t want people staring at your butt.
2. Before storytime set up a table behind you or to your side filled with valuables.
3. Read “No Dragons for Tea.” In this story a dragon sets fire to a house during tea, then tries to run back in for a toy.
4. After the reading go over the important parts---when there is a fire drop to the floor, crawl out and never go back in because WE CAN’T REPLACE YOU!
5. Have everyone practice crawling to safety.
6. Before you reach the door/safe spot, jump and say, “Oh, no, I forgot_____!” and return to get it. At this point the children should try to stop you. Ask, “Should I run back for______? No, why not? Because WE CAN’T REPLACE YOU!” Emphasis never going back, especially for an obsolete laptop.
7. Repeat step 6 with the valuables, saving the stuffed pet for last. Emphasis that it represents a real pet. They shouldn't return inside even for Fluffy. DON’T say you can replace a pet---storytime is a tear free zone! Tell them, “The firefighters can save your pets.”
8. This is where the adults will give you the evil eye. The kids have to meet at their designated spot. Most families don’t have one. When you’ve reach the designated spot adults are to call 9-1-1. Kids only call if adults can’t do so, which is where the next bit of homework comes in: kids need to know their full names, their parents’ full names, and their address. Address is required when calling 911 from cell phones, and names are useful. A few weeks ago we had a lost parent, and when I asked the child for his parent’s name he said, “Her name is Mommy. It’s spelled M-O-M-M-Y.” For some reason this didn’t help much.
9. Here is the final homework assignment: ask parents to have a practice fire drill. A good idea is to have them twice a year when they change the batteries in their smoke alarms. It’s much better to know now that your child’s first instinct is to hide in the closet or that the alarm volume is too low to wake people up.

I hope you have fun with this one. Remember, safety first, jeans second!

I Hunger For You

I’ve been sick. If you’re sick on your off day, there goes your fun. If you’re sick during work, there goes your PTO. And if you’re sick at my house, there goes any sympathy. I got to hear things like, “Your room is a mess,” and “After you go to the doctor’s we need to run errands/do things that involve you baking in the car.”

So I’m at home, freaking out at my medication’s side effects (“Tell your doctor if you know someone who owns a cat or might want to purchase a home…”) and trying to nap, only to be interrupted by one nephew setting off the alarm (“Oops!”), another wanting homework help, and an annoying relative at the door. At least this one didn’t have a suitcase, but I treat relatives like I’m a native and they’re 15th century explorers ready to give me smallpox-infested blankets in order to take my home.

Thus I was miserable and my (non-annoying) family was giving me that “You’re not contagious, right?” look when it hit me: either I can read or they’d decide I should cook.

Cooking was not happening.

The Hunger Games trilogy had been on my reading list for a while. When I opened the first book up it still had the receipt in it…

The Borders receipt.

Guess I should have put reading the series higher up on my To Do list.

These books are harsh, yet I enjoyed them and I’m going to see the movie with my older nephew, preparing myself for what’s likely to be brutal violence, but for myself, it having violence in it is not as important as what it doesn’t have:

Katherine Heigl, Jennifer Anistan, Adam Sandler, Tyler Perry as Madea, the Wayans Brothers, Robert Pattinson, Shia Lebeof or a non-animated Eddie Murphy.

Violence couldn’t possibly traumatize me as much as that drive-in double feature of “The Bounty Hunter” and “Remember Me” did.

That said, why do folks want to take young kids to see The Hunger Games? Did I miss the notation on the calendar stating it is Take Your Child to be Traumatized Day? Yesterday I had a tour of 4th and 5th graders. Some had read the book; some had holds. (Good luck with that, patron number 930!) Most wanted to see the movie. However, when the teacher asked my opinion, the kids groaned because I said, “My personal opinion, which is not the opinion of others, is that parents should review movies beforehand to decide if they are appropriate. After reading the book and reviewing film information I decided against taking an 11 year old to see it.”

Instead he can see something more to his level, like the R-rated comedy “21 Jump Street.”

Seriously, if you review the movie yourself and decide it is fine for your child you’re out an extra $10.50. If you decide it’ll give them nightmares, you’ve saved a bunch of psychiatric care co-pays.

But then again, what do I know?

Anyway, I saw a card similar to this card in a pop-up card book. Then I realized I wasn’t willing to do the 8 million steps it required, so I simplified it a bit. It’s easiest to have volunteers put together the first part of the card, then have participants decorate. You can also print words onto the white cardstock so that things are nice and pretty when you’re all finished. (Writing after you’ve glue a bunch of stuff on can be tricky!)

Pop Up Cards


Card supplies:
Cardstock---white and assorted color
Scissors
Glue sticks

Decorations:
Crayons and pens
Multi colored paper
stickers
Glitter glue

Directions:
1. Fold 2 pieces of card stock---inner and outer---in half

2. Take the inner card stock and fold it no more than 1/3 of the way over. Reverse the fold.
3. Unfold the inner paper to reveal a pop up.

4. Glue the inner cardstock to the outer cardstock on both ends, being careful to maintain the pop up.

5. Allow card shells to dry before storing them away.
6. When ready to use, have participants decorate them with paper flowers. If you have tons of volunteers, have them cut out/die cut shapes so that smaller children can do this craft

Happy Hunger Games!

Easy as Pi

Some things in life aren’t easy. Like the other day, when I had to tell tough tattooed teen, aka, my nephew, that our sheepdog Peaches had died…in the 1990s. My sister hadn’t wanted to break the news to him, so when he came over and asked, “Where’s Peaches?” my grocery cashier brother said the first thing that came to his mind: “She went to the store.” Which was a problem, because whenever my nephew went to a store he would ask, “Is Peaches here?” So I morphed the story over the years, to the point in which we were sitting around a waiting room and I mentioned missing having a dog and he responded by saying, “Then you really shouldn’t have sent Peaches away to live on a sheep farm.” As all the adults in the room gave me that knowing look I said, “Oh, yeah. That farm…up north…”

Way up north…

Where she enjoys chasing sheep to this day…

Other things in life are easy. Like when the supervisor asked everyone if they wanted to bring in pies for Pi Day. Americans have never needed an excuse to eat dessert, though we will grab latch onto one if possible. There was apple pie, cherry pie, banana cream pie, peanut butter pie, unidentifiable-yet-good-looking pie, and I brought cookies. I figured we’d get sick of pie, but no one gets sick of cookies. This is how I ended up at home groaning from with the trifecta of allergies, an overly full stomach, and forcing myself to exercise when all I wanted to do was lie on the couch rubbing my eyes while my family yelled, “Stop touching your face!” But this is okay, because the next day someone brought in a vegan veggie pie, which, like hitting Ctrl Alt Delete and clicking restart, is the equivalent of a new beginning.

Another easy thing is tile crafts. I did this a few years ago. Back before I realized the only people who should attempt renovations themselves are either HGTV hosts or married to them, I would wander home improvement stores for ideas, until I came up with the best one yet---buying a brand new home. During one of these trips I came across 4x4 tiles marked 75% off and thought, “Wouldn’t it be cute to let the kids decorate them with Sharpies?” Normally I would clear a store out of good deals, but those puppies are heavy! When an employee offered to load them into the cart I was tempted to ask, “Can you take them all the way to work for me?” Thus I settled for a reasonable amount I could lift without a back brace.

Decorative Tiles

Supplies:
Plastic tablecloths
Tiles
Sharpies
Rubbing alcohol
Towels

1. Cover the tables with tablecloths.
2. Give sharpies and tiles to children. Unlike teens, you can give pens to children without too much worry. It’s the parents that will be totally freaking out at the thought of their child getting permanent markers on their clothes. Like the time we used tempura paints, this is one craft program you won’t hear any parents asking, “Is it okay if I leave my child here?”
3. Try not to laugh out loud as you see parents trying to pry pens out of their 6 year olds' hands because they look like they might be aiming for skin.
4. Clean up the tables with rubbing alcohol and paper towels.

I woke up this morning in the mood for ABBA. Maybe I needed a pick me up from the rainy weather. Maybe it’s the allergy medication traveling through my system. Whatever it is, I’m most likely going to go home, break out my ABBA sheet music and give it a try…after I take a long nap and eat takeout…

Spa Day!

One of my favorite pastimes is shopping. I’m good at it, plus it means I’m not at home about to half-strangle my teenage nephew for wearing that same gross sweatshirt I want to burn for three weeks straight to cover up that tattoo he got. If you don’t have teens at home, here’s the scoop: when children are toddlers you count to 10. When they are preschool age you count to 3. And when they’re teenagers, you just keep counting and hope that by the time they are 25 you’ll have stopped counting and your hair will still be its original color without the help of dye.

So while I’m out mumbling numbers to myself throughout the aisles while wishing my sister had a job that didn’t require travel, I buy gifts (already started on Christmas!), clothes that look familiar because I already own similar items, and items for future programs. After Christmas is a good shopping time. Others see red, green and stars and think of Christmas. I see red and think of Valentine’s Day; I see green and think of St. Patrick’s; and the stars have me thinking of pretty much every federal holiday between May and November. Thus when I was out after Easter one year, I didn’t simply see colorful baskets with a 90% of tag and think of delicious boiled eggs smeared in Miracle Whip; I thought of Mother’s Day…and how my brother made me look bad by buying Mom a Movado watch when I simply took her out to dinner and gave her a scarf.

Since he paid for that trip to Aruba I guess I’ll forgive him.

This basket is fairly easy to make, so a good pairing for it would be the Felted Soap box program. It’s also fairly cheap. That said, if you want a lot of baskets at a decent price, please call the store manager to make arrangements beforehand.

Spa Day Program Supplies:
Felted Soap box program
Easter baskets (or on sale gift bags if you can’t find them)
Mini body scrubbers (5/$1.00 at the Dollar Tree)
Bath salts (scroll for instructions and supplies)

Optional basket items:
Face towels (I found some bulk at Big Lots)
Mini bubbles (found in the wedding section in Target and other stores)
Tissue paper
Ribbon
Card
1. Make bath salts and felted soaps.
2. Arrange in the basket. Tissue paper at the bottom will make this look nicer. So will tying on a bow and inserting a card.

Bath Salt Supplies:
Epsom salts (bulk, or at the Dollar Tree)
Food coloring
Essential oils (Can buy at GNC for $5-$6 dollars)
Small containers for scooping (I use the containers from individual applesauce packages)
Ziploc bags (if this is for kids I let them just keep them in this)
Plastic baggies (NOT Ziploc) and ribbon (for teen and adult programs)
Volunteers

Optional salt containers:
Glass baby food jars or yogurt jars (from Trader Joe's---put out your feelers)
Rubber bands
Fabric squares (purchase at Joann’s)

The instructions are really straight forward. I print them out on 3 sheets of paper using 85 point Times New Roman font, set them out in a row on a table, and let people go down the line:

1. Place 1 scoop of salt inside a zip-top bag.
2. Place 2-3 drops of food coloring inside the bag. Seal and shake.
3. Add 1-2 drops of essential oil (see volunteer). Seal and shake.

Afterwards teens and adults can transfer their salts into plastic bags and tie it with ribbon. It you have glass jars place fabric squares overtop of the lids, secure with a rubber band, then tie on a ribbon.

Your finished product will look failry impressive for a "mere" library program, so if possible make up a basket beforehand and put it on display.



I'm still trying to let the death of Whitney Houston sink in. I got the text between discovering my nephew's tattoo and going to a party. At first I thought it was a joke, since I turned on the radio and, thanks to a lack of live DJs, the folks were talking about Chris Brown (at whom my nephew screams, "Woman beater! Woman beater!" whenever he sees him) and I figured my friend got it all wrong. Apparently she didn't. This is completely horrible, and I guess I'll spend some time watching the copy of The Bodyguard I bought last month, and continue singing "I Will Always Love You" in the shower (which I was I doing even before her passing).

Waiving the White Flag

Don’t you just love princesses? This Halloween my home was inundated with young girls hoping to live in the lap of luxury, marry rich, wear beautiful clothes, and have people wait on them hand and foot despite having few useful skills and zero talent whatsoever. Gee, does that remind you of anyone…

…I just can’t think of who that reminds me of.

Oh, well. I’m certain it will come to me later.

A good 30 princesses (and some adults who knew better) showed up on my porch before I got tired and poured enough candy into that last trick-or-treater’s pillow case to send her into a diabetic coma. I wasn’t feeling the whole royalty thing. Maybe it has something to do with that when a 5 year old boy dresses up as Spiderman, he won’t want to be Spiderman at age 18; but when a 5 year old girl dresses up as a princess, there’s a 1 in 3 chance she’ll be on a cable wedding show at age 30 throwing a tantrum over tiaras. Plus, if you really pay attention to the plotlines of any Disney movie, you’ll realize the message they send out, for lack of a better term, sucks.



See what I mean?

That said, this past summer reading we made princess flags.

Okay, they were really birthday flags, but I found all these crown stickers in the storage room that I needed to get rid of. Old craft material is like pencils---if you keep putting off using it one day you’ll take it out and discover the eraser is so old it’s hard enough to fly across the room and poke someone’s eye out, and then you’ll have to do paperwork. How awful! The birthday flag idea came out of the SR2011 binder. You know what they say, if all else fails, read the manual/directions/street sign. The thing is, if you look through your old binder (if it’s not buried in a pile of recycling) there are no actual directions on how to make them. So here it goes:

Birthday/Princess/Pirate/Dream Flags

Supplies:

Paper (old letterhead anyone?)
Scissors
Stickers
Chopsticks
Stapler (hopefully with staples actually in it)
Colored pencils, crayons and/or pens
Volunteers OR music to make the time go faster (Craft prep can be tedious...)

1. Wash your hands and wipe the inside of the stapler.
2. Fold paper in half lengthwise. Cut along the fold two make two sheets. Set one aside for later.

3. Fold your half sheet in half. If it’s used, make sure the writing is on the inside.

4. Wrap the paper around the narrower end of the chopstick (to prevent the paper from falling off).
5. Staple the top and bottom near the chopstick. You may have to (gently) fold the paper in half to do this. Place on staple in the center right-side opening.
6. Rinse and repeat.

The nice thing about this craft is you can have volunteers prep the flags weeks ahead of time, set them in a box, and have everything ready for label. Just be sure to label the box, so as not to forget and leave the box laying around until 2014.

Enjoy!

Learning From Elmo, Blue, and That Annoying Dora Girl

I love TV.

I watch a lot of TV. In fact, this entry was delayed because I was waiting to see if Nancy Grace would implode on live television with not-so-pent up rage. Then yesterday I spent the evening watching True Blood. Twice… …for the plot, of course. It’s soooo hard to keep track of the humans, vampires, were-people, witches and fairies, with people screaming, “You ate my fairy godmother!”

As a child I learned tons from TV. Like when General Hospital’s Frisco and Felicia got married, but they were too broke for a honeymoon so they went to his brownstone apartment and pretended to go places. (“Today we’re in the Middle East! Just don’t open the curtains…”) Deluding---sorry---pretending you’re elsewhere because you’re too broke to go there is a valid lesson for today.

This isn’t to say I spent most of my childhood watching a demon-possessed Marlena levitate. The great majority of what I watched was on PBS. I got the see my favorite person in the world, Miss Piggy, view Wild Kingdom, and witness Bob Ross paint happy little trees everywhere. Reading Rainbow, Schoolhouse Rock, many educational shows made up my viewing schedule. I thought I had a pretty good childhood…

Then I heard how horrible TV is for kids.

This I didn’t get. TV couldn't be all bad. After all, at least one child would have been strangled had I not been able to park him in front of Barney while I dismantled the VCR in order to repair the damage he’d done to it. True, if the only thing your child views is Maury Povich telling a man, “You are not the father!” while the mother runs off stage, this is not a good thing. But is TV necessarily bad? When I heard about the class “Learning from Elmo, Blue and Dora: Applying the Science of Children's Educational Television to Storytime,” I figured I needed to see what was up.

The presenters, Jennifer Bigheart and Maria Cahill, neither demonize or endorse television watching for children. One did not allow her children any screen time and the other said, “Go for it!” Fine, those were not her exact words. However, they discussed key elements of educational television that we can incorporate into our library programs:

Relevant themes
“How many story hours on teddy bears have you done?” one presenter asked. Answer: probably too many. We use colors, numbers and ABCs as themes. But when was the last time we did calendar, manners, weather or seasons themes? My season themes usually involve orange hand cutouts or snowflakes. They don’t exactly go into why we have season. That’s being corrected. Find more themes that are relevant to a child’s educational needs.

Non-fiction has a place
I love books in which frogs talk and eat bowls of flies. Pictures books are fine, yet we need to augment them with non-fiction material. Parents have a difficult time finding appropriate non-fiction materials for young children, so try reading the funny story during story hour and setting up a display of non-fiction books on the same topic.
Teachable moments
Our motion sensor lights were constantly turning off during programs. One time a toddler asked, “Why are the lights off?” I said the first thing that came to mind: “We are conserving energy.” Turns out, according to the presenters, this is the right thing to do. If something happens during your program, don’t ignore it; acknowledge it and talk about it for a while. Yes, it may lead to other questions and going off topic. This is a good thing.

Repetition
Did the kids really get into the story? Read it again! Okay, I won’t be doing that---it would drive me nuts. However, now that things float, you can order a few extra copies of a book and let the parents decide if they want to read the story over and over (and over) again without you unduly suffering.

Discussion
At the end of the story feel free to ask the children about the plot line. Establish that books have a beginning, middle and end. Ask, “What happened at the start of the story?” “Do you remember the main character’s name?” If there was a moral ask them what they thought it was. Was there bad behavior in the book? Ask them if it is appropriate to write on the bathroom wall with lipsticks and lotions like in 10 Little Lambs.

Variations
Pull an aspect out of a book and use variations of the word base. For example, when reading a book in which they drove a car, use the words drive, driving, drove, and driven. Reading a numbers book? Go over once, twice, thrice, first, second, third, etc.

Since I love Sesame Street, there is no way I am ending this without showing you my favorite clip ever!

M. Butterfly

I haven’t blogged in a loooonnngg time.

No, it wasn’t just because I was busy watching the final season of the Oprah Winfrey Show. (My chances of winning a free trip to Australia have drastically plummeted…) Blogging is like exercising. When you’re into it, you’re into it. You have your cute gear on, your hair is up in a bouncy ponytail, your lipstick is on but your foundation is off--- it’s pretty hard to work out with L’Oreal running into your eye. When you’re not into exercise, you’re lying on the couch eating sugar cookies and channel flipping while wondering why that Nora Roberts' movie you swore you were going to watch last year is taking up valuable space on your DVR. What usually gets you up is either you realize you’re expected to fit into a swimsuit---a real one, not a string-one-size-fits-all-bikini. Or someone says, “Hey, did you know you’re morphing with the sofa?”

So when someone recently pointed out that I hadn’t blogged in a while, I thought, why not? There are plenty of books and crafts and TMI things I have to share, and not just with SPL librarians on SharePoint. All the adult participants of my craft programs want to know how to do some of the cooler crafts without having to comb through 15 books filled with impossible to make cards that require wire clippers, blow torches, and 2 weeks of planning.


I came up with this card after going online and realizing a lot of kids card crafts are ugly. Yes, I said it. Ugly. Hideous. Just plain wrong. You smile when they give them to you, but part of you wants to go all Tiger Mom and scream, “This is garbage! But I only say that because I love you…” I started thinking of how to jazz things up when my inner-Martha Stewart took over. The thing is, Sharpies and White Out are not items you want to turn over to a group of children, thus the butterflies were made beforehand. It’s not as difficult as, say, making the Four Season’s duck recipe (takes four days), but there is a learning curve. Sad to say, I can now turn out a butterfly in about 90 seconds, which means I surely have brain damage from the fumes.

Materials:
Card stock
Orange paper
Black sharpies
White out
Colored paper---yellow, plus colors of your choosing
Scratch paper
Glue sticks

Nice to have:
Volunteers
A room with ventilation (or a rock to throw through the window since ours don’t open)

For the card base:

1. The writing.
There are several ways to go with this. I printed “You are the sunshine of my life” directly onto my model card, but for the program I printed out cute sayings on colored paper to allow the kids to pick from. For the inside, I printed out poems to glue inside.

2. The flowers.
Find your desired flower template. Create two flowers using this template. Then take the second flower and trim the perimeter so that it can one flower can sit atop the other. Use these two different sizes to create masses of flowers. (Or e-mail me for some leftovers.) I traced a glue stick onto yellow paper for the center of the flower. (Please don’t tell the kids you are making the ovary of the flower---this will bring up questions you don’t want to answer.)

For the butterflies:

1. Make butterflies using orange paper.
We didn’t have a die cut machine, so we used Elk Grove High School students desperate for volunteer assignments that didn’t involve picking trash off the side of the road. If you need a template Central has this die cut shape, or I can send something over via inter-office mail.

2. Place the butterfly on scratch paper. Fill in the body and outline the shape with a black sharpie. Draw lines in the center bisecting lines.


3. Begin drawing in the other lines.
This is something you might not want to hand over to a sophomore who needs 10 hours of community service by tomorrow. If you don’t have time to closely supervise this work, only let trusted volunteers do this part.



4. Dot the lines created in step two with White Out.
Err on the side of stingy dots. You can draw over your mistakes on the black lines, but you can’t “white out” orange paper. Afterwards go outside and breath fresh(er) air.


5. After it is dry, flip over and repeat.
I only did the middle and right side of the other side, since the left part of it will not show.
6. Bend the butterfly in half.
You don’t want a crisp fold because the butterfly will look less perched-on-a-flower than it will look squashed-under-a-shoe.

7. Remember that perfection is the enemy of Getting Things Done.
Yes, it would have been nice if all the butterflies turned out perfectly. They won’t. Some staff members helped out and said, “I’m sorry, but mine doesn’t look like yours do.” My response: “So? They’re kids. I’m not worrying that an 8 year old might complain that the line’s not perfect.”

Putting it all together:

1. Do the inside of the card first, so as not to mess up the outside.
This is the time to glue in poems, love letters, baby pictures, ultrasounds, etc.

2. Glue the saying and flower(s) onto the front of the card.
Some kids will go all out and layer 3 dozen. Whatever floats their boats is fine.

3. Glue the butterfly atop the card.

And there you have it. I really don't know how long this craft takes because I broke it into many different parts, but the kids loved it and were really impressed. Of course children are also impressed by the magic of jello and finding pennies on the ground, but I take what I can get. Enjoy!

Disco Inferno

I’ve avoided creating a will and trust. Why, do you ask? Because in my pathetic, convoluted way of thinking, creating one means you’re going to die. Yeah, as if not creating one means I’m going to live forever, have thin thighs on a diet of French fries and soy ice cream sandwiches, and grow rich simply by thinking it so.

But this morning I had a bit of a wake-up call. I’m heading towards the north staircase practicing “Where is Thumbkin?” while reminding myself to keep all fingers up while asking, “Where is middle?” so as not to teach the kids to flip anyone off when I noticed flames shooting out the top of the building right across the street. This would have been okay as in not completely horrible if this were a normal building…

It was the gas station.


Gas station + flame= UPTO

So instead of setting up my flannel version of “Old MacDonald,” I’m running into the staff room screaming, “Gas station on fire! Gas station on fire!” while wondering, Why wasn’t I the librarian who resigned? I could be lying on a beach getting naturally exfoliated while drinking a margarita! I was out the door, my purse in one hand, and, unbeknownst to me, my stuffed moose “baby” squeezed under my other arm. The fire department cleared staff to return but I asked, “Can I go work at Valley today?” Translation: “I want to die an old woman warm in her bed, not a relatively young librarian with a pink piggy puppet in her hand!” I got a big fat no as to heading towards safety, and by safety I mean someplace without road blocks. To make matters worse, there were firemen around yet I couldn’t even appreciate them because I was too busy wondering if something would explode. It wasn’t until 1:30 that a colleague and I looked at each other and said, “Firemen! Yeah!”



As the day went on several things sunk into my brain:

1. Pilates in the morning is a good warm-up before running for your life.

2. No gas station means I’ll have to eat the healthy snacks in my work cubby instead of goo-filled cupcakes.

3. I need a will and trust.

SPL has wills, trusts, and power of attorney forms on our website. We all know this. They even have samples. One sample states that the signer wants no electric shock treatments. I’m like, “WTH? I hadn’t thought about electric shock treatments. I don’t want electric shock treatments either!”There are a lot of things I want to happen that everyone should know:

1. I want my hair dresser and a manicurist to tend to me should I fall into a coma.
When my friend woke up from her coma I did her nails, but we had to shave her head.

2. Cancel the cable should I be knocked out for more than 1 week.
No more overpriced Triple Play service!

3. No creepy medical personnel can be near me. Think Kill Bill Vol. 1…

4. I get a private hospital room.

5. If all I can do is blink my eye in some form of Morse code, feel free to accidently step on my oxygen tube for 10-20 minutes.

6. In case of my tragic demise, my nephew can have my PS3 on the condition that he do more than lay on the floor playing “Call of Duty” and eating pizza all day.

7. My mom gets my home but there is a 10 ugly-fake-plant limit---I’m not completely heartless.
8. If I die in an exercise related incident my brother will be disinherited if he states, “I told you so.”

9. My skinny friends can have all my accessories.

It’s going to likely take me a while to work out all the kinks, but the sooner I do it, the less I have to think about it, right?

If you have any suggestions on what I should include in my will and trust, feel free to leave a comment.

Toy Planes

I don’t sleep on planes.

I’m a face sleeper. Not only will I need Botox because of this, I can’t handle an upright position. Since sleep isn’t happening I settle for ignoring those around me, especially if I’m flying with family, and/or screaming children. In order to facilitate this, I have my personal item. No, not the first personal item that was so heavy the straps almost broke. My second one contains a book, a pillow, ear buds, thick socks, a drink, and an eye mask. If you check the fine print, as long as you don’t cart on Bleach Volumes 1-379, these items don’t count towards restrictions. With hours to kill I meander through the airport and look at the exhibits.

The vases weren’t as cool as the one they had the last time I flew out of there---I love sci-fi stuff, so I took a million pictures back in 2009 of the exhibit---yet all we have at Sac International is a lovely Chili’s Too “exhibit.” I board the plane in the last group, which I think is a joke. Do you know who should really board last?

The first class passengers.

Don’t you hate how they look at us, like we’re nothing but petty pathetic peons who don’t deserve to share the same airspace as them? Sure, in an emergency landing they’ll be on rafts instead of huddled on the wings, yet they look so smug I’m tempted to scream, “Might I remind you the Pets.com people flew first class, too, and where are they now? Oh, yeah, that’s right, it no longer exists, just like American job security.”

But I’m too classy to do that.

Settling into coach, I took off my faux feather earrings, wrapped them in the 3 toilet seat liners I lifted from SFO, and waited for something to annoy me, which didn’t take long at all. Instead of finally reading Devil in the White City a whole year after no fewer than 3 librarians recommended it to me, I’m so nauseated by the constant movement of the plane that I give up and put on my eye mask. Big mistake. My eye mask is just a little too tight, something an ophthalmologist wouldn’t recommend, but hey, it was free with purchase. As we near our late landing at O’Hare, the flight attendant begins reading off the list of connecting gates. Mine is not read. Looking at my printout I discover I only have 20 minutes to get off the plane and get to my gate. Bringing the paper up front, American Airlines give me a reason to write yet another letter to company head quarters.

The flight attendant doesn’t know how to read the ticket.

That’s right. This nincompoop (and I don’t say that lightly) tries to convince me that the time on the ticket is actually the date (“It’s June 6, 2005? Really?”) and that my boarding time is 6:50. To which I ask, “How can board at 6:50 when my flight leaves at 6:20?” Instead of arguing with her, I race off the plane into Concourse H and latch onto the first person in an airline uniform, who correctly directs me to Concourse K. Problem is, I can’t really see. Everything past 15 feet is blurry, meaning I’m walking, as fast as one can in heels---they were easier to wear than to pack---and hoping its in the right direction since I couldn’t read the signs. I shouldn’t have worried. Being so late meant I could have simply followed the voice. That’s right, I am so close to missing my flight that my name is being paged. Badly, of course, but paged none the less. I ‘m limping as fast as I can thanks to the earlier ankle injury, and when I get there they grab my bag, place a valet tag onto it, hustle me into the plane and shut the door.

Having booked a completely different flight, I was assuming I was going from one big plane to another plane. OMG, nothing could have been further from the truth. This was some American Eagle you-should-have-flown-Southwest-teeny-tiny itty-bitty 34 passenger plane. The plane was so small it looked like a 747 gave birth to it. While I'll admit to dreaming about being in a plane that small, the dream involved me owning it and having my own massage room, not sharing the space with 33 other doomed people as we fall smack dab to earth. The flight attendant aboard told me they had changed my seat assignment and, “You’re now on an exit row. Should you not be able to perform your duties we can reassign you.” Which made me think, “Exit row? Can I exit out of it now and board a real plane?”

Of course not.

I strap myself in and start my inner dialogue which went something like this:

“I’m going to die!"

"This plane is made of tin foil and Betamax parts and I’m going to die!"

"They'll have to use dental records to identify my crispy corpse! Let it be quick and easy!"

"Maybe I should buy another drink. Then it really won’t hurt when we crash. Or maybe I’ll even survive. In car crashes drunks always survive after ruining everyone else’s life. Didn’t they have a crash where one person survived? Wait a minute, I should have cleaned my house! Now everyone is going to know I haven’t straightened up since I signed for a short sale. Short my inner thigh! How was I to know it wouldn’t close by now? I gave them a June 24th deadline! This is horrible! People are going to pick through my belongings at a garage sale and offer fifty cents for my cashmere sweater that retailed for $150. I should have written an extremely detailed will. Stephenee always liked that sweater. I should text her and let her know she gets first dibs on my clothes, and Amy can have my books since she's my only non-library friend who actually reads, and April can have my exercise DVDs, and Margaret can have dibs on any accessories my mother doesn't want, and no, she can't send my things to my oldest sister because she has no taste at all. She draws her eyebrows into a near unibrow. How many times have I explained the side of nose, corner of eyebrow equation to her? At least she's not as bad as that one woman who looks like her brows take after McDonald's golden arches but it's embarrassing to be in public with her! And what’s my mother going to do? Who will tell her how to use the remote when she insists its plotting against her? Who will stop her from answering the phone when annoying people call? If she goes to live with any of my brothers they'll tell her to get rid of all her stuff because, "There should be white space. A man needs somewhere to rest his eyes." Don’t they understand that if we didn’t want something we wouldn’t have bought it in the first place? I'm glad I didn’t leave them any money. You can have all the white space you want with my $0 contribution to your net worth. What am I saying? I don't want to die! Oh lord, please don’t let me die! How unfair it would be to die when I haven’t even had time to enjoy my life post student loans!”

About 5 minutes later I realize I’m getting hot. My calf is against the emergency exit door, and it’s hot outside, therefore I’m hot, and after studying the seat in front of me I realize it's simply a floatation device and there’s no parachute attached. Then we hit turbulence, the captain told us to stay in our seats and I started thinking:

“I’m going to die! For the love of God, please, someone get me off this plane! I shouldn't be able to tell the weather by feeling it on my leg! If you let me live I promise to be nice to people and eat green stuff other than parsley and Jello and clean my house...or hire someone to clean it, and I'll lie more because telling the truth all the time is plain mean, just let me live!"

Suffice to say, we landed safely.

Planes, Trains and Automobiles

You can have the best laid plans, but if an airline is plotting against you just forget about it.

At noon I jumped into a Blue Van 2 hours before my flight to DC for the ALA conference. Remember back when you could arrive 30 minutes before a flight with a Big Gulp while your family stayed with you at the gate while they left their car parked out on the curb? I remember being fed real food with real utensils and even getting invited into the cockpit. Today you go the airport prepared to be strip searched, your drink confiscated, your carry on bag packed to the gills and your "personal item," i.e. big-bag-o-stuff, almost breaking from the weight of everything in it. You used to have 2 carry on bags and a personal item. Now if you want to bring a laptop you'll need to place panties in a manila envelope and slip it in your case. I skipped the laptop and took a real bag because I like stuff and I like choices. Yes, I took 5 pairs of shoes with me on a 6 day trip. By day 2 I'd already worn 4 pair.

But back to the story at hand.

I arrive at Terminal B early. If you haven't been to Terminal B it's because you booked on a better airline. Terminal B is an after thought. Terminal B is the equivalent of thinking you're giving birth to 5 kids and they find another kid in their during deliver, meaning you're in such a scramble to find a name the kid ends up stuck with Epidural or Invitro. Complete. After. Thought. No massage bar. No cute stores. That's Terminal B for you.

I slide through security with my bag-o-liquids was still inside my bag-o-stuff. Yes, the official packing program lecturer says you're supposed to get liquids on the other end of your flight, but she's white. The rest of the world can buy conditioner at the airport kiosk. Blacks have to go to the...how shall I put it...questionable side of town to get products, meaning I spend the night before a flight squeezing shampoo into Barbie sized bottles. Anyway I get through, I have lunch, some nice miscellaneous military man heading to Mississippi pays covers my tab (how thoughtful!) and before we even exchange names we get the news...

The flight was canceled.

Yeah, my thought exactly.

An AC unit broke, meaning they'd have to fly at a lower altitude, meaning if they did so they'd hit a mountain. (BTW, what a pleasant thought to put in the minds of passengers who are about to fly over mountains, thank you very much.) They sent us downstairs to the counter. Too bad they didn't tell the poor woman behind the counter what was going on before they did so. While she was staving off a panic attack my fellow passengers were saying things like, "It's always American Airlines!" and "I knew I should have taken Southwest!" Then a woman passes out the airline phone number as we stare at her because how fast can we really get through to a live person when there's 180+ people calling at once? And what good will it do us when they hadn't officially canceled the flight? So after they cancel the flight we call and are all told, "Oh, we are so sorry, and we'll get you on the same flight tomorrow," which, in airline speak means, "Didn't you learn life sucked way back in kindergarten?"

I'm ready to burst into tears, knowing I can't do anything unless it involves a time machine and booking on Continental instead, when I get a great idea and call back and ask, "Is there anything leaving SFO to DC?"

"Which airport were you going to?"

"Whichever one that has a plane flying to DC."

"I can get you on flight 1522 to BWI tonight. It leaves at 11:45 pm."

I do a mini happy dance, run out the airport, and catch a Blue Van to Amtrak following a call to the KP desk for their number in which I am told, "you really need to get an iPhone!"

I arrive, meet some nice people, take the train to Emeryville, the bus to the Ferry Building, and taking the Embarcadero station BART to SFO.

I get there, bash my ankle with my carry on bag which weighs about 300 pounds, and head up. I go to the check-in line, slide in my card, and outcomes something unexpected...

A notice saying it was too early to check in because my flight wasn't scheduled until the following night.

This is about when the internal meltdown started.

Ever dealt with a screaming toddler and when you go to pick them up they lift up their arms, slide out of your hands, and start bawling on the ground? Just pouring their little 2-year old hearts out on the carpet you just steam cleaned because, "Mommy says I can pee in my pull up!" and no matter how you try to convince them that not letting them watch Dora the Explorer/eat chocolate cake/pry the electrical safety cap with a fork is not the end of the world they're still upset?

That was me.

The person behind the counter said, 'We're not supposed to do this, but you came from Sacramento, so I'm going to put you on this flight." I had to stop myself from screaming, "WTH? Your fellow employee booked me on the wrong flight but you risk getting in trouble for fixing his mistake? What's wrong with you people?" Instead I just told her what anyone in my situation would tell another person.

"I need a drink."

Honestly I could have had a massage instead. A massage is therapeutic. Alcohol, on the other hand, can get you into a bit of trouble. But a 30 minute massage at SFO runs $80, versus $10 for a drink. I'm frugal. I had the drink. While I'm certain the whole restaurant heard me screech, "What do you mean you're out of Mojitos?" and "What do you mean you're out of chocolate cake?" I settled for a top shelf margarita and a vanilla cupcake. As one fellow librarian put it, "A margarita massages your insides." I felt a lot better after I swallowed half in one gulp before slowing down.

All was well.

At least for the moment...