february

It's February according to my calendar. Which means  my dad's birthday, Ground Hog's Day, doilies, glitter and chocolate. That can point to only two things: Valentine's and Galentine's Days. Most of us are familiar with the holiday of hearts, stars in your eyes and cheap stuffed animals called Valentine's day. Maybe I just like any excuse to be festive or have a theme, but I don't hate Valentine's day. There is something cute about it, even though there are lots of things not so cute about it. People have various strong emotions about the day. Especially around this town I find myself living in.
      Galentine's is a whole different, but related thing. It is a holiday introduced to me by Leslie Knope of the Pawnee Parks Department. It's a day to celebrate your friends, specifically your gal pals. It happens the day before or after Valentine's day. It's a special time.
     As per usual, I am wanting there to be a themed shindig as part of the Galentine's celebration. There will be. Don't you worry your head about that. Included in said themed shindig will be the exchange of galentines, which are not unlike valentines. Cards and candy that basically tell a person you think they're great and help them to understand they mean something to you.

This is the invitation to Galentine's good time.
Those white hearts scratch off. Yes, we made
our own scratch off hearts. Pinterest almost
never fails. 

     In my past, I have been a valentines maker. One year I made puppy valentines with chocolate hearts. I made up a "you're doggone--insert kind word here--Valentine" phrase for each member of my class. I like to put forth effort. This doesn't happen every year. But sometimes it happens. Sometimes you get an idea for galentines that is just so good it grows into more than just making cards for your friends, it turns into an obsessive project. I'm unveiling these galentines here. I figure it's just my mom and I here, so I'm safe from spoiling any surprises since she's seen them already. Believe it or not, there are too many to share in one post. So, leading up to Galentine's day (and let's be real, afterwards too, because I'm not going to stop making these cards any time soon--it's too much fun) I'll share a few when I can remember to do so. I'd say every day, but let's be real. So yes, here goes. The cards.

Dorothy.
I'm not trying to insult your intelligence by
putting who it is. I just want
to make sure we're on the same page.

The idea is a heroine from literature or history. Background: magazine clippings. Girl: ink and colored pencil. I drew them. Can you even believe that? Sometimes I'm not sure I can myself.

Elizabeth Benett
I decided to add quotes said by the character or
one that could be found in her book.

There's a small taste of them. They're pretty delightful to make, I have to admit. Like a treat. So more treats tomorrow. Let the Valentine's/Galentine's season begin!

sweater therapy

There are days at work that leave asking: what just happened to me? You try to find explanations for the cuckoo of it all. The inversion? The snow getting rid of the inversion? The price of milk? The apocalypse finally happening, with its origins here? No answer comes.
    That's when you find yourself at one of the happiest places on earth. Target. You have to grocery shop. This is something that gives you mild anxiety and more than a mild case of the grumps. But at Target, things are better. And you try to figure out something to make you feel like the day has not been a waste. You don't self-identify as a person who regularly uses retail therapy. But you make an exception for this:

It's a cardigan you found in the men's section. You go there periodically to see if you can find a treasure you can make better. The sweater is fine by itself, but you decide fine is not good enough on this day of the near-apocalypse. You want festive. Valentines festive. But not so specific you can't wear it other times. So you get your needle, red embroidery floss and scissors.

You start using the outline stitch to outline the top of the pockets. It's relaxing, fun and aesthetically pleasing. All things you need on the inversion-induced insanity of the day. But you don't stop at just the pockets.

You have to outline where the buttons are too. Then the buttons give you pause. There isn't enough pizazz to be considered Valentine's festive.

You find yourself changing the buttons out with some that you bought for a project in December but never used. You even attach them with red, which is something you saw in a Martha Stewart magazine you bought to cannibalize for another project.

The sweater turns out something like this, when all is said and done. It is festive without slapping you in the face and looks like a new and improved version of the sweater you retail therapied yourself with. The what-just-happened-to-me day is a distant memory. Finally you can stop narrating your life like that one version of Hamlet you watched a week or so ago. That's a relief.

patched

I have this shirt.

 I love this shirt. It's a shirt I secretly confiscated from

my dad's closet when I was in high school. I wore it to 

"do my makeup" before shows in those days. 

These days, my love has grown stronger and I would wear it 

every day. 

Every. Day. 

You think I'm joking. 

 It used to be flannel. The lovely, robust Cherokee flannel

of the mid 1990s. But the robustness of said flannel

is not meant to last nearly twenty years, being worn by a girl 

who stole it from her sweet father. Now it is the kind 

of shirt a person would write about in novels and country songs: 

so old and perfectly worn in with all sorts of sentimental value.

 The problem with country song and novel old shirts is that they are old 

and perfectly warn and perhaps nearly thread bare, but they don't actually get

holes in them. Unless it's a Rosamunde Pilcher novel. 

Then there are all sorts of "interesting patches and darns."

So my beloved shirt is a Rosamunde Pilcher shirt.

A Rosamunde Pilcher shirt, people.

Scottish countryside, kaftans, charming tweed, intrigue, long walks and true love.

Wouldn't you create all sorts of interesting darns and patches 

to save a shirt like that? 

I would. 

two thousand fourteen

It is a new year. Full of that squeaky clean, eat salad-get organized-be brave-workout smarter-finally grow up and embrace your inner child  vibe that only January can really bring. I think it has to do with how austere everything looks in its winter garb (whether that's dead grass or snow for where you live) sans twinkle lights. So naturally, it is a time of year full of hope and possibility and goal setting. Naturally I have a few things on my mind that lend themselves to this change-your-attitude-change-your-life time of year.
    Among the things floating around my brain sphere are moccasins. Yes, moccasins. Not just any moccasins.

(Minnetonka suede ankle boot)
I'm not necessarily labeling these as just any moccasin,
because I actually like these a whole ton lot.
I just figured we could all use a visual break at this moment in the post.

I want me some squaw boots (I'm not sure if that's pc or not, but that's what the boots are called. I have resolved to call a spade a spade this year. This is an instance.) The problem is this: I have feet that match my height. Above average. So I cannot wear the utterly and devastatingly perfect pair my mom has from days gone by. As a result, I am left to fend for myself in many ways. I have been in search of these illusive boots for the better part of 6 years (I know, in the scheme of things this is a relatively short amount of time. . .but in this case it means that I've been actively or inactively thinking about these sorts of boots since I was a teenager. Counts for something in some scheme of things).
      The big problemo is that I have this thing about fringe. I've been sort of anti-fringe for myself for most of my life. No sooner do you google "squaw boot" or "moccasin" then you are bombarded with buckets of the stuff, not to mention beading that borderlines on aesthetically offensive. By that I mean personally aesthetically offensive. Calling a spade a spade: I don't really like it.
      Here's the crux. My 26th year may just be the year I go moccasin. I mean I got the coolest African grass bag for Christmas that I'm in L-O-V-E with (I mean I could wax philosophical about how incredible this bag is for both sentimental and artistic cum fashion reasons. . .but I digress). I believe this bag launches me into the just boho, just world travelled, just don't-fence-me-into-any-specific-style-I-do-what-I-want enough sphere  to perhaps warrant the buying of said longed for boots. Beading remains a problem. On this I will not bend. No beading for me. Unless the beading changes the way I looked at the world for the better. Otherwise, no beading.
        But fringe gives me pause. Does my African grass bag give me enough je ne sais quoi to handle or warm up to fringe. In this time of resolutions being broadcast via blogs and facebook posts everywhere, I would like to join with this: I resolve to maybe just give fringe a chance. A little fringe. Let's not go crazy. They say the most successful resolutions, whether declared on the webs or not, are realistic. This is realistic for me. The other realistic thing is to admit that I will most likely not give into fringe on anything but these boots I'm after. By most likely I also mean never ever. I pause about fringe because of these:

Minnetonka soft soled back zipper boot
aka: maybe we could be friends. for a long, long time

These maybe old news to everyone (hopefully a little bit so because this would make them more authentic feeling to me). But as I was stalking the Minnetonka website, as I am prone to do from time to time, they were a bit like a new-year-new-you revelation to me. It's a tasteful amount of fringe, is it not?  I'm leaning towards yes. But then those suede ankle boots are saying things to me. Those things could include: "go to the gym for a month and I could be your Valentine's Day gift to yourself".  And who can resist that, with or without the resolution?

a claystopmation Christmas card

(treat like a flip book. don't peak ahead)

Christmas love from me to you. 

 I done made that. I even hand modeled for it.

#onblitzen

It's that time of year when the world falls in love and every song you hear seems to say: have yourself a merry little Christmas. Of course that can be interpreted many different ways, but when you're not home for Christmas break and you're at school everyday with little kids for whom having sugar plums dancing in their heads is a constant state leading up to Christmas; it means you should have a party. A themed party. A 'Twas the Night Before Hipster Christmas Christmas party. Jingle all the way. And that's for sure. And who can resist a themed party in the past and present? Not me. No way, no how. 

mason jar snow globes. we're so hip, we didn't even bake the clay that created the characters in the snowy landscape.
Vegan snowmen? ndic (no duh, it's Christmas)

   All I want for Christmas is you, wearing flannel, tortoise shell glasses bought to save shelter animals, brogues and every layer in your closet. All ironically, of course. And irony became our second middle name, with yuletide being the first. Obviously we rediscovered the ancient European tradition of yuletide magic   from an old book we found in the used bookstore. So, it's pretty obscure and pretty exclusive.

The tree was cut down in the woods. With a vintage axe. It's a rare kind of Christmas tree.
It has the kind of character trees people only read about in Dickens novellas.

#onblitzen (am I right?)

But mason jar snow globes and vegan snowmen weren't the only uber exclusive, handmade and free sourced things created this yule festive eventide. One word: claystopmation. And a new kind of Christmas card was born. Stay tuned for that. 

There was a bit of sabbatical between the last post and this current post. I wouldn't say anything on account of the fact that as of now my mom really is the only person still holding out hope for a new post on this blog. But I'm saying something so things can start anew at this twinkling, magical time of year, with a new outfit for the blog and a writer that is more ok with being graduated than was the truth in the past year. So, here we go!