Why, you ask, would anyone want to screw up their pictures? I dunno, I think it looks kinda neat. It reminds me of my childhood in a good way, and not that many things remind me of childhood in a good way. And ok, I’ll say it: It’s hip.

I got to thinking — and giggling — about the whole Hipstamatic thing on Saturday, as Sophie and I sat through Yo Gabba Gabba Live.

For the undoctrinated, Yo Gabba Gabba is like the Teletubbies on acid: imaginary characters dressed up in huge costumes, ready to teach your kids to be nice. And to eat healthy food, not to bite, that kind of thing.

But the thing that sets Yo Gabba Gabba apart is that — with funky bright colors, and guest stars like Jack Black and Amy Sedaris, and alt bands like the Ting Tings — it’s hip. Aggressively hip. Tragically hip? I can’t really say. Maybe, if you don’t have a kid. But if you do have a kid, you’re just really freaking relieved that you don’t have to watch the Teletubbies or the dozens of other kid shows that aren’t much better.

I’ve never seen so many dads at a live kid show, but there they were in their goateed and Conversed glory (moms, too — I spotted a “Yo Gabba Momma” bumper sticker in the parking lot), and for the most part, they looked more interested in the show than their toddlers. To be fair, it can be hard to get toddlers to appreciate live entertainment. Mostly the under-four set just wants to pee or throw up or throw a tantrum.

Sophie was one of the oldest kids and she liked it, but really she mostly endured it, because I told her that after the show, she’d get to meet Foofa, her favorite Yo Gabba Gabba character. Foofa’s “thing” is that she’s happy all the time. She’s pink and puffy and has a flower on her head. I skipped the $10 plastic headband with the white Foofa flower hot glue-gunned to the top, but I did get Sophie a tee shirt, and couldn’t help but hold my own hipster photo session in the parking lot, after the after party. 

Because yes, I paid (a lot) to attend the after party. It was the only way I knew Sophie’d get near the characters, and Sophie’s all about the close encounter. It was pretty lame, but mission accomplished: Sophie got to hug Foofa.

She seemed pretty ecstatic about it. But maybe not.

When I bought the tickets months ago, Sophie was still way into YGG, but lately she’s been all Oliva the Pig, all the time, so while she acted excited (she did put her Yo Gabba Gabba panties on for the occasion — thought of that all on her own), I think she was just trying to make me happy. Come to think of it, she didn’t mention the show once after we got home. Not like her. She was way more excited about the porcelain Olivia tea set she got for Hanukkah that night.

Sophie doesn’t care that Olivia’s not as hip as Foofa. And I haven’t asked but she probably thinks my photos have been looking a little screwed up lately, too.

It’s not easy, being a tourist in a city you once thought you’d call home. I should know. I’ve skulked around Manhattan on various trips over the years, wasting precious time feeling bitter over the fact that I don’t live there and likely never will.

But this time, that didn’t happen. Ray and I took the girls to NYC for a hunk of spring break — two days in the city, two days with his relatives in Queens — and this time, instead of being pissy, I geeked out.

It’s hard not to, with Sophie in tow. This is a kid who insists on not only thanking the pilot for flying the plane, but holding up the line of anxious fliers trying to get to the terminal (and the bathroom!) to give him a long hug. She helped the bellhop with the luggage, told the taxi driver where to go and marched right up to the clerk at Mood (the fabric store of Project Runway fame — Annabelle and I were in heaven there, and even Ray was impressed) to ask, “Where’s Heidi Klum?”

In short, Sophie knows how to enjoy herself. The only downside was bad weather, and when forced to walk in the rain, Sophie took to bleating out sadly, “Taxi! Taxi!” as she avoided puddles that even she found too cold for a good splash.

We ate teeny tiny chocolate mint chip ice cream cones at Sweetie Pie, quizzed the clerk at Mood about each season of our favorite show, fell asleep at the planetarium and gawked at the Empire State building out our hotel room window. All four of us gawked at a snout-to-tail pig meal served up at a nearby table at dinner one night.

My dear friend Amy lives in a building with a key to Gramercy Park, so we found a dry(ish) moment and some daffodils, then I thoroughly embarrassed Amy by insisting we walk into the lobby of the chi-chi Gramercy Park Hotel and snap some photos. And then I made her go to the Coffee Shop in Union Square (of Sex and the City fame, though, since Amy’s a true New Yorker, she didn’t know why we were there).

We did have a small scene in the hotel elevator when I caught Sophie staring at all the numbers and had to hold her hands to keep from repeating that scene in Elf where he presses every button to see them light up.

And really, how could it be that the huge but skanky ToysRUs at Times Square didn’t have a single Yo Gabba Gabba item in stock?

Still, overall, it was a pretty darn magical trip — and for once, I was happy to be there and even sort of happy to go home.

Up next, The Best Part: Meeting Leo.

The girls and I were in full valentine production mode last night, when Annabelle raised an eyebrow from across the dining room table and pointed.

“How is anyone going to be able to read those?” she asked, not unkindly.

She was referring to the treat bags Sophie was decorating with foam hearts and Yo Gabba Gabba stickers, as well as her name and each classmate’s name.

I love Valentine’s Day. It’s a nice, soft landing pad after being launched into the real world post-Christmas/Hanukkah. I’ve made myself busy – toasting almonds to mix with cherries and chocolate for the teachers, helping to plan the class parties (such as they are — it’s not like the old days, no homemade treats, and I just had a 15 minute discussion with the Safeway bakery manager about the perils of Red Dye No. 3) and generally geeking out.

But the most important part — the Writing of The Valentines — that, I have to admit, made me a little sad. I only knew which name Sophie was writing because she announced it before attacking each bag with her Sharpie — way easier for her to write with than pencil, ballpoint or crayon — but still resulting in something basically illegible. (Above are two of the better ones. The one on the right is for “Richard.”)

“Oh, I have a system,” I told Annabelle, turning one of the bags over to reveal a number in pencil. Each friend on the list has a different number I assigned as Sophie made each bag; I’ll make tags for the bags later, so that they can be handed out on Friday.

I wasn’t about to deprive Sophie of the ritual of making valentines. As we struggled with each one (she was cheerful throughout, I a little less — though trying hard to mask it) I tried to figure out why it was so much harder this year than last.

Oh yeah. In kindergarten, Sophie’s teacher handed out a list with names in big type; we were instructed to cut each out and have our child glue it to the card. But in first grade, your kid is supposed to be able to write another kid’s name — legibly.

Annabelle was impressed with my number system. It was better, I figured, than making Sophie feel bad about her penmanship. She had a ball — writing with flourishes, taking three lines to make her own five-letter name.

But the number thing didn’t go unnoticed. When she was done with the last one, for her teacher, Sophie held it up to show me she’d written a number on the back. I don’t know quite what to think of that — or, rather, what Sophie was thinking of the whole thing. 

Sometime soon, I’m told, the occupational therapist at school will officially introduce the Electronic Writing Device. Sophie will be able to “write” — to express her thoughts, catch up in school, have a good life.

But little things like valentines — which, to my sentimental (whiny?) way of thinking, are not so little — will always be a struggle.

Science fixed Sophie’s broken heart (hopefully for good, after the second operation) but there will always be little things that tug at the heart strings.

Life’s like that for all of us, in different ways, I know. It’s not just Sophie.

So how much should we dwell on it? Just the other day, my friend Trish and I debated that very subject. I argued that maybe we’re all self-actualizing just a little too much. 

Later, I wondered if the truth is that perhaps all of this embroidery and almond-toasting and valentine-making is just a way of keeping busy to avoid reality.  

Probably. Thank goodness Easter isn’t far off.

I always try to put the Halloween stuff away the day after.

I might have five overflowing laundry baskets in my dining room at the moment, and be perfectly okay with it — but to me, there’s something unacceptably untidy about having holiday detritus around after the holiday in question is over.

Maybe I drove by too many sad Christmas-lit houses in February, growing up. (Phoenix is huge on holiday lights; probably because there aren’t many natural signs of the season around.)

In any case, I was unsuccessful this year. It wasn’t til this past weekend that I finally crammed the black and orange back into the Halloween Rubbermaid and shoved it into the holiday closet, swearing I’ll deal with that mess by Thanksgiving.

Then I opened the dryer the other day to find that Annabelle had put the shirt from her Halloween costume into the hamper without unpinning the felt/pom pommed poodle tail. (Of course this is my fault, as the responsible adult.) We’ll be finding those pom poms around til next Halloween, I suspect.

Oh, and I even forgot to post photos from Halloween. So here you go. Sophie was Foofa from “Yo Gabba Gabba” (not homemade). Annabelle was a black poodle (homemade, as previously mentioned and, I must add, a huge hit — and my relationship with the hot glue gun was officially kindled).

Boo. Hoo. Halloween 2009 is officially over.

This morning was greeted before dawn and with great excitement.

It’s October.

The girls and I rolled around in bed and talked about Halloween costumes (Annabelle’s going to be a black poodle; Sophie’s still undecided, maybe Foofa from Yo Gabba Gabba, or maybe a cat, or Cinderella to complement Ms. X’s Fairy Godmother costume — how perfect would that be?!) and the song “I Don’t Like Candy Corn”( which always plays on Noggin in October but now that Noggin has become Nick Jr., Annabelle is concerned they won’t play it).

(For the record, Annabelle and I both love candy corn. Sophie’s on the fence. Ray does not care for it. We have discussed trying to make some from scratch this year.)

And then talk turned to another October event, my birthday. When you are turning 43 you don’t need a reminder, but the girls love to discuss it. Annabelle asked for a countdown of days this morning. (It’s at the end of the month. I’ve got some time left to revel in 42 and get that “refreshing chemical peel” I’ve been planning on.)

I did get an early birthday present already (pictured above), from my dear friend Gilda.

The other day I told Gilda she’s magical, and I think that’s the best way to describe her.  She actually made this for me — I am so touched! — and even better, she’s teaching me how to embroider. I don’t ever expect to achieve her level of expertise and creativity, but I’m honored that she’d give me a shot, considering how uncoordinated I am. (She may not yet have realized that.)

In any case, Happy October.

It’s the stuff you had children for — this guy’s the Dan Zanes of kid books, the Yo Gabba Gabba (well, sort of) of baby lit. Todd Parr with an edge.

I bought the girls (okay, I bought it for myself but I’ll share) Brown’s latest, “Soup for Breakfast,” and I was flipping through it yesterday and was delighted to see a poem entitled “Oilcloth Tablecloth”.

I’m all about the oilcloth tablecloth, as any observant GIAPH reader knows. (Buy your own: my favorite site for oilcloth is http://mendels.com/fabrics10.shtml.) My dining room table serves as the backdrop of many of the poor quality photos I take and post, and my tablecloth collection has garnered more than a few comments from certain quarters. (I’m always tickled to hear complaints about the oilcloth patterns, which I slather with the unabashed love reserved for things like vintage Japanese celluloid and carnival chalk — acquired tastes, to be sure.)

I love that Calef Brown appreciates oilcloth, too. With no further ado (since I’ve been told by an expert that my blog entries are too long) here is Calef Brown’s own ode to the OT, followed by a particularly bad photo that will give you an idea of his cool imagery: 

OILCLOTH TABLECLOTH

Oilcloth Tablecloth

Keeps the table dry,

Despite the many soda spills

and coffee gone awry.

If someone sloshes orange juice,

or baby starts to cry,

Oilcloth Tablecloth

keeps the table dry.