Sometimes Beyonce is better than Motherhood, but maybe a Backyard Shed would change all that

Well, I'm glad that's over.  Nothing left but the endless presents with no place to go, the extra five pounds, and the trails of glitter left by Maggie's fabulous new shoes. Christmas, for me, was sort of a drag.  Too much obligation and wrapping.  Too many runny noses and schlepping from here to there. I like my regular old over-scheduled life better. 

As I write this my kids are using their new Christmas scissors (favorite presents: Elmer's glue and scissors) to chop up the New York Times Style section.  Before I was ignoring them to write my blog, I was ignoring them to read said section.  Not ignoring them totally.  I would look up occasionally and comment in the saccharine-laced voice of disinterested parents everywhere on their stellar Mr. Potato heading and marvelous tea party preparations. But really, I was hidden behind an article about style makeovers for 2009.  

And here's what I wonder.  Am I the only one?  Is it possible that I am the only mother around who is sometimes just straight up bored with playing with her kids (although not to level of this woman, tut, tut!)?  There must be others like me, other grown women with little tolerance for the endless making of make-believe cookies and Playdough snakes.  

I once had a friend who sniffed with disdain at those mothers who listened to their ipods while jogging with their strollered infants. "I mean, what better music could there be than the cooing of your own baby?" she asked with great scorn.  Of course, this was back before either of us had kids.  But even then I suspected she was off, that as delightful and wonderful as they are, kids would get a little tedious.  Even their musical cooing would not always trump a great novel, or an episode of The Wire, or even the new single by Beyonce.  

A thing I like

The Mister gave me Stylish Sheds and Elegant Hideaways for Christmas (here's the Shed Style website).  What would you do with a backyard shed of your own?  I'd like to say I'd finish my novel and learn to read music, but really I'd probably nap and stare out the window. All I know is that as lovely as a nice George Clooney fantasy can be, it doesn't hold a candle to a good shed-of-one's-own fantasy.  I want one of these from Modern Cabana.

Happy Everything & A Gratitude List (if you can stand it)

May the season be filled with love,

a few happy surprises, and at least one GIANT hot fudge sundae

Five things I'm grateful for right now, in no particular order:

1. My job.  It's good work.  It's 3 days a week.  There is often free food and wine.  What more could I want?

2. The Mister's work.  Yes, retail is shaky, but he owns a bookstore.  A bookstore!  How cool is that?

3. My kids.  To be honest I vacillate wildly between an awe-struck feeling of luck at being their mother, and the distinct impression that motherhood is best reserved for people without my personality.  But when I think about how they almost never came to be, I can't bear it. I literally can't bear the thought.  

4. Creative people.  Despite my fits of ungenerous jealousy, I am so often inspired by the amazing minds of others: writers, seamstresses, poets, singers, people doing weird things with glue guns and yarn.  You people make a world full of Dress Barns and Bratz dolls and The Bachelor worth living in.  

5. Perspective.  Every time I get some I realize that I am a lucky, lucky girl.  Stressed, a little zaftig, famous in very few places, and definitely not rich.  But lucky just the same. 

Merry, merry, happy, happy everything

Kids Don't Really Like Santa, They Just Like his Loot

My kids will not sit on Santa's lap.  They love to talk a big game about everything they want to say to him, but the minute we come near him, they clam up, hide their faces, and start whimpering. But here's what they would ask him for, if they could muster the courage:

MAGGIE: Lollipops and cookies.

OLLIE: Lollipops and cookies and black toys and orange toys and candy.

Here' the excellent part.  I can make that happen.  Someday they will ask for ponies or trips to Europe and I will fall so terribly short.  But lollipops and a couple black toys?  I can totally swing that.

A thing I like

I saw these coolio retro-brooches by Elefante, e a vida on the fabulous Mighty Girl.  They are like something my grandmother would have worn on one of her many second-hand cloth coats if she had been a little less small, moody, and Jewish.  I love them, or as we like to say in my family,  I lerve them. I'd say you should buy one here, but it seems they are sold out.  But just you wait, she'll make more. 

Sometimes Being a Mom Doesn't Look so Hot or Alone at the California Academy of Sciences with Two Toddlers

 I guess there are some moms who somehow manage to be well-coiffed and kind and calm all the time.  You see them occasionally chatting up their toddlers, their lips glistening with perfectly applied gloss, their shiny, freshly washed locks pulled into stylish ponytails.  Even their strollers are sleek and crumb-free.  Their kids enjoy sushi and clam sauce and 60 Minutes.  

And then there's me today at the California Academy of Sciences, belly pouching uncomfortably over my too-tight jeans, my sticky-faced children arching and thrashing and screaming.  I was the one trying to balance that tray of food in the crowded cafeteria while pushing a double-stroller into the ankles of my fellow diners.  That was me crawling on the floor under the table in an effort to retrieve a runaway water bottle.  And yes, that woman pleading with her two-year-old to try to hold her pee pee while she stuffed an egg roll in her mouth and used her napkin to wipe guacamole off  the other twin's quesadilla?  That was also me.  

And I just want that young, hot guy who rolled his eyes and made that irritated little puff sound when I accidentally cut him off at the napkin dispenser to know that although I look like a nightmare, like every cliched, harried mom that you never, ever wanted to be married to, I am really a pretty nice person. I know I don't make it look easy. But that's only because it's not.

A thing I like 

This would be a very boring video narrated by a balding  geologist with a ponytail if it weren't for the awesomeness of nature.  Watch the whole thing.  It's worth it for the octopus at the end.  

The Dark Night and the Awful Secret

I am dead tired.  Like fall-asleep-and-get-in-a-car-crash tired.  The culprit is insomnia.  The other night I was up for three hours with the darkest, most awful thoughts about my children getting hurt.

The problem is our upcoming (well, not for a month, but it's never too early to start stewing) trip to Mexico to visit my mom.  Her house teeters high on a hill with nothing but a low wall separating my monkey-twins from the abyss.  In the dark of night all I can imagine is them climbing up and over.  And I won't even write what comes to mind next because it is too awful to repeat.

Adding to it all is the damn Secret, which urges you to believe that you can think things into being (everything from new cars, to illness).  And while I think it is absolute self-centered drivel designed to keep people from actually doing anything productive to help others, change the world, or improve their situations, it has somehow wormed its way into my consciousness.  So now, while my worst and darkest mind its doing its whole baroque melodrama, I am not only lying awake praying for sleep, I am bargaining with the Universe not to take my unruly thoughts too seriously.  It's exhausting.

A thing I like

Bargain gift alert: I just ordered the cutest vintage barrettes from Kitchen Table Studios.  $7! You still have time, but hurry!  She enclosed a free pair of earrings as a thank you.  When was the last time Target did that?

Morning sky over the Sunset

This is the view from my roof in the morning

A thing I like

I am a big fan of the radio show This American Life, and doing a story for them is one of my go-to fantasies.  My dear friends Chris Markus and Steve McFeely, who are big-wig Hollywood screenwriters, are now working with host Ira Glass on screenplays based on stories from the radio show.  That's just one degree of separation, people.

But enough about me.  What I really want to tell you about is this particular story by the always-hilarious and consistently brilliant Starlee Kine about trying to write a breakup song.  There is just so much to love here I don't know where to start.  Listen for yourself.

Santa's real identity

This is last Christmas

MY DAD:What do you call grandma? (his very ex-wife)

OLIVER & MAGGIE:  Old grandma!

ME: But what's grandma's real name?

OLIVER & MAGGIE: Caroline!

MY DAD: And what's my name?

MAGGIE: Cowboy!

OLIVER: Santa!

Note: It's actually Wayne, but the kids call him Yeh Yeh.  And Cowboy.  And Santa.

A thing I like

This recipe for Spaghetti Carbonara is really so delicious and it's by my friend Molly Watson of The Dinner Files and other things.  I add kale and use whole wheat pasta.  Try it, you'll like it. Be generous with the parm.

What did happen in 2008

Oh, and I painted!

Well, I've been thinking about this all day, about what I would write and what I might list as the positive events or accomplishments of my own personal 2008.  And let me tell you, this will be an exercise in counting my blessings because all-in-all 2008 has not been one of my better years.  

Here goes, ten things that DID happen this year:

1. It got easier, just like everyone said it would.

2. Maggie stopped wearing diapers just in time for the economic crisis (that's about $100 a month).

3.  We raised $10,000 for Barack Obama and then he won.

4. The Mister and I had our very first weekend away without the kiddies (we went to Santa Barbara).

5. I rearranged my living room and it looks much better. See?

6.  I published a short story about about an earthquake. 

7. I joined Facebook, started blogging, discovered Etsy, had my first IM conversation , and figured out how to do a video chat with my in-laws. I am Samantha 2.0.

8. I bought my first pair of truly expensive jeans and came to understand why they were worth it.

9. I traveled to Mexico, Delaware, Oklahoma, Petaluma, Calistoga, Yountville, Santa Barbara, and Carmel.

10. I kept my offspring alive and mostly happy and seem to have imparted to them the importance of getting funky, real funky, on the dance floor. 

So that's it–it's not a Nobel Prize or even a book contract.  But in my defense I am coming off a couple of real stellar years.  And at least it's not a van down by the river.

New daily feature alert:

A thing I like

This amazingly funny, deadpan, smart novel about fictional Grouse County, Iowa in the '80s by a guy I've never heard of.  Read it.  It's great.  The End of Vandalism by Tom Drury.

What didn't happen in 2008

The end of the year is coming and so my mind turns to lists and accomplishments and—alas, it is hard being me—failures.  

Ten things that didn't happen this year:

1. My anthology proposal failed to "inspire the proper enthusiasm" with my new agent.

2. I did not get a job blogging.

3. I did not win the Narrative Magazine First-Person contest.

4. I did not get tickets to Obama's inauguration.

5. The New York Times' Modern Love section did not publish my essay about hating my dog.

6. I did not plant a veggie garden.

7. I did not finish papering my hallway doors.

8. I did not discover my god-given talent for performance story telling.

9. I did not achieve the proper "body after baby" according to People Magazine

10. I did not always remember my pledge to reach out with kindness to everyone I know.

But stay tuned, because tomorrow's list is Ten Things That Did Happen This Year.  

Plus, there's still time: 22 days to be exact.  That's 31,680 minutes of potential.

I'm thinking of becoming a stage mother

Music Education
The twins had never seen a piano before we got to grandma's, which I realize is sort of sad (although they have seen giant calypso bands on flatbeds and plenty of hippie drumming circles in Golden Gate Park, so they're not totally deprived.)   Luckily, they are musical geniuses, as you can see from their precocious and impressive rock star faces.  

Oklahoma, where the wind comes rushing down the plains

Well, we're in Oklahoma City after two plane rides, a long layover in Dallas, a hideous meal at T.G.I. Fridays in the Dallas/Forth Worth airport (if you are ever there, please just do me the favor of not stooping to eat at TGIFs.  Even the beer won't help.  Really, McDonald's would be better. Licking an old Cinnabon carton you found in the trash would be better.)

But here was one of the high points:

Oliver (having mastered the air vent above the seat): This feels good.

The Mister: You like the wind on your face?

Oliver: Yeah, 'cause makes me feel important.

Our first view of OKC: two huge crosses created 

from windows lit on big, downtown buildings. 

Famous Oklahomans include 

Garth Brooks and Sam Walton

A mostly handmade Christmas (with one Barbie)

I sort of made a vow to myself not to do anymore shopping-inspired posts (there are enough other people doing a better, more consistent job of it—check out Bliss—and it's just not really my thing) but I went a little crazy on Etsy today and instead of making me feel all dirty and rotten like most shopping does (think weirdo, subversive secret trips to Target), this made me feel clean and smart and well made.  So much so that I've decided to try to have a completely handmade Christmas (when I am not buying books, which, as everyone knows, are the best gifts of all). 

Here are just a few of my finds today:

These baby leg warmers

This felt play food

These strawberry booties

Next I am going to make a Six-Word Memoir t-shirt with Smith Magazine and Spreadshirt.  I think it's going to say "I started blogging this year too." Not exactly handmade, but cool just the same.

P.S. In the interest of full disclosure I have to admit that I had already made a few non-book, non-handmade purchases before my vow.  If I could undo that "Baby Doctor Barbie" and those Matchbox cars, I would.  Believe me.

Thankful for everything, really

Save your fork, there's pie!

So, I totally get why ladies of a certain type like to go away to spas and other quiet places where fluffy towels are provided and the only noise is the soothing tinkling of new age music. 

We have had a truly lovely Thanksgiving weekend.  The Mister was off for three days—a treat—and we had all these incredibly fun, warm, shiny people over to our house for turkey and all the fixings (meat-eaters, try this stuffing). On Saturday we even got all picturesque and trekked out to a tree farm in the mountains above Santa Cruz to cut down a Christmas tree. We picnicked in an old apple orchard and drank wine out of plastic tumblers and the kids picked pears and ate them off the tree. Really, it was just so...nice. Nice in a way I always hoped my life would be.

The Mister with our fresh kill

But here's the thing.  It's Sunday evening, the sun is down, and all that's left is the dealing part: making dinner and cleaning it up, bath time, packing lunches for the twins' first day of daycare tomorrow, putting all those damn lights on the tree, folding laundry, and well, I just now realized that that  I haven't been alone for a minute in a long, long time.  My children even accompany me into the bathroom (this is potty training, not a lack of boundaries).  

And then today at the playground where the twins screeched for me to push them higher, higher, higher and Woody dropped his ooey, gooey ball at my feet, demanding that I throw it again and again and again and I looked down and realized I had worn my darn clogs to the playground again, the ones that fill instantly with sand and make it all but impossible to walk, I just had this crazy vision of some silent pool in some cuckoo place like Sedona and even though I am so, so thankful, truly thankful, for my sweet life, I just wanted to go to that quiet pool and immerse myself in all that warm, quiet water and be alone.

 

Instead I went to Wallgreens to buy Christmas lights and gum and low fat Triscuits. Which, if you look at it from certain angles, is its own kind of blessing.

Maggie & Ollie like dessert best

What do Mark Fiore and Feist have in common?

Just a quickie 'cause I am tired as all get out today. Damn kids. 

I got to use my best announcer voice for Mark Fiore's most recent political animation (don't call it a cartoon).  It's the one about the Big Three Automakers from 11/19.  He's funny.

Also, I recently learned that The Mister has a rock star crush on Feist because of this 1, 2, 3 4, video.  Had I known he had a thing for sparkly unitards and awkward, white-girl dancing I would have tried both a long time ago.  But I think I sort of missed my window. 

Mama gets a moment of peace

The moment has finally arrived.  The big twin payoff we've been waiting for. My kids now play together.  They've always played next to one another but now it's like they are really little friends. This morning I heard them making plans to go to the airport.

"You've got to hold hands 'cause car coming," Maggie said, officiously grabbing Ollie's paw. And then off they went with the giraffe suitcase packed full of essentials like letter magnets, a wooden toaster and a few board books.  According to Maggie they are headed for grandma Charlotte's house, Mexico, and a bunny hole.  Sounds like a fun trip.

I hope they come home soon.

I gotta get to the inauguration

I can't let this kid down

So there I sat on election night, eyes all brimming with joy, heart all aflutter with yes-we-can optimism, guts all knotted with regret.  I wanted to be in Grant Park in Chicago, crying and cheering at hope's ground zero.  

So, now I'm scheming to get to the inauguration.  Getting a ticket from a California rep. is out of the question.  I went to Jackie Speiers' website and it says she's gotten over 3,000 requests for her 198 tickets.  BUT, and here's where my hope lies, my in-laws live in Oklahoma, where they pump up Republicans from the ground with their oil.  I figure there can't be more than a few hundred folks from down that way who want to go to freezing DC on January 20 to celebrate with the liberal elite. So, my mother-in-law has put in a request to her rep.  It's a long shot, but I've got to at least try to be a part of history.

I can't let this happen.

MAGGIE (twenty years hence): Mom did you get to witness the inauguration of the first black president of the U.S.?

ME (all stressed-out, with a bad dye-job): No dear, I was taking advantage of Old Navy's post-holiday sales.

I think I'll make us go even if we don't have tickets.  We can just stand far away, chattering with cold and good old American pride.

A roundup of cool links to design stuff and ideas and people in the blogosphere

A few things I think you should know about:

This woman beat me out of a job at Cafe Mom. Yes, I was going to take this blogging thing to the big time.  I tracked her down and found her all over the place. It turns out I like her.  So, Happinest meet Up Mama's Wall.  Up Mama's Wall meet Happinest, and Mamazine.  Yes, you are welcome to my 25 regular readers (That's right, I've grown!).

Here's Undrgrnd. Sign up for their daily newsletter and buy lots of cool, design-y things for your home that you don't need.  The good news is that they are marked down, a lot.  Like sometimes by 80%.  Enjoy.  

Also, in case you're feeling stuck.  Here are some ideas from Free Idea Factory.  Why didn't I think of that?

Finally, that agent who liked me and then changed her mind about my new anthology, sort of changed her mind again and now she has submitted my essay about hating my dog to the NY Times Modern Love section.  I tell you this because I need your good vibes.  You know, from your lips to God's ears and all.   

Our family supports your family--Down with Prop. 8

Maggie & The Mister stand up for what's right

Me: Guess what guys?  We're going to a protest this morning.

Oliver: There will be lots of toys there!

Me: Um, no.  But there will be lots of people and music and dancing.

Oliver (losing interest): Mommy, I want banana bread.

LATER, IN THE MINIVAN

Oliver: I'm so 'cited about the toy chest, Mommy.

Me:  Oh, Oliver.  It's a protest, not a toy chest. 

Poor kid thought we were going to some giant new toy chest big enough to hold dancing people and drums.  Instead he gets a whole lot of cheerfully pissed off gay people and a little distorted disco music.  Still, in the end, I believe it's better for them. 

Encaustic painting, Doris Day and Carmel-by-the-Sea

Doris Day owns my hotel.  I'm in  Carmel-by-the-Sea, a town so Thomas Kincaid-esque, it make me feel as if I might come-face-to-face with Bilbo Baggins all snug in his Christmas elf suit.  Everything is so dimiutive and quaint and incredibly chi-chi.

See for yourself

They have a shop here that just sells handcrafted lampshades.  Another devoted entirely to an aviation theme—you know, flight jackets for babies and massive framed photos of fighter jets against the blue, blue sky.  

Clint Eastwood used to be the mayor and I have trouble understanding how he could have taken it all seriously.  His first act in office?  Legalizing ice cream cones.  Apparently the city had an ordinance against take-out.  Not anymore.  I just now polished off a bag of Chinese.  Alone.  In my hotel owned by Doris Day.

I am here on a women's art retreat, an assignment.  I'm learning encaustic painting (painting with hot wax) in the company of six other would-be artists.  I've learned three things so far:

1.) I LOVE encaustic painting.  It's luminous and lovely and just so fun to play with.

2.) Being a visual artist is much more fun than being a writer, especially with a staff waiting on you hand and foot (Chris, more wine.  Clap!  Clap!) 

3.) A lot of women own and wear fur coats without a trace of guilt or self-consciousness. (What would Doris Day think?)

Oh, and if you took all the diamonds off all the fingers in Carmel, you might just be able to bail out the economy once and for all.

Here's my first encaustic painting (they have a tendency to look a little tie-dye Dead Heady)

Dream Analysis

Last night Oliver woke up yelling his head off at about 1:30.  I stumbled down the stairs to his room, sending Woody skittering across the floor with those terribly noisy claws of his.  What I found was a mostly-still-asleep two-year-old babbling like a lunatic, hair all sticky-upy.

Me:  Shhh (rubbing his cheek) Shh.

Oliver: Guy!  Man!

Me: Shhh.  Go back to sleep.

Oliver: Choo-choo train man come!  

Me: It's just a dream.  Shh.

Oliver: zzzzzzz.

My son's first bad dream.  This may be mean, but being able to soothe my kid during a nightmare gives me immense pleasure. I donned my capable-mom suit and kicked that Choo-choo Train Man back to the hell from which he rose.  

None of my new found skills seemed to help in my own personal dreamland.  As I drifted off I joined the Mister on the beach just as he was fishing my liver out of the surf at Ocean Beach.  We knew it was mine because of the serial number, you see.  

Me: Can we put it back in?

Mister: No.  Look at it (he holds up a large, gray jellyfish-looking thing).  It's been out too long.

Me: (realizing I'm going to die).  Darn.

I've never really gotten the hang of dream analysis, but this much is clear: Oliver is cute and I am whacked thirty ways from Sunday.

Obama makes me feel like being a good person

Today I visited my friend Rachel and her tiny new baby, Hazel.  And of course we talked about breast feeding and sleep deprivation and the horror that is using a breast pump.  But we also talked about our dear Prez Elect (if you are a fetishist like me, look here for great photos of the MAN).  She watched the election returns from her lofty perch above the city with her hubby and her new babe.  And as she looked down upon San Francisco and Golden Gate Park (her view is incredible) after Obama won, she said she imagined troops of Americans, dressed in overalls and getting to work like something out of a Social Realism mural.  Maybe there would be oxen.

And the funny thing is, I have been having the same exact vision.  During Obama's acceptance speech I was so desperate to do my part I would have grabbed a shovel and started to dig if only someone would have given me a project.  Then, just today, I got an email from my aunt expressing her need to be of service.  "I feel like volunteering for something!  Teaching school in Appalachia?"  she wrote.  

The point is, this president has got us pumped!  Never in my lifetime has a public figure asked the citizens to be of service. Now, we just need to harness all this energy and goodwill and fix some shit.  Maybe we can start here.  Or here.  Or even here.  We can all be community organizers.

Oh my God.  Oh my God.  Oh my God. This is better. Much better.

Here is the text of my 65-year-old father's message to me tonight.  He's in Vermont, three hours ahead:

"Hi Sam. It's your dad. It's whatever time.  Sometime after midnight on a very historic evening.  I'm very happy.  I just, I feel like--I know you are too--so I just wanted to say hi and say the world got to be a better place tonight.  Anyway, I love you and I'll talk to you soon.  Bye."

Amen.  Man, am I ready for this.  Hallelujah.  

A decade of love. Oh, and go VOTE!

Smart dogs vote for Obama

I have never done anything for ten years.  I've never lived in any one house that long, or had a job that long, or been at a school that long, or worked on a project that long.  Until today. On November 4, 1998 me and the Mister went on our first date.  There was broiled salmon at Lulu, Irish whiskey at the long-gone Irish bar around the corner from my old apartment.  And there were the inevitable and numerous cups of tea while we sat on the futon couch waiting to see if we might kiss.  We did.

So now I've been in love for a decade.  Not always googly-eyed or palpitating, but always, always grateful.  

Happy anniversary, Mister

The sweetness I feel on this day is matched only by the immense excitement I feel about the election.  I am jumping out of my skin!  So, if you haven't already, please go vote.  Make me happy.  See you at the party, America.  Woo hoo!

Oh, and this is so great.  Funny.  Funny.  Funny. I will miss the election humor.

cute kids, orange things, and clown faces

Happy Monday (God, I hope so)

It's been a sopping wet, sniping, grouchy few days.  Everyone, parents and children alike, acting like brats.  All-in-all kind of bleak.

But here are a few things that made me laugh despite my curdled mood and general snarlishness.

1.) Today, the day after my mother's I'm-65-and-on-Medicare birthday party, we were hanging out with the totally exhausted and strung out twins and they decided it was really fun to unzip my mom's cardigan.  Totally spontaneously my mom decided to do this sad clown face as they unzipped.  Since my kids are distressingly concerned with making people happy, they quickly set to work zipping her sweater back up, at which point she put on this weird, creepy-clown exaggerated grin.  They did this over and over.  Unzip, clown frown.  Zip-back-up, grotesque weirdo clown smile.  She looked just like one of those velvet painting clowns with the five-o'clock shadow.  The kids were going crazy.  I was weeping with laughter.  As I write this I feel that it's possible that I was a little more hung-over today  than I originally thought. 

2.) My kids singing happy birthday to my mom.

3.) My friend Lisa's new blog about orange, which, let's face it, is a really nice color. 

4.) Obama's chances on Tuesday.

5.) Oh, and I got an email from some guy at a TV production company in LA asking me if he might recommend me as an on-air expert for their wedding blooper show.  So, you know, Mary Hart, look out.

6.) This butterfly and bumble bee.

My first video blog-yay!

Um, here I am showing off my kids and my video making abilities.  The backstory of the complicated narrative is that the kids' great grandmother (Pete's grandma) gave them a weird and creepliy life-like plaster kitty. Ollie has been cat-crazy since way before he could talk.

Look here.

Travel through time—make Polaroids

Everything looks better with the greenish tinge of yesteryear.  I may be a little late to the Carter-era nostalgia party, but I'm loving polaroiding my photos. I learned about it here (can Swiss designers ever be wrong?).

Go here and download this little program.  Then begin reliving your youth.

But be careful.  It's addictive. . .

Oliver travels back to the '70s to pick out a pumpkin

Maggie and Oliver travel back to the '70s in their cool hats

I travel back to the '70s to get loaded at Mark and Chelsea's wedding