Holiday Perfection

I'm a big fan of being low-key, especially on the holidays. I'm talking sweet chariot low. Boris-Karloff-singing-the-Grinch-song low. Bowser from Sha-na-na low. I've lived across the country from most of my family for many years now, and I've spent too many Benjamins on making myself miserable in an airport all in the name of a holiday. Finally, two years ago, I had an epiphany. I was sitting on a plane next to a leaning lady with a meaty-saucy sandwich. She was just there, leaning all up in my kool-aid for some reason, the better to drop some greasy chunks of her lunch all over me. Think Holly Hunter in "Home for the Holidays." Thus was born a new era-- me, the holidays, low-key.

So here's to the new era. I spent the four days I had off from Libraryland doing whatever the hell I wanted. It was gorgeous. I watched a bunch of movies (of course) both in and out of my house, read books (how predictable), made art, and smooched my honey. On Christmas Day, we loaded up some presents and hightailed it up to the Neighbors' house (why are they the Neighbors when they live 10 miles away, you ask? All in good time, my pretties). Once there, we opened presents. Then we settled in to watch some episodes of Dave Chappelle, followed by a meal prepared by all of us with love: Christmas burritos followed by strawberry ice cream. We all stayed up way past our bedtimes and it was a grand old time. Not a stressful moment in sight.

So next time you are sitting in an airport for the holidays, or in your car in a yuletide traffic jam, pull a Howard Beale and tell yourself you're not going to take it any more. And just ride low.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Library germs

So I'm a librarian. You probably gathered that. I like my job, but shit, is it germy. I'm not one of those germophobes like Niles Crane, but I admit I am more Felix than Oscar. And being a librarian, when it comes to germs, is just nasty sometimes. I was weeding paperbacks earlier today and the crap that rubbed off on my hands makes my hoo-hah crawl. There was some suspicious brown schmear all over the back of a Buffy the Vampire Slayer series book that made me pray to Jehovah that it was just chocolate. Or gravy. If you get my drift. This type of situation makes me run back and forth to the staff bathroom where I wash my hands at least five times a shift. How did I become such a person? Did it start with the first patron who wiped their nose on the back of their hand before handing me their library card? Or with the first kid who coughed all the way across the reference desk onto my keyboard? I never thought I'd end up this way, people. Have some sympathy for Buffy and me. Keep those library books away from your gravy. Literally and euphemistically speaking.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl