Big Hairy Deal

There's something a little bit embarrassing about the salon where I get my hair did. Actually, there are several things that make the whole ordeal embarrassing. And they are.

1. It's totally pretentious and hyper-swank, but along with the swanky and the pretense, they can make you goh-geous. So every six weeks or so, I go there and lay my money down and enter the World That Is Sexy Hair. Today was just such a day.

The first thing is the decor. It's all black and red, like Jack and Meg White exploded all over the place. All of the stylists look like models. The lighting has soft edges, like there are gels over the lightbulbs, making everyone look a little more Pore-less. Because pores. Mustn't have those. Oh, look, there's a Marcia-Cross lookalike snipping the shit out of someone's 'do. That one in the station next to her looks like Justin Timberlake. Techno music permeates to such a degree that it seems as if everyone should be voguing in slo mo. And honestly, they kind of are. Even though I've had a long day at work, and it's not even dark out yet, I feel like I am walking into an afterhours club. I have to silently shake my head at all of this. Seriously, you guys? All day? With the voguing sans pores?

2. Second embarrassing thing. After you've put on a robe (because Madonna-forbid you would get your hair cut in your own clothes), you wait in the waiting area. And in this waiting area, all of the magazines are GIGANTIC. Like, a foot and a half by a foot and a half. They are almost newspaper size, with huge photos of Kate Moss looking like she is in desperate need of a buttermilk biscuit. So you try to flip through this magazine, that in all honesty, you can barely hold upright. And you try to look cool doing it. Embarrassing.

3. My stylist has these assistants that prep you for her. So one of them will come over to get you, and take you into the prep room, where he will wash your hair and put all sorts of mysterious sprays and gels into it. Now, sometimes, I get Young Gay Josh Hartnett. Young Josh is embarrassing because, well, he seems to get, well, overly excitable about my hair. Let me explain. People who do hair love me. I am like a blank canvas to them. I have long hair that is healthy, thick, and easy to maneuver. It has never been dyed, or permed, or tinted, or anything. It's what they all call "virgin hair." So I am used to a certain glazed hunger coming into the eyes of stylists when they get a hold of me. HOWEVER. Young Josh. He, um, loves my hair. I mean, he looooves it. So, when he's washing it, he TALKS to it. Rather lustily. "Oh my gaaaahd. Look at this haaaair. It's so strong. So shiny. Oh. Oh. GOD. Ohhhhh." All as he is lathering it up. I never know what to do in this situation. He does not talk to ME. It's all happening between him and my hair. I feel like I should excuse myself, before it goes too far. But what can I do? Embarrassing.

4. I like my stylist a lot. She is nice, funny, and she gives me the best hair I've ever had. This explains why I endure all this agita. So most of the time, once I am in her chair, I feel safe. But not always. This, friends, is because in this salon, the stylists are Arteests. And as arteests, they want to study the techniques of their genius colleagues so that they can maintain their own geniosity. So sometimes, as my stylist is cutting my hair, and the other stylists are in between clients, they will GATHER AROUND YOU in a circle. They stand there, and stare. They point and whisper. Sometimes they ask my stylist what sort of technique she's using, and I get treated to such lovliness as "I am turning the strands as I cut them because it's the only way I can get the pounds off of her heavy hair." Pounds? Heavy hair? Sigh. And they all nod and "ah yes" about my fat hair. Not phat hair. But fat hair.

So I endure an hour of embarrassment because the bottom line is that they all really know hair. They actually ARE artists. My hair always looks a bazillion times better than it did going in, so I grit my teeth and get it overwith. The things I do to make my locks more luscious. Please don't judge me. I know it's dumb. And I've been embarrassed enough.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Just Type Something

Hey peoples. I have abso-tootly nothing of coherence to write about today (as opposed to the barrel of coherent monkeys that I usually have to share) but I have committed myself to writing at least two posts a week (please no jokes about needing to commit myself, it's just too easy) and I am nothing if not Committment Ready (or whatever the opposite of Committment-phobic is) so you will be treated to some good old-fashioned diaherria-of-the-keyboard. As the cheerleaders like to yell: Ready, ok!

1. First of all, my birthday is coming up. Usually, I have been known to throw a party of some sort, all cake and candles and finery galore. The upside to this is that, well, it's a party, with all my peeps together in one glorious ball of gorgeousness. The downside of this is that a- I have to pick a date and time that may or may not work for all, and b- during the party I don't get to actually spend time with everyone. It's more like a friend-buffet, where I have to make room for all instead of actually catching up with each. So this year I decided that I would have actual dates with each and every one of my peeps for weeks around my birthday. The result is that my social calendar for the next few months looks a bit like Paris Hilton's, except for the fact that none of my sweet friends would ever, ever call someone a Firecrotch.

2. On Friday night, my neighbors to the back of us (who I have never met nor seen) had a rip-roaring hippie party in their back yard that started at 10pm and continued until 4am. FOUR. A. M. There was a drumming circle involved, people. I guess that technically I don't know for a fact that they were actually in a circle formation, but I have my suspicions. There was clapping, and singalong-ing, and folksy-ness abounding. Let me just remind you all that I live in the city, where yards are eensy little squares that butt up against each other in blocks. I snuggled up in bed and tried to sleep, and debated with myself about calling the po-po on them. I just couldn't bring myself to do that, because, well, hippies...they're so harmless. And they integrated a loud, buck wild cowbell into their drumming, which allowed Nordic Boy, Neighbor J and I to re-live the Christopher Walken/Will Farrell cowbell skit from SNL, so it was good times all around.

3. Does anyone else find that "Lips of an Angel" song the Funniest Thing Ever? Just asking.

4. Neighbor J crashed at my house on Saturday, and we stayed up until all hours of the night, laughing so much my throat and stomach still hurt today. Before I went to bed, I washed my face and brushed my teeth, but my MAC lipglass was a mighty powerful thing and some of it stayed on my lips as my head hit the pillow. The next morning, as Nordic Boy got out of bed, I did a double take. He had glitter ALL OVER his face. Apparently our nighttime smooching made him into Simon LeBon. I guess that means I have the Lips of an AAAYN-GEL.

It's not much, but that's all I've got, my lovelies.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Birthday Map

It's been a while since I have done a birthday shout-out people! And today is the day for a GOOD ONE. Happy birthday to my awesome friend Map!

Mappella, where to begin to talk about her? It's hard because I can't really remember a time when I didn't know her. Along with Alli, she is my oldest friend. The thing about Map is, she is FUN. Eff You Enn, fun. Not only that, when we were growing up, she had BAWLS. Gigantic cajones, people. We went to a large public school in a factory town, and let me tell you some of those teachers we had were mean, nasty wardens. Not a lot of nurturing. Lots of unnecessary corporal punishment going on. I remember my 9th grade math teacher actually throwing a kid out of his chair onto the floor. Rough stuff, right? Teachers were there to KEEP US IN OUR PLACE. And Map, well, she would not be put in her place. She defined her own place, on her terms. And that rocked all of us.

The thing about Map was that she was so friggin' SMART about her rebellions. She would mess with people in good humor, with a large dose of irony. Like, the other kids would do stupid things like smoke in the bathroom (snore) or sass back to teachers (boring) to get their point across. Map was much more creative. Like, we had a dress code in high school-- no shorts was a big one, for some reason. So, Map wouldn't wear shorts, but she WOULD come to school in her pajamas. Just march into first hour wearing her pajamas, with no hint of defiance on her pretty face. Who me? she would seem to say. Oh, yeah, I guess I AM wearing pajamas. Is there a problem?

In 11th grade, we had this US History class that was a total waste of time. It was basically a free hour, where we had no real assignments, no reading to do, and no lectures. Half the time I don't remember our teacher even being in the room. Yet, there was a strict policy that we could NOT be late. If we had something like 25 tardies, we automatically failed the class. You must be on time for this hour of nothingness! Butts in seats for...no reason! So, Map, Alli, and I started sporadically showing up late. Although Alli and I did this every once in a while, Map took being late to a high art form. In my high school journal, I have documented that she went to the absolute brink of failing-via-tardiness each and every marking period. The days that she wasn't late was only because she put her foot over the threshold of the classroom door AS THE BELL WAS RINGING. She never made a statement about this. She never sassed our teacher. She was perfectly pleasant about it every day. Just late. She also gave us (Alli and me) the brilliant idea of bringing in our breakfasts from McDonalds and just spreading them right out across our desks. Because hey, we weren't doing anything anyway, so we might as well have a hash brown or a shamrock shake or something. If she wasn't already a straight A student she should have been just for ideas like that.

Then there was the last week of school before we graduated. I'll never forget it. We were standing in the hallway and the principal of our school was standing there as well. Map went into a classroom and grabbed a pair of scissors. "Hey Mr. K" she said to the principal, just bright and sunshiney and balls out. "You know there's a tradition where graduating seniors get to keep a part of our principal's tie, right?" and she reached out and SNIPPED OFF A PIECE OF HIS SILK TIE. We all stopped and stared. Oh no she didn. She did NOT just cut off a piece of his tie. He looked surprised, but looked at her angelic-face-of-innocence and just laughed hesitantly. "Heh heh. No, I hadn't heard of that before. But there you go!" She then proceeded to pass the scissors around and we all snipped the shit out of that tie. He walked around the rest of the day with a little stub of a windsor knot, and I still have that friggin' piece of tie to THIS DAY.

So that's what I learned from Map. She was smart, she was fun, and she always, always had a sense of her own worth. She wouldn't be treated like crap and she never let the bastards bring her down. And she can still make me laugh until I cry.

Happy Birthday Map! You rock my socks.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Our Town

So Biology Girl and I have had many a night where we have stayed up way past the witching hour talking. When this happens, we come up with what I am choosing to describe as Mind Art. The material that we use to make this art is nothing but our genius little brains. One of the earliest installations that we have invented is what we like to call Our Town.

This in no way is meant to reference that Thornton Wilder play. The one that I had to read (as Emily) out loud in 10th grade opposite this kid named Jay, who had a disturbingly full, bushy mustache that I kept trying not to look at. The one that Rayanne read with Angela Chase. The one that made Mike Seaver want to be an actor. OUR Our Town has nothing to do with Thornton, and is apparently too artful for anyone else to understand.

So it all started one night, when one of us jokingly said to the other: "what in the Sam Hill was that all about?" This led us to think...who is Sam Hill and what in the Sam Hill is up with that expression? We shrugged and kept talking. Later in the conversation, one of us said something about tomfoolery. The other one of us said "who in the Sam Hill is Tom Foolery?" This, as you can imagine from reading this blog and seeing how sophisticated our humor can be, made us giggle for a good five minutes. Sam Hill! Tom Foolery! Hee hee ha ha!

From that day forward, we have added other fictional people. We have so many now, that we decided that these people were all residents of our fictional town. They even have personalities, and jobs. The population keeps growing. Jack Shit. Dot Matrix. The only rule seems to be that it has to be a common phrase or term that sounds like a name. Doesn't that sound simple?

One day we are sitting there with Nordic Boy, and we tell him about our town. "...Willy Nilly. Fanny Pack. Get it?"

To which he replied "that's pretty funny! Hey you guys. I got one. How about someone named M'Hand Stinky? Ha ha!"

Insert cricket sounds here, as Biology Girl and I did not laugh. Imagine confused faces from us both. I said to him, ever so lovingly: "M'Hand? What is M'Hand? That's not a name! And M'Hand Stinky. Well, that's not really a common phrase or term either. It's not a name, and it's not a phrase. It doesn't even really make any sense. What is M'Hand Stinky?"

Nordic Boy tried to defend his name as being funny. Just as funny as Charlie Horse. Or Dick Weed. Yes, it's funny. That's not the issue. It's just NOT A NAME. NOR A PHRASE.

Ah, well, we thought. That's just Nordic Boy not getting us. That's ok. He probably wasn't really paying attention to the explanation of our town. Who can blame him? When Biology Girl and I get talking, I bet lots of people just hear blahddy blah blah.

So then Biology Girl mentioned our town to the boy she was dating. "...Nick Knack, who is dating Patty Whack! Isn't that funny?"

To which this boy replied: "yeah! That IS funny. How about some siblings for Jack Shit? Maybe his brother's name should be No Shit!"

More cricket sounds. You see, No Shit is a common phrase, yes. But it's NOT A NAME. Why is this so hard?

This trend has continued. Whenever we mention our town to anyone, they just REFUSE TO GET IT. Why? What is so difficult? It's not the theory of relativity, people. It's just terms that sound like names. Then you make them into characters. Chuck Roast, the chef. Phil Harmonic, the symphony conductor. Russel Up, the cowhand. Get it? Someone, please. Anyone? Anyone?

We even have landmarks. My favorite is Mount Yin Yang. You see, people like to hike up the yin yang. Come ON! That's funny!

Oh I don't know. I have a feeling that if I was in room with all of you right now, and I asked who all was getting this, there would only be one hand raised. And it would be M'Hand.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Where's Your Head At?

So the other night I was in a card store with my SIL (sister in law), and she was looking for a couple of wedding cards. I haven't been in a card store for a while, because should a card be required, I make it with my own hot little mitts. That's right, I can get crafty. I'm not a Family Circle style crafter that has an affinity for the Ducks-With-Bonnets motif (who the hell thought that one up, I always wonder), but I can get arty-cardy.

So, we're in this card store, and I see that there is a card with a HEADLESS BRIDE on it. Yeah, like a bride with no head. "Look at that!" I said. "A headless bride!" When we took a closer look, we saw that what it was supposed to depict was the bridal dress, with no bride in it, just standing there, upright and ghostly. The sleeves didn't show any hands because where the hands would stick out was covered by the bouquet. And there are shoes peeking out from under the dress. So it really did look like a bride with no head. Ha ha. Funny.

But the thing is, we looked at that section of cards, and there were TONS of headless bride cards. It's, like, in fashion or something. Card after card of empty dresses and bouquets with no bride. "Look, there's another one, " SIL would say, "and another one. And ANOTHER one." And after a while, I started to get creeped out.

Now, I know what you're thinking. I tend to get creeped out by traditional bridality in general, so you think I'm just extending my non-bridal feelings to these perfectly acceptable cards. But that's not true. I mean, just THINK about this. A headless bride. Over and over again. This HAS to mean something, doesn't it? Like, the dress is so paramount, that it doesn't matter who/what the bride is. The accoutrements of Wedding Land are what matter, people, and don't you forget it. The bride's happy face? Forget it. The bride's corporeal being? Mere detail. Come on, isn't that kind of icky? Just a little?

I don't know. Maybe I AM just biased. I probably shouldn't have gotten so worked up about it. It's just a few cards, after all. I guess I just lost my head.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

The Finger

I should have known something bad was about to go down. Something was just not right about the day. So the first warning I had was this. I had a day at the library where not one, not two, but SIX DIFFERENT creepy men trolled their ominous comments my way. Six. What can I say, I have a gift. I am a maggot magnet. One of them told me that I was the "best little librarian ever," and that he wasn't just saying that to "kiss up" to me. Kiss up? What kind of power do you think I have that you would think anyone would need to kiss up to me? I DO have the magic bypass key to the copy machine that will get you free copies, but that's about all the power I wield. Another one of them asked me if I thought Tom Cruise was cute. So that's not technically a come-on, but when followed up by "some people tell me I look like an older Tom Cruise," it's not a conversation I need to be a part of, people. Another one of them called me "schweetheart." Like Bogey, but so so incredibly not like Bogey.

Then, my mom took me shopping for a little pre-birthday birthday shopping. I admit it, this made me cheer up a little after the creepy crawly day I had. I am not above the idea of retail therapy. Buying some cute clothes goes a long way with me. Don't even try and shame me about that because it won't work. So, a-shopping we went. And I tried on, oh, maybe six or nine THOUSAND things. And none of them looked good. I am not even going to get into the whole skinny jeans and high waisted pants issue right now. Other than to say that this season's clothes look like dookie on a stick with ranch for dipping sauce. How else can you explain away shoes that look like this and cost fifteen HUNDRED dollars? Or this? Hi, I'm a Gladiator with Marc Jacobs shoes. What about this one? Seriously? Nanook of the north, with pompons?

Then, I went home and started pruning a tree of mine (because that's what I do now? apparently). I was using my little garden branch-saw that is cute and blue and very toothy, and oh my god I sliced my finger open. Right through my tough garden gloves. I hadn't injured myself like that for a long, long time, and I was aghast at how much gore I could produce. It was so...gross. The first thing I thought of was that Elmer Fudd line, when he says to Bugs: "Wet me see the cowor of your spurting bwood" and Bugs goes "My SPURTING BLOOD!?" Does anyone else remember that? Why do I remember this crap in such a savant-like manner? Hells if I know. My point is, that my incredulosity was Bugs-like at that moment. How could I be spurting blood? It wasn't QUITE like those old 60s Japanese tv shows-- oh what the hell are they called---Zatoichi. It wasn't quite like that, where the samurai stab each other and the blood shoots out like Old Faithful. But it was nasty. And so...not ladylike. It hurt like a mothershanker too. So now, even as I type this, it stings me. Ow. See how I commit to this blog? OW. The only upside to this is that it happened on the back of my middle finger, and so when I tell people about it, I show them the bandage and flip them the birdie simultaneously. "Yes, I did hurt my finger," (up goes the birdkins). I take pleasure in this. It's a free bird-flipping pass. For that I will endure the fact that I ginsued myself.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Once Handwritten, Twice Shy

I am a correspondent. Not like a Brit Hume Rita Cosby Nina Totenberg kind of correspondent. I don't rove the globe in a trench coat seeking answers to questions like what brand of fetishy boots does Condie Rice wear or how come Dick Cheney shot his homie in the face. I am a correspondent in the sense that I enjoy corresponding with people. I like emailing, and love IMing, and I write good old fashioned snail mail letters at least once a week.

So as part of my schtick here in Libraryland, sometimes I try to make community contacts a few different ways. Email works for some, but for others an email from me, the librarian they haven't yet met, is something that goes straight to the trash. To them, seeing my name pop up in their inbox in no different than a gem from Hortense Lipschitz with the subject line "pretty baby and nothing hardness?". (That's an actual spam that sits in my inbox right now. That Hortense. Always talking about people's nothing hardness.)

So to combat this, I do a few different things. Sometimes I do what I call a "drive by," where I stop in to the school/community center/organization unannounced with all sorts of library goodies to introduce or re-introduce myself to whoever may be in need of my librarianing services. Sometimes they have time to chat with me, which is great, and other times they don't, but in any case I always leave behind a packet of info and my business card. I figure maybe they will remember me if they've taken a gander at my fancy shoes or my winning ways.

Another thing I sometimes do is write a handwritten note to some contacts, along with sending them whatever information I am peddling that day. I really believe that a personal touch will be noticed, and although I am most likely deluding myself, it makes me feel more optimistic about getting these effers' attention. And I need to keep the faith, because sometimes my relationships with community contacts hearkens me back to the days of Bad Boyfriends for Librarian Girl. I chase them and call them, then wait by the phone, willing it to ring. Do you think he noticed me? Will he call? Only to be disappointed when a local teacher strolls into the library and I excitedly say "hello again," only to be met with a halfhearted "oh, hi. what was your name again?" I swear, all these teachers would have to do is go to third base with some other hoochie at Mike Maverdes' party and I will be convinced that I am in 11th grade again.

So today I sat at my desk and wrote out a few handwritten notes to some area teachers, inviting them and their students to a library program coming up next week. I put the notes in an envelope, along with my business card and a flier, and mailed them off in hopes that they would stir up an audience. "I hope to see you there! Sincerely, Librarian Girl." This was the way I ended each note. After writing this a dozen times, I sealed up all the envelopes. Then, I froze. HAD I written "Sincerely" on each of those notes? Because, you see, I write a lot of cards, notes and letters in my personal life, and I never write "sincerely." I usually write "love." Had I, in my ever-so-personalized-but-yet-absentminded way, accidentally signed my name the way I usually do? Had I said "hope to see you there! Love, Librarian Girl"? Oh good lord. Now that I have had this thought, I am 50% positive that I could have. So do I rip open all these envelopes and check? No, because that would be neurotic and wasteful. Because I didn't write that! I don't think. I pay better attention than that. Don't I? I went ahead and sent the notes, for better or worse, even though I know that the last thing you want to do with a Bad Boyrfriend/School Contact is to ever use the word LOVE with them. Right? And if any of you out there tell me that these contacts are Just Not That Into Me, I will pull a Dick Cheney. Seriously.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

En Garde!

It's fencing time, people!

You may be tired of hearing about my ugly yard, but I am not through yet. Yes, I have only had a house for a couple of months, and you may think I am turning into one of those scary lawn-crazed people, but I swear to Jack Lemmon I'm not. Believe me, I know what a lawn-crazed person looks like. They are people who have pristine lawns, who cut and shape and prune everything to sparkling, trim edges. My neighbor, on the left side of me, is such a person. She's retired, and all she does all day long is sweep her front steps and walkway (at least twice a day), and work on her yard, which looks impossibly lovely. No fallen leaves on the ground, no blades of grass out of place, no flowers unbloomed. She tries to be nice to me, but the state of my yard is just too slovenly for her to completely wipe the disdain off of her face. As I slave away, trying to clean all the crap up, she comes over to say ever-so-helpful things like "you sure do have a lot of cleaning to do, DON'T you." Yes lady. I do. Thank you so much for pointing that out, and wrinkling up your nose at me while making such a pithy observation. I KNOW it's disgusting. I'm the one knee-deep in overgrown shrubbery, wrangling this god damn fern within an inch of its life. I'm the one looking at your yard next door in deep green envy. Some day I will have flowers. And green grass. And fluffy, healthy plants. Just not today, ok? Because I can't work that fast. I'm not the Jolly Green Giant. I have other things to do with my day other than tend to my yard. (I'm not really sure about that Jolly Green Giant reference. Did the Jolly Green Giant have anything to do with plants? Did he grow peas or something? Why was he green again? Didn't he have a toga made of leaves or some shit like that? The librarian in me should look this up, but I'm off duty. So just go with me.)

On the right side of my house, however, is the exact opposite of the Super-Clean-Yard Maven. The right side is trrrrashed. It's a rental house, filled up with college kids (ha ha, look at me calling college students "kids." Ok, grandma!). They are lovely people, who came over the first day and introduced themselves, gave me their phone number, and told me not to hesitate to call them if they ever got too loud. And they never have gotten too loud, which makes me really happy because I don't ever, ever want to turn into that "you rotten kids!" lady. I have a soft spot in my heart for them. They are all gothed out, bless their Robert Smith souls. Why do I start to feel all big sisterly when I see white powder and black eyeliner? I don't know. It just makes me want to bake them all muffins or something. Go ahead and psychoanalyze. I mean, when I first fired up my laptop when I moved in, my wireless connection bled into theirs, and a little message box popped up on my screen asking me if I wanted to join the wireless connection called "Necropolis of Angels." How friggin' cute is THAT? It's better than kittens.

So although I love these kiddies, I don't love looking out my windows into their yard. For all my yard's ugliness, theirs is Quasimodo hideous. They have a big, overstuffed, moldy couch in the backyard, with oodles of beer cans strewn about. The house itself is painted a barn red, and the picture window that faces my house showcases a large skull-and-crossbones flag. Not only that, but on one occasion, I looked out the window from my afternoon tea, and I saw...um...naked nudity. Nude nakedity. One of the kiddies didn't care to be-clothe themselves and walked around doing chores. Sweeping. Wiping off windowsills. Hi. Young one, you're nekkid. Stop that.

So, Nordic Boy built me a fence. He ordered lumber, started work on Friday, and worked on it over the weekend. Now, I am in love with my brand new fence. Look at how pretty.




Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Energize

After a gloriously relaxing vacation, one should feel refreshed and rejuvenated to go back to work, yes? That's how it's supposed to go?

I'm feeling tired, people. I just got back and I am tired. Maybe this is because I was meant to be independently wealthy, luncheoning with those Ladies Who Lunch and taking Creative Macrame classes to pass the time. Or maybe it's because the amount of work I had waiting for me on my desk and email inbox when I returned was wicked retahded. It's the beginning of the school year, where the hordes come swarming through the door once again, all making a beeline for the reference desk, where I sit and wait for them with a horrified, glassy-eyed look on my face. Ha ha. Just kidding. Sort of.

So, in this time of fair-to-middling energy that needs to be pumped up to high-energy, I start to think about the things about my job that would appeal to the ten year old in me, who always had energy. When I was ten, I would fight the idea of going to bed. Now? I am having a love affair with my bed. I am like Ronnie Cammererie from Moonstruck, talking to myself as Loretta. That's right, I'm Nick Cage AND Cher, all in one, having a grand old conversation with myself about my bed. "Everything seems like nothing to me now, 'cause I want you in my bed." These are the things I say to myself. This morning, as Nordic Boy heroically tried to get me to wake up, he resorted to doing his best Barbra imitation by crooning that Yentl song into my ear. "Sweetie can you hear me?" Damn him for always making me laugh when I want to sit in my Grumpster Dumpster.

So when I was ten, I loved stickers. (Follow me on this people, I know I am reaching, but I need to do this right now). My favorite store was Happyland (was it a chain? does anyone out there remember Happyland?) in the mall. It was a whole store of stickers. Rolls and rolls of stickers. I had a little sticker book and I would go to Happyland and fill up my book with crap. Contrary to most little girls of the 70s and 80s, unicorns and rainbows were not my milieu. I was more a hearts and stars and geometric shapes kind of girl. So now, as a librarian, I often get to work with stickers. I stick the spines of every new book in my collection with a sticker. The ten-year-old in me should be ecstatic that I have found a profession in which I am being paid to work with stickers for a few minutes each week. I mean, what's next? Building shelving out of legos? Making displays using Fashion Plates?

Another thing that I used to think was awesome as a ten year old was People Who Were Allowed to Push Buttons. As a child, I had no button-pushing power at all. Children are more often told "don't press that!" when around buttons, and the highlight of my life was getting in an elevator and being told I could press the appropriate button. Children have few button-pressing rights, or at least they did when I was growing up. So, when I would go to the grocery store and watch the cashier press the "total" button after scanning in our groceries, I was rabidly jealous. Look at that cash register, I would think to myself, all those BUTTONS. My fingers would ITCH to push them. And now, here I am, with an entire keyboard ALL TO MYSELF all day long. Pushing buttons. Right now. Look at that. Doing it now. And there again. And now. And again. The inner ten year old is in paroxysms of joy.

Now if only I could find a way to incorporate sucking down pixie sticks, getting my brother in trouble, and singing the "hanker for a hunk of cheese" song into my work day, it would be ideal working conditions. But for now, I'll take the buttons and stickers.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Chip Tip

Do you know someone who seems to be universally loved? Someone who, every time their name is mentioned, the chorus around the room erupts in comments like this: “she’s so great,” and “oh, I love her,” or “she’s the cat’s pajamas with extra chips.” I do, and it’s well deserved. This person IS the cat’s pajamas with extra chips. Then there are other people, who, although maybe not universally loved, are highly thought of amongst a chosen few. I know those types of people as well, as when I name drop them I hear The Love emanating from at least few people around me, without fail.

This got me to thinking-- do the Loved even know about the feelings of the Lovers? Is the Loved walking around in her life, thinking she is just a run-of-the-mill somebody, with no extra chips whatsoever? Perhaps the Loved is YOU. Can you have extra chips this WHOLE TIME and not even know that you have them? I think you definitely can. Check your pockets, immediately. I think it’s a sad, sorry shame if you have surprise chips. Why can we not tell the people who we think are great, how great we think they are? Why just talk about them behind their backs, like a drrrrty secret?

I can understand if you’re too shy to do that--because, let’s face it, it may be kind of awkward and stalkeresque to lean into your friends’ faces and say “you’re so great. You’re a fabulous, gorgeous piece of human, you are”--unless you’re friends with Arthur Fonzerelli, who is used to such adoration and loves it as much as Shirley Feeney loved Boo Boo Kitty. (Hey look at that, a pop culture reference WITHIN a pop culture reference. I’m like layers of a fucked up onion, I tell you). But if you ARE too shy, how about passing along the sentiments of another Lover to the Loved. Be a Messenger of Extra Chips. Just point out that the person is in possession of said chips, vis-a-vis a comment you heard from another. Like this: “hey, I ran into Charo yesterday. Your name came up and she was talking about how lovely you are.” (And, wow, how awesome would it be if CHARO thought you were lovely?) If we all did this a little more, people would become aware of their chips. And you may discover that you have some yourself. So go on, do it. But if Charo does that creepy Cuchi Cuchi thing when you talk to her, keep that part to yourself.

Kiss the rings, I’m out.
Librarian Girl