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