Twins and Winds

Ok, I know what I said about telling you about my dreams and how I would try and stop myself from telling you all about ridiculous, uninteresting mind-burps like how it was snowing poker chips or how I was running through a field of post-it notes. But sometimes, I have these really crazy pop culture dreams that I think you may actually find interesting, and I then have to break my promise to you and tell you all about it. Because I am fickle and untrustworthy that way, ya'll. Sorry. So like, last night? I had a dream with the Olsen twins in it. Except there weren't just two of them. There were sets of two, at all different ages. So there was a set of them that were toddlers, and two of them that were the straight-to-home-video ten-year-olds. There was a set that were pre-teen, from the Two of a Kind days, and a set that were teenagers that starred in that show with that guy who played Gwillem on Hope and Gloria. Finally, there was the current Mary Kate and Ashley, with their garbage bag style dresses and ratty hair. They all lived together in a house, and I was a guest at this house, and there was barely enough room to contain all of the twinnage. In my dream, I remember cracking this joke: "wow, you guys really have a FULL HOUSE here, don't you?" See, even when I am unconscious, I churn out the side-splitters.

Speaking of side splitters, Neighbor J sent me a photo the other day that cracked my shit UP. Let me set the scene for you. A few summers ago, a bunch of us rented a beach house on the Oregon coast to max and relax. We've done this a few times over the years, and it's always the highlight of the year. One day, we all woke up and walked down to the beach, only to find that the winds had severely picked up. It was more than gusts-- it was a consistent, constant wind of the sort that makes you have to lean into it to walk. I would say the wind was at least 30 miles an hour. I'm not kidding. You guys know how I feel about being cold. I am in a constant state of shivering me timbers if it's anywhere under 68 degrees. Neighbor J is the same way. So the two of us? Not happy with the wind. But Jenny and Neighbor B were going windsurfing and we wanted to stay and watch. So we gathered up our beach towels and wrapped ourselves in them like two big beach burritos. It was not pretty, and for once in my life, I didn't care one whit about how it looked. I was COLD. In the middle of this, Neighbor J snapped a photo of me, Nordic Boy, and Biology Girl. And this photo has gone down in history as one of the most mysterious images in both Neighbor J's and my personal collections. Because Biology Girl and Nordic Boy? They look like they are standing in the middle of a perfectly mild, sunny day. Biology Girl even has a HAT on. How the HELL she managed to keep a hat on her head in the middle of that windstorm is a subject of speculation between Neighbor J and me to this day. Did she have a piece of duct tape on her head? And Nordic Boy. Sure, his hair is messed up, but other than that, he looks perfectly comfortable. He doesn't look wind whipped. He's downright BASKING. All of this makes what I am doing look even more insane. The caption of this photo may as well be "Joe, Mary, and crazy Aunt Harriet." Because I look like I've been let free from the loony bin for the day. But HONESTLY. We were in a WINDSTORM. With my left hand, I was holding on to that empty folding chair so it wouldn't fly down the beach. You believe me, right? Right????



Remember Jane and Blanche in "Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?" Yeah, that's me. Joan Crawford as Blanche, in hot blankets.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Name Gangs

Have you ever noticed that names come in bunches? Like, you'll make a new friend named Kate, and then all of a sudden you meet 6 or 9 other Kates, right in a row? Maybe you would never have noticed all the Kates lining up like that had you not had one especially highlighted for you. Or maybe people with the same name travel in groups, springing themselves upon unsuspecting bystanders, drowning them in Kate-ness. I'm telling you, these roving bands of same-name people exist. I went to high school with a scary gang of people named Amy. There were four of them, joined at the hip, as they strangled people to death with rosy-cheeked, girl-next-door cuteness. I always wondered about them. Like, did they just happen to all befriend each other, regardless of the name? How did this Amy gang happen?

There was a period of time in my life when my friend Palindrome and I always ended up dating boys with matching names. I started dating a Paul, and so did she. She dated a Matt, and so did I. It went on like this for a period of about two years. It was eerie. As a matter of fact, now that I remember it, my other friend Emily was also dating a Matt at the same time we were. So three of us, all dating Matts. I have never since dated a Matt, and neither have either of the two of them, as far as I know. But for a brief period in the early 90s, we were all tripping over Matts.

There are names that crop up in my life over time as well. Some of them are understandabley ubiquitous because of the popularity of the names. Everyone my age is overrun with Jennifers and Heathers, so I suppose it's not a stretch when lots of pivotal people in my life have those names. But then there are ones that aren't so common, yet crop up two, three, four times anyway. I have two important Nancys. I had a very important Julia when I was a kid, and I do again now. I also have important Jasons. And Kevins. And not just because those are kind of common names. If that were true, I would have a Brian, an Amy, a Mike. But I don't.

I think the name gangs could all be averted if we took some advice from name visionaries like Jermaine Jackson. He named his kid Jermajesty. Now, tell me, the odds of someone meeting two people named Jermajesty in their life? Not going to happen. Or the parents who named their kid Urhines Kendall Icy Eight Special K (thanks, Sauntering Soul, for finding this name, you have no idea the joy it has brought me). They are insuring that their kid will share a name with no one. And god bless the parents of college football player Luscious Pusey. Pure poetry, is what that is, right there. It's enough to bring a tear to my eye.

So what name gangs have come into your lives? Comment and email. I want to know.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Almost Famous

I know that there are quite a few readers of this little blog who are currently in Library Skool, and quite a few members of that group are getting ready to graduate, interview, and take Libraryland by storm. I know that your brain is chock full of wonderful things that will prep you for your new identity as a For Reals Librarian. You've been taught legions of things, from the innards of the AACR2 to the difference between a verso and a recto, and all the ins and outs of FRBR. All good stuff, most assuredly. But here's the thing that no one tells you in Library Skool. You, my dear graduate school students, especially those of you who are getting ready to work with the public, are on the verge of bonafide, genuine celebrity. You're about to be a star. A big star. And I'm here to give you a little tip on how to handle that.

So, let's say you're going to be a reference librarian. There you'll sit, day in and day out, helping everyone who approacheth your mighty brain circuitry with style and aplomb. Even people who never come up to actually talk to you at the desk will see you as they walk by. Your face will be burned into their consciousness. They will feel like they know you, even if you've never really registered who they are.

When I first started as a librarian, I was unaware of how this all worked. Until one day, when I was browsing in my local Storables store, and I heard the following conversation, coming from two teen boys on the other side of the aisle from me, who apparently had the mentality that if I couldn't SEE them, I couldn't hear them either.

Boy 1: Dude, did you see that girl?
Boy 2: What?
Boy 1: I just saw that librarian.
Boy 2: Who?
Boy 1: You know, that librarian that works at X library. With the black hair?
Boy 2: Yeah, so what?
Boy 1: Dude, she's hot.
(this, my friends, started to brighten my day, until...)
Boy 2: Ugh! No she's not!

I shall not start debating with you on the relative genius of Boy #1 and the obvious mental impairment of Boy #2. My point is, rather, that I was out at a store, and these random people, who I don't remember ever seeing before, knew me from my job at the library. I may have interacted with them at some point, or they may just hang out at the library and have seen me from afar. But they knew me. They had taken note of me. I had become a celebrity librarian.

Now, at first, this took some getting used to. I would walk in to the grocery store, head down, just wanting to get in there to buy my oatmeal, oranges and Izzy soda and head out the door, when I would hear "Hi, Librarian!" I'd look up to see the person working the deli counter, smiling and giving me a wave. I always felt awkward, not knowing them back. It was like being at a party where someone comes up and says "hi" to you by name, and you have to be the big dork and sputter out some nameless "hi" back to them, sure that they'll be offended that you so obviously don't have a frigging clue as to who they are.

So, all you Almost For Reals Librarians reading this, I am here to tell you. Embrace the celebrity. You are a public figure now. Work it, own it. If you need help on how to do this, watch famous people on the red carpet. When the papparazzi and fans yell out Julia Roberts' name, she gives a good, full face smile, and waves. Do you think she has any idea who she's waving at? No, she doesn't. She just does it. And that's what you have to do, too.

I went to my local bakery today, and as I walked out the door, a man said to me: "Hey, Librarian Girl!" (And yes, he actually said the words "Librarian Girl." I'm not just saying that). To which I looked right back at him, waved, and said "Hey! How are you?" like I'd known him all my life. He said, "Great!" and I said "Nice to see you!" and was on my way. That's how it has to be done, my friends. It'll feel weird at first, but trust me. It's the graceful thing to do.

So, Library Skool graduates, promise me this. Be a good celebrity, the kind who will stop for the masses. Not the bad kind who throws cell phones at people and forgets to wear underwear. That's all I'm saying.

Addendum: I forgot to mention that the whole reason I got to thinking about this celebrity stuff is because I went and had me a random celebrity sighting. This weekend, I was walking down the street, and right there, in front of Barney's, was Clinton Kelly from "What Not to Wear." I was talking on my cell phone as we passed in the crosswalk, and I noticed him. And he noticed me noticing him. And he flashed his pearly whites at me. I, being the graceful young lady that I am, smiled back and said, as clear as day, right in Clinton's range of hearing, into my cell phone: "Oh my god, I'm looking at Clinton Kelly!" Classy, yes? The even worse thing about that is that the person I was talking to (Nordic Boy) had absolutely no appreciation for who the heck I was talking about.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Profile of a Crybaby

I love this blog and all the perks it comes with, such as ready access for me to talk about nonsense so as not to annoy nonconsensual listeners in other parts of my life, as well as linking up with all you lovelies out there who comment and email and invite me over to see your blogs, where we have virtual tea and crumpets and talk about what's new with you. There is one thing about my blog that I have always been dissatisfied with, and that is my Blogger Profile. The way they have it set up? Bo-ring. They give you a random question, which yeah, is kind of funny, I guess. Then they give you a section called "interests." And you just have to list things. This, for me, is excruciating. Why that is so, I'm not quite sure. I know this is how things are done in the social networking world. You go on match.com and you have to list your interests. You go on MySpace and you list interests. But what does that really do for you? What does it tell you about me to know that I like La Push beach and Brian Kinney? I guess it tells you something, but...ehh. It just doesn't do it for me. It's so lacking in description. There's no real voice that comes through. Which brings me to a Life Lesson that I want to tell you about. In my usual way, this Life Lesson will appear to have nothing to do with the fact that I hate my Blogger Profile, but to me it does, and in this here blog, if I say it relates, it relates! (Look at me going all authoritarian on you! Kind of sexy, yes?)

So, I once had this job that changed my life. After years of surviving on arty pursuits that didn't have things like health insurance or day time hours, I had landed myself a Real Job. I could go to the doctor if I needed to! I would arrive at work at 8am and leave in time for dinner! And the best part of this was that I was working for an organization that could not, in any way, be described as working for The Man. It was grassrootsy, it was progressive, it was changing the world! I was not a sell-out! I remember that I got the call to be hired on my birthday. I was so excited. No more wondering where the next paycheck would come from, no more moving around in order to find work. It was a good, good day in my life.

Fast forward two years. Me, a little older, a little less pep in my step. The Real Job? It was crap on a bun. I dragged myself to work, where I sat at my desk, feeling invisible for the first time in my life. Invisibility is something I had never had to deal with, ever. I've always had girlfriends who talk about going through phases in their adolescence where they felt invisible, and I had never understood that. Growing up in the Midwest, looking like I do, all islander brown goodness, I had never had the option of being invisible. People were always looking at me. I commanded attention, whether I wanted it or not. So, at this job, the force of invisibility was crushing. Issues would arise at work, I would communicate them to my peers and supervisors, and it would be as if I had never spoken. Everything I said and did passed by, unacknowledged. I would bring up concerns and potential solutions on a weekly basis, over and over again, and each time I did, I would be looked at like they had never heard any of it before. Nothing made a dent. It was as if I was encased in a sound-proof booth, like the ones they used to make Miss America contestants go into during the interview competition, where I would wave and yell and jump up and down, but no one could hear a word I was saying. It was discouraging, to say the least. It was like Kafka had taken over my life.

During this period, there were times that were so full of disillusionment that I would go into the bathroom at work, go into a stall, lock the door, and cry. This behavior is so ridiculously un-me I can't even tell you. Yet there I was, sobbing silent tears of frustration in the poo-poo closet, probably twice a week. I was miserable.

One morning, I drove Nordic Boy to work. After we pulled up to his building, there was something in my voice that gave him pause.

Him: Hey, everything ok?
Me: Yeah. I think so.
Him: What does that mean? You look really sad right now.
Me: I...just...don't want to go to work.
(tears start busting out of my eyeballs)
Him: Whoa! Hey. What's going on?
Me: I hate it there! I keep talking...no one listens...nothing changes...it's so messed up...and I have to...cry...in the bathrooooooom.
Him: What?? You cry in the bathroom? At work?
Me: Yes.
Him: On a regular basis??
Me: Yes.
Him: That is totally unacceptable! There will be no crying at work! If work is making you cry, and there's no way to make it better, you have to quit. You can go back to what you were doing before, until you find something else. You're not trapped. You're giving your notice. Today.
Me: (silence...silence) I can do that?
Him: Oh my god, you can totally do that.

The thing was, him saying that I should quit? It was a shock. Because even with the invisibility and the crying and the sound proof booth, I had somehow forgotten I could QUIT. I just up and FORGOT. I had gotten myself into a space where crying at work was just something I did. Just part of my day. Excuse me, everyone, it's 3:30, it's time for my crying break now. YIKES. I mean really, what kind of shit is that?

That day, I quit. And I went back to no health insurance land for a little bit. But I found something else to do, sooner than I thought possible. And I re-learned that Life Lesson: if you're hating something that bad, do all you can to change it.

So, I'm taking that god damn profile out of my sidebar. It doesn't make me cry at work or anything, but I do hate it. I'm making my own "about me" page. Check it out, it's right over there.

Take two things away from this post. One: if you've got an "about me" page in your blog, make it your own. Two: no crying at work.

I told you they were related.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Go Go Gadget Jetsetter

This morning, I drove Nordic Boy to the airport. We didn't exactly have a tearful goodbye, the likes of which one usually sees at airports. You know that whole opening montage in Love, Actually? Yeah, it was nothing like that. This isn't because I won't miss him while he goes on his trip. I just won't miss him any harder than I do on any other given work day. This is because he's flying off to another state, for the day. He'll be home in time for dinner. As a matter of fact, after jetsetting around for the day, he'll most likely make it back home before I'm even done in Libraryland. He is being flown to another state for a ten a.m. meeting. I just have to repeat that. He is being flown, to another state, for one 10 a.m. meeting. Who does that?

Ok, enough italics. It just blows my librarian mind that people do this sort of thing for a living. I mean, when I have to go fill in at another branch of my library system, that's as far as I travel for my job. But Nordic Boy, his mad skillz are mad skillzzy enough that he's wanted all up and down the west coast, and people will pay for him to come meet with them. That's pretty crazy, when I really start to think about it.

So today, basically what he's going to be doing, is visiting the site of a new high-rise that's under construction and inspect it. When he does this, I like to call him Inspector Director. Director, because his actual job title has the word Director in it. Inspector because of the whole, you know, inspecting thing. If I'm feeling especially energetic, I will even sing him the Inspector Gadget song, because well, that's just the kind of person that I am. So, as we were driving to the airport this morning, we had this conversation:

Me: Nah, nah-nah nah-nah, Inspector Director, nah nah-nah nah-nah doo doo!
Him: You know, when you think about it, my job is kind of weird.
(This is one of the many things I love about Nordic Boy. When I act like a complete nutter and sing non-sensical songs for no reason other than I am having pop culture Tourrett's, he will continue the conversation as if I am not abnormally abnormal. You gotta love a guy like that).
Me: What, you mean because you are getting on a plane in order to go to a meeting in another state that will last a couple of hours, and then you're going to turn right around and fly back?
Him: Well, sort of. But it's more than that. I mean, just think about what I am actually doing.
Me: Ok. And?
Him: I go all this way, go to a construction site, walk around and point out all the things that they've done wrong. And they just follow me around and take notes.
Me: Yeah, so?
Him: Don't you think that's weird? They're the ones building the frickin' high rise. Shouldn't they already know how to do it? Why do they need me to come in and point out mistakes? I mean, what if the library hired someone like that? What if someone came in and followed you around all day to point out when you forgot to answer a question? You wouldn't forget to answer a question. You're a professional. You know your job. You don't need someone walking around you all day telling you how you've fucked up.
Me: Actually, I do have someone who follows me around to tell me how much I'm fucking up. That's just called "mean library patron."
Him: But you don't hire someone from out of state for that, right?
Me: No. They come in for free.
(pause)
Me: You know, you're right though. You do have sort of a diva-ish job. Walking around telling people what to do. It's quite rude, actually.
Him: I know. It's like I'm paid to be an ass. But at least I'm nice. So if you have to have someone doing this to you, at least it's a nice ass.
Me: Ha ha! You said "nice ass!" Ha ha!
Him: You should be thankful that I don't bring my work home with me, or else I'd be pointing out the things that you do wrong. Like that joke? So wrong.
Me: A-HA. But you DID just point it out. You couldn't help yourself! Nah nah-nah nah-nah, Inspector Director, nah na-nah nah-nah, doo dooooo!

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Sleepy Time Gal

Most of the time, I'm not the jealous type. I don't really go around envying people about the bling in their step or the skip in their rings. I'm pretty happy with what I've got and that's the honest-to-britney truth. Off the top of my head, I can think of two things that make me feel the fang-pangs of the green-eyed monster. One of them is height. I feel like a shorty shortcake a lot of the time and I flippin' hate it. It is infantalizing to have to constantly ask your friends to get things off high shelves for you. And one of the reasons that I am Skirt McGurt is that when I try to buy pants, I always feel like a member of the Lollypop Guild because the legs are always, always too long. I think that in the grand scheme of things, I'm actually not very short. I'm of average height, is what I'm told. But I feel short. Perhaps I have some strange version of a Napoleon complex. Or maybe I just happen to hang out with garagantuan people.

The second thing I am jealous of is...ready for this? People who talk in their sleep. Of all things, right? I know.

It all started with an ex-boyfriend. One night, as he slept, he started to say this: "bubonic...bubonic..." This gave me no end of giggles. Why is it entertaining when someone talks in their sleep? Why, when someone starts to do it, do we gather around and prod them into saying more nonsense? You know you've done this. At some slumber party or in some relationship at some point in your life, you have tried to make someone talk in their sleep, and felt some sense of victory when they started spewing gibberish. That's what I did with my boyfriend. I said "bubonic" back to him. To which he replied "mmm...cactus...bubonic cactus." I teased him about this forever. I made up a song called "bubonic cactus" which I would sing to him whenever the need struck me. Months of entertainment came out of that.

Nordic Boy will sometimes tell me a little something when he sleeps. And one time he told me a real earful. It went like this: us, both asleep. Me, needing to make a midnight pee-pee run. I got up, not wanting to make any noise as to wake Nordic Boy up. I tip-toed across the room, careful to step around any creaky parts of the floor. Trouble was, there was a chair in the middle of the hallway. I crashed into it in the most grand, spectacular way you can imagine. Like, remember that Sesame Street skit where they would focus on a particular number, and then that guy who played Bentley from the Jefferson's would dress up like a chef and stand at the top of a flight of stairs and sing something like "SEVEN...SPECTACULAR...CUPCAAAAAKES," and then he would go crashing down the stairs, smooshing the cupcakes all over the place? It was a fall like that. (And man, was that a convoluted, weird-o pop culture reference? Mr. Bentley and the falling cupcake chef from Sesame Street! How many of you got that one?) Anyhoo. So I crashed into this chair, and fell flat on my back on the floor. In response to this, Nordic Boy sat straight up in bed and yelled "GODDAMN IT, LIBRARIAN GIRL!!!!!" I am not sure I can describe just how hilarious this is. First of all, I have known Nordic Boy for many, many years, ever since we were young hoodlums. And in all this time, he has never once yelled at me. Ever. And I mean EVER. You think I'm exaggerating, but I promise you, I shit you not. Nary a raised voice, not even an irritated sigh, has come my way. So to hear this booming, roaring, in-need-of-a-serious-chill-pill voice come out of my sweet Nordic Boy was friggin' comedy of the highest order. I literally sat there on the floor and cracked my ass up. He, however, proceeded to flop back down and reconvene with the sleeping. And, when I told him about it the next day, he swore up and down that he didn't do that, he couldn't have done that, and I was crazy if I thought I had really heard such a thing. He still disputes this story to this day and seems mortified that it just might be true. Lemme tell you, it totally happened. He was just completely asleep the entire time.

Why does this make me jealous? Why do I want to have someone tell me that I said something crazy in my sleep? I'm not sure. It's like, when people talk in their sleep, they seem so close to their unconscious. It's right there, out in the open, and for some reason I envy that.

Last night, I almost got my wish. See, I was having this dream, where a housecat who was the size of Hulk Hogan was trying to kick my ass. He was walking on his hind-legs, coming towards me, and I was determined not to turn and run. I bent both my knees and prepared to go Charles Bronson on his ass. And as I started to go for the roundhouse kick...

Nordic Boy: (shaking me) Hey! Hey!
Me: (waking up abruptly) What?
Him: You were yelling out in your sleep.
Me: I was?? Really? What was I saying?
Him: It was like a Bruce Lee sound. "Bwaaaah!" Like that.
Me: Really? Bwaaaah?
Him: Yeah. Are you ok?
Me: Yeah. This gangster cat was after me and I was about to chop him down.
Him: Oh.

So, what do you guys think? Does this count? Am I a sleep-talker? I think it counts, but can anyone use "bwaaaah" in a sentence? Go ahead, try it.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

You'll Want to Date Me After Reading This

I'm realizing that a couple of recent posts I've written have made me sound like I am all that and a bag of jujyfruits when it comes to romancing the dudes. You know, the motorcycle boyfriend and the m&m-thrower and all of that. I feel that I need to share with you some sort of story to even the score a little bit, so you all will know the truth of the matter, which is I am just as big of a dork as the next girly out there. In fact, in thinking about writing this post, I am all overwhelmed by the sheer volume of dorky dating stories that I could reveal to you. It's like a tome-size menu of delicious options and I hardly know where to start. I guess I'll just pick one. Here's one that I like to call I Am Buster Keaton, How Are You?

First of all, let me start off by saying this story involves a Hot Boy named, oh, let's say his name was Sam. Sam was Mega Hott. The reason I say this is because the freakishly stupid behavior that spews out of me in this story must be measured by this fact. The boy's hotness was like a Stupidity Magnifier. All of my behavior was like, larger than actual size.

Episode One
One of the first times Sam and I hung out alone together, we went on a long walk. I guess you could call it a hike, although I wouldn't have at that time because I was a quintessentially city-only girl and hiking was not a part of my vocabulary. In fact, the first time that I went on a hike that was called a hike, I distinctly remember having this thought: wait just a mothersucking minute. Hiking is just...walking. I'll be damned if hiking ain't just a fancy word for walking! Who knew?

But I digress. So Sam and me. Walking/hiking. Having a good time, and I'm very excited about this prospect. A little too excited, as it turned out. We ended our walk/hike after a few hours, starving and more than ready for lunch. We found a place to sit and spread out the two sandwiches that we'd brought. I take my sandwich out of my little baggie, and unwrap it...and proceed to drop it on the ground. Let me elaborate on this for one moment, please. Because I didn't just drop
it. In my hungry unwrapping of said sandwich, I somehow opened the wrapping so hard, that the sandwich flew out, in much the same way potato chips fly out when you accidentally open the potato chip bag too hard. So the sandwich flew, coming apart in the air, and landing spectacularly in the only puddle that was present for miles around. Bye bye sandwich.

Sam felt bad for me. "Here, we'll share my sandwich," he said, handing it over. "Thanks, Sam," I replied. As I reached for the
sandwich, I swear to you I had some sort of hand-conniption, because instead of taking the sandwich, I KNOCKED HIS SANDWICH out of his hand and onto the ground. At least it wasn't in the puddle, right? We could've eaten that sandwich off the dry grass, right? Wrong. Because my hand-conniption turned into a feet conniption. "Oh, oops, I'm so sorry!" I said, as the sandwich fell and we both scrambled to grab it before it hit the ground. And, in the scrambling, I somehow managed to step on the sandwich. Smooshed it right in the dirt. Did I mention we were starving? And in the middle of the woods?

Episode Two
This one also involves food. Maybe the moral of the story is I should not be allowed to eat in public? You be the judge. Sam and I were walking through the city one day, and we happened to walk by a Wendy's. "Oh, Frosty's!" I said. "Remember those from when you were little? Let's go in and have one!" So we did. We each had an order of fries and a chocolate Frosty. And when we were done, I took his tray and my tray. And as I walked by another table where people had just left their trays, I took those too. Why was I all of a sudden cleaning up after strangers? I'm telling you, the hottness was overpowering me and I was losing brain matter. I went over to the garbage receptacle, talking to Sam the entire time. And I was talking so hard and so fast that I wasn't paying attention to what I was doing. So, instead of throwing away the garbage and putting the trays on the stack on top of the garbage can, I just threw it all in the garbage. Like, the trash and the trays. All of it. In the garbage.

Sam: Um. You just threw our trays away.
Me: Ha ha, what? You're so funny! I did not.
Sam: You did. The trays are in the garbage.
Me: Oh. (starting to reach my hand into the disgusting fast food garbage)
Sam: We could probably just tell someone that we did that, so you wouldn't have to fish it out.
Me: Oh. Right.

See how nice Sam was being? Saying "we did that" instead of "you did that, and what the heck is with you all the time, you big spaz?"

Episode Three
One night, Sam was driving me home from work. We pull into the parking lot of my apartment building. I said goodbye, and opened the car door. But then. Oh man, even telling this is bringing back the sheer stupidity of it all. I opened the car door and started to get out. The heel of my shoe caught on the floor of the car as I was getting out, and I fell out of the car. Ass up, and face down. You think that's the worst part, don't you? You don't think there's any more to say, right? Let me cap this off by saying this. My pants split. Oh hallelujah, save me Lord, they did.

Hey listen. I'll guarantee you. Sam never forgot me.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Neighborly Birthday

Today is the birthday of my friend Neighbor B. Neighbor B, as you all know, may as well be a member of my blood relations, he means so much to me. And so the day he was birthed, that's a big day in my life. And you know that I have to give a shout out to my birthday peeps, so here I go.

First off, let me tell you this. Neighbor B is not big on celebrating his birthday. He's just an understated dude and doesn't go in for celebrating hisself. Now, you all know how I feel about birthdays, and for years now I have been chasing Neighbor B down and figuratively force-feeding him his birthday. That's right, I'm not above bullying people in an entirely unladylike manner, especially on this subject. But, now that I have this blog, I can express all those mushy feelings I have towards my loved ones right here and not badger them and smother them like Pepe Le Pew always did with those poor sexually harassed cats. Hmm. Wait a minute. I just associated Neighbor B's birthday with unwanted cat/skunk love. This was not my intent. I apologize. Let me start again.

One of the first times I hung out with Neighbor B, we played this game. It's called "Loaded Questions." You draw a question, everyone else writes down their answer, and then you have to guess whose answer is whose. It was during this very game that I started to love Neighbor B. I remember it down to the very question. It was: "what was the worst fashion trend you ever succumbed to in your life?" The other people playing the game had lengthy, mortifying answers, like "floral gunny sack dresses with a turtle neck underneath, with large gold chains on the outside of the turtleneck and metallic gold shoes" or "loud, baggy hammerpants with a pink and purple design, like something Hulk Hogan would wear." I mean, really excruciating, true-confession stuff. And then, there was Neighbor B's answer. "Tank tops." That's it. That is the worst thing he could come up with. He had once worn tank tops back in some early bare-armed heyday and that's as fashion-faux-pas-ed as he was going to get. You have to love a guy like that. You just do.

The other thing that has to be said about Neighbor B is that there is a part of me that wonders if he is part robot. Not a robot in a scary, post-apocalyptic way. An android style, benign, Data-like robot. Let me make the case. He is very involved with all-things technical. He's probably got some sort of program running right this very moment that washes and dries his clothes, feeds the birds in his yard, makes doughnuts for breakfast and wipes his nose. Whenever you go to his house, there is always some sort of project going on of the technical variety, and it almost always involves wires, cords and cables. He seems to tend to his cords like a mother bird tends to the twigs that make up her nest. He rearranges them, he moves them around, he fondles them. And when he's done, they do something fantastic and automated. It's awesome. So when I joke that Neighbor B.'s house is merely a facade for the operation he is running where he single-handedly rules the world, I am only 40% joking. I have never in my life seen anyone do so many different things just with the use of cords alone. I am very glad that he uses his android powers for good and not for evil, or else we'd all be in big trouble, you guys.

There was a time when Neighbor B was my actual, geographic neighbor (as opposed to the more existential neighborliness that we feel for each other now). We lived in a side-by-side duplex, and the wall that separated us was not the most soundproof wall in the world. Every day, at some point, Nordic Boy and I would pause for a second because we heard a sound. At first, we were all like "what is that?" After a while, we figured it out. It was Neighbor B, next door, working with his cords. As he worked with them, they were being jostled or slid across the wall, creating a soothing, ambient sound, not unlike the wind in the trees. From that day forward, it was a welcome sound. When it would start, we'd look at each other and say "...cords..." which was really shorthand for "ah, Neighbor B's home. And he's up to something with his techie projects. All is right in our world." It was like he was communicating some sort of greeting to us through the wall, even if he didn't know he was doing so. Rustle, rustle, hey guys. Rustle, rustle, how are you? We even took to nicknaming him "Russell Cords" in honor of his rustling sound. The rustling of the cords was one of the things I missed the most when Neighbor B moved away.

Happy birthday, Neighbor B. I love you to bits. (See how I worked in the techie-talk there? I said "bits." Did you catch that?)

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Ax me a question

Thanks guys! You totally came through with the questions, you bunch of Bernard Pivots. Actually, some of you are a little more James Lipton than Bernard Pivot, I noticed. You know who you are. So, here be my answers, homies.

french panic asked:
I do not know this Glamorous song you speak of. Does this make me a)uncool or b)ultra cool for ignoring Top 40 radio?

You dastardly french panic, you. I see your evil plan. I, being your blog-friend, already KNOW that you're cool. Which means I have to answer this question by sayingthat not knowing this song means you are choice b. Ultra cool. But see, then it would have to follow that people who DO know this song (ahem, like me) would have to be in the uncool category. So it's like a zen riddle. How can either of us be uncool if we're on opposite sides of this conundrum? I am forced to conclude that a degree in the Science of Fergie does not have any bearing whatsoever on coolness.

Also french panic:
In a recent post, you mentioned wearing acid-wash jeans and having a motorcycling boyfriend at the age of 17. Acid-wash was cool in my school when I was in grade 6 or 7. This would make you approximately 37 years old. Are you in your late 30s, or did acid wash have an extended hey day in the US that I am not aware of?

Frenchie, you are really grilling me with these questions. Are you really Christiane Amanpoor and you're just faking this whole Canadian thing? Because you just went and asked me my AGE. Yes, you did. But no, I am not in my late 30s. And honestly, I wasn't actually wearing acid-washed jeans in that story when I was 17. It was added for dramatic effect. I did wear acid-washed jeans in high school, but I think they were pretty much over by the time I was in 9th grade. So that would put me in the dirrty thirties, but early rather than late. Or even mid would be an acceptable answer. Just not late. Not yet.

Parttime Librarian asked:
Have you been a librarian long?

No, I'm a baby librarian, just out of the pupa stage. Although, because many of my colleagues are all I've-been-here-for-thirty-years, I think I will have a librarian-pup feeling for a while. Pass the puppy chow, 'cause I'm all cute and cuddly and stuff.

Sphinter asked:
Am I dreaming this up or are you in Seattle?

You are not dreaming. Although if you would like to conjure me away to a city, try for London, please.

Also Sphincter:
If you are in Seattle, is it true that one of the floors in the new SPL is illuminated by colored lighting (like red and/or blue?) If this is true, this seems odd. Is it as odd as it sounds?

I can't think of a floor that is illuminated, but there are many crazy things about that building that you may have heard about. Like the escalators and elevators are all illuminated in chartreuse. And there is a whole floor that is entirely (and I mean ENTIRELY) red. It's like being inside a big uterus. Not that I remember what it's like being inside a uterus, but it just seems very hello-I'm-in-an-organ. And I really like it. What does that say about me? Discuss.

Teej asked:
What's the coolest thing that a librarian can help the average citizen do--a service most people aren't aware of?

Oh Teej, where to begin? I truly think that libraries in general and my library system in particular rocks the hay-owse in so many different ways. But if you want to know something that maybe isn't very well known...how about the fact that our Central library has private music practice rooms? Notice I said music practice, not
make-out practice. Just to be clear.

Teej also asked:
Are "Bunnicula" and "The Celery Stalks at Midnight" and "Howliday Inn" still popular with the cool kids? Or maybe I never was one of the cool kids.... Oh.

Oh yes indeedy, they are very popular. How can a vampire bunny rabbit ever go out of style? It's like Chanel. Timeless. And I must tell you that whenever I get asked for Bunnicula, I tend to go home and annoy the bejeezus out of Nordic Boy by putting "icula" on the end of any word that I can. "How about a snackicula?" "That Clive Owen sure is hotticula." "I'm going to take a bathicula." You think I'm making that up, but I assure you, I've really said all of those things.

Katie K asked:
...it's not a question but I want to hear about you in library school!!!

Katie, I just have to tell you that your experience of library school (as I've seen from your blog and the blogs of your friends) is SO MUCH BETTER than mine was. You guys seem to have cornered the market on mighty nice people. People who like to hang out and have a sense of humor and don't flip the fuck out if they get a half-grade lower than their peers. My library school people were way intense, like we were learning how to be friggin' CIA agents or something.

Spacecase asked:
What's the largest overdue fine you've ever seen?

Aw Spacecase, I wish I could come up with some crazy ass answer like someone had $10,000 in overdue fines for checking out too many Zamfir cds. Alas, I don't. I don't do any circ at my job (oh look at me dropping the terminoogy..."circ," my non-librarian friends, is short for circulation, which is the department of the library where they actually check books in and out and collect fines and such like), so I don't really see fines too much. I'd say the highest I've seen is maybe 200 bucks, something like that.

devo2007 asked:
What is the gross national product of Zimbabwe?

Hey, what do you think this is, some kind of reference desk or something? I'm off the clock, mister.

pencilwriter asked:
Do you color your hair?

My hair is 100% virgin (please no wisecracks about the rest of me, people). As of now, I have never had any chemicals, perms, treatment, or color. I did contemplate dying my hair midnight blue when I was in 10th grade. It was a grand idea that lasted maybe 5 minutes.

llojackie asked:
How old were you when you had your first kiss?

Honestly, llojackie, I can't really remember who was first (whoa that sounded sluttalicious, didn't it?), I think there was lots of kissing in the spin-the-bottle era of 7th and 8th grade. I don't really count those as my first kisses because they were so...ehh. The one I really count was from my boyfriend in 11th grade. It was the first one that made my knees weak, literally. It was like, all of a sudden, my entire body woke the hell up. Hello, sexual awakening, nice to meet you.

nikki_rgbld asked:

What is your favorite book?

How you gonna ask me that? That is too hard. I am horrible at favorites. Favorite book, movie, song, band. I can't decide shit like that. How about that one book that I wrote that blog post about? The one where Celine Dion is posing with all these random babies? Let's say that is my favorite book. It's so wrong that maybe it's right. There's a thin line between love and hate, you know.

heather1432 asked:
Why do you blog?

Shit, I don't know. It seems like the right thing to do.

laurielaugh asked:
Tell us a strange fact about you that we haven't heard.

I don't know if you haven't heard this, but I dream pop culture and/or historic figures. In recent nights, I have dreamed that I was having a beer with Eddie Izzard, and that I was swimming in the ocean with a young Anne Bancroft, and that I kissed Proust at a bachelor party (and I don't even know what Proust looks like).

crzzzydaisy asked:
What is on your bedside table?

A reading lamp, a book (Brokeback Mountain), a little Italian ceramic bowl for my miscelleneous jewelry, and a framed quote of a line from a Neruda poem that says "by night, love, tie your heart to mine, and the two together will defeat the darkness."

josh asked:
If you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be?

Wow, Josh, you got all literal when I asked you to channel your inner Barbara Walters. Next thing you know you'll want to star on a show where you sit on a panel with four other really annoying women. And you'll be wearing something with metallic gold buttons on it. I'm avoiding that tree question, in case you're wondering. I can't pick one. Kind of like that favorite book question up there. Is there a
Celine Dion tree? If there is, that's what I'll pick.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl