Hyperactive

You know how I am always talking about how librarians tend to have secret lives that you would never guess were there? It's totally true. I am not trying to perpetuate a stereotype- you know the one, where the stodgy librarian whips off her glasses and takes down her hair and all the buttons pop off her shirt and then it is ON. That is merely one incarnation of the secret lives of librarians. The diversity of librarian secret lives is really boundless. I have seen it proven over and over again. I have, on occasion, revealed some of the secret lives that I carry around in my own life portfolio. And today, I'm revealing one more. Ready?

There was a brief period, back when I was first in college, when I was HYPER. I mean, bouncing off the walls, extrovert-to-the-max LOUD and PROUD, kind of insane, hyper. Energy for DAYS. There was loud verbiage spilling from my mouth at all times. You remember Gilda Radner on SNL as the little girl named Judy Arlene Miller? Yeah, that was me when I first showed up at college. If you know me now, this seems ludicrous, and you're probably having a hard time picturing me acting this way. Because now, I am the person who is known for thinking before she speaks, a person who would never, ever jump up and down for no reason at all. Or even if there was a reason. Jumping up and down is no longer on my list of ways to express my glee. I don't really know if I am even one who feels something called glee any more. I am now known, first and foremost, as the Responsible One. The one who has all their Shit Together. Steady. Reliable. But when I first arrived at my dorm my freshman year of college, the words "woo-HOOOOO!" was a word I would use in just about any situation. I would routinely walk up to people I didn't know and say "Hi! What's your name?" no matter who you were or what you were in the middle of doing, and by the end of the conversation, I might actually be hugging you. Oh yes. I was that girl. By the end of my first week, I was the person who knew everyone on my floor, and my dorm room door was always open and my room was always filled with people. All. The. Time. And I was always up for fun! That was me! Fun! Fun! Fun!

Talk! Talk!

Jump! Jump!

Giggle! Giggle!

What? Did you say something? I was busy talking! And jumping! And giggling!

Oy. It makes me exhausted just thinking about it. I have a souvenir of this time in my life, and it makes me laugh every time I look at it. It's a handmade flier, announcing "Quiet Hours" in the dorm for exam week. These were the hours that you were supposed to shut the hell up so that people could study or sleep. So, the sign says something like "Quiet Hours 11pm-5am." And, in the white space of that flier, someone had graffitied in the words: "Librarian Girl, THIS MEANS YOU." That says it all, doesn't it? We have a sign telling people to shut up, and I am literally the Poster Child of those who need to shut up the most.

The reason I am bringing up this time in my life is because my roommate from the good old (extremely hyper) days is coming to visit me this weekend. My roomie was not, and is not, hyper. She bore witness to all of my lunacy and kept her head about her the entire time. She lived with me for a whole year and never once told me, god bless her, to CALM THE FUCK DOWN. On the contrary, I think she found my antics entertaining. At least I think so. We're still friends so that must say something.

It's kind of a funny thing to hang out with her now, knowing that she knew me best at a time when I was so different than I ever was before or since. It really was a sort of flash in the pan, Haley's Comet sort of time for me. I got every ounce of extroverted energy out of me all in one go. And then, almost overnight, it burned itself out, and I went back to being laid back, still social, but overall pretty introspective. I can't explain this. Maybe it was hormones. Who knows. I'm mostly amused at my 18-year-old self when I look back at it, but there is a small part of me that's a little embarrassed too. I left that college just as this phase was burning out, and the thought that there is a whole group of people out there who only knew me during this era makes me feel kinda funny. And there's a part of me that wonders, after all this time, if my roomie friend really sees me for who I am now, or if that Lunatic Me is lurking about in her mind when she looks at me. You know how, when you see someone do something truly embarrassing, there's a part of you that associates them with that act forever? Like, when this girl named Melody barfed on my desk in 7th grade math, I could never look at her again without thinking about that. You know what I mean?

Maybe, in honor of my ex-roomie's visit, I should resurrect High Energy Me. I could greet her at the airport by running toward her full speed and shrieking at the top of my lungs, ending up in a hugging/jumping display of affection. Or I could giggle and introduce myself to every cute boy I see (another trait of that era) and invite strangers into our conversation as much as possible (I did that too).

I don't think so. I think I'll just enjoy the fact that I have this friend, who has seen me with my metaphoric pants down, and who still loves me in spite of this. She didn't just tolerate me, she loved me. I'm sure of that. That's so cool, it fills me with glee.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

My Ass Is Grass

Even though all I seem to do on this here blog is talk a lot of horseshit about movies and clothes and the really stupid embarrassing things that I seem to do on a daily basis, in real life I do have concerns that go beyond those things. Really, I do. I know it's hard to believe that I'm not just walking around worried about the way that my living room is color-coordinated 100% of the time, but I'm not. Maybe 80 or 90% tops. But still, I have plenty of other concerns. Worldy concerns. Philosophical concerns. Existential, political, all of it.

A big topic around my house these days is climate change. And before I even get into this I can assure you that I am not about to suggest to anyone that they use one sheet of toilet paper per use. I don't care if Sheryl Crow does that; she must not be doing any sort of number one-ing or two-ing of normal human proportions. Still, climate change is a big conversation in the Librarian Girl/Nordic Boy household. We've always been of the green persuasion, but now that we have our very own house, the conversations have escalated to where we're talking about it on the daily. Nordic Boy, I have to admit, is the more informed of the two of us because of his sustainable builder, engineer mind. I may think that having an energy efficient house is like, really cool, but he's the one that can tell you all about what system is the best, and oh, how to BUILD IT. That guy will tell you the R-value of your favorite slippers on your feet, he's so into this stuff. But still, we are both on board for this whole eco-stuff (see how I'm not the technical one? "Eco-stuff"? I mean, really).

A lot of the stuff we do is completely intuitive and common sense. Use less gas, live in a smaller space, buy local food, energy-efficient light bulbs, yadda yadda. No problem. Piece of cake. But then, a line was drawn. Nordic Boy presented an idea to me, and I balked. Complete and total resistance spewed forth from my pores. And it wasn't about giving up a food that I like. Or about cutting back on a luxury I was addicted to. It was about my YARD.

If you've been reading my blog for very long, you know about my new yard. It is a big shitty dirt pile that the previous owners neglected and so now Nordic Boy and I have the monumental (not even exaggerating) task of making it presentable. Add to this my need for things to LOOK NICE and the task becomes even more daunting. I have spent many months, as we have been cleaning up in preparation to start planting stuff, dreaming about what my yard will look like when this is all said and done. I had a vision, people. A dream.

Nordic Boy: You know, we should really think about planting our yard with things that are low-water use.
Me: Totally. I am down. Sign me up.
Nordic Boy: You know what's not low-water use? Especially with our soil make-up? Grass.
Silence. Silence. Silence.
Me: What?
Nordic Boy: Look, I've made some sketches of what our landscaping would look like with all native, low-water use plants. You'll still be able to walk on it. It will still be all green and lush. Just with native ground cover. Not grass.
Me: NO GRASS? AT ALL?
Nordic Boy: Hey, look on the bright side! No mowing!

Who knew this was where my eco-friendly lifestyle would come to a screeching halt? Grass! It was the thing I could not let go of. I come from the Midwest, where people, even people who don't have a lot of money, have impossibly large lawns of grass. As a kid, I rolled around in grass, ran through grass, picked dandelion bouquets for my mom out of the grass. I am a lover of grass! Who knew? Had you asked me hypothetically what my feelings were on grass before this, I would have thought you were crazy. Who has an opinion about grass? Weirdos, that's who. Well, here I am, weirdo grass lady.

The no-grass conversation started last fall. Smart guy, that Nordic Boy. He knew I needed time to mull this over. And the sketches he presented to me-- very convincing. His landscape ideas were certainly gorgeous. Over the winter, I read articles about grass. I looked up alternatives to grass. And you know what? I got used to the idea. It took me about six months of grass-grieving, but one day, I woke up, and I was OVER grass.

Me: I totally don't want grass.
Him: You DON'T?
Me: Nope.
Him: What happened? You were so anti-anti-grass before.
Me: I just needed time. I'm sure I will miss grass at first. But I'm willing to give your way a try.

So on Monday, Nordic Boy got up bright and early and started phase one of Grassless in Seattle. I have to admit. It looks really good.

So I have let go of grass. It was stupidly hard. It's all well and good, you guys, but if I start with that one square of toilet paper thing, someone stage an intervention. Really.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

I Think Therefore I Blog

Oh my goodness! I have been nominated as a THINKING BLOGGER. You may be wondering what that means. I am too, yet I am too lazy to look it up. Oh yes, I am a librarian who is, sometimes, too lazy to look things up! I sometimes have library late fines too. Don't tell anyone.

Regardless if I know what the heck it means to be nominated for this, I will graciously accept. How can I give up the chance to say "it's just an honor to be nominated" like all those famous nominees for famous things do? Somehow, I doubt being a Thinking Blogger has a red carpet event attached. Rats. Because I would have totally gone out and rocked a Naeem Khan number. Oh well. Maybe I can get all gussied up and blog in full evening attire even though no one can see me? So what if that's pathetic? You can nominate me for the Pathetic Blogger next. I can live with that, and plus, I have a shot at winning that sucker.

So yes. Me. A Thinking Blogger. How can I argue? I both blog and think. Sometimes simultaneously. In fact, let me demonstrate the sheer strength of my thinky-ness. After I am through, you may call me Thinky Tuscadero for the rest of the week.

Nice thoughts:
The weather here is GOH-GEOUS. I didn't have to wear a coat to work for the past couple of days. I had a lovely dinner with my pals Heather and Jason last night. Life is good.

Wonderings:
I wonder if my yard will ever look nice? I wonder what's next on my Netflix queue? I wonder why Mike Holmes always has to wear those awful gold bracelets? They must have sentimental value.

Ideas:
Wouldn't it be cool if there was a nice clothing lending library? Clean, exciting clothes that you could check out and then return after wearing? That could be really cool. Or really gross. Not sure which.

Apprehensions:
Did anyone see that episode of "Planet Earth" where they showed the great white shark attack? That shit was the scariest thing I have ever seen in my LIFE. Nordic Boy and I both yelled "HELL NAWWWWW!" at the exact same time when we saw that.

Premonitions:
I predict that I will be kind of bored during the new Pirates of the Carribbean movie. I predict that I shall lose a tube of lipstick in the next week or so and then find it as soon as I buy a new one. I predict that I shall have some ice cream tonight.

Chimera:
Does the sequel to Donkey Kong, called "Diddy Kong," have anything at all to do with P. Diddy? If so, I am deeply, deeply troubled.

Conjecture:
Had I ever had a Dorothy Hamill haircut as a child, I would be a totally different person today.

Conviction:
Chocolate cake is the best cake flavor by far. Watermelon on a hot summer day rocks out. People who are afraid of tofu are funny and overly dramatic about it. "AHHHH! TOFU! AHHHHH!"

Observation:
Orangutans sure had a film heyday in the late 70s. There was Clyde in the "Every Which Way But Loose" movies, and then there was the Planet of the Apes movies, and even on tv shows. Even Little House on the Prairie had an episode where an orangutan showed up in Walnut Grove. (If anyone can cite any sort of fact about this episode, I will be very impressed with you. Neighbor J, you don't count.)

Inspiration:
This was the name of the song that I had my first slow dance to. Or maybe it's called "You're the Inspiration." You know, that song by Chicago? And actually, come to think of it, it may have been "Hard Habit to Break." All those Peter Cetera ballads sound the same, don't they?

Conclusions:
I so totally AM a Thinking Blogger. Think think think. I'm all about that. Look at all that stuff I just came up with. I think I need to work on an acceptance speech.


Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Looking Out for Number One

I gotta break it down, fellas.

I may not have a lot of things. I don't have a Zac Posen outfit, or an appetite for destruction, or a biological clock (or if I do the ticker is broke), or an understanding of why one would use representations of mallard ducks as a motif in home decor. The list of things I don't have goes on and on. But one thing I do have, friends, is boundaries.

Do you have good boundaries? Think about this. Really think. Because it is my feeling, after thinking about it for oh, maybe a good half hour or so (sufficient time for me to start making proclamations like this), that there is a severe lack of boundary-having among most people. It baffles me. How does this happen? How are people so unaware of what they really want? Why are so many people spending all sorts of time doing shit that they do not want to be doing and could pretty easily get out of? It's rampant.

What if we all had good boundaries? What if you heard people say things like:

You know, thanksgiving at Aunt June's is miserable. I'm not going to Aunt June's for Thanksgiving any more. Even if Aunt June might be a little disappointed, not going would make ME happy, and so I'm doing that.

My friend Jill never calls me. I always have to call her. And chase her around endlessly to try and make plans with her. You know what? I'm going to stop chasing Jill. Honest to god that chick drives me nuts, for reals.

Edwina wants me to attend her bridal shower, and her couples' shower, and her pre-wedding bbq, and her bachelorette party, and her bridal spa weekend, and her wedding. Each event requires a present. I'm just going to the shower and the wedding. Because, really. That's enough.

The above are things that I have absolutely no qualms about thinking to myself and acting upon. I don't even think twice about it. It just comes naturally. I just ask myself some questions: is doing item x making me annoyed, upset, pained, or exhausted? If yes, I need to stop doing item x. JUST SAY NO. It's really pretty easy once you get the hang of it. Try it. PLEASE, for the love of Bailey Quarters, just TRY IT. You'll be happier, I guarantee you. I see this happening all around me, all day, and it makes me so sad. And face it, it makes you sad too. I know it does.

I know it does because when I was younger and stupider-- (yes, people, there WAS a time when I was even stupider although I know this is hard to imagine. But really, I was much, much stupider back in the day. Ask anyone who knew me in college)-- I was a person who was constantly doing shit I didn't want to be doing. I had this relative who lived six hours (by car) away from me. Every holiday, I would get my ass into my beat-up car and drive to her house for the day. Six hours there. Six hours back. Did this relative ever travel to my town? No. Did she thank me for making the trek? Nuh-uh. Never mind that I was a poor student with loads of homework to do, and she had time and money and paid vacation and she was the adult in the situation. I look back at that and think that that was so pathetic of me. Putting all that effort in, for what? So that I could complain about it and feel a little resentful. Do you do that? Be honest. If you do, I-- as your blog friend--am telling you. STOP THAT. Do things because it comes from a place in you that WANTS to. There's enough crap in life that we have to deal with that is completely out of our control, as I've been thinking about these days with what's been up with my dad. Save up the effort in you for those things. Not for dragging yourself to a work-related party with people you don't really like that much. Or whatever your thing is. You know what I'm talking about.

I'm warning you though. If you start doing this, you won't be able to stop. Things that seemed perfectly acceptable to you before (oh ok! I will try and go out on a date with this mediocre dude who has Ken-doll hair and kisses like a salamander!) will no longer fly. And the other thing is, there are times the sheer force of people who are doing crap that they hate will make you feel like you are being a big selfish asshole. What do you MEAN you aren't going to go to your family reunion in Indianapolis because you're using your vacation time for staying at home and getting some much-needed rest? HOW SELF-INDULGENT, YOU ASS.

Go ahead though. Be self-indulgent when you can. Put yourself first. Ask yourself what you want and then do that, when you can. When given a choice, choose you.

Too hard? For the next week, at least, promise me this. Every time you are somewhere you don't want to be, doing something you don't want to do, take note of it. Just notice. And ask yourself why. Life is so short, friends. You gotta just do your thang. Seriously.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Might I Add?

Now that Bio-Girl and Ali went and spilled all my beans (well, some of my beans) I shall now take this opportunity to respond to the many allegations that were put forth while I was away. I just have to clarify a few things, expand on some others, and protect my rep. Because, you know, my rep was so perfect before.

1. First of all, let me elaborate on the moment that Bio-Girl alludes to where I first had an inkling that she and I would become friends. It was indeed in that cesspool of mildewy life jackets that was the canoe rental facility. She did grab some paddles and say "Beam me up, Scotty." This, alone, was not the reason that I fell just a little bit in love with Bio-Girl. The true reason was because she didn't actually grab the paddles. She just touched the handles, like they were the ends of big live-wires, and convulsed like she was conducting electricity through them, into herself. As she convulsed, she said "Beam Me Up Scotty" in an ethereal ET-meets-Carol-Channing voice. And she did this in such a way as to make sure that I was the only one who saw it. We barely knew each other, and I was the quietest person in that workplace, yet she had honed in and figured out that inside, I am a sucker for some weird ass funny shit. And she served it up. Awesome.

2. Bio-Girl did pack her bags and up and left me for getting all doctorate of barnacles and stuff. Only she didn't just pack her bags. She stuffed any and all carrying devices above and beyond the capacity for which they were made. She stuffed pairs of socks under her car seats. She piled clothes up to the top of the roof of her car. She wrapped my legs up in coats until there was no space between my legs and the floor of her car. She even had a box full of cheap wire hangers that she absolutely REFUSED to leave behind. "You can get more wire hangers when you get to California," Neighbor J and I tried to convince her. Nope. They must have a wire hanger shortage in California, the way she was holding on to those puppies. Please insert your own "No more wire hangers!" Joan Crawford joke here.

3. Yes, yes. I archived years worth of emails, formatted them all and made them look pretty, and printed them out and bound them chronologically in multiple volumes to give her as a present. If this doesn't make me a librarian, then I sure as hell don't know what does.

4. Nordic Boy and I serenaded her with "I Will Always Love You." And it was definitely the Whitney version, not the Dolly Parton version. And I must point out that this was way, way before Lorelei serenaded Luke.

5. On our drive to California, not only did I provide the tunes, I played all the CDs I brought in alphabetical order. Did I mention, um, me = librarian?

6. Alli mentioned the psychedelic wallpaper in my parents' dining room. She wasn't kidding, friends. They also have yellow Saarinen tulip chairs and a white tulip table. But the wallpaper is what really says it all. Here's the proof, I'm not even kidding you:



7. Oh, that nice musician. That story makes me sound so rock star, right? But just when you think that I was that cool, please read number 8, where I will demonstrate the truth of the matter.

8. The Michael Jackson button collection. I know that you've just been reading this far to see if I was going to talk about and/or defend the Michael Jackson button collection. Oy. Really? You guys really want to know? I can't bring myself to talk about it. And, I can't find a picture of it in action. BUT! I am happy to say that I still have a representative sample of the collection. Please keep in mind, I was eleven. Oh god.



Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

You Can Go Home Again

Well, I suppose I asked for it, didn't I? Now you guys all know about my Michael Jackson button collection and that I archive emails like a big dorky librarian and give them as PRESENTS. I'm not going to try and rebut these things. I do however feel that I have, in the immortal words of Desi Arnaz as Ricky Ricardo, some es-plaining to do.

Before I get to that, my trip was good, and although I got to see a lot of medical-building scenery that looks like this:

I also got time at my parents' house, which is heavenly, and where I can read in a hammock with a view that looks like this:



And, my pops was out of the hospital, and so I got to see him like this, the best view of all:



I am from the kind of city that is renowned for being depressed. It's a town that people think of as a --how do I put this delicately-- a pit. More than a pit. A boil on the ass of the you-nited states. When I tell people that this is where I am from, I have gotten looks of pity. How lucky you are, people say in their eyes, to have gotten out of a place like that. I don't know, maybe I am lucky. Maybe they are right. But I just can't seem to look at it that way. In fact, when people do this, I want to pop them in the jaw, as if they just told me that my mom was ugly or something. Nobody talks about my mom like that, sucker. And conversely, when people tell me about where they were raised, and sneer at it and put it down, I always want to question them about that further. How can you really hate it that much? If you were raised there, didn't that city raise you? Isn't it in your bones? Didn't it make you who you are, the good parts and the bad parts? And if you hate the place that made you, is the part of you who comes from there something you hate too? That makes me really sad. It's like hating your parents. Then again, some parents are evil, and if they were evil to you, then I guess it's ok for you to hate them. I get that too.

What I'm leading up to here is that I love my hometown. Love. It. So what if it's a boil on the ass of the earth? It's MY BOIL, and I love it. I love how, no matter what store I walk in to, what business I frequent there, everyone knows my mom and dad and is overjoyed to see me, their daughter. "Look at you, so grown up!" they say. They seem proud of me, and I don't even know them. I love how, although there are no Starbucks any where to be found, there are doughnut shops on every street. Even the gas station near my parents' house boasts "fresh doughnuts!" You gotta love a place like that. I even love the weird things about this town. Like the fact that there is a church being built there called the "Fragrance of Christ." The FRAGRANCE! Is that not just the greatest thing you've ever heard in your life? Eau de Messiah. Breathe deep. Or the fake German town that bustles just outside of town. It's called Frankenmuth. It's a German town- with no German people! It's German, of the Disney variety, with a Bavarian-esque outdoor shopping mall where the workers wear lederhosen and you...are supposed to do what exactly? I'm not sure. Walk around and feel German? Shop for t-shirts? Have a bratwurst? I have never, in my entire life, really understood Frankenmuth and the crowds that flock there. But it's fair to say that I have an inexplicable, unconditional love for Frankenmuth that I could not for the life of me explain to you. (And this trip, I introduced Nordic Boy to the enigma that is Frankenmuth, and he understood the glory and the bounty of the cheesy goodness. He even dubbed it with a nickname. "The Mooth." Where do you go where you want a stein of beer? The MOOTH. This is why I hang out with that guy, just for saying things like that).

I love how I can drive around, and literally have a story about almost every single house in town, or at least every street in town. There's the driveway where I kissed that boy after a party one night. There's the apple orchard where we played "Bloody Murder" at dusk in the summers. There's the ice cream parlor where I would go for Superman flavored ice cream (a Michigan staple) with my sister. Every square mile of that place holds hundreds of memories, and they're all pretty good.

I don't know. Maybe it is a pit, and there is no getting around that. But here's all I'm saying, you guys. My life, overall, has really been a dream. I have parents who love me, and friends who rock the hiz-owse, and a daily feeling much like kitties and puppies and rainbows. And half of that life was lived in that town. So what's not to love? I was born of the ass-boil-town, but it's what started all this beauty for me, so I'm grateful. Thanks, ass-boil-town. I was so lucky to be raised by you. I love my life and myself, and so much of that is because of you.

Ok, so now I've talked myself out and can't explain my Michael Jackson button collection, nor post any pictures of it. Convenient, no?

Alright, alright. Next time. I promise you.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Exit 69 and Other Random Trips

Since Librarian Girl made the trek back to our home state, I figured I'd take you on a little trippy trip down memory lane. I have fond and vivid memories that I need to catch you up on.

First, there are soooo many things I could say about the very "nice" person who she did "it" with. "Nice" is in quotes, because in her diary description of the affair, she described everything about the whole ordeal as being "nice"... his parts, what he said, the music, the mood. But, I've decided to take the high road. I'm keeping it clean and free from sex. So, here's a bunch of random stuff you should know. Oh, by the way, I'm Ali (a.k.a Ali-Slo-fro).

1. I'm not sure why I'm bothering to tell you this, because you just have to see it to fully appreciate it. Her kitchen growing up had this 70's, shiny, foily, orangey, brown and yellow, jungle scene wallpaper with giraffe's. I've never seen anything like it. It's a good thing we weren't pot heads growing up, because I think that wallpaper would've really jacked us up.

2. Tea was always included in visits to Librarian Girl's house. It was always the same kind of tea. It came with a miniature ceramic animal figurine in each box. What was the name of that? Something with Rose in the name? Red Rose? Anyway...So they had a whole zoo of teeny tiny tea animals in the kitchen. It totally worked with the wallpaper.

3. This I can't explain. We were always amused, and even amazed, by the fact that we had the same old-ass garage door openers. This was in high school and it was like everyone else in the world had skipped from Atari directly to the X-Box, but our parents were still clinging to Atari. That's what I liken it to. But they were garage door openers! Who notices this shit? We did for some reason and felt quite connected for having matching ones. When my family got a new garage door, which came with a new opener, I was sad! What the hell is that!? I wonder if her parents still have theirs.

4. She drove a little red car in high school. I think it was some sort of Mazda. It had this bendy plastic doll thingy hanging from the rear-view mirror. We used to bend her into precarious positions... usually sexual.

5. Librarian Girl had BALLS. Big f'ing huge balls (to quote Bugsy Calhoun from Harlem Nights). I mean we were all talkin' a big game, but it was just that. All Talk. She! She had balls. We were in this choir in high school and every year we had Spring concert. It was the concert where we broke free from Mozart, Rutter, and matronly choir robes and sang contemporary songs like "Cherish," by Cool and the Gang, in our coolest trendy outfits. People would sing moving renditions of, "She's Like the Wind," and really cheesy Michael W. Smith songs.

For this concert our director would hire a real live band. This band included a very "nice" musician. (Have you made the connection to the "nice" comment a couple paragraphs up? Clearly, I've taken exit 69 off the high road.) We were all in serious high school lust with said musician. He was older and very cool. All we did was stare at him, and giggle about him, and wonder what he would be like, and fantasize about hanging out with him and being his friend. Next thing we knew Librarian Girl was DATING HIM! We were all flabbergasted and scandalized. I mean she just up and asked his ass out. She immediately rose to legendary status with that move. Man, he sure was nice!

6. OK. Moving on. The Big Wheel. That picture says it all people. She was a bad-ass on that thing. Well, as bad-ass as one can be when you're not allowed to leave the driveway. She was bad! And it was a circle drive. She had territory to cover and she wasn't messin' around. Just look at her face!

7. In Junior High, she was a Michael Jackson super fan. I mean the likes of which you've never seen before. She had a sweatshirt that was down to her knees. This thing was COVERED in Michael Jackson buttons and baubles, pins and paraphernalia. She could bust a move that put Young MC himself to shame.

8. She wasn't kidding when she said her parents are cool. They really are. When we were in High School, they would sit and talk with us, rather that at us. They were always fun and easygoing and so totally the opposite of judgemental. Her mom actually giggles! It's the greatest thing. It's just so refreshing. But then again, so is Librarian Girl!

I don't know how to wrap this up gracefully, so I'll just quote the biggest doofus ever: "Seacrest... Out!"

A Very Merry Unbirthday

When I first heard that Librarian Girl was looking for someone to blogsit while she went to visit her folks, I thought “Ooooo! Ooooo! Pick Me!” And LG, who lovingly tries to support me in all I do, DID pick me. All of the sudden, I went from feeling like I chose the lucky suitcase on Deal or No Deal to feeling like Jack Skellington did when he realized how badly he had fusked up Christmas. For the past year and a half, LG has selflessly blogged her way into your hearts by making you laugh, cry, and occasionally utter the phrase “What the ?!?!?”. So how could I hope to fill her exquisitely chosen footwear even for a day?

And then it hit me. After all the tributes she has paid to her near and dear with Birthday Posts, no one has ever written one about her. So, since it is not quite the season for LG’s actual birthdayness, I present to you an Unbirthday Post to assure you all that LG is, in fact, as surprising and wonderful and, let’s face it, nutty as she seems.

We shall start back in the late 1990’s when LG and I met at the aforementioned glamorous canoe rental facility. According to LG, there was a moment when she knew we would become friends and it involved me getting so frustrated with that stupid job that I grabbed on to some paddles leaning against the counter, turned my eyes upward, and said the words “Beam me up Scotty”. If references to Star Trek can’t bring two people together, what can really?

In dating terms, our friendship became serious fairly quickly after that and we soon relied on each other for important things like distracting each other from ridiculously impossible math homework and paper writing to embarking on a quest to find the best donut shop in town. And let me tell you, no one can elaborate on the finer points of a donut better than LG. Forget about wine with all of its bouquets and noses and legs, the culinary world of glaze, sprinkles, and cake-like texture is where it’s at!

And so, we come to the time when I (being Biology Girl) decided to pack my bags and head to California a la The Clampetts to pursue more edumacation in the name of everyone’s favorite sea creature – the barnacle. (Okay, let’s be honest here, technically Nordic Boy did the packing and there’s no way a family of four could have fit in my car with all of the crap I had in there.) But in the way that no one but Librarian Girl can, she managed to give me a send-off worthy of one of our favorite TV shows leaving the air.

Here are the highlights:

1. As a going away gift, Librarian Girl gave me MULTIPLE binders with years worth of all of our emails to each other in chronological order. These tell my history better than anything I could try to write and I’d guard them with my life if I had to.

2. On my last night in town, I settled into LG’s guest room and started to mist up thinking of all I was leaving behind when suddenly a chorus of Whitney Houston’s “I will always love yooooouuuuu” burst across the hall sung by none other than LG and Nordic Boy.

3. During the long drive back to Cali, LG made sure to keep us stocked in Smart Puffs, snacky cakes, and an endless supply of tunes. And if that weren’t enough, she didn’t complain one bit about the fact that every time she got back in the car I had to literally pack her in amidst the houseplants, random pairs of socks, and my answering machine that tended to fly out when she opened her door.

4. Most importantly, during this time of trial, tribulation, and dealing with a gas station attendant who bore an unsettling resemblance to Charles Manson, LG pulled out all the stops to be silly and keep me laughing when part of me wanted to do anything but that. The night before we got to our final destination, she got us a spot in a swanky boutique hotel, took me out to dinner, and assured me that everything was going to be okay.

And, as usual, she was right.

Now, here I am almost five years after that historic trip, and I don’t think LG and I could be closer even if we lived right next door to each other. So thanks Librarian Girl for the love, friendship, and urgent phone calls about the latest example of why wearing socks with sandals really is a bad idea. I don’t know what I would ever do without you and, quite frankly, I have no intention of finding out.

Gotta Go. Bye.
Biology Girl

Blogsitter's Club

I'm going on a little trip this week, back to the land where I was done borned. My dad's been under the weather lately, and so I'm making the trek back to the midwest to be there with moms and pops. Dad is finally out of the hospital, but not out of the woods, so Nordic Boy and I are going to lend a hand with whatever is needed. Despite the sucky circumstances, it's always good to be back there, and great to see my folks.

My parents are very cool old people. They are so cool, in fact, that the longer you hang out with them, the more you forget that they are old. They are the opposite of every stereotype you can think of when you think of old. They are active, and open-minded, and not grumpy in the slightest. And, when it comes to most things, they put my knowledge of certain kinds of technology to shame. When it comes to the latest in camcorders and ipods and such, my parents can talk the talk. One of my favorite things to do is to take them to Best Buy or Circuit City (or "Circus City" as my mom calls it), and watch the beefy salesmen try to put one over on them. Watching my sweet parents correcting them on how many megapixels something should have is like New Year's Rockin' Eve, as far as I'm concerned.

One thing that my parents do not have, however, is an internet connection in their house. They had it for a while, and used it, but not enough for them to really get into it. So, while I am visiting them, I will be traipsing over to the local library for my innernet fix like Tyrone Biggums runs to the crackhouse. And, while I'm gone, I have asked two of my closest homies to blogsit for me. So people, get ready, because if you ever wanted to know the juiciest, most gossippy tidbits about me, these two are the ones that could dish. I gave them instructions that went something like this: "write about anything you want," and now I am thinking about every silly thing that I've ever told them, every stupid boy-story that they have in their vaults, every mortifying morsel of crazy shit I have done in my life, and it's all flashing before me like one long blooper reel, which is basically what my life is in many ways.

First up will be Biology Girl, from sunny/foggy California who I talk to just about every day and knows everything about my daily happenings from what kind of skivvies I prefer to wear to which ex-boyfriend has resurfaced lately, and then up after that will be Alli from Chicago, who I have known since I was, um, born, and knows all the shit about things such as My First Time. Oh, shiver me timbers. What have I done?

Whatevers, though! I am an open book! Have at it, girls! I'm not scared-a-you! BRRRING IT!

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Me With Fries

Hey people, I'm the guest blogger du jour over at Berg With Fries. I feel like I've been asked to sit at the cool kids' table in the cafeteria. Here's hoping I won't blow milk out my nose in front them. Go read it!

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Head Case

I decided I need to ditch my hair stylist. Sad, but true. The snooty-patooty atmosphere was just a little too much to stand, even if they totally give good hair. Plus, I am on this kick where I don't want to drive any where, and now that I live in my cute new neighborhood with all the delicious urban amenities, I really don't need to be driving five miles to get my hair cut. So, I found a salon (rated highly in my librarianesque over-the-top research I did beforehand) located about ten blocks from my house, and made an appointment. The first time I went there, the person I got was nice, and gave me a fair-enough haircut (you have to train your stylists into your hair, you know, so having her be spectacular the first time is kind of unfair). The only teeny, tiny, itsy bitsy problem was that she almost crushed my skull in her ninja-like hands. Before she cut my hair, she told me that she was going to give me a "complimentary scalp massage." Okey dokey. Go for it. I'm ready for relaxatio--OW OW STOP IT WHAT THE HELL MY HEAD MY HEAD!

Really. She was trying to smoosh my head like a pistachio. I tried to tell her "less pressure, please" and although she lightened up, it never got to a place where it felt good. Who likes deep tissue Swedish massage on their head? Not me, that's who. So, the next time I needed to get my haircut, I went to the same salon, and got someone else.

I know this has to happen all the time. Stylists must be used to it. People coming in, getting a haircut from one person, then switching over to another person until they find someone they want to stick with. It's like dating. If it ain't working with one person, you gotta move on to the next. But am I the only one that feels weird about this? It's just such an obvious judgment on someone's talents. You suck, I'm outie, ya punk. It's got to sting them a little, right?

For my second haircut, I walked in to find that Atomic Skullcrush wasn't working that day. Good, I thought to myself, I at least won't have to face her for today. I was introduced to the stylist for that day, who started me off with a massage that didn't belong in the WWE. She then started on the haircut. As she started snipping away, who should walk in but the Skullcrush. Oh well, I thought as I saw her eyes take note of me, she'll have to start her shift at her station, which is across the room, and the awkward moment will pass.

Only? It didn't pass. Because she wasn't there to start her shift. She was there to get her haircut. Right next to me. She came over and sat herself an arm's length away from me in the station to my left. And then, you know what? The dude that was cutting her hair swiveled her right around so that she was staring right at the the side of my head. Dead on. I tried to look nonchalant. La la la, I am getting my haircut and looking straight ahead at myself in the mirror, chatting away with the nice lady who didn't try and decapitate me with her bare mitts. After a couple of minutes, my stylist swivels ME around. There we are, face to face, (a couple of silver spoons). Did anyone get that joke? Anyhoo. So there we are, in our chairs, facing each other as we both get our hair cut. What does one do in this situation? Do I say hello? It seems presumptuous that she would remember me, but, to be honest, I know she does. I wait for her to say something. And wait. And wait.

Meanwhile, my stylist is still chatting away with me.

Stylist: So how did you hear about this salon?
Me: Oh, I just live in this neighborhood and read good reviews about it.
Her: So you just walked in?
Me: Yes. I made an appointment and came in.
(Skullcrusher: stare stare stare)
Her: Well, I hope your first time with us brings you back!
Me: Yeah, ha ha. I'm sure it will.
(Skullcrusher: stare stare stare)

It was a neutral stare, not a glare. I couldn't tell if she was even listening to what we were saying. She couldn't possibly be judging me for implying that this was my first time in here, when she and I both know that's not true, right? Right?

After a good ten-minute stare down (the Skullcrusher versus her victim!), we got swiveled away from each other. I managed to get out of there without further incident. But gawd, you guys. I felt kind of bad. And I'm not one to feel bad about stupid shit like this.

Maybe, because of her head-assault, my brain was tenderized into stupidity. She's the one that beat the crap out of my cranium, so why should I feel bad, right?

Has anyone out there felt bad for dissing a stylist? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl