Chachi In Charge

The first thing I have to confess to you all is that I spent a fair amount of hours this weekend catching up with tivo'd episodes of that Scott Baio reality show. Stop judging me. I can feel it through the screen. I couldn't help it though. Chachi! Charles in Charge! Dr. Jack Stewart! Bob Loblaw! I needed to see it, I just did. Never mind that after seeing it I may have crabs just from looking at him. Never mind that I actually paused my tivo just to see all the different charms he had hanging off of his neck-chain. Never mind! I, like Joanie, love Chachi. Or maybe I don't love him, but at least I am oddly interested in the fact that he is 45 and single and needs a life coach named Dark Alley. Hey! I said STOP JUDGING.

So one of the things that Mr. Baio struggles with in his life (yes, I said struggles. He has pain, he has hurt. He also has a koi pond) is that everyone still calls him Chachi. Wherever he goes, it's all "Hey Chachi!" and "Oh my god, it's Chachi!" and "Wah wah wah!" and you can just FEEL how uncomfortable he is, as uncomfortable as Fonzie was with saying he was sorry. (Remember that? "I'm sssss--sssss..." Ah. Good times.) It's got to be weird having people come up to you all the time like that, especially when you're just sort of famous, instead of super famous. I mean, if you're Posh and/or Becks, you're not really among regular people ever, you know what I mean? It's not like Angelina Jolie is shopping for spaghetti sauce in Aisle 5 of the Safeway and a random person is going to come and be all "hey remember that time you kept making out with Billy Bob on the red carpet of the mtv awards?" and she has to try and be gracious. The super famous are kind of protected from that. But not Scott. He's only partially famous, so he actually does things like go to the grocery store and walk his own dog down a regular street and such, hence the random approaches from strangers. And really, what is he supposed to do with these encounters? Someone comes up to him as he walks through a restaurant and says "hey, aren't you Chachi?" and he sort of stops and says "um, yeah, I was." The other person then says "wow." What is the correct response to this? "Thanks"? "I know, wow. I'm the shit"? "Ok, bye"? What does Scott do? He looks uncomfortable, and keeps walking, that's what he does.

So, if Posh and Becks and Brangelina are 100% famous, then Scott Baio is like, what, 10% famous? What happens if you're like .0001% famous?

This is the part where I relate my life to Scott Baio's. Really, watch this. I'm going to do it!

So like I said a couple of posts ago, I am in denial that anyone is really reading this blog except for the people whose blogs I read and I think that they are reading mine out of nice, polite, reciprocity. I am starting to get over this assumption. Mainly because of instances like the following. I was sitting at the reference desk the other day, and a young woman came up to me, smiling and nice as could be.

Her: Are you the Pop Culture Librarian?
Me: ...WHAT?
Her: Do you have a blog? The Pop Culture Librarian?
Me: umm...I...uh... yeah? I do?
Her: Cool. Thought it was you.
Me: Oh...uh....yeah...um...

Ok, so this is not the same thing as getting "where's the FONZ?" yelled after you as you check your mail. I understand this. I am in no way putting myself on the same level as Scott Baio. (Oh my god. How depressing is that? I am not any where NEAR the LEVEL of Scott BAIO.) I'm just saying. When this happens, it's jarring. I feel wildly inarticulate. Then that makes me feel like a doofus. This is a much higher-resolution sort of inarticulate doofiness than I normally feel. I then think to myself: that nice woman. Asking me a simple question. And walking away with the impression that I may be mildly retarded. Wonderful. Next time, I'll just quote Chachi and see how that goes: "wah wah wah." That works, right?

Kiss the rings I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Moana Lisa

In Libraryland yesterday, I overheard a little kid argument. It ended with something like this:

Kid #1: Don't say that! Stop saying that!
Kid #2: I can say that if I want to! Don't you know this is AMERICA???

Oh say can you see? What a beautiful end to an argument that is? I took that phrase and put it right in my purse and took it home with me. I figure it applies to everything, not just speech. I tried to pick fights just so I could use it.

Me: Where's my glass of water?
Nordic Boy: Oh, sorry, I thought you were done with it. I dumped it and washed it already.
Me: Don't you touch my glass! This is AMERICA, buddy!
Nordic Boy: What?

A half hour later...

Nordic Boy: What time are we going out to dinner with H and J tomorrow night?
Me: Around 7.
Nordic Boy: Ok, I'll be home around 6.
Me: You better be! Don't you know this is AMERICA?
Nordic Boy: Oh jeez.

And then...

Me: Do you know what day next week you're going to Portland?
Nordic Boy: No, not yet.
Me: When will you know?
Nordic Boy: I'll know when I know! Don't you know this is AMERICA?
Me: HEY!

How quickly he turns on me.

In other news, whoa, there has been so much de-lurking going on via email and comments! Muy exciting. I have been traipsing all around the innernets looking at all ya'lls blogs, and loving it! In the process, my blog friend over at Moving Right Along has tagged me with the Moaning Meme. Dirty! Not really. It's the other kind of moaning, not the good kind. Too bad. Ok, here goes, my pretties.

5 people that will be annoyed that you tagged them

Why would I tag people who I think would be annoyed? If I really want to annoy you, I would find a much more sinister way of doing it than tagging you for a meme, like tying your shoelaces together or making you go on a date with Ryan Seacrest or something. And, if you were the type to be annoyed by being tagged for a meme, then really, you have too much time on your hands. Because memes are totally ignorable. You get tagged, you don't want to do it, you don't do it. Where does annoyance come into it? Does this make any sense to you at all? I am getting annoyed with this even as I type it. So maybe the answer to this question is I am annoyed at the way this question is annoying me.

4 things that should go into room 101 and be removed from the face of the earth

Disease, hunger, poverty, and ignorance. These are my answers and my name is Miss Washington. Now let's get to the evening gown competition and then you can give me my god damn tiara.

3 things people do that make you want to shake them violently

Is it me or is this meme getting kind of hostile? I'm kind of scared of it. Go to Anger Management class, you crazy meme! I don't usually want to shake people violently. Although it might be fun to put them in one of those exercise machines, you know, from the olden days, that they always had in cartoons? It was like a machine that had a big, human sized rubberband hooked to it. You would stand there, with part of the big rubberband around your ass, and you would lean back on it, and when you turned the machine on, it vibrated the rubberband and you like crazy. Let's talk about the three people I would want to put in one of those. Ok, first, ME. Because it looks fun. Second, umm...ok how about I get three turns?

2 things you find yourself moaning about

SO DIRTY! I apologize for saying that again. I just can't help it. Ok, I'm focusing. I moan if surroundings that are in my control (my house, my desk, my closet, myself) are messy or aesthetically unpleasing. I am not proud of this, but I accept it about myself. I also moan about the state of the world. Because a lot of it is jacked up, have you noticed this?

1 thing the above answers tell you about yourself

The word "moaning" makes me say the word "dirty!" This is not new news. It's just nicely illustrated here. I don't think I'll tag anyone (as they might, apparently, be annoyed), and I don't think I will ruminate more on what my anwers tell me about myself, as I fear it will lead to some sort of "it all means I'm crazy" conclusion. So I guess I'm not following the instructions to the letter, but don't you guys know that this is AMERICA?

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Love Ya Babe

Among my vast collection of archived notes that have been written to me, there are ones that need to be shared. The one above is just such a note. I was in junior high when I received this note, and the writer, Steve, was a year ahead of me, in high school. Aside from the oh-my-god-a-high-school-guy credentials, I can't really remember why else I had a crush on him. Perhaps the high school cred was enough, as that seemed pretty unattainable and I did have a problem staying away from seemingly unattainable boys back in the day. I know. It's retarded. I remember I liked Steve for a good month or two, and that he was the older brother of a friend of mine. I also remember that we called him the Anteater, for some reason, although I can't tell you why. See how the page is sort of brown? That is not from wear-and-tear throughout the years. I distinctly remember the day that I was given this note (via his sister), and commenting on the fact that it looked like he had stepped all over it before folding it up. That should have been a clue to me. Alas, it wasn't. Shall we have a line-reading of the note? Oh, yes, let's shall.

Hey babe, what's up with you?

What's up with me? I'm sure at the time there was a lot of squealing and reading this note over and over again with my friends that was up with me. Thanks for asking.

N ot much here I'm pretty bored right now,

Why are teens always claiming boredom? When I was a teen my friends and I had things going on non-stop from sun-up to way past sun-down, yet all of my notes always have this comment about how bored we all are. Poor Steve. So bored.

Hey, listen, Andi told me about what Heather told her, and don't worry be cause I know that it is not true and that you would not say that, I BELIEVE YOU )))'&%$#"*

Oh no. Trouble in paradise. Andi told Steve about what I told Heather and then Heather told Andi but actually I didn't say that? I wish I could remember what I supposedly said, because knowing these people the way I do (including myself) I probably DID say that. So, sorry Steve. Chances are we were all playing a twisted little game.

I'm really sorry that you cried and everything ,

oh boy, I turned on the waterworks over Steve? I am a moron.

but I relly believe you I sure hope that you believe me, I can't believe that Heather would say that about you saying that, but I'm sure that she must have Gotten her info mixed up BIG-TIME

I'm so glad and I totally believe you that you believe me and I don't believe Heather would say that either and can you believe how much believing we are doing right now? Lots of believing. BIG TIME.

Wipe away those tears little girl, you shouldn't be crying;

Are you patronising me? I think you are.

I ' m not worth crying over anyways, No jut kidding,

Just kidding? Just kidding? SOMEONE thinks awfully highly of himself.

Thiiis pretty coll ttping on this mnual typwriter It kind of sucks but that's O.K.

Ok, moving on from the crying and the believing.

Tell DD I said HI! I'm sorry if I spelled your name wrong, but that's how ANDI
told me how to spell it

Story of my life, dude. My name is unspellable.

If I told you that you were dumb, would you hate me?

Oh my god. What kind of shit is that?

I'm just kidding thhonly reson that I wrote that is because I was testing out this stupid thing because it all off a sudden went KURPLUNK on mmmmmmmmme me,

Whatevers, man. I should have kicked you to the curb a long time ago.

Is this a long note? It better be because it took me a 1/2 an hour to ttpe it,

Bust out the violins.

Sorry I've been using comma's instead of periods cause' my periods are out of order,

Ha ha! You said "periods!"

I really had fun at the movie's yesterday,

You did? That was a nice thing to say.

An di wrote that,

Oh. Of course. God forbid YOU would tell me you had fun. Talking through your sister. Ya big coward.

Well hon, I've really got to go now, See ya later, aye, Sorry I did'nt call you
the other day, but I had business to take ccare of,

What are you, Don Corleone? What business are you taking care of? Punk ass non-calling boy.

LOVE YA' BABE
LOVE STEVEY D,

Thanks for the memories, babe.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

A sorry, a sorry, and a huh?

A sorry:
I am of the minority opinion on many things. I think gangster movies are sleep-inducing. I think Nellie was better than Laura. I think Brad Pitt is unattractive. I think coffee is disgusting. And I love, adore, worship hot weather. Now, I know it is the most banal thing in the world to talk about the weather (sorry meteorologists!), but oh well. I just have to come out of the closet with my heat-loving self. If it is under 68 degrees, I am cold. So, in this town that I live in, where everyone I know grumbles loudly when it gets above 75 degrees, I feel like a major outsider. To me, the answer to "is it hot enough for ya?" is a resounding NO. It is not hot enough for me! I can't help it! I'm sorry I'm a freak! Turn those fans off!

Another sorry:
Did you know that there are people, out there, READING THIS BLOG? Seriously. I don't check my site meter that much, and usually the same dozen or so people comment on here, so I have this sense that there are like, maybe 20 people reading this stuff, and though I may not know you for reals, I know you as blog friends. But I was riding around on the innernets last night, and I stumbled upon a blog, one that I had never looked at before, and my site was on their links sidebar! I'm not kidding you, I almost crapped a cabbage. It was shocking. I guess it's because I am not so good with the lurking myself. I mean, if you comment on my blog, and you have a blog that's linked to that comment, I am totally coming to visit you at your blog. I don't know how to not do that. You peeped my stuff, there's no WAY I'm not peeping yours. And I will comment! Maybe not every post, but I will comment at some point, you know, say howdy, hey, whatsa haps. So, a special shout-out to you lurkers out there! He-ey! I'm glad you're there, in all your invisible glory! And I am sorry that I never once thought that you might be there. I really didn't. Ya'll are so quiet, I thought there wasn't nobody here but us chickens.

Huh?:
Emily Post would boot you in the hindquarters for this one. One of my peripheral groups of friends is constantly trying to get all of us together in a party-it-up type of situation. Here's how it goes. Person A (Towanda) will send out an email invitation, saying "party at Towanda's! Saturday night!" and then 95% or so of the invitees will do WHAT IS NORMAL, which is reply "groovy!" or "dang, can't make it." Then someone will inevitably write back and say "can't make it Saturday, Friday works better for me. Who's in?" Then this causes someone else to reply "Towanda's house is too far away from where I work, let's make it my house instead!" This causes all sorts of confusion as to what's actually happening, when, and where. And, the original party-thrower has, essentially, gotten her party hijacked. And the ensuing chaos usually means that nothing happens, any where, and the group plans dissolve totally. This has happened with this group multiple times. I totally don't understand it at all. If someone invited you to their house for a specific event, aren't the only appropriate answers "yes, thanks" or "no, sorry"? Since when is it ok for a response to be "no, it's inconvenient for me, so everyone else should change their plans"? Is this socially acceptable? Am I out of it? Perhaps this is one of the many things that the kids are doing now that I don't understand, and I should just file it away with freak dancing, Runescape, and Hannah Montana. Who knows.

That's all I got.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

These Are My Words*

I do not have anything of a specific nature to tell you all today, but I am certain that if I sit here and start typing, something is sure to come out of my head and through my fingers and through the internets and then out and then it will finally hit all of your eyeballs out there which when you think about it is kind of gross. My brain is touching your eyeballs!

So today is Harry Potter day. You're probably not even reading this because you're all out there running amok in your Hufflepuff yellow and maroon outfits. (I know, I KNOW it's not Hufflepuff. It's Gryffindor. I was just messing with you. Don't freak out). Regarding all this Harry Potter madness, I have a little confession to make. The confession is not that I hate Harry Potter, nor is it that I am a raving Potter-Head. It is that I like Harry Potter ok. That's all. No love, no hate. He's aa-iiight. As a librarian, I feel strange about this. Like I should have strong feelings about Harry, one way or the other and that I should be able to hotly debate these feelings with anyone who doesn't feel the way I do about him. But I don't. He's like that boy who looks attractive and is nice in every way, who you date occasionally but could never really picture yourself, you know, inviting in to your place at the end of the date, no matter how cute your friends think he is. Is it wrong that I just sort of sexualized Harry Potter? It felt wrong.

In other news, I bought a plane ticket today to go have a weekend of fun with Bio-Girl in foggy San Fran-cheesy!* This is beyond exciting, since I have been feeling all kinds of sad that I am not getting to go on my annual beach trip with my best pals this year. I have such the blues about that, I can't even tell you. So off to San Fran I go to have some fun, by Jehosphat! In addition, this particular trip marks a great moment in history which is the moment, ten years ago, that I walked in to my first day of work at the canoe rental facility (oh my glamorous past) and met Bio-Girl. Ten years! TEN years!* Never mind that the first few weeks that we met I thought she was too princessy and she thought I was practically mute. We got past all that quickly and now I know that she is far from princessy and goddamn it if she thinks I am anything but Blabby Moutherson. It was the start of a beautiful friendship.

FURTHERMORE. When I talked to her on the phone today and I brought up the ten-year-anniversary of our us-ness, Bio-Girl asked me if there was any way we could get away with registering for this event. Sadly, I don't think so. This brings me to one of our favorite topics of conversation: Made-Up Events That We Should Be Able To Register For. See, Bio-Girl and I. We want to register for something. Not necessarily together. We haven't had weddings, we don't have kids. But just because we don't have these things doesn't mean that we don't want to tell people what to buy for us, you know? Why is it that only wedding people and baby people can tell people what to buy for them? Not fair, right? Hmph.

We also discovered that the ten-year anniversary gift is (traditionally) tin/aluminum. First of all, what is with that traditional list? Does anyone really even use that list any more? Are people really celebrating their 7th anniversary by exchanging wool or copper products? Are people expressing ten years of love with aluminum? We need to get rid of that list, people. But, on the other hand, I must confess that tin/aluminum actually did resonate with Bio-Girl and me. Because we have a joke about tin foil. Yes, there is no end to things I have jokes about.

See, when Bio-Girl was in college, she and our friend Jenny would run around saying, in a weird Angela-Lansbury-as-Mrs.-Potts voice: "Get on the tin foil!" We thought this was so funny. I can't even think of an example of WHY we would say this. It was during any sort of putting-something-on-something gesture. Like, if you were serving up a piece of cake, you might, as you placed it on the plate, say to the piece of cake "get on the tin foil!" I know. There is no tin foil in the example. That doesn't matter. It's just an all-purpose placement statement. There are times, even now, that I will say this phrase to Bio-Girl. I am sure there is some hysterical story where this phrase was born that did have actual tin foil involved. But I can't remember it, and when I asked Biology Girl, she couldn't remember either. All we have left of some apparently hilarious moment is the phrase. As we spoke today, and I told her that the ten-year anniversary traditional gift is tin/aluminum, this is how it went:

Her: Ten years is aluminum? So what, I'm supposed to buy you some tin foil?
Me: If you did, would you make me get on it?
Her: Get on the tin foil!
Me and Her: (laugh laugh laugh)...(pause)...(laugh laugh laugh)...(laugh laugh laugh)

Do you think we could register for indecipherable joke commemoration? No?

Rats. I'm going to come up with something. People WILL be buying me presents.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

*I'm quoting a movie again. Anyone know which one?

Phone Home

When Nordic Boy is away on business, we are in constant contact with one another. I don't know how this habit started, and for some reason, I'm kind of embarrassed about this. Ok, maybe the reason is that Bio-Girl totally MADE FUN OF IT and I felt shame. SHAME! Which is really dumb for me to feel because Bio-Girl and I have a more joined-at-the-hip communication style than Nordic Boy and I do, so who is she to talk? Honestly. Nordic Boy calls me too much? Um, hi Bio-Girl, or should I say hi, pot-- how's that calling-the-kettle-black thing going?

So Nordic Boy calls me a lot when he's gone. When he's away on business, he usually has to go from meeting to meeting, from building site to building site, and so he calls me in between each, just to say hey. As the days go by, the check-in calls get more and more comical. Here's a sampling.

7:00 am
Me (groggily): Hello?
Him: Hey babe, what are you doing?
Me: Sleeping!
Him: Dude, you have to get up! You're going to be late!
Me: What? I don't have to work until 9:30!
Him: I know!
Me: It's only 7!
Him: It is? Oh, yeah. I guess it is. My first meeting is at 8.
Me: But that's YOU. See, I'm a different person than you are. Remember?
Him: Yeah. Ha ha.
Me: (half into my pillow) It's totally raining. What the hell is up with that?
Him: I can't understand a word you just said. Go back to sleep.
Me: Bye.
Him: Bye.

11am
Me: Hello?
Him: Hellooooo me-lay-deeeeee!
Me: Wow, we're singing now?
Him: Oh yes, we aaaaaaaare!
Me: Okeeeee-dokeeeeee!
Him: What's up?
Me: Just taking a break. What happened to the singing?
Him: So over it.
Me: That was quick.
Him: I'm shallow that way.
Me: What are you going to have for lunch?
Him: I don't know. There's a deli next to this building I'm at. Maybe that.
Me: Cool.
Him: Call you later.
Me: Bye.

2pm
Him: Hello?
Me: Look at that! Me calling YOU!
Him: Whoa!
Me: Are you so surprised?
Him: Totally!
Me: You're so humoring me right now, aren't you?
Him: A little.
Me: What's up? How's your day?
Him: I feel like Leonardo DeCaprio in the Aviator.
Me: "Show me all the blueprints, show me all the blueprints"?
Him: Totally. What's going on with you?
Me: I'm wearing the wrong outfit today.
Him: What's wrong with it?
Me: You really want me to go into it?
Him: If you can do it in 5 minutes. I'm walking to a meeting.
Me: Five minutes? Not going to happen.
Him: Tell me later.
Me: Bye.
Him: Bye.

4pm (on my voicemail)
Him: Hey sweetness, it's 4pm and I am on my way to the last site of the day. Where are you? Breaking hearts and taking names? Are you at the top of the charts? Are you sticking it to the man? Are you fighting the power? I don't even know what I'm saying. Aren't you glad I called? Ok, hanging up. Love love love.

7pm
Me: Hey!
Him: Hey!
Me: I just had dinner with Sarah and it was so good.
Him: I just had dinner too and I bet it was better than yours.
Me: What's with the contest?
Him: I'm just saying. It was better than yours. I know it.
Me: What did you have?
Him: I went to that Lebanese place on Hawthorne.
Me: AWWWWW! My favorite place!
Him: I know. It was right down the street from where my last meeting was.
Me: So obviously how could you not take advantage of that and go there?
Him: Exactly.
Me: I would have been mad at you had you NOT gone there.
Him: I know.
Me: Yet, I'm kind of mad at you for getting to go there without me.
Him: I know that too. But, believe me when I say this. I went there all for the love of you.
Me: Shut up, you went there for the grape leaves.
Him: "'Cause I'm your ladyyyyyy, and you are my maaaaaan..."
Me: First of all, you're singing our genders backwards. Second of all, Celine Dion never makes me feel LESS anger.
Him: "Whenever you reeeeach for meeeeee....I'll drive in my vaaaaan."
Me: You'll drive in your van when I reach for you?
Him: If I had a van, I totally would.
Me: Call me later.
Him: Bye.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Soap Opera

The house right next to mine used to be a rental house, full of fairy-like goth kids who would flit around in their rooms in flagrante delicto with their shades up while I ate my breakfast. Soon after I moved in, the house was sold, and the renovations started. They are putting a third story on this puppy, and gutting it, stripping it, shining it up until one would never imagine that grungy tattoo clad youngsters used to live there. Kind of sad. Nordic Boy and I have been overly curious about who our new neighbors will be. The house keeps getting bigger and bigger, dwarfing us in its shadow. What kind of bigwigs are moving in next to us? How many rooms could they possibly need? When there is a new or different car parked on the street, we crane our necks to try and spot the newcomers. So far, they have not been spotted. They have, however, been heard.

The other morning, I was soaping up my face to the regular sounds of the morning. Nordic Boy shaking up his box of almond milk, birds chirping outside the window, wind whistling through the trees. Then...Puccini. Something was being sung, from La Boheme, if I'm not mistaken. LOUD. So loud, it sounded like it might have been Nordic Boy, busting out a secret soprano voice from inside our house. I walked out into the living room and looked at him. He looked back at me.

Me: Did you hear that?
Him: Hear it? Of course I heard it. It almost broke the windows!
Me: Is it just me, or was that singing? As in LIVE singing?

Before he could answer, there it was again. A real live soprano opera singer, belting it out at 8am.

Him: Wha---?

And before he could even finish that word, another voice joined in! A tenor! There were two very professional-sounding, very loud opera singers serenading each other right next door! God, I felt cosmopolitan, having my neighborhood sounds be live frickin' Puccini. Could it be our new neighbors are opera stars? How FRASIER is that?

You might be thinking, having opera singers next door, especially opera singers who like to serenade each other before breakfast, could be a problem. You might be right. But you know what? They sounded GOOD. If I have to be woken up by something loud, a beautifully sung aria is not a bad way to do it.

Listen, I have had bad neighbors before. I know what a bad neighbor is. And artists who can sing up a storm are just fine with me, compared to some of the neighbors I have experienced. For instance, there was the Meat Family.

The Meat Family was headed up by Meat Man, the patriarch. Meat Man's favorite pasttimes were grilling, killing things and screaming at his two children, the Meat Babies. Let's start off with the grilling. On his front porch, he had three large state-of-the-art grills, so that when he was standing at them, one was in front of him, one was to his left, and one was to his right. He would stand there, oh, I would say maybe 200 evenings out of the year, grilling the shit out of something. His porch was three yards away from our front door and all of our front windows, so the grill-smoke would waft in, on a daily basis, until I would just have to take the batteries out of my smoke detector, because it was either that or pretend I was in a Heart video. Slightly annoying, no? Let's move on to the killing. Meat Man liked to march up and down our street, "weeding" the grass that was growing up through the cracks in the sidewalk. Only, instead of actually weeding, he would walk around with a Meat Man sized, 6-foot blowtorch, incinerating any weeds that looked at him the wrong way. WHO DOES THAT? I lived in constant fear that he was going to set the entire block on fire. Also, he informed us that one night, he saw some teens running up our street in the middle of the night, possibly up to some shenanigans. "I had my hand on my rifle- they were lucky they ran up the street so fast!" he told us proudly the next day. Nordic Boy asked him, "well, you wouldn't have really shot at them, right?" To which he replied, "damn right I would have! I won't have that sort of riff raff in OUR neighborhood!" Great, thanks, Meat Man. Excuse me while I put my bullet proof vest on before you pepper our yard with buckshot, will ya? And lastly, Meat Man would go on these hunting trips, where he would bring back huge carcasses of something or other, whose blood would fill up the back of his truck bed. He would hose out his truck, and the blood run-off would run down our street, stinking up the gutters and splashing up onto our driveways. Whenever this would happen, Nordic Boy and I liked to exclaim to each other: "the streets shall run with BLOOD! Bwa-ha-ha-haaaaaaaa!" Because, really, what else are you gonna do with a situation like that?

Then there was the screaming at the Meat Babies. The amount of screaming at these kids that happened on any given day was alarming to me, but then I do not come from a screamy house, as I know many people do. I have friends that I grew up around that had a lot of screaming happening, and they turned out fine so let's hope for the best for the Meat Babies, shall we? So far, however, they were the two brattiest kids I had ever encountered in my whole life. They would greet Nordic Boy like this: "Hey! Gimme a dollar!" This would happen right in front of Meat Man and Meat Lady and apparently that was just fine by them. They also would look at the both of us rather derisively and say "GAWD your house is small. How do you even LIVE there?" But I guess this was ok from the perspective of Meat Man, who routinely told us that he wished our landlord would sell our house, because as far as he was concerned, it was just the size and quality of an ok-ish shed, you know, to store his stuff.

So, when I heard that opera busting through our neighborhood at breakfast, it really did not give me pause. Sing it up, neighbors! Welcome to the neighborhood! But, if you keep singing La Boheme, I'm telling you right now, you're gonna hear a lot of things from our house when you do so. Namely, I'm sure Nordic Boy will have to yell "I ain't no freakin' monument to justice!" and I may have to say "she was coughing her brains out, and still she had to keep singing!" Listen, you have uncontrollable breakfast arias. We have uncontrollable pop culture references. I think we'll get along just fine.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Cough-y Talk

Far be it from me to say something unladylike (hey! I saw that eye-roll!), but can I just say that being sick sucks ass-water? I can't? How about hot dog water? Yes? Ok. BEING SICK SUCKS HOT DOG WATER.

I know, I know. Having a little cough is not the end of the world. Trust me, with the drama surrounding my dad's health, I am quite aware that this is small potatoes compared to lots of other things. Small potatoes? Is that right? Or is it small peanuts? What is that saying? Whatevs. Small twinkies, small matzo balls. It's not a big deal, is my point. But still, I'm feeling whiny. Whiny and coughy.

I am just about all better, but what kind of mutant virus is this that is sticking to my lungs for two whole weeks? It is so aggravating, people. I am SO OVER IT. It's cramping my style. Everything nice makes me cough more. Eating makes me cough, exercising makes me cough, talking makes me cough, and making out is totally out of the question. The only thing that seems to calm it down is sitting. very. still. That and popping Riccola like they are Scooby snacks. And really, what is the point of popping Riccola if you can't yell out "Reeeeee-colaahhhhh!" every time you do so? And I can't do that because it makes me double over with the hacking. And the hacking? It's ruining my rep as the foxy mucus-free lady that I have been carefully cultivating for the past few years.

At least, for a couple of days there, I had my new husky voice to make me feel better. I am choosing to think of it as a sexy Kathleen Turner thing, rather than a wait-a-minute-are-you-a-dude thing. But now even that is wearing off and I am just me, with coughing, and without talking and make out privileges. And WHAT IS LIFE WITHOUT TALKING AND MAKE OUT PRIVILEGES?

I can see why Katie Couric beat up that guy for using the word "sputum." Maybe she had the same virus I have. At this point in the game, someone saying sputum would put me over the edge too.

Anyone have any miracle cures for lingering coughs? Send them my way. I have much talking and making out to catch up on.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Seymour And His Cozy Roomies

How's this for random? For the past two days, I cannot, for the life of me, get the song "Rumors" out of my head. Not the Lindsay Lohan Rumors. The one from the 80s. How do rumors get STARted, they're started by the jealous PEOple and! AHHHHH. Make it stop! Please, someone. Make it stop. I don't know why this is happening. There are no rumors in my world right now. I am wholly unconcerned about the concept of rumors. I don't even think I've heard the song recently. Yet, I can't stop thinking about it, all of it, including the line about that guy who tasted Tina's juice. SO. WRONG.

I got a nice email from my freshman-year-in-college roommate today. I haven't seen or talked to her in YEARS, but through the magic of social networking, we're back in touch. My roomie, she was fabulous. The summer before my freshman year, my college sent me a little questionnaire in order to (supposedly) help them match me up with the perfect compliment to my weirdo personality. I remember I wrote down lots of things about how I was an extrovert (which I was at the time), how I was a night owl (again, I was at the time), and how I liked to, in the immortal words of Eddie Murphy, party all the tah-hime. And you know what? They took that questionnaire and flushed it down the toilet because what ended up happening is that my roomie had a few things in total opposition to me, such as being a calm, rational, mature 18 year old who knew enough to not be a pain in the ass to all she met.

But you know what? There must have been some good juju in the roommate match-up process, because it turns out that she was the perfect roommate for me. She had a penchant for silliness that cracked my shit up and we ended up doing all the stereotypical roomie things that roommates of that age do. We giggled profusely, we obsessed about boys, we ordered and consumed acres of pizza, we danced around the room singing into our hairbrushes, we had reams of inside jokes, and we talked and talked and talked. I certainly seemed like the crazier of the two, but let me tell you something I have learned over the course of my many moons on this earth: the quiet ones can always come over to the dark side. This situation was no different.

First of all, we got into this idea that all of our possessions should have a "cozy." A cozy is some sort of decorative covering that envelops an inanimate object. You know, like a tea cozy? So, we had a cozy for our computers (cloth covers that were all matchy matchy with our dorm room decor) and a printer-cozy for our printer. Our blankets were not our blankets, they were our cozies. Then, we took the cozy idea a step further- we started putting decorative contact paper on everything. I don't know where the hell this idea came from, but we thought it was the greatest, funniest idea ever. We contact-papered our dresser drawers, our notebooks, even our phone.


Stop looking at the 90s fashions and scrunchie in my hair and look at the contact-papered phone, please.


The fall of our freshman year, my roomie's mom sent her a care package for Halloween. In this package was one of those paper skeletons that are for putting up in a window or something. You know, the kind where the joints of the skeleton are hinged so you can pose it and stick it up somewhere. This particular skeleton was labeled "Seymour Bones." We put Seymour up on our wall and there he stayed for the month of October. After Halloween, my roomie and I decided that we had grown quite fond of Seymour and couldn't bear to take him down. From then on, Seymour became our room's mascot. Each month we got crafty and decorated him. In November, he was a pilgrim. Well, I guess he would have been a dead pilgrim. In December, we hung christmas tree ornaments on him like a morbid tree. Seymour was quite the conversation piece for the scads of homies we constantly had in our room.

These are the things over which she and I bonded. Seymour, cozies, and gales and gales of giggling. So thanks, social network site, for giving us the venue to have a Peaches and Herb style reconnection. We both get so excited 'cause we're, re yoo nited, hey hey...I'm a man who thinks not a man who drinks so please let me live my life! Oh geez. Now it's a Peaches and Herb and Timex Social Club duel to the death. Rumors and Reunited, the mashup. Yikes.

Lips Ahoy

Oh my dear blog friends, I am so neglectful! I have an excuse though. A really good one. I was sick, as in temperature of 101 degrees sick, all week. So I haven't checked email, nor returned phone calls, nor blogged, nor left my house, nor done anything other than decide to say the word "nor" a lot. And although I am feeling better today, the week o' sickness doesn't really have a lot of grist for the blogmill. In the past few days, I have done the following.

Watched "Little Children" and "The Devil Wears Prada" and "Notes on a Scandal" and "Marie Antoinette" and "Venus" and "The Cosby Show" and "Sex and the City" and "Pillow Talk" and "Gentleman Prefer Blondes" and "Office Space" and "Holmes on Homes" and "Gilmore Girls" and "His Girl Friday" and "Battlestar Galactica" and "Extras" and "Rumours" and Oprah and Ellen and Bob Vila and Amy Devers and Kathy Griffin and James Lipton and Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert. And maybe a dash of Judge Judy. If you must know.

Oh, and oh my GOD, you guys. Did you know Rick Springfield is still on General Hospital? And he plays TWINS. Could this be true? Maybe I was hallucinating from the fever, but I swear I think I saw him, double trouble style.

That's about all I've done. I guess I could have been blogging about this each day, but I chose not to. You're welcome.

Before I got sick though, I did have a wonderful visit from my friend Alli, who, for all intents and purposes, has known me since I was born. When I told one of my friends she was coming, one of them said "Oh that Alli. She freaks me out." Why? "It's like she's YOU. She sounds just LIKE you. She has the same references to things. The same accent. The exact same memories. It's like there are two of you." And truly, what could be scarier than that? Pair us up with the twin Rick Springfields and you've got DOUBLE the double trouble, people.

So after spending a day with Alli, here's my conclusion. You may think less of me after I'm through here, but I just have to say this. Alli and I (and you too Map, you're totally implicated here), we were pretty good girls in middle and high school. I mean, as teens go, we were pretty average in our behavior, I think. In our school, there were plenty of ways to get into trouble that were scary and serious. We knew plenty of people that were having sex in 5th and 6th grade, and there were active gang members in our midst with guns and crack and the whole nine yards, and there were fights and all sorts of other crap that was right there, if any of us wanted anything to do with it. So although we did get into trouble in high school, it was tame trouble. We skipped classes, we smoked occassionally, we were mouthy to teachers sometimes. We also got good grades, were friends with pretty much everyone (from the gang-ish people to the geeky people), and our parents almost always knew where we were. Pretty average. But here's what I am thinking as I hang out with Alli now and we reminisce about the old days.

We kissed hordes and hordes of boys.

Now, let me be clear here. I'm not talking about carnal promiscuity of the bumping uglies kind. I am talking about kissing. First base. Making out. Or, as we called it back then, "mashing." For a group of average girls, we were getting in a liplock an awful, awful lot. I don't know how this could be-- it just doesn't add up, like, mathematically. When I think back to high school, I don't remember constantly running into boys with my lips. But yet now, when Alli and I talk about high school, the subject of who was kissing who just comes up CONSTANTLY. Half of it is lying dormant in my brain, forgotten, until I get with Alli and Map and then it all comes flooding back. For example, on the back of a senior picture that someone wrote me, it said "...always remember Durham boys..." When I was in 10th grade, I went on a tour of England in a youth choir. And we had a stop to perform in Durham. So when Alli read that senior picture to me...

Me: Oh my god. I kissed a boy in Durham and I just am now remembering this.
Her: You did?? Who was he? What was his name?
Me: Um. I can't remember. I do remember he was wearing a green sweater though. And he was really hot.
Her: Green sweater boy. Wow.

Green sweater boy? That's the best I can do? What a trampy-lipped young lady I was. It seemed my standard was this- hotness. If you were hot, I would kiss you. Simple as that. My friends, it seems, were not much better. In fact, I would wager that Alli has kissed many more boys than I ever have. The girl's kiss-list has volume. This is especially funny to me since Alli's good-girl credentials outweigh any of my other friends, by far. She had an iron chastity belt, and it was cinched TIGHT. But man. She may have been staying on first base, but she was CAMPING there.

Alli: Did I ever tell you that I once made out with Ryan M?
Me: YOU DID? First of all, how did I not know this? And second of all, we were friends with him since we were 5. He was clearly friend material, not make-out material. When did you kiss him?
Alli: The fall of our freshman year of college.
Me: WHY did you kiss him?
Alli: I don't know. We were at a party. It seemed like the thing to do at the time.

It seemed like the thing to do. What deliciously teen-ish logic that is.

By the way, kisses to everyone who sent me emails asking me where I was and if I was ok this week. It's nice to be missed. So kisses. Really, I mean kisses. Apparently, I have lots to hand out and I don't have a problem doing so. MWAH!

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl