Pressure Cooked Chicken Legs

Peer pressure doesn't usually get to me. As a kid, I never drank when I didn't want to, or smoked a doob, or let any dude get to whatever base he was trying to get to unless I wanted him to get there. (And may I say, that whole baseball/sex analogy always confuses me. What are the bases? I can never remember. There are more than four steps to doing the deed, so how can it be condensed into three bases and a homerun? Sports analogies will always confound me no matter what. Why can't we come up with another set of criteria to chart sexual progress? Like, say, going to the movies. That's much more universal. "Standing in line." "Buying a ticket." "Eating your popcorn." "Finding a seat." See? So many more metaphoric possibilities. Ok, I am going to stop talking about s-e-x now or else my blog search traffic will be attracting all kinds of riff raff).

My one peer pressure story that I can think of right now happened to me in the 7th grade. This was the era of "boy-girl" parties. The archetype for this type of party is written about eloquently in that timeless ode to puberty, Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret. If you know that book, you know the exact type of party I am talking about. At this party, I played Spin the Bottle for the very first time. I didn't really want to play, as I was, even then, a picky effer and I didn't want to chance spinning the bottle and getting forced into kissing some troll. I wanted to choose my OWN troll, thank you very much. I remember there was talk of playing the game long before the party even got started, and the anticipation of it built up this tension in the party basement (why are these parties always in a basement?) and all I could think about was the impending spin. It is not too dramatic to say that I was filled with dread.

At some point in the party, the bottle was unveiled. It was a giant, empty two-liter coke bottle, which seemed totally unromantic to me. "Who's going to start us off?" yelled the bottlemonger. And somehow, someone (I wish I could remember who this bastard was) decided to yell out my name.

This is the part where I should have summoned forth my inner Mr. T and said "hells no. I ain't kissin' no random troll, fool!" But I didn't. That person saying that I would be the one to go first, I don't know, it had a strange power over me. A power akin to the Double Dog Dare. I couldn't refuse. I took the bottle. And spun it.

It landed on Ryan. Ryan of the bowl haircut and chicken legs. Ryan, who although he was my friend, he was also a person who I would never, ever, ne-zever, want to touch with a ten foot pole. But there it was. He looked at me, our eyes locked, and he seriously looked like he was about to have a heart attack from fear. Everyone whooped and cheered. It was horrible. We were swept up and shoved into a closet together. Ew ew ew. We very well could have stood there and not touched each other and no one would have ever known the difference. Unfortunately 7th grade brains don't figure this shit out. At least mine didn't. I felt like I had to consummate the bottle-point. I had entered into this stupid game and I was going to see. it. through. We stared at each other. Ryan didn't move. He was bugging out, big time. Petrified. I probably didn't look much better. Finally, I took a breath, grabbed him by the shoulders, and gave him a firm, loud smooch. On the cheek. It was all I could do, and believe me, that was more than enough. Upon finishing my mission, I turned abruptly and got the hell out of that closet. I don't remember anything else about the rest of that night. Did anyone else even continue the game? I don't think they did. They had hazed Ryan and me enough and so they were done with that.

That's my story of peer pressure. I guess in the grand scheme of things, it's not so bad. But now, here in the midst of my grown-up years, I am caving again. Last year, Josh signed up for National Blog Posting Month, or as it's now known, NaBloPoMo. Although I couldn't imagine writing a post a day for a whole month, I signed up too. Why did I do that? Josh didn't even ask me to. I just felt an implied peer pressure. The cool kids are doing it, so I have to do it too. So I did. And now, here we are again. Josh announces he's doing it again on his blog, and what do I do? Sign myself right up. Geez, Librarian Girl, if Josh jumped off a bridge, would you do it too?

So, starting tomorrow, I am posting every day for the whole month. And you know what? So are you. Come on! You know you want to! Do it with me. Be my partner in diaherria of the keyboard. Sign up here, and when you do, friend me.

Do it! Do it! Don't make me shove you in a closet with Chicken Legs Boy.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

High School Date-ical

There are many things I can tolerate in life. In fact, I am one of the more easy-going chicas you are likely to come across in your travels around this grand earth-ball of ours. A little dumb? That's ok with me. Feeling ornery? Alright. You like to sing Barry Manilow songs to the full moon in your underwear? Go for it. But if there's one thing I can't abide by, it's when someone is half ass.

What is the true definition of half ass? It's one of those indefinable things, isn't it? You know it when you see it though, right? It's when someone doesn't follow through. It bugs the holy hell out of me. Or it's when someone just kind of does something. I kind of like him, so I guess I will date him. That sort of thing. Or when one works in a service job with the public (oh, like perhaps in a library) and gives shoddy service. Half ass. Nordic Boy thinks I am a little bit obsessed with this idea and that's because I'm always naming it when I see it. And for some reason, I am seeing it a lot.

Him: Saw Roberta today. She said she would love to have us over sometime.
Me: She says that every time we see her. She's been saying that for a whole year.
Him: I know.
Me: Did she actually follow through? Suggest a time? Anything?
Him: No.
Me: God. What a half ass.

Once I have pronounced something "half ass," Nordic Boy knows that the conversation is over. It is, I think, the one thing for which I am judgy. I don't know why. I don't know where this comes from. Follow through, people. Don't do a lackluster job of things. Don't be tepid. In or out. Yes or no. That's what I respond to. Balls out. Hey- I guess the opposite of half ass would be balls out. How funny is that?

Anyway, Nordic Boy and I were invited to a costume party this weekend. In our busy-ness, we didn't have time to come up with a really good costume. And costumes were required at this party. So, at the last minute, we didn't go. Why? I could not bring myself to just go in a half-ass costume. I cannot be half ass! It will not happen! That underwear Barry Manilow singing thing? I would do that before knowingly being half ass about anything. I am not going to do something like put on my regular clothes, wear lots of eyeliner and dark shadow around my eyes, and go as "Heroin Addict Me" or some shit like that. Lame. And I'm not doing it. No way no how. It's all in or not at all as far as I am concerned.

So, on Saturday night, Nordic Boy and I found ourselves suddenly sans plans. What should we do? Nordic Boy came up with the perfect solution. "Let's go on a high school date." So that's what we did.

First, we went to dinner. The waiter must have known that we were on a high school date, because the first thing he did was card me. And yes, my evolved, womanly, mature self was happy that this happened. It could even be said that I "got my jollies" from it. (Did you all use the word "jollies" in this manner when you were in high school? I am not ashamed to say that I did.) And then, not only did he card me, he then noticed that my driver's license just expired about a week ago (I totally didn't know that) and kicked us out of the bar area of the restaurant! How much of a high school date event is THAT? I got kicked out of many a joint back in the day. Ah, memories.

When we were re-seated in the all-ages area, I ordered a soda. The waiter brought me my soda and it looked like this.


A heartbeat away from a Shirley Temple, is what I think this is.

After dinner, we went to a movie. The theater was full of actual teenagers, but we stuck to the plan. After the movie, we went to an arcade. Oh yes. We did.


Load up on the tokens, baby!

The feeling of being a teenager was marred a bit by the fact that we had to go up to the "oldies" section to find any games that we knew how to play. (Well, that's not entirely true. I know how to play DDR and Guitar Hero and stuff like that, but if you think I am going to play those games in front of crowds of actual teenagers, you are out of your everloving gourd). So up to the oldes section we went. I played a little bit of Ms. PacMan...


She can play and take a photo with her camera phone all at once!

Nordic Boy played a little Frogger, we both played a little bit of Skee-Ball, (where I won myself some nice jelly bracelets, thanks very much), and Nordic Boy found his favorite game of all time: Galaga. And he got on that thing (which he hasn't played in at least ten years) and friggin' rocked it. I was giggly teen girlfriend watching him go. It was awesome.


He's a maniac, maaaaniac!

Then, on the way home, this is what transpired:

Him: So, we should talk about something that teenagers talk about. If we're on a high school date and all.
Me: Ok, so like what?
Him: I don't know. Doogie Howser?
Me: Teens don't talk about Doogie Howser.
Him: But we're on a teenager date, like from when we were teenagers. We just got done playing Galaga, for Christ's sake. So we should talk about something that we would have talked about back when we were teenagers.
Me: And Doogie Howser is what you come up with for that?
Him: Yeah, I guess you're right.
Me: Although, man. I loved Doogie. I never could see what he liked so much about Wanda though.
Him: Who's Wanda?
Me: WHO'S WANDA? You're the one who brought this whole topic up, and you don't know who Wanda is?
Him: Actually, I never watched that show.
Me: Oh.
(Silence, silence).
Him: So, anyway. What I really want to know is: were you the type to put out in high school or what? Because the date is about to end and all, so. Just asking.
Me: Um, maybe I was, maybe I wasn't. Depends on your definitions.
Him: Depends? Either you did or you didn't. How can you say "kind of"?
Me: I don't know. It's not clear-cut.
Him: Half ass.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Held in High Esteem

I know what it looks like. It looks like I am just skating by with doing Weeklies all the goddamn time and not writing anything else. I know. But the only reason that happened was because I was late with the last Weekly and so that backed up into this week and now I am doing a Weekly for this week and all the Weekly-ness is happening back to back. That's just the way it is right now. Don't be mad. With all due respect to Lesley Gore, it's my bloggy and I'll do what I want to. And what I want is to keep up with the Weekly schedule. Aaa-ight?

Oh to hell with the Weekly schedule. I will do another Weekly next week. I have something else on my mind so I will talk about that. Keeping up with me? I am a whimful woman and I make no apologies. Sorry.

Oops, I guess that was an apology. Sorry!

Dammit. I can't stop doing that.

Ok, starting again. Here's what I am thinking about. High self esteem. I think I have it, and I am no longer sure that this is such a good thing. I say this not for the reasons that you may be thinking I mean (wow, how's that for sentence structure?). You may be thinking that high self esteem is merely a code phrase for "narcissistic assmunch." Not what I'm saying. I honestly, truly, wholeheartedly believe to the depths of my being that I am not a narcissistic assmunch. Then again, if one is an assmunch, maybe that's not the best position to judge, right? Do assmunches know they are assmunches? That's a true conundrum. Forget a tree falling in the forest with no one around to hear it. Assmunchery self awareness is something to ponder.

But really, I don't think I have a narcissus complex or anything. And, if it helps to make my case on this, no one in all my life has ever accused me of being self absorbed or snooty patooty or anything like that. So if you don't believe me, trust those around me. But good self esteem, I got that. And mostly, it's done me proud. I like myself, I don't feel bad about my body or my looks, I know enough to get away from dickwads who are mean to me in whatever form they come in (boyfriends, friends, bosses, family members), I gots good boundaries, I trust in my abilities, I am generally not full of doubt about things. I am a confident person. All good, right?

But now, I am full of doubt. About what? About the very thing that makes me usually not doubt things. My self esteem.

First of all, I read a lot of teen literature for work. And in this teen literature, there is often a depiction of teen reality wherein there are cliques. You all know the stereotypes. The jocks, the cheerleaders, the burnouts, the art geeks. And for the longest time, whenever I would read this stuff, I would think "gawd. How exaggerated. Teens are not like this. I was not like this as a teen. People I know were not like this. I was friends with all those people. Jocks, cheerleaders, art geeks, whatever. We weren't all at seperate tables in the cafeteria. We were mixing it up. What's with these books? It's just to make the narrative that much more dramatic and angsty for the teen reader. Yeah, that must be it." As much as I enjoy John Hughes movies, my teen world did not look like that to me. Why couldn't Andie and Blane date? Who cared? When I was in high school, I went to parties in trailer parks, and I went to parties in huge houses. I dated a guy in a gang once, and I smooched around with the school jock. What's the big deal?

Then, a couple weeks ago, my friends Alli and Map came to visit. We all went to high school together, and when we see each other, we talk about it. We talk about what we did, who we kissed, our friends, the people we despised, all of it. In detail that would probably scare most of you out there with its complexity. I remember things that no sane person should remember about their childhood. Details that would freak your freak. I remember songs we sang in choir and can still sing them all, I remember the bulletin boards that we made for Homecoming week and could draw you a picture, I remember who sat behind me in Geometry class. It all comes out during these times I spend with my two pals. But you know what I don't remember? I don't remember who didn't talk to me. I don't remember who left me off their party invite list. I don't remember which boy didn't flirt with me. Not. At. All.

I know all of these things happened. I know there were people who, in their opinion, I wasn't good enough for, or who thought I wasn't pretty enough to ask out. I know I was snubbed sometimes. There were probably even times when other kids said cutting things to me, insulted me, tried to make me feel like less of a person. I know this. All kids go through it. Granted, I was never truly bullied, which is a whole other level of being ostracized, but I am not talking about that. I am talking about regular old teen meanness. I know it happened to me. But I never noticed! What kind of person doesn't notice these things? A tree stump of a person? A tra la la Pollyanna?

Alli and Map, as we talked about high school, remembered these things, like normal people do. A certain name would come up, and one of them would say "Biff never gave me the time of day. He never once talked to me or acknowledged that I existed." And as they would say this, I would think to myself, slowly, because it never dawned on me before: "Hey wait. Biff never talked to me either. And come to think of it, he did talk to most of my other friends. I always thought that he just never got around to saying howdy. But wow. I guess he was snubbing me. I never noticed!"

I never noticed. I never noticed. I pride myself on being an extremely observant, smart person. How could I have never noticed that there were cliques in high school? How could I have never noticed the ones that I was in and the ones that I wasn't in? I find this truly bothersome. It makes me feel like what I am calling "good self esteem" is, in truth, just a cover for being completely dumb as a doorknob. Apparently, I have no clue as to what is going on around me. Would I be one of those people that, when the fascists come to take my neighbors away, I will skip around and think that they just went on vacation with their nice, armed, uniformed tour guides?

I am glad that I am a confident person. I am glad that, when someone doesn't talk to me, my first thought isn't that it's because I am not cool enough, or because they are a big meanie, even if either of those things might actually be true. But am I living in a land of delusion? (Which is bordered, by the way, by the Land of Confusion, which was founded in the 1980s by Phil Collins). I feel completely shocked at the amount of people that probably thought I was uncool in high school and I never even knew about it.

I feel like the inverse of Sally Field, all surprised and saying "You didn't like me! You really didn't like me!"

What kind of ass is it better to be? A dumbass or an assmunch? Seems I am the former, not the latter. Want to join my dumbass clique? We can sit together in the cafeteria and plan a class war against the assmunches. I have to re-live my teen years. I was apparently not paying much attention during mine.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

The Skipped Weekly

Oh no I di'n't!

I didn't do an installment of the Weeklies last week. Should I acknowledge that I didn't do it or just not mention it and go on as if I did and do one this week like everything is right on schedule? Guess that option is moot since I just said that. Can I just say that the word moot always, always reminds me of the skit on SNL a long, long time ago (maybe in the 80s) where Jessie Jackson keeps saying "the question is moot!" I have no recollection of what the skit was about, or why he kept saying it, or if it was even funny at all, but it's burned into my brain.

So now that you know that I missed the Weekly last week, what should I do? Call this Weekly # 4 and write about last week? Or call it Weekly #5 and skip this week? It just now occurs to me that you don't give a flying fig what I do with my Weekly. That's right, it just occurred to me just right then and not a moment before. Took me that long. I end up figuring things out, if you just give me long enough.

Weekly Version 4.5-- The Four-Point-Five-Peat

Weekly TeeVee: So, I watched the Bachelor. Had never seen it before, and so I decided it was time. All I have to say is ARE YOU KIDDING ME? Are. You. Friggin'. Kidding. MEEEEE. That's all I have to say about that. Also, I took Journeyman off the Tivo list. I wanted to give it a chance. I wanted it to be an updated, sleek, new millenium Quantum Leap, starring the B-list Daniel Craig. But I just couldn't eat the shit that was being served up. No one ever communicates in the show, EVER. Every scene goes like this:

Daniel Craig-ish: I have leaped back in time! I have so many questions about why this is happening!
Other character who has answers to why this is happening: Hey Daniel.
Daniel: Hey. What's up?
Other character: Nothing much.
Daniel: (banter, banter, meaningless banter)
Other character: (banter, banter)
Daniel: Oh! I am about to leap back! Too bad I never asked you any questions!
Other character: Obviously, you are a dumb ass.

So, I am leaping back to a time when I didn't watch Journeyman. And look at that! I gained an hour of my life back!

Weekly Music: I have recently (and temporarily) changed work locations. For the next couple months, I no longer have the luxury of my usual 5-minute commute. I have to actually get in my car and drive every day, for about a half hour. This is such a novelty to me I can't even tell you. There are many crappy things about commuting, which I won't get into right this minute. But, there is one awesome thing about commuting. Quality time with my iPod. I plug that baby in and the party is ON. You know how some schools these days have "sustained reading" periods for students? This is "sustained listening." It's lovely, really. So if you're driving in rush hour traffic through Seattle and you see a black-haired lady in her car, bouncing to the beat of "Don't Leave Me This Way" by Thelma Houston (shut up, like you don't have cheesy songs on your iPod) and singing her heart out, that would be me. "Awwwww BAY-BEH!"

Weekly Worst Moment:
Last week, I found out my mom, who has been sick for the past week or so, actually has pneumonia. I also found out that two other close family members aren't doing so well in the health department. There's not much in life that scares me. Talk to me about ghosts, monsters, serial killers, spiders, rats, heights, what have you, and I am fine. But serious health issues for loved ones? That scares me. Well, that and Walmart.

Weekly Best Moment:
Four things.
1. Serious Best Moment: Learning that my mom was on the mend.
2. Silly Best Moment: I was reading a newsletter from the city government that we got in the mail, and it referenced having a "Family Disaster Plan." I looked at Nordic Boy and said "Hey, do we have a Family Disaster Plan?" and he looked apologetic, shrugged his shoulders, and offered this up: "Sure. Run for the hills?"
3. Synchronicitous (yes that is too a word) Best Moment: My friends H and R came over to play 80s Trivial Pursuit the other night. I think they know more stupid pop culture stuff than me. I heart that.
4. Aww Shucks Best Moment: Well-wishers rock. I had a work change this week and the people who went out of their way to wish me well and say a kind word about it rock out, hard core.

Weekly Photo: I saw this dude across the street from me in the biggest pair of rainbow camo hammerpants walking down the street. I wanted to take a photo but I didn't have the bawls. So I took a photo of the street where he had just been. Can you see the hammerpants vapor trail?


I'm out,
Librarian Girl

You All Still There?

Jeez you guys. Where the heck have you been? I keep waiting and waiting, and you haven't shown up in like, DAYS.

See what I did there? I have been neglecting YOU, but yet I come in swinging. Accusing you. Making you feel all defensive. Good strategy, right? Deflect the guilt away from me. Except, because of my self-diagnosed condition of not being able to shut up, I have now ruined it by explaining all of that to you. Hmmm. Maybe you won't notice if I just go right back into attack mode. Yeah, that's what I'll do.

Shit, people. If you are not committed to this blog, then what is the point? There has to be ACTIVITY. Not days and days of silence. Silence will not make this blog relationship work. Don't apologize. Just don't let it happen again, ok?

Now that that is out of the way, I have a confession to make. I pulled a little bit of an April Fools on you during my last post. Never mind that it isn't April. I'm just tricky that way. See, that photo of me and Desmond Tutu? TOTALLY FAKE. I have never met Desmond. The only one who called me out on this photo was Josh. Damn you, Josh, for seeing through my wiley ways and not falling for the joke. Now I can't say "ha ha! Fooled everyone!" because I didn't, technically, fool everyone. Damn that Josh and his wax-detecting skills. That Desmond Tutu is a wax Desmond Tutu. When I was 15 years old (and thank you all so much for not pointing out the awkwardness of that particularly gawky stage in my life, although I know you were all thinking it. Don't even try and deny it), I went on a tour of England with a performing kids choir. (And by the way, as I type the words "performing kids choir" I visibly gag. Just a little). When in London, we went to the wax museum, where I took photos of me with notable wax. Desmond, Marilyn Monroe, the royal family, Charlie Chaplin, Marlon Brando, James Dean, Mozart...I have photos of me with all of them. The one of me and Desmond though, was the most realistic (and not just because he is one of the only ones who is still living). I put that photo on my fridge and for years, people would be so impressed with it. "WOW. You met Desmond Tutu????" And then I would say yes, and tell some ridiculous story ("I was a child ambassador who represented my country at a UN conference") and watch people's eyes bug out for a few minutes before I would say "PUNKED!" or some other such very mature thing. So me. Standing next to a lump of wax. Wax that has been shaped into a Tutu shape. Gotcha!

Here's what's happening with me. I am happy to report that I FINALLY, FINALLY had a rip-roaring birthday fandango celebration! So what if it was a week late? It was WELL WORTH IT. My friends Alli and Map blew into town for the weekend and we had a delicious birthday fest. The planets aligned for me. They really did. Here, I'll prove it. You remember the photo of what the view looks like from my city for the bulk of the autumn? It looked like that as I drove to the airport to pick up my pals. As soon as they arrived though, and for the rest of the weekend, my city didn't look like that. It looked like this.



Happy Birthday to MEEEEE.

The first night we were all together, we went out to eat and caught each other up on our lives. Oh, and then? I got to have this.



Happy Birthday to MEEEEE!

Oh, and the other thing we got to do? I took Alli to my favorite little design studio where she got to design her own purse. I didn't buy anything, but being in the presence of fabrics and designy items was present enough. And Alli got two bags out of it!


Look at her! Designing and everything!

In the evening, we all went back to my house and I busted out my binders (dirty!). I have binders of every single letter or note that I have ever received. If you have ever written me anything on a piece of paper, I assure you I still have it. We read out notes from old friends, boyfriends, you name it, and laughed until barfing was imminent. There were several moments where I had to get up and leave the room because the funny was hurting me so bad. For instance, here's a note that was written to me by someone we still know and love. Someone who is a fine, upstanding, compassionate, loving friend. But in 8th grade? She was ANGRY.

"Fuck no! I hate her. At first I just disliked her but now...I mean, who is she to do 'ums' and 'buts' on Jeff? He's my good friend and she acts like she can write down every time he takes a breath. Also, she knows i was doing 'umms.' It was my idea. She as good as stole it. One day, I'm gonna tell her off, I'll say 'Fuck you Susan! And if you cry, I'm beating the shit out of you. Don't go home and tell your mommy, go home and wash your hair scum!'"

HOLY SMOKES. Angry, angry! And the thing is, this person never touched a hair on anyone's head, nor ever got in fights, and was/is a sweet person. But trash talk in the 8th grade? Spewing it forth! Go home and wash your hair...scum???? Who SAYS that?

The next day, we went out for brunch and then, of all things to do, we decided to go to the Locks. The Locks is a point where the freshwater meets the saltwater and boats are raised or lowered so that they can pass from one body of water to the other. This was only peripherally the thing that Alli and Map wanted to see. The real attraction at the Locks is that there is a salmon run, where you can watch salmon swimming upstream in that crazy dash to spawn and die. Out of towners always want to see this. So that's where we went. It was pretty, even though that type of circle of life thing can get me thinking all existential and about mortality and what's it all mean and shit like that.


Lock it up!

Then, we went to Archie McPhee and did super fun touristy things like by trinkets for loved ones (ok, I didn't buy any trinkets, but I was vicariously doing so) and take photos like this.


Map as the Gorton's Fisherman

Then we went downtown and toured the library, whiched totally wowed them, both because of the awesomeness of the library, but I think because of the complete unfathomable nature of the idea that I, the little girl who used to pop wheelies on my bike all over the neighborhood, now works in such a grown up profession, with like, responsibilities and stuff.

What they said out loud: WOW! You get to work in such a great library system, doing such interesting things!
What they said in their heads: WOW! This is the girl who used to dress like Bananarama!

We walked and ate and talked and laughed. Them girls are the funniest people on earth, for reals. I was sad to see them go home. Sad and a little mad. Yeah, that's right. I was mad. They can go home and wash their hair for all I care. Scum.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Birthday Week Happenings in History

I am so incredibly tempted to keep on qvetching about my lack of birthday fun and how I was sick and boo hoo and play the violins and please do cry for me Argentina, and all of that. I could totally still go there. But, I am a bigger person than that. My heart will go on, as that sage of Quebecois wisdom would say. Yes! My heart will go on! Turn on the wind machines and I will sing it while hitting myself on the brittle shard-like collar-bone that sticks out of my body! Or at least I will pretend about that collar bone thing. The point is. Me. Heart. Proceeding.

And in the spirit of THAT, I will celebrate myself, Walt Whitman style. (See how I can go straight from a Celine Dion reference right into a Walt Whitman reference without batting an eye? You love that about me, don't you? If you don't, you really should.) Not only will I celebrate myself, I shall celebrate the day I was born. Oh great day! You shall be marked by more than just an empty box of Kleenex and a VapoRub haze! The day is bigger than me!

Here's some rockin' things that rocked out in history on the day that rocks even when I am illin'. Word.

Weekly #4, The Birthday Week Edition

2003 Arnold becomes governor
Ok, so this one may not be the best way to start things, is what you're probably saying to yourself. But just think of it! The Terminator became in charge of a WHOLE STATE. What universe are we living in? A wondrous one, with mysteries that will never be completely comprehended by the human brain. Just as we were expected to believe that Arnold and Danny Devito were twins, we were also expected to accept that Conan the Barbarian was the best choice on the ballot to make decisions for all of California. And it happened, on the day I was born.

1982 Cats debuted
Do you remember that? All alone in the moonlight? Come on. You know you have an inner Shimbleshanks in you somewhere. Or was it Skimbleshanks? Simple-Skanks? Sorry, my memory ain't what it used to be. Or should I say, my meeeeh-mreeeee ain't what it used to be. Touuuuuch meeeee, it's so easy to leeeeeve meeeeee.... Wow. Looks like some parts of my memory are just fine.

1957 "American Bandstand" premieres
Is it just me or are only really cheezy things happening on my birthday? First Arnold, then Cats, now this? That's ok though. My love of pop culture knows no bounds. Dick Clark and his weird non-aging self can share in my birthday. You know, Dick Clark should have signed a deal to be the spokesmodel for an anti-aging cream. I mean, I don't care if he's not Isabella Rossellini in the looks department, that guy was PRESERVED for so long. I would have bought Oil of Olay if I thought that was his secret. Ok, maybe I wouldn't have, but a lot of people would. Dick. You shoulda done it. See what happens when people don't consult me about things?

1955 Allen Ginsberg reads "Howl" for the first time at Six Gallery in San Francisco.
Lookee that. A non-cheezy one! Awesome. Instead of cheese, we have a hallucinatory poetic journey with lots of sexy bits in it. Plus, this was the book that Jess always had with him when he first showed up on the Gilmore Girls, so it's just GOT to be good, right? (Ok, so I had to add a little cheese. Couldn't help myself).

1959 Far side of Moon seen for first time, compliments of USSR's Luna 3
"There is no dark side of the moon really. Matter of fact it's all dark." See what I did there? I quoted. Fancy, huh?

1985 Lynette Woodward, chosen as first woman on the Harlem Globetrotters
But did she ever get to meet Scooby Doo, is what I want to know. Because wasn't that the big perk about being in the Globetrotters?

1913 Moving assembly line at Ford began
This one I had to include, being that I am from Michigan and all and assembly lines are a big deal there. Plus, had it not been for Ford, we never would have seen LaVerne and Shirley put their gloves on the beer bottles and wave at them as they went by at Schott's brewery. Thanks, Ford!

1931 - Desmond Tutu, South African archbishop and Nobel Laureate, is born.
And look at that! Two birthday fools partying out on the town! This was when I was 15 years old:


Is it me or do I look like the only one who's happy that we share a birthday?

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Good Grief

Ok, listen up people. (Isn't that totally such a high school teacher thing to say? "Listen up!" Who else says that phrase except for teachers? That and "settle down!" Basically, those are the two things that teachers want out of students. To listen up, and to settle down).

Back to my point. I have a birthday curse and it has got to stop. Something stupid always happens on my birthday, like clockwork. Nothing catastrophic, nothing earth shattering, just something stupid enough to make the day feel un-birthday-ish. My brother and I have a term for when something happens to you that can be chalked up to nothing but bad luck. We call it the Charlie Brown Syndrome. When you have a week where you lock yourself out of your house (hi, Bio-Girl), or you lose your favorite necklace, or you stick your foot in your mouth at an important work meeting- those events, individually, are just random bad luck events. But if you have a day when ALL of these happen, this can be quickly diagnosed as the Charlie Brown Syndrome. I have taken this Syndrome to new levels. Bad luck things may not be happening to me all in one day, but they do happen to me every year, like a fucked up Old Faithful, on my birthday.

I don't know what has happened. I used to have great birthdays. My friends would celebrate me, I would get showered with love, I would have this golden day each year that I would remember fondly forever. But now? Nuh-uh. Not happening. Five years straight. The birthday gods are not smiling on me any more. To be perfectly poetic about it: it sucks royally.

I'm not going to get into the details of each of the past five birthdays and why each of them was equivalent to a poopy parade. It's just too depressing. Let me just stick to my current problems. My birthday is this weekend. I have a birthday dinner with some friends tonight, I have a birthday brunch tomorrow followed by a manicure with another pal, I had birthday plans in the evening. Sunday Nordic Boy has a whole mystery day planned for the two of us. But you know what? Not happening. Because my body has decided to shut down and give me a raging cold wherein the only things I can do are drink warm fluids and watch tv and sleep. This morning? I am unable to talk. The sore throaty-ness has gone from Rita Cosby to Mutey McNo-Sounds. I had to do sicky charades at Nordic Boy this morning to ask him for a glass of water and more tissue. So yeah. Birthday Number 5 in the string of cosmic pratfalls that now commemorates the day I was born. It's getting kind of hard not to start thinking this is some sort of existential sign. Why the bad birthdays? Five in a row has got to MEAN something. I am trying to figure out what the universe is trying to tell me. Shut up about your birthday? Stop trying to celebrate yourself so hard?

I am not accepting this. I am nothing if not able to spin something in my favor. Here's what I am thinking. A lot of people have bad stuff happening to them all the time. Most people, actually. Bad jobs, bad relationships, all-around bad. So, when their birthday comes around, they, more than anyone, deserve to have a great day. A day where they can forget about all their troubles and just have a blissful time. So maybe (watch this! spin spin spin!) I am having the opposite. I have a great life. I am experiencing my bliss on a daily basis. There's not much of anything that I would change about my life at all. So maybe, I am having my birthday celebration every day OTHER than my birthday, and I am getting all the Charlie Brown-ness out of my system all in one go, ON my birthday.

It totally makes sense in my head.

You can totally not believe me if you want, or shake your head silently at the way I am trying to re-invent the 5-Year Birthday Shit Sandwich. Just don't say anything about it. I don't want to see any comments or emails from you all in some sort of cacophony of reality or anything. Just humor me. It's my birthday.

Go shorty! It's my birthday!

I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Weekly, the Three-quel

The weather has officially turned. The rain, she pours. The clouds, they laugh. The wind, he cuts.

I thought it would make it that much more dramatic if I wrote it all stupid like that.

I guess it's time for a Weekly, but I'm not sure because I am all jacked up because I worked both days of this weekend. Whenever I do that, it's like a weird form of jet lag or something. I don't know what day it is, where I am, what I am doing. I just get all messed up. So like now, it feels like a Wednesday. But I don't have that half-the-week-is-over feeling, because I still have to work until Friday. You know what I mean?

Goddammit this is rivieting.

That paragraph right up there, kind of reminds me of some of the conversations I have with Biology Girl. She and I can really get into the minutae of our lives. Somehow, hearing about how she did her laundry and that she slightly overcooked her dinner is fascinating to me. And if I am bursting at the seams to tell someone that I counted out the change in my change jar and hey- I have twenty bucks!- she would be the one to care. Not just humor me, but really care. So that paragraph up there, that one is for her. The rest of you all can just go ahead and un-read it.

On to the Weekly! Weekly #3: the Three-peat!

Weekly TeeVee: I have never seen a full episode of Survivor. I know, I know, as the pop culture librarian, this seems impossible. When it first started, I just couldn't bring myself to watch it, what with all the pseudo-tribal mumbo jumbo on there. As an islander myself, I just couldn't stomach it. Much like I will never, and I mean never, participate in "Hawaiian Shirt Day" at work. It's not like I am offended by it, or begrudge anyone else on this stuff. I just can't go there. So, after all these years, I never jumped on the Survivor bandwagon. But, I did catch the first elimination of this season. Apparently some dude named Chicken was eliminated. Chicken. How does one acquire such a name? Shame on that dude's parents. And when he was voted off, it was the most delicious, most honest expression of disappointment I think I have ever seen. Nordic Boy and I have been quoting Chicken all week. Oh, and on a side note. A personal message to Tim Gunn. Tim, I still love you and everything, but you are boring me to DEATH.

Weekly Music: We all know by now that I have a penchant for making up silly songs. In fact, if you are a bonafide songwriter or recording artist, and someone thinks that your songs are on par with mine, then you have really got a big problem. That means that your song is probably a big old turd. Case in point: I was cleaning the living room the other day, marching around the house singing "babywhereyougetyourbodyfrom, babywhereyougetyourbodyfrom...I got it from my mama, I got it from my mama..." I sang this song for so long, with so much committment, that I turned around to see Nordic Boy staring at me.

Him: Did you make that song up or is that a real song?
Me: Totally real.
Him: It is not. You made that up.
Me: Totally real!
Him: Shut up.
Me: I'm serious! It totally is!
Him: No. Really. I mean shut up.

Weekly Worst Moment: I was in a favorite shoe store of mine, buying a pair of gorgeous boots that I have been waiting two years to find, and as I was paying for the shoes, the saleslady (is that the right term? Retail attendant. Consumer helper. Shopping Elf.) asked to see my driver's license along with my credit card. I handed it over, and she had the gall to say to me: "oh. This isn't the best picture of you, is it?" I laughed a little and said, "yeah," because really, I couldn't argue with that. She went on to say "Wow. It's really unflattering. Not good." Ok lady, stop staring at my Quasimodo photo and give me my goddamn boots. I think she felt a little bad for going on about it because she then said "I mean, you're just much prettier in real life." Nice try, Home Slice, but the camera don't lie.

Weekly Best Moment: Nordic Boy and I have known each other a long time. Loooong. And you know, they say that when you've been together a long time, you start to become the same person. So far, this hasn't happened to us, as far as I can tell. There's no way we will ever look alike (me: shorty brown shortcake; and him: tall drink of blond water), we certainly don't dress alike, and our mannerisms are nowhere near each other. However, our strange, strange sense of humor. It's starting to become one. As we were driving to the hardware store the other day, there was a Chrysler Le Baron right in front of us.

Him: See that car? That kind of car totally reminds me of the Midwest.
Me: Totally.

And then, for no reason at all, at exactly the same time, we both yelled out "Le Barrrron!" in our very best fake French accents. Then we laughed so hard about it, that he had to pull over. Tears were shed. Stomachs cramped up. What is funny about this? Why did we both say it at the same time? Don't know. But it was good times.

Weekly Photo: This is what my sky will look like for the next 5-9 months.


Bust out the wool tights.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl