I went, I ate, I shopped, I walked. Sleeping, not so much.
San Francisco was great, ya'll. I so needed a vacation. I just needed to get the heck out of town. I had these grand plans to traipse about the city snapping photos of my adventures so I could have a show and tell extravaganza for you guys so I packed up my camera and proceeded to not take one single solitary photo. Oh, except one, where I took a photo to document the fact that my shoes matched the decor of my hotel room. Margaret Bourke-White, eat your heart out.
So I will spare you the photo of my swanky shoes in my hotel room. But, as long as we are on the subject of the hotel, get this. One of the quotes on the website of this hotel said "if the hotel was an actor, it would be Harrison Ford." I'm not kidding. It really said that. Can anyone please interpret that for me? Because the hotel was lovely, but I didn't once think that it reminded me of Harrison Ford. It reminded me more of, say...a very stylish Mr. Belvidere. See, this hotel staff escorted Biology Girl and me around like they were in love with us. Every time we got on an elevator, a valet was there to chat with us. Every time we entered or exited the lobby, there was someone to ask us if we needed anything. We walked into our room to find a valet fixing an ottoman in our room. There was a knock on our door one afternoon and it was another valet who kindly changed the batteries in our phone. They gave us directions, they found us reservations, they did it all. At first, I called it Great Customer Service. Then, I called it Is It Our Pheremones? After a while, I called it Leave Us the Hell Alone. At one point, between leaving our room, riding down the elevator, and exiting the lobby, we were saying this to various staff members who acknowledged us or told us to have a great day all the way out of the building: "Hi...thanks...thank you...hello...fine thanks...good...thank you...hi...hello...yes...thank you..." Seriously. From the moment we left the room to the moment we left the building. Maybe they want you to feel like a celebrity (Harrison Ford, of course) because by the end of it I wanted to say "no comment" or throw a can of baked beans at them like Hugh Grant.
Oh, and speaking of celebrities, we went to this restaurant and had a celebrity sighting. Well, a semi-celeb. Marisa from Top Chef Season Two. As we were leaving, she was sitting in the lobby, waiting for a table. I am positive it was her, because I stopped in my tracks and I stared at her. She noticed me doing it too. That's right. I'm frequenting places where there are semi-famous people sitting there, and I stop and stare at them from two feet away. I'm high class that way.
And another thing? The frenzy that was going on in the H & M store was nothing short of Beatlemania. The pushing, the shoving, the hordes of people. Are they blowing crack through the venting systems in there? I wanted to buy each and every one of the sales workers a giant cookie for the crap that they are going through on a daily basis. But I didn't. Because, you know I needed that money to go towards a purple skirt and a sweater dress.
Also, (and yes I know these paragraphs are disjointed all you friggin' editor-type-blog-readers out there) Bio-Girl and I were in a large department store, buying some unmentionables, and the sales lady referred to the bodice of a chemise that Bio-Girl was looking at as "the part where the breasts go." I think Victoria's Secret needs to adopt this as an ad campaign, don't you? New this fall, more things where your breasts go.
I also spent some time with my friend K, who fed me crepes, took me to SF MOMA, and escorted me to the airport like the gentleman he is. He even laughs at my dick jokes, which is especially gentlemanly of him.
At the end of all of this, I was to be on the plane and home by 9:30 pm. Thanks to the wonders of modern travel, I was home by 3am. I did a lot more than this on my trip, but United has fucked me up with sleep deprivation to the point where that is all I can remember. Bio-Girl, K, Harrison Ford hotel, H & M frenzy, Marisa from Top Chef, and bra humor. Thanks, United Airlines!
Kiss the rings, I'm out.
I went, I ate, I shopped, I walked. Sleeping, not so much.
1. I'm not ignoring you. Really. My week is totally kicking my hiney right now. So much so, that I am saying the word "hiney." I am also listening to a phonograph while sitting here in my pinafore.
2. I am so tired right now that I am doing that thing where, instead of blinking, I am just periodically closing my eyes for a second or two, and hoping no one notices.
3. I am tired because, for the past two days, my eyes have been popping open at 5:30 am. Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey! I have no explanation as to why this is happening. I fear it is because I am getting to be one of those old people that barely sleeps at night, naps throughout the day, and eats dinner at 3 in the afternoon. If I start to complain about those rotten kids, please help me.
4. I heard someone say the other day that they were laughing so hard that they were afraid that they needed "Depends" because they were going to pee their pants. Depends! Isn't that funny? It's DEPEND. As in, you can depend on it. Not depends, as in: will it keep you dry? Maybe, it depends.
5. The fact that I took the energy to think through whether adult diapers should be correctly identified as Depend or Depends is being added to the mounting evidence that I am turning into a ripe old granny.
6. I said mounting! Hee! Ok, I'm back to juvenile behavior again. Whew.
7. I have been having so much funny, entertaining library moments this week, it's ridiculous. I can't tell you about any of them though, lest I get dooced. But trust me, it can be the funnest, funniest place to work, ever.
8. I swore that I was going to get through the final Harry Potter book before my San Francisco trip. So not going to happen. However, I have perfected the two ways that exist to say Harry Potter with an English accent. You can either say it like he's your best friend: "Harry Pottah!" or you can say it all evil style like Draco, like you're spitting it out: "Harry Pottah." Go ahead. Try it. You'll see exactly what I mean.
9. God I'm tired.
10. Neighbor J dug up some photo from a "behind the scenes" thing about the Little House on the Prairie tv show. How freaky is this?
What's Harriet doing to Laura??? I am never sleeping again.
I will write a post that makes some kind of half-baked sense soon. Really.
Kiss the rings, I'm out.
When I was 12 years old, I was awarded a scholarship to a fancy pants, world-renowned ballet school. This meant that I had to pack up my bags and leave home to live in a dorm with a bunch of girls who were much older than me. When you are 12 years old and you are thrown into the middle of a pack of extremely competetive 16 year old girls, it would seem difficult to make friends, yes? You'd think that they'd want to slap me upside the tutu, much in the same way that I always wanted supposedly "cute" Scrappy Doo to get his little head blown off. Yet, I remember fitting in quite well. Are you impressed with this story so far? Because I am. I look back at that and I think about how I had BALLS, marching into that situation with no parents and no friends and just taking it all in stride and successfully hanging out with all the big kids. Like a lot of things during that part of my life, I can't quite believe I pulled it off so well. Dancing up a storm, making friends, living on my own. I was a rockin' little kid. Except for one thing. I minimized the whole thing to the point where I almost kept it a secret.
Let me elaborate. The day that I was to leave for the school, my parents took me to the airport, helped me check in my bags, and walked me to the gate to deliver me to the flight attendant. The attendant knelt down and pinned a big white button on my coat. The button said "Unaccompanied Minor." Isn't that crazy? What kind of thing is that to put on a little girl? They may as well have given me a sign to carry that said "Pedophiles and kidnappers, this one's for you!" Do airlines still do this? I hope not. But I digress. I got on the plane and found my seat. All of the flight attendants, knowing that I was on my own, showered me with attention. I was swimming in peanuts and ginger ale, and I remember one of them excitedly telling me that she had just been on a flight where she had served Bryan Adams a beer in First Class. I think she thought that she was bonding with me about Bryan Adams so I tried to be enthusiastic about the story. There was a woman sitting next to me on the flight, and at one point she turned to me kindly and asked "so, where are you off to, all by yourself? Visiting relatives?" I looked at her. I looked up at the two flight attendants that were standing in the aisle next to me, hovering like two doting aunties. They were so nice, so lovely to me. And I looked at all of their sweet faces and I said, without blinking: "I am going to rodeo clown school." I'm not kidding. I totally said that.
Why? What would possess me to say such a thing? I thought that if I told them where I was really going, that I would be bragging. And I didn't want to be gross braggy girl. Nothing would be worse than being gross braggy girl. God forbid I would be proud of myself. And if I was proud of myself, for god's sake, I needed to keep that shit quiet. I was a very nice girl. And nice girls minimize their accomplishments. Right?
Never mind the fact that saying that I was going to rodeo clown school was clearly a ridiculous lie. I remember looking at the women's reactions, and seeing in their faces that they knew I was a big liar and maybe a little nutty in the noggin. That, somehow, was ok with me. Being a weirdo-liar was better than being a proud girl. Anything was better than telling them something that made me feel good about myself.
So as an adult, I have been on a mission to beat this tendency out of myself. I think it's total crap that I got the message, somewhere along the line, that you don't claim your successes, that you hide when you're happy, that you're a better person if you feel bad about yourself a lot. I don't know where this message came from. My parents are models of kick-ass power unconditional-love. Their hearts would have broken had they known I felt this way as a kid. But I learned it somewhere. It's in the air; it sneaks into your skin before you know it.
So now, I am a staunch advocate of self love. (Dirty!) I'm all about accepting myself, giving myself a goddamn break, knowing that hells yeah, I kind of rock out, balls out. Sometimes it's harder than other times. I admit that I still had a little bit of an embarrassed cringe when I typed the first sentence of this post, and that I tried to find a way of saying that I got a scholarship to a fancy school without actually SAYING that I got a scholarship to a fancy school. Until I realized that that was what I was doing and decided to just say what I meant and fuck it if it sounds...confident. I am a librarian who believes in not-shushing people. And hey, I'm people! So I need to not shush myself. Damn, it's hard though.
But I have, honestly, been waging a full-scale war on this boolcrap for some years now. It seems to be getting easier as I go along. You won't find me, EVER, as a RULE, participating in those girly conversations where the purpose is to take turns kicking ourselves in the jugular. You know the conversations I'm talking about. They go a little something like this: "I'm so fat!" or "I hate my hair!" or "why won't he CALL me?" And the longer I don't engage in this stuff, the more I don't believe in it any more. Actually, my hair is just fine thanks.
How often do you judge yourself? Think about it. Then do me a favor. QUIT IT. Try and go one day where you think that you're fabulous for the whole day. Then go another day. It won't always work, but eventually, you'll get to a place where you have more fabulous days than judgy days. And you'll have more compassion for other people too, which is a bonus.
All of this babble is merely a preface (goddammit that was a long preface) because I got tagged by Bohemian Girl with the Stuart Smalley meme. Here goes. I'm going to write out ten things that rock about me. And when I start to feel embarrassed and uncomfortable in doing this, or when I feel like I want to make a joke to minimize what I'm saying, I am going to say, loud and proud, FUCK MODESTY. I suggest you do the same.
1. I'm a good conversationalist. I listen and ask a lot of questions, and I have good stories to tell too.
2. In any social group, I can always tell right away who the person is in the room that feels left out, or uncomfortable, or shy. I do whatever I can to make that person feel welcome. At parties, I don't usually gravitate to the person who is the center of attention- my radar pulls me the opposite way.
3. I have good boundaries with people. I know what's healthy for me and what's not, and if you're not, I'm cutting you out. No apologies and no hard feelings.
4. I like that I laugh a really lot.
5. I'm a really good librarian. I rock it every day.
6. I pick the greatest friends. I think it's my best talent. The people around me are ridiculously amazing. And I don't half-ass friendship. If you're my peeps, then I'm all in for you.
7. I like that I live my life, on all levels, according to my values and my ethics. And that I know exactly what my values and ethics are.
8. I love my style. Clothes, home, all of it really expresses who I am. It's minimalist both in style and in the fact that I don't own a lot, but it seems like I do.
9. I like that I take really good care of myself. I eat right, I'm active, I sleep enough, I take time for myself, I'm kind to myself, all that stuff.
10. I have a great rack. I'm just saying.
Ok, so I had to make a sort of joke at the end. It was getting a little too much for me there. Still, I gave it my best shot. And you know what? My rack ain't half bad. Just kidding! No, I'm not. Yes, I am. Kind of. Not really. Damn it. This is hard.
I'm tagging all ya'll. Go love yourself.
Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Well, once again you all have saved the day. I asked for questions, I got questions. You all are like James Lipton with his scary blue notecards. Because of you, I have been saved from the hell of writing another post about band-aids on the sidewalk. I wrote a post about a band-aid on the sidewalk. I mean, really. I apologize.
Here goes nothing:
We have an adorable little page that works at our library. She's way too cool for small town living (she just turned 20.) She has a brother residing in Seattle. For as much as we would miss her, we are trying to convince her to get out of dodge and move there. Do you recommend Seattle? We're not friendly in NH to start with, so that part would not be an issue.
Despite my previous post about missing the Midwest so much that my eyelashes hurt, I do absolutely recommend Seattle. It is a rockin' town and I wouldn't still be here if I didn't think so. It's got groovy urban chic-ness, plus mountains and ocean, plus Kenny G lives here, so come ON. Ok, forget about the Kenny G. part. But it is a great city. And if you're a 20-year-old adorable-little-page type person, I'm sure making friends will not be a problem. Tell her to give it a whirl.
Scottsdale Princess asked:
I will ask you my standard questions.
1) How many licks to the center of a Tootsie Pop?
2) What is your power animal?
Scottsdale. These are your standard questions? Standard? Like, you ask a lot of people these questions? I find that totally fascinating. Much more fascinating than my answers, that's for sure. I mean, my standard questions are more like: how are you? or are you going to finish that doughnut? or I'm cold, are you cold? Your standard questions are so much better than that. Anyhoo. Licks to the center of a tootsie pop: I feel that Tootsie Pops are like a lovely fruit sucker with a turd in the center. So no licks for me. And my power animal? MY POWER ANIMAL? What language are we speaking right now, because I have no idea what that is. Ok, I just googled it and took a quiz. My power animal is a hummingbird. Shit, man. That ain't even sexy or nothing. I wanted it to be a cheetah or a wolf of some shit like that. Figures.
Sleepless in Dallas asked:
Why not marry Nordic boy?
I am going to be all mysterious with this one and say: I don't think I've ever said that I am not married to Nordic Boy. I also don't think I've ever said that I am. Oh my goodness look how coy the librarian is being. I'm not saying this to be coy. I'm just saying this to illustrate how little being married means to me. I truly could not care less about whether I'm married or not. It's good for some practicalities, like making sure your partner can share your benefits and all like that, and I totally get it if it's important to other people and that's cool. But to my life, it's totally irrelevant to my identity. I just loves that dude, that's all.
She also asked: Why don't more people have summer homes in Colorado where its perfect summer weather?
Is that true? Colorado has perfect summer weather? My knowledge of Colorado begins with the fact that John Denver sang about it and ends with the fact that Mork and Mindy lived there, so I am woefully underqualified to answer this question. Shazbat.
Bohemian Girl asked:
You forgot your friend's birthday! What can you make out of duct tape and batteries?
First of all, me forgetting a birthday is highly, highly unlikely. I am kind of obsessed with birthdays. I'll prove it: today is the birthday of one of my high school boyfriends. I remember it, even to this day. I can't explain what it is about birthdays. And second of all, the liklihood of me giving anyone a birthday present made out of duct tape and batteries- also very slim. I am the Make-A-Big-Deal-About-Birthdays Doyenne. However! In the interest of playing along, I could make a pretty rad wallet out of duct tape. Really, I could. It's right in this book. Then, I'd put the batteries in the wallet, you know, as a bonus to the present. Can I just say again that I would never do this? Because it pains me a little, just typing that.
chocolate milk girl asked:
I didn't get the impression that you grew up in Chicago. I don't remember why, but I got the distinct idea that it was closer to Detroit. Reveal!
Wow, you are good. Yes, it's true, I am not from Chicago. I did live there for a spell, but that was as an adult. I was raised outside of Detroit, in Flint, Michigan. If the next thing out of your mouth is "Isn't that where Michael Moore is from?" I will kick you. Not that I am anti-Michael Moore, actually I am not. It's just that's what EVERYONE SAYS. Next time you hear anything about Flint, Michigan, I want you to say the following: "isn't that where the pop culture librarian is from?" And if you can't bring yourself to say that, then say "Isn't that where Ready for the World is from?" Ok? Thanks.
What's the matter with you that you should miss Chicago in August?
Does Seattle have Potbelly's yet? Or is that still just a Chicago thing?
Oh Ben. Any question that starts out with "what's the matter with you..." is just too much to answer all at once. There are just TOO MANY things wrong with me to get into. And also, there is no Potbelly's in Seattle. And, I have never been to a Potbelly's, nor even heard of it, so I guess that proves that my ties to Chicago are officially old and decrepit.
katie k asked:
How did you and Nordic Boy become you and Nordic Boy?
Wow. This story has to be saved for another post. We've known each other since we were teenagers and getting us to the Going Steady stage was a long, twisty road that barely makes sense to the two of us, let alone explaining it to all of you in a short, pithy fashion. As to how we first met each other, let me just say that it involves deceit, intrigue, a jeep with a hole in the floor, phantom beer, power tools, and a dramatic sliver-in-finger injury. Not exactly a Meg Ryan movie, but it worked for us.
WDL asked about first day on the job:
Again, I'll have to save that one up for another post. To tide you over, it involved me running around acting like I knew what the hell I was doing. Soon after, I actually did know what I was doing. But that first day? FAKING IT.
How many times have you moved?
Moved cities? 9 or 10 times, I think. I am only counting times when I have actually packed up all my shit and taken it all with me. There were times when I temporarily moved to different dance schools to live when I was growing up, but that was more like I was just taking a few suitcases and then coming home after like 6 months or so, so that doesn't really feel like moving. If you're talking moving residences, like within each city, then shit- it's got to be like twenty times or so over the course of my life. Is that a lot? It sounds like a lot.
How many cars have you owned?
I have officially owned two cars. Is there anything interesting to say about cars? If there is, I don't know how to. So yeah. Two. One was red and the other was blue. Um. They had wheels and stuff.
Your Dream Dozen for a dinner party? (real, fictional, living or dead, doesn't matter.)
Ok, these kind of questions are total agony. I over analyze them. I think of all these cool people and inevitabley have too many, so then I systematically eliminate them based on a complicated rubric of made-up bullshittery. I will not play this evil game, not this time! I will just spit out the first dozen I think of.
Eddie Izzard (oh so witty for conversation)
Dostoevsky (probably a bit of a downer, but oh well)
Natalie Wood (I'd ask her about how she drowned and did Christopher Walken or that Hart to Hart guy REALLY have anything to do with it)
Cary Grant (just to hear him call me "darling")
Sitting Bull (because he's cool)
John Lennon (from circa 1972)
Gayatri Spivak (hell if we'll know what she's saying, but we can all act intellectual)
Tim Gunn (aw, Tim)
David Byrne (he's probably surprisingly dull)
Marjane Satrapi (she'll probably want to smoke at the table)
Margaret Cho (someone who swears as much as I do)
M.I.A. (she'll bring the tunes)
I'll have you know that I am having a very hard time not going back and editing that list. It's kind of paining me to just leave it as is. Phyl! You evil question asker!
If you were stuck on an island and only had four things and/or people of your own choosing what would/who they be?
Aw hell. Phyl you are KILLING ME with these questions. I don't know what my four things would be, but I'm telling you this right now. If I see any polar bears running around or a mysterious run of numbers starts to appear everywhere, I am freaking the fuck OUT.
Sauntering Soul asked:
Did you eat anything weird as a child? Crayons? Mud?
What? You think I was crazy paste-eater-girl, don't you? You totally do, Sauntering Soul, I can tell. I would be offended, but considering, well, ME, I guess I can't blame you. However. NO, I have never eaten mud, nor crayons. (and may I just say: CRAYONS? People eat crayons? I have never heard of this. I shudder to think what this would do in the Number Two department, if you know what I mean). I can't think of a time when I ingested something that I was not supposed to. I did go through a phase where I doused everything I ate with Tabasco sauce when I was younger. In fact, when I was a freshman in college I carried a bottle of it in my coat pocket. If you ever tasted the food at my dorm, you wouldn't fault me for this. Hey, I know it's not as interesting anecdote-wise as being a crayola-muncher, but it's all I've got.
What's the farthest you've ever gone on a dare?
I never needed dares to do stupid things as a youngster. I did them all on my own, no prompting necessary. For instance, I volunteered to be the snowball-throwing target for my brothers and his friends when I was in grade school. I stood up against our garage door, and let them pelt me with snowballs. Voluntarily. Who needs to waste a dare on someone when they're doing stupid shit like that?
What's the most awesome compliment you've ever received?
Someone once said to me that they didn't really believe that people were living happy, full lives until they met me and now they did believe in it. Just ignore the fact that this was obviously a depressed, Eeyore-like person that had issues that had nothing to do with me, and you're left with kind of a nice compliment.
What is one thing scientists should invent to make your life easier?
A teleporter. Definitely.
What is the one question you wouldn't want me to ask?
Any sort of "favorites" question. Favorite color, book, movie. I suck at favorites.
Samantha Jo Campen asked:
If you were a crayon, what color would you be and why?
Again with the crayons. Now that I know crayons are a food group, does this change my answer? Not really. I would be midnight blue. Both for the color and for the name of the color. I like them both.
If you were a Sesame Street character, who would you be and why?
On a day like today, when I am feeling kind of tired and out of ideas to blog about (until you guys rescued me with these questions), I would be that composer guy who tries to compose music but can never finish. Remember? He would start to sing, then end up saying "OH I'M NEVER GOING TO GET IT! NEVER! WHY? WHY? WHY?" and then he would pound his head down on the piano keys. On a better day, I would either be Super Grover (because although he is super he tends to crash into things) or The Amazing Mumford (because I would love to run around doing tricks and saying "A LA PEANUT BUTTER SANDWICHES!")
Oh my god. I'm spent. I think I'll go eat me some crayons or something.
Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Listen to me, and listen good. If you have not been watching So You Think You Can Dance, I feel so, so sorry for you. It is so good, it makes my eyes water. Last night? This ballroom dancer from Russia, Pasha is his name, did an emotional solo dance wherein a headless, armless mannequin was set in the middle of the stage, wearing a purple sequined evening gown, and Pasha danced all around the dress. He danced for the dress. He danced TO the dress. Oh, and the song he danced to? Total Eclipse of the Heart. I was in my house, by myself, yelling at Pasha. NO YOU DIDN'T! YOU DID NOT! PASHA, NOOOO! But he did. And it was wondrous. So horrifying, it was good. I don't like scary movies, really, because they usually don't scare me. But Pasha and the evening gown. Gah! Chills and thrills, people.
I've been feeling a little bit homesick lately. I know what you're thinking. I'm home already. Yes, that's true. But what I mean is that I am homesick for my first home. The Midwest. I love where I live now, I really do. But I'm a Midwesterner through and through, and sometimes, the west coast kind of bums me out. See, the west coast people, they are polite. And politeness is a great thing. Living here, you don't get honked at in your car until you want to kill someone, and you don't tend to yell at people out of your open car window, at least not on a daily basis. People use the crosswalks here and don't run out into the streets willy nilly. Why all of my examples of west coast politeness are all traffic-based at the moment, I am not sure, but stay with me here. I'm just prefacing what I am about to say with the fact that I like civility, I like politeness. It's not a bad thing. But you know what? Politeness has a bad side. A tiresome side. Especially when you're a Midwesterner like me. See, Midwesterners are all "hey what's up? How are you? Tell me about your life. Come on in. Sit down. Call me any time. Better yet, just come on over. Want something to eat? How's your mom?" And West Coasters are more "How are you?" "I'm doing well, thanks." There's like this distance between people. Stay back. Don't tell me how you REALLY are. I'm too busy right now. In fact, I am always too busy. Let's get out our day-planners so we can find a time to hang out that has a beginning time and and end time. Blah, blah, blah.
It's not everyone. It's just the culture of the place. It gets into my pores sometimes and drives me crazy. And bums me out. And that's what I'm feeling like these days. Cheery, no?
Don't worry, I'll get over it soon. In the meantime, I am having a deficit in blogging ideas. So, it's question time once again. Got any burning questions for Librarian Girl? Want to know something about her likes, dislikes, thoughts, dreams? Want to ask her why she breaks into referring to herself in the third person sometimes? Go for it. Email me, comment, send me a smoke signal. Ask me a question, please. Because you guys, really, I need fodder for the blogmill.
And by the way, that band-aid was still there today. In case you were wondering.
Kiss the rings, I'm out.
I have never learned to drink coffee. I think it has a taste akin to perhaps what a rat's ass would taste like. I know that in the grand scheme of things, not liking coffee is a good thing, because you know, that shit will kill you. Seriously. What was that Johns Hopkins study where they found that you were like 50% more likely to keel over from a heart attack if you drink coffee or something like that? Remember that? Yikes, right? So I know that staying coffee-free is not a bad thing. Still, I admit that I do feel, well, kind of left out when it comes to coffee. Maybe it's because I live in a coffee-crazed city, maybe it's because everyone I know drinks coffee, maybe it's because it smells so damn good. I don't know what it is.
During breaks at work, all of my co-workers trek over to all the nearby cafes to get their coffee fix. I don't need a coffee fix, but yet, I use my break time to trek over to a cafe too. Sometimes I buy a tea, sometimes I don't buy anything. But I walk my ass over there. Just because I am caving to peer pressure, I guess. It just seems like the thing to do. A few months ago, as I was strolling down the sidewalk, I looked down and noticed this.
That's a band-aid. A used band-aid, stuck to the sidewalk. Gross. I live in a pretty clean city. I mean, for a city. It's not like the water running down the gutters is crystal clear and ready for bottling or anything, but compared to most cities, mine is quite trash-free. So the band-aid sort of stands out when you're walking by it. I first noticed the band-aid a few months ago. MONTHS. And you know what? It's still there. I walk by the band-aid every damn day, over and over again. I'm sure as hell not going to be the one to pick it up, unless someone has a HazMat suit they want to lend me. But someone. Please. Pick it up! It's driving me crazy. Day after day with the band-aid! You'd think I have bigger things to worry about. Turns out, I don't.
In non-band-aid news (there's something you don't say every day), I give you my long distance conversation with Nordic Boy last night.
Me: Hey, what are you doing?
Nordic Boy: Just waiting for my last appointment to show up.
Me: Ok, well call me when you get back to the hotel tonight.
Nordic Boy: What are you doing?
Me: ...Actually, I'm not doing anything. Literally.
Nordic Boy: Not reading? Not watching tv?
Me: Nope. I was just sitting here. Thinking, I guess. But not really. Just spacing out.
Nordic Boy: In a good way?
Me: No, in a bored way.
Nordic Boy: Aw. That's not good. When I call you when I get back to the hotel, have something figured out by then ok?
Me: Are you giving me an assignment?
Nordic Boy: Well, yeah. You've got about an hour. I'm going to call you back, and you're going to be doing something, and you're not going to be bored.
Me: Are you life-coaching me right now? I feel like I'm being life-coached.
Nordic Boy: Go do something!
I never came up with anything that exciting. Maybe I should have gone and said hello to the band-aid. So reliable, it is. Always there for me.
Kiss the rings, I'm out.
I would like to go on record here and say that I am not consistently stupid about any one subject. Ok, maybe hardware. I am consistently stupid about hardware and other Home Depot-ish things. I don't care how many nuts and screws I have seen in my life, all I will ever get from the phrase nuts and screws is a hearty chuckle because, you know, nuts. And screws. Funny! But other than that, I am not consistently stupid about any one subject. Rather, I am inconsistently stupid in a variety of subjects. I go through my days, being somewhat smart 99% of the time. But that last 1%. Wow. The lengths of dumb that are contained in that 1% is enough for hours of entertainment.
Every morning, I make myself a 1/2 cup of oatmeal. I am seldom hungry enough to eat a 1/2 cup of oatmeal, so I end up wasting some of it. Every day.
Nordic Boy: Why don't you just make yourself a quarter cup of oatmeal?
Me: I tried that. It's not enough.
Nordic Boy: Ok, how about a third of a cup?
Me: I don't know how. I wouldn't know how much water to put in.
Nordic Boy: So, a half cup needs how much water?
Me: One cup.
Nordic Boy: So for a third, you'd need?
Me: That's just it. It doesn't say on the box.
Nordic Boy: It's DOUBLE the water. Get it? Half a cup equals one cup water?
Me: ...(pause)... oooooh. So a third... just put in two thirds? ....ooooh. Right.
Yes, it is my job to give people information. I have a degree that says I am qualified that I paid good money for. On many other subjects I can know-it-all you under the table. Just not oatmeal prep. Shut up.
I went to see the Bourne Ultimatum last night. First of all, is it me or are there like 85 gajillion previews before a movie these days? I am all for previews, but dang, people. Anyway. Bourne Ultimatum. I quite liked it. I am not a big action film lover, but you know what? I get hordes of pleasure from watching people get things done in a quick, direct manner. Do you get what I'm saying? It's the same pleasure I get with my to-do list each day. BAM! Checking things off. POP! On to the next. CRACK! So frickin' productive. WHAM! And I'm done. Die, to-do list! DIE! Watching Matt Damon run around, knowing what he's doing, outsmarting people. It's like a know-it-all paradise with fistfights and car chases thrown in, really. If he had carried a to-do list around with him while eluding the CIA and crossed off tasks as he went along, I tell you, I would have been in hog heaven.
There was only one thing that marred the blood-soaked to-do list movie. Sitting in front of me, was a family. A woman, a man, and two little kids. And the kids. They were little. Like, maybe 7 and 9 years old. Listen, I am not saying that they shouldn't have been at this movie. The parents know their own kids and I have no judgment about that. It just made me squirm a little bit, having these little kids right in front of me while the killing spree was happening. It was like watching a sex scene with my mom in the room. I kept thinking about them, as the scenes were happening. What were they thinking? Was any of this too scary for them? Are they ok? It's ok if you want to close your eyes, kids! I do too, at certain moments! It's perfectly alright if this is too much for you! You know that when they are holding Matt Damon's head under water with a bag over his head, it's just acting, right? I just had overwhelming thoughts about media literacy throughout the entire movie and what sorts of things I would want those little kids to know, and hoping that they knew them. At least, that's what I was thinking about in between the moments of enjoying Matt Damon beating the shit out of someone. So I guess that proves that I really know nothing, so who am I to talk. I mean, sheesh- I don't even know how to make oatmeal.
Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Ok, everyone in my life is hiding from me. Every person. Was it something I said? Did I talk about Scott Baio too much? Do I smell like something bad, like oh, I don't know, what's a bad smelling thing? Horsey sauce from Arby's? Do I smell like that? Please, someone. Tell me. Because me, the lady who usually has to intentionally schedule time in my week to be alone, is hearing nothing but crickets right now, in terms of socialness. I am less a social butterfly these days and more a social three-toed sloth. Sloths are solitary animals, right? So the opposite of a social butterfly would be a sloth, right? See, I am so discombobulated about my tumbleweed-in-a-ghost-town calendar that I can't even get my metaphors right. Sloths, horsey sauce. Bah. Do you ever have those times where you feel like you are the last person on earth? That's what I felt like last night. Where the hell is everyone? They're gone, busy, having loads of fun, I'm sure. And all without me.
So, what did I do with this evening of free time? I thought about doing a lot of things-- things I would normally do with a free night. Should I go shoe shopping? Should I work on a painting? Should I read? Should I go to a movie or rent one? Go for a walk, perhaps? No. I did none of these. Instead, I did a good long stretch of something very, very important. I sulked. Yes I did! Poor, friendless Librarian Girl. And I texted Biology Girl while she sat in a laundromat two states away. That Bio-Girl. Always willing to lend an ear, even when I am sulky and texting nonsensical gibberish to her. God bless her. And also damn her for living so far away. Bless and damn her. All at once. Oh, and I did one more thing. I watched tivo-d episodes of Greek. A word of advice. This is not the show to watch when you're feeling low, friends. Because the show? It's stupid. And the only reason one would watch it is to reinforce to themselves that they have no friends and no life. And yeah, I watched three episodes in a row.
In other, non-sulky news, you know what phrase I like to say a lot? "Shut up!" I say this phrase multiple times on any given day. Not in a shushy way, despite my librarian cred. More like a Little Richard sort of way. You tell me something surprising and you can expect a can of shut-up juice from me to you. So I'm talking to my mom on the phone yesterday. My mom's first language is English, but it's not American English. And even though 35 years in this country has taught her to understand a lot of American English and slang and such, there are times when she doesn't quite know what the correct response is. So, she'll try and roll with it, and I love it when she does.
Her: So then, he called your brother and told him what's going on!
Me: SHUT UP!
Her: No, I won't shut up. He called your brother!
Her: ...and then your dad improved so much his physical therapy is only three times a week now!
Me: SHUT UP!
Her: I won't shut up. I won't!
Isn't that grand? "I won't shut up! I won't!" So sassy, my mom is.
Really, I say it a lot. Bio-Girl even made me a Christmas ornament to celebrate this fact. And what says "Happy Holidays" better than this? Nothing, that's what.
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