Reading This Will Make You Look Good

You know I am a giggly girl by now, right? I think loads and loads of things are funny. Even things that don't seem funny, like Marlene Dietrich singing Where Have All the Flowers Gone. There is something about the way she sings it. It's like she is supremely pissed off, and also painfully bored with it all. It's funny. To me, anyway. If you know me really well, you know that I laugh a lot. If you don't know me personally, or if you only know me from work, this may surprise you. In fact, I hardly laugh at all at work. Really, hardly ever. I have also been told that my "resting face" is somewhat serious. Someone actually said that to me once. My resting face. I think what they meant is my face when I am neither actively smiling nor frowning. Just neutral. I was like, of course my resting face is serious. Who has a resting face that's smiley? Unless you're Carrot Top and your face is pulled back like you live in a wind tunnel, I think everyone has a serious neutral face, don't they?

Anyway, back to Marlene Dietrich. I know that the song is important, and historic, and political. I get it, I'm down, I appreciate that. But sometimes, it's in the delivery. How you say something can overshadow what you say, right? This point was driven home to me by Marlene and by two other things that I witnessed yesterday.

1. Last night I was talking on the phone to Biology Girl. She and I have epic conversations where we talk about very important topics like whether Dr. Pepper is a man or a woman doctor, and how many new inductees we have for our fictional town (Polly Graph just moved in recently, in case you're wondering). As we were talking, Bio Girl was cooking dinner. As she chopped her vegetables, she dropped the phone, almost fell down, caught herself and caught the phone, all in one fell swoop. All I heard was a slight bumping sound and a muffled "whoa!" and she was back, talking as if nothing had happened.

Me: Are you ok? What just happened?
Her: I started to slip and fall and drop the phone, but managed to stay standing and chopping, while I caught the phone in my other hand.
Me: Wow!
Her: I know! I am like a one-man Charlie Chaplin over here!

A one-man Charlie Chaplin. As opposed to a five-man Charlie Chaplin? How many people was Charlie Chaplin, exactly? Just one, right? So why would you compare yourself to someone else by saying you were a one-man them? I'll tell you why. Because it sounds more impressive that way. Go ahead and try it. The next time you: cook a great meal, say "hey! I'm a one-man Mario Batali!" or strike a papparazi-worthy pose, say "what can I say? I'm a one-woman Paris Hilton!" or forget where you left your keys, say "Lookee that! I'm a one-man Alberto Gonzales!" It inflates the awesomeness. It's great marketing.

2. I've been doing some research on plants and trees and stuff (see how knowledgable I am about it? I said plants and trees. Like trees aren't plants or something. And let's also point out how I included the all-important "stuff" in there too. Plants. Trees. Stuff. All things I obviously know lots and lots about). Come spring, I have to decide what to plant in my naked yard and so I have to think about that and wrap my mind around it. I was looking at this website, which is put out by an awesome organization called Plant Amnesty. They have lots of cool stuff on there about urban ecology and all kinds of stuff that I need to know but don't. Anyway, there's this section of the website that talks about the practice of "topping" trees. This is when people really prune the shit off the top of a tree, or even just cut off the top of the tree all together. It's fairly common I guess, and apparently it is not a healthy thing to be doing, according to Plant Amnesty and other arborist sites I've seen. On this site, they talk about all the things that are not good about tree topping, and all of it makes sense. It's not healthy for trees, it's dangerous. All practical, good advice that is clearly reasoned out. Then, the last reason that you shouldn't top a tree? "It makes you look bad." It totally says that! If you top a tree, you will LOOK BAD. Plant Amnesty is trying to shame you out of topping your trees! They follow this statement with "Topping makes you appear to be a cruel or foolish person." Oh man! Harsh! Really, is this the way that people are going to get other people to do the right thing? "You better recycle, or your neighbors will HATE YOU." "Hey, make a donation to the Red Cross or your house will be EGGED." "Pay off your credit cards or no one will SIT WITH YOU AT LUNCH." Wow. Plant Amnesty is like a one-woman Joan Rivers on the red carpet with that attitude.

Remember, it's all in how you say something. And also, if you don't pay your library fines, society will revile you. I'm just saying.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Weekly Two, Making a Point

Time for another Weekly Which I Totally Stoled From Chris!

Do you ever say "stoled"? Like, "I stoled it"? Is this a midwestern-ism? It's one of those phrases that just warms me to the core when I hear it. Like "hisself." Or "I coulda went" instead of "I could have gone." All of those speak to me on some subconscious childhood level that I am not even aware of. I must have heard these things in the womb or something. No Baby Einstein for me! Instead, my folks were hanging out with people who were all "He coulda went and stoled it hisself!" And there were probably cusswords thrown in. Because I have an irrational love of those too. I was also apparently brought up in a world where babbling incoherent thoughts to strangers was held in high esteem as well. Because hi. That's what I do.

Back to the Weeklies! Oh, but before I do that, one more thing. Speaking of Weeklies, there is a free alternative newspaper in my town called the Weekly. I bet your town has something like this. Alternative news in the front, "adult services" ads at the end? I like to think of these kinds of papers, with their serious fronts and seedy backs as the mullets of the news world. You know, business up front, party in the back? Anyhoo. The Weekly has an "I Saw U" section. It's a personal ad section where people write in if they saw some stranger somewhere that they want to send a message to. For instance, it could go something like this: "I was on the Edmonds Kingston ferry boat last Monday and saw you getting out of your car. You had a polka dot satchel and you smiled at me on the ferry stairs. Thought we had a moment. Go for a drink?" Something like that. Guess what, you guys? I got an I Saw U once, a few months ago! It cited the reference question I helped this person with, and the color shirt I was wearing, and the location. It was definitely me. I was:

1. Totally excited to be in the I Saw U section. Why? I don't know. But it was exciting to be all "hey! That's ME!"

2. Annoyed that the person didn't really know what an I Saw U is. It's for chance encounters. You see someone in passing, in a place where you can't track them down, and so your only recourse is to send out an I Saw U ad, like a message in a bottle, hoping the other person will chance upon it. It's not for sending a random message to someone who works at a specific place. I work at the library. Every day. I am always there. If you want to say hi to me, there I am. No I Saw U necessary. Stupid.

No one ever followed up on this I Saw U, so I guess I will never get a chance to tell him/her that I think they are kind of idiotic. That's good, since it's not exactly a good, romantic ending to an I Saw U.

Get on with the freakin' Weekly already! Goddammit, Librarian Girl!

Weekly TeeVee: Although I am loathe to admit that anything that has to do with Ashton Kutcher is something I am liking, the first episode of Beauty and the Geek cracked my shit up. Except the guy that they are touting as the male beauty? Ew. That guy is not good. Really, not good. Who cast that guy? He looks like someone who would smell like baby oil. If you have no idea what that means, I am really happy for you. Because no one should know what that means.

Weekly Music: I have been singing a lot of commercial jingles lately. Is that what they're called? Jingles? Like "I've got the fever for the flavor of a Pringles!" and "Monchichi Monchichi oh so soft and cud-del-lee" and "Please don't eat all the morsels!" As we were driving home the other night, we drove by an auto parts store. I busted out with "Schuck's has a plan for every small child, woman and man!" Pause. "You know, that commercial doesn't make any sense. Why would Schuck's have a plan for every small child, woman and man? And what about large children? No plan for them?" Nordic Boy, bless him, had the answer. "Because that's not how it goes. It's for every car, truck, wagon and van." Oh.

Weekly Worst Moment: I am a confident public speaker. I don't get nervous to talk in front of people, and I don't understand why this would be on the top of any sort of list of phobias. I don't need a script, I don't care what the topic is, I can come up with something to say off the top of my head. But folklore has it that people fear speaking in front of other people more than they fear death. Something tells me that has got to be an urban myth. Because speechmaking vs. kicking the bucket? That seems like a no-contest situation right there. I was at an outreach event at a local middle school the other day, merely in a coordinating role. I wasn't supposed to say anything, I was just there to support the people who were there to say something. Then, in the middle of the presentation, all of a sudden the people who were there to talk pointed at me, sitting on the floor in the back of the auditorium, and called upon me to say something very, very unexpected. All 200 8th grade heads turned around to look at me, and I had to scramble up from my stupid sitting position to say something that came out sounding a lot like this: "ah, yes. well, that is a great point you've made there. And I will now respond to that point, which was great, by the way, and in terms of points being made in this here auditorium, that one is one which I was hoping to comment upon, so I am so glad that you chose this moment to include me, because as points go, I would like to say the following about that wonderful point that you have brought into the forum here, and thanks so much for bouncing that point, in this forum, to my side of said forum, because I was hoping it would bounce in this general direction for me to catch and then bounce back although, due to the pointy nature of your point, it may not bounce so much as be thrown in a dart-like manner to the next person and so watch out because that pointy point may be dangerous!." Ok, so it wasn't that bad. It just felt like that. That seriously has never, ever happened to me. Now I see the correlation between public speaking and death.

Weekly Best Moment: After the above-mentioned moment, as I was gathering up my stuff to leave, a group of giggly 8th grade girls came over to me to tell me they loved my outfit. I am highly attuned to 8th grade sarcasm, and I am almost sure these girls meant it. The lesson here is that when I make an ass of myself, compliment me on something completely shallow and I will forget the bad moment ever happened. It also means that being accepted by 8th grade girls has just as much of a powerful effect as it did when I was actually in 8th grade. Which maybe needs to be filed under the Weekly Scariest Moment.

Weekly Picture: This is what the place looked like before the scene of my verbal downfall and fashion comeback. Remember when you had to sit in places like this? Eeek, right?


Middle School Auditorium of Doom

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Whine Seller

You know, for a personal blog, I think that I do a pretty good job of keeping the whining to a minimum. Don't I? Ok, so there was the post recently about my hairstylist opening up a can of whoop-ass on my head. I would say that was more enraged, and less whiny, but I'll give you that one. I can see how that would qualify in the whine department. And I am predisposed to whine a bit about how cold I am alla time. But hey, think about what it would mean to go through life feeling like you were in a meat locker 24 hours a day. It's surprising I don't complain about that a bit more, really. These are things that were partly whiny, but a 100% textbook Whine has yet to happen on this here spoutfest of mine. UNTIL TODAY!

You're so excited to keep reading. The anticipation is palpable.

Here's the deal. I am already a bit annoyed with myself, and I haven't even started to tell you yet. Just imagine how annoyed you're going to be! My gift to you, people.

You know how I feel about birthdays. They are, to me, a huge honking deal. There is nothing more loving to me than acknowledging someone's birthday. I love doing it. Love it. The idea that there is a designated day to shower someone you love with, well, LOVE, and treat them all special and stuff, and give them a big heaping pile of attention is just beautiful to me. Because people deserve attention, just for their sheer them-ness. Not because they fulfill a specific role or identity, not for doing something extra, just for existing. I mean, Mother's Day, Father's Day, Valentine's Day, wedding showers, baby showers-- they're all great, don't get me wrong, I am all for them and always participate in them with gusto. But those days are for honoring something specific about someone. Hey, thanks for doing all that Mom stuff- Happy Mother's Day! That's cool, and deserved. Hey, I think it's swell that you're legally in love with someone, happy wedding shower! (Is that what weddings mean? I don't really know. Sorry, that one has always confused me). But a birthday? The only qualification for this is that YOU WERE BORN. That's it. You were born and so you get to have a day! It's the perfect thing to showcase the fact that you are enough. Just you. How you are. Mom or not. Young or not. Partnered or not. You deserve a party and cake and presents and everyone smiling and hugging you and telling you you are fabulous. Just for BEING. I can't express to you how, on a Deep Philosophical Level, this speaks to me. I believe in birthdays. Like, it's part of my moral code. Or something. Whatever.

So, in a couple of weeks, it's my birthday. (Bet you were wondering when the whining was going to start. Wait no more. Release your bated breath!) And for the life of me, I could not decide what the hell I wanted to do for my day. Should I throw a party? Should I invite my pals to a show? Should I take trip? Get a tattoo? Go bowling? Go dancing? I could not decide. Still can't. The day creeps up, and I have no Big Plans for the Day of Me-ness. Why? What was holding up the party train?

You know what it is? I finally figured it out. People out there do not give a rat's ass about birthdays. They really don't. And the older I get, the more I am starting to feel like I am the sole cheerleader for birthdays, and this here cheerleader is getting kind of tired. Why be the only one cheering for something that no one really seems to care about? Why be the only one who shows up to the theater to see Ishtar? Maybe everyone else is right. Maybe weddings and babies and getting jobs and leaving jobs and graduating and all that stuff is when it's appropriate to have a party. Maybe people need all that stuff to get it up, and just being is not good enough for a trip to woot-ville.

I don't know. I'm losing the birthday faith, people. I just am. After all these years of carrying the torch forward, I may just have to put it down. I came to the screeching realization the other day that, aside from my mom, my dad, and my Nordic Boy, no one has ever planned anything for my birthday for me. It's always me, getting my own goddamn cake and throwing my own goddamn party and rallying the troops to celebrate me. Please, come on, let's celebrate me. Kind of pathetic, actually.

That's what I'm thinking. I told you it was whiny. Just give me a day or two. I'll be less stupid next post. (Notice I didn't say I wouldn't be stupid. Just LESS stupid. Less.)

Tell me, what was the best birthday present anyone ever got you?

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

My First Friend

People from my past tend to pop up in my life, as I told you about in this post. I used to think this happened to everyone. And it does, to some extent. A random high school friend will re-connect with you, an old co-worker will email you to say hi-- you've all had this happen, right? But like, how often? To me, it happens like clockwork. A few months go by, and my phone will ring, or my inbox will light up, and there will be someone I once knew, who's popping back in to say howdy. It happens to me all. the. time. Sometimes the re-connecting goes swimmingly, like my roomie from college who I was thrilled to hear from, and sometimes it's not so thrilling. But every few months, in my world, it's going to happen. I don't have enough hubris to think it won't happen, I just hope that whoever it is this time will be cool.

Today, I got an email from the very first friend I ever had in my life. She's a couple of years older than me, and our parents were friends when I was born. My mom tells me that when I was a newborn baby, M would sit by my crib and keep me company. So I have known her almost literally my entire childhood, minus maybe a few days at the beginning. As we grew up, M was responsible for introducing me to many delicious pop culture offerings, and I feel like my current love of all things pop may have had a kickstart from her. She and I were always convinced of our fabulousness and we donned many different personas to express it, for all the fabulosity was impossible to contain as just US. One thing I remember was that she had a book version of the movie "Grease," which had pictures of every single scene on glossy magazine-style paper, and every line of dialogue of the movie written in like a script. We would read that book together over and over, democratically switching off who got to be Sandy and who got to be Rizzo each time (now that's a true friend) and singing all the songs with gusto. I also remember that her older brother's room was in her basement (it was wood paneled and very Greg Brady) and we would go down there when he wasn't home and look at his posters of KISS on the wall and try to decide which one was the "cutest" (ie which one scared the bejeezus out of us the least). We also would put on records (Thriller, Synchronicity, and anything by David Bowie being our favorites) and sing the lyrics to each other and try to act out every line of every song in a crazy charades-like manner. I remember I almost peed my pants laughing as she acted out the line "packed like lemmings into shiny metal boxes" by making a mousy buck-toothed face (we didn't really know what lemmings were) and trying to fold herself into a square. We were also both completely obsessed with discussing kissing. What would it be like to kiss a boy? When would it happen to us? Do you keep your mouth open or closed? We conducted hours-long symposiums on this subject. We kissed our own hands so that we would be ready. We never talked about any ACTUAL boys. It was the act of kissing that fascinated us, not the potential recipients of the kissing. M was the very first person that I ever made up new lyrics to a pop song with. I remember it was a version of Robert Palmer's "Bad Case of Loving You" that involved lots of references to poop. M was the friend in my life who first had MTV. She was the one who would discuss with me whether or not Laverne and/or Shirley should ever date Lenny and Squiggy. She was the one who sat through "Rescue from Gilligan's Island" with me and agreed with me that although it made us feel a little guilty, we didn't WANT them to be rescued.

By the time I got to middle school, M had moved, and we totally lost touch. It's been so long I can hardly imagine that she is really, truly an adult. Someone who probably doesn't obsessively talk about kissing, someone who may not care to discuss whether the Bangles, the Go-Gos, or Bananarama is the best (although I still am interested in these things, so who knows?). This is the strange part about re-connecting with someone who only knew you at a particular time in your life. It reminds you of the person you were when you knew them so well. It's strange, but it's beautiful too. So M! Awesome to hear from you! And I still think the drummer from KISS is the least freaky.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Stolen Moments

Have you ever stolen something? I have. Here is a list of stuff that I've stolen.

1. We used to teepee people when I was in high school. The way I spelled that, it sounds like my teen friends and I were erecting traditional Plains Indian dwellings and then putting people in them. Not that kind of teepee. It's T.P. Which stands, to state the obvious, for toilet paper. We would get rolls of toilet paper and sneak into someone's yard at night and throw toilet paper all over the branches of their trees. Preferably right before it rained, as then the teepee would stick to the branches and be impossible to clean off properly. Trust me, back in the day this was hilarious. And, because we were kids of parents who didn't have money to burn, we wouldn't have enough money to actually buy packs of toilet paper. So instead, we would go to the local Dunkin' Donuts shop, use the public restrooms, and steal as much toilet paper as we could fit into our book bags. This was fun times on the streets of my youth.

2. Ok, this wasn't actually ME doing the stealing, but I did benefit from it so it counts. In the 9th grade, the boys that I knew got into this competition where they would rip the hood ornaments off of fancy cars. I will spare you my analysis of class wars that went on in my home town, but suffice it to say that the fancier the hood ornament, the better. My boyfriend at the time stole the hood ornament off of a Mercedes once and busted out the middle part and gave me the outer circle part and I wore it around my wrist like a bangle. Accessorizing with stolen goods. I was not always the classy broad that I am today, you know.

3. When I was in 11th grade, one night we decided to steal one of those orange and white things that block off the street. The kind with the round, flashing orange lights on the top of it. We stole it, and put it in Map 's trunk. And then, in our carousing, we forgot about it. A week later, I was at Map's house. We were standing in the front yard. Her dad was in the garage, and he opened up the trunk. All of a sudden, out of the corner of my eye, I saw flashes of orange. BLINK. BLINK. BLINK. The sucker was still blinking! Map's dad looked at the stolen merch, turned around and looked at us, clearly not pleased. Map looked right back at him and shrugged. "Whoops!" she said. Genius explanation, no? Whoops. Next time you break the law, try saying that.

That's about it. All the stealing I have done in my life. Not too bad, right? And all of it done between the ages of 14 and 18. Since then, I have kept my nose clean. Until today, that is.

I am stealing a blog idea from my blog friend, Chris, over at Rude Cactus. He's started doing what he calls The Weeklies. If you want to see his version, go check it out. Even if you don't, you should check him out. It's good reading, Weeklies or not. Anyway, I liked his first Weekly so much that I told him I might have to steal it. He said that was cool with him. Is it still stealing if you have permission?

Librarian Girl's Weekly #1 Which I Totally Stoled From Chris.

Weekly TeeVee: Have you guys been watching the new Tim Gunn show? Here are my thoughts in a nutshell. Tim has this little cabinet where he keeps various presents for the guest on the show. Every time he starts sidling over to this cabinet, you can bet the guest is getting a new purse, some new shoes, a diamond ring, SOMETHING. I call this, the Armoire of Surprise. I love this. I want one in my home. Also, the first week, Tim put the guest in the care of a make-up artist who spackled the poor thing to Kingdom Come. She put many, many layers of make-up on her. And then she gave her a makeup plan on paper to take home so she could re-create the look, and the paper was a tri-fold monstrosity the size of the Wall Street Journal. Tim also put this poor girl in a room with a "Lifestylist" who had over-gelled hair and a bad daddy-o outfit and the guy made this girl wear a trashbag dress, look in funhouse mirrors, and say stupid affirmations. As soon as the affirmations started, Nordic Boy started quoting the affirmations that Martin Blank had to say before trying to go murder someone in Grosse Point Blank. (Remember? "I am at home with the me, I am rooted in the me that is on this adventure." Like that, only there was no irony with the Tim Gunn lifestylist.) Despite the Lifestylist and the sheer volume of makeup, I still adore Tim Gunn and will continue to watch.

Weekly Music: Check this out. Bet you didn't think Lawrence Welk was smoking no fatties.

Weekly Worst Moment: When a hairstylist that I had just met smacked her bitch up. And the bitch was me. And then I paid her good money. I know I already told you about this. But I'm still bitter. God dammit.

Weekly Best Moment: Talking to my dad on his birthday yesterday. He's 78. Woot! My dad rocks out in so many ways I can't even tell you. But wait, I can. I did! Right here. Go read it. 78 years of living an interesting, compassionate, hilarious life deserves a little tribute, don't you think? Ok, so if you don't go read it, let me just say a little something right here. My dad is and was the most amazing, loving, unconditional dad in a world where, I've come to learn, dads are not always so great. I'm so, so grateful. Kisses, dad! Mwah!

Weekly Picture: I went into a restaurant the other day, and the floor was insane. I couldn't stop looking at it. The tables at the restaurant were spaced out so that there were long expanses of this tile to look at. Which made me spaced out. I had to take a photo of it, because I am pseudo-arty that way.



Designed by Lawrence Welk. Because I felt two tokes over the line when I looked at it.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Hair Assault, Incoming!

Oh my god. I have been mugged, people. At the hair salon. To be mugged is to be assaulted, usually with intent to rob, according to good old Merriam Webster. And I was definitely assaulted, and then I handed some money over, so the term "mugged" is for sure appropriate.

What the hell is going on these days with the stylists out there? This is the second stylist I have been to in a high-end-ish salon where the haircutter people are viciously attacking their clients. This lady tried to kill me. She wanted my scalp ripped off of my head. She really did. This happened to me yesterday and I can feel my head still tingling a little today with the brutality.

She looked normal enough. I was going to her, and not the woman I saw last time, because that woman was booked up and my hair could not wait. So I smiled and shook the new lady's hand, and she smiled right back at me and then put me in the Chair of Pain. She started out by washing my hair like it was a dingy prairie dress that needed beating against a rock. There was wringing. Hard wringing. Ow ow ow. I think she may have scrubbed my hair hard against a metal washboard. Ok, maybe not, but I can't really be sure since that is exactly what it felt like. I have to insert at this point that I am no delicate flower that can't handle hair pain. I grew up a dancer and am used to people tugging at my hair and pulling it back so that I have that instant facelift feeling. This was more than that. I tried to speak up: "um, a little less pressure please." But that's what you say to a masseuse, not a hair stylist. What do you say to a hair stylist to indicate that you would like the hair to stay in your head, please? My head should not be jerked around on its neck like that. This ain't no tug of war, lady.

After she beat the dirt out of my very naughty hair, she came around to the front of me and (without telling me what she was about to do) took one of my hands, pulled up the sleeve of the hoodie I was wearing, and started squeezing the living daylights out of my arm. My head was still leaned back in the sink at this point so I couldn't quite see. In the middle of this assault, she says "this is your complimentary massage. Just relax now." A massage? Is that what we're calling this? Because I can feel your nails, digging into me. Remember how Monica Gellar thought she gave great massages? This lady was Monica Gellar.

Then, she started to cut and style and blow dry my hair. My head was a big wad of pizza dough and she was kneading the shit out of me. She actually had to put one of her feet on the bottom of my chair, to counterbalance her attacks, or she might have pulled my ass right up off of the chair. She was putting that much effort into it. It was like Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd in that Barber of Seville cartoon. She was a heartbeat away from kicking her shoes off and standing up on my head like Bugs did.

"Your hair is so healthy. I think you are going to be my hair product model for the day!" she says all of a sudden. What? What is a hair product model?

A hair product model, people, is a person who has every single hair product ever created in their hair. Let me list for you all the things I had gooped on my hair by the end of the session. I know this because she gave me a little list of products to take home with me. I had: leave-in conditioner, a hair nourisher, a hair detoxifier, a hair volumizer, hair gel, a hair pomade, and hair spray. And, as she layered all of this crap into my hair, she kept explaining how I didn't need any of it. Figure that out. "Your hair is really shiny, so you don't really need this pomade. But hey, let's try and give it even more shine, shall we?" "You don't really have fly-aways, but if you did, this is what you use." What the hell, lady? First you beat me up, and now you're trying to kill me with fumes? Now I know why shampoo bottles say "rinse and repeat." Because that is exactly what I did when I got home. I lathered, rinsed, and then I repeated. Several times over.

Then, when she finally had my hair almost done, she ran a comb through it a few times, from the front of my hairline across to the back of my head. Except, she kept overshooting and starting the comb stroke near my eyebrow. Sure, go ahead. Rake your comb across my forehead. Get dangerously close to my eyeball. I am pretty much numb at this point anyway.

Needless to say, I am not going back to this dominatrix of follicles. But let me just say this. What disturbed me the most about this experience was not that she beat me within an inch of my life. What disturbs me is that I didn't say anything. I didn't know what to say. And I am a very self-possessed, assertive person. I am a person accustomed to knowing what is ok with me and what isn't, and I have no guilt, no shame, in telling you what those things are. Boundaries is my middle name. ("Librarian Boundaries Girl." Not kidding.) It is one of the things that I am the most proud of about myself. And yet, in this situation, I was waging a silent battle. I was pissed off, pulling my head back against her every time she pulled at me, but not a word came out of my mouth about it.

So I am saying this now. On the off chance that anyone out there reading this is a hair stylist. Please. Don't let clients' heads be your vehicle of getting your aggression out. Stop the madness. Or else one of these times, there will be a client uprising, and you don't want an army of pissed off ladies high on hair goop such as myself fighting back. It won't be pretty. And aren't you in the business of making us pretty?

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

We've Got the Music In Us

To people who don't know us well, Nordic Boy and I would most likely be described as quiet people. Definitely not shy people. Just quiet. Both in terms of quantity of words and in terms of volume. I'm not saying we are low-talkers or anything, but we just aren't the people at a party that everyone is gathered around because we won't shut the hell up. You know those people. The ones that command attention because, well, other people can hardly get a word in. We are SO not those people. In fact, those people usually kind of repel us, not because we don't like them, just because we can hear them from across the goddamn room so why go over and say hello?

Here's the secret about us though. In our house, on our own time, we are loud. We talk all kinds of gibberish to each other and to ourselves in what can only be called double diaherria of the mouth, and one of the ways that the gibberish comes out is in song. Within the walls of our house, we are living like we are in a Rodgers and Hammerstein production. Like, right now, this very minute? Nordic Boy is in the kitchen tossing a salad, and while he does it this is what he's belting:

One day! Love will find yoooo
Break those! Chains that bind yooo
One night! Will ree-mind you
How we touched and went our sep-rit ways!

The damn salad. Breaking his heart like that.

The other thing that often happens is that one of us will start a song, and the other one will join in, or finish it, or sing back-up. Again, just now, he thought he was done singing, but no. I had to continue.

If he! Evah hurts yooo
True love! Won't desert chooo
You know! Ah still love yooo
Though we touched and went our sep-rit ways!

Nordic Boy answers with a Steve Perry worthy OHHHHHHHHHH!

And then we stop. I am still typing in the living room, he is still salading in the kitchen. No need to discuss the outburst, just continue with the evening like nothing happened.

Sometimes, the songs we sing are made up. Often to the tune of another song, but with our own words plugged in. A few days ago, I bought a new pair of jeans.

Nordic Boy: Hey, are those jeans new?
Me: (To the tune of "I Touch Myself" by the DiVinyls, accompanied by a vampy walk around the house)
I love my jeans
I want you to love them
When they fall down
They're still so lo-ovely
I searched for them
They came to find me
Don't forget to zip
Oops they're button-fly-eee

What does he do with this display? Why, he replies.

Nordic Boy:
I don't want, any other pair!
When I think ab-owwt them
It's just not fair!

Listen. We're not lyricists. We just have a song in our heart that must fly free.

We are also big fans of singing in a pseudo-operatic style. Sometimes, we sing to each other in this way with no real tune. Just as if our conversation is coming out as an opera.

Nordic Boy: Helloooo, helloooo, how are yooooooo?
Me: Ahhhh am fiiiiiiine. A leeetle tiiiiired!
Nordic Boy: Figaro!
Me: Indeeeed! Figaaaaaroooooh!

We also like to sing pop songs in an opera-style. We have brought this to a fine art. There are only certain pop songs that translate well to opera. 70s rock often works well. R&B ballads tend to work too. Try it. It's fun. Just sing bad opera, and really over-enunciate everything.

"So give me that toot toot
Let me give you that beep beep
Running her hands through my 'fro
Bouncing on twenty fours..."

Take that, Il Divo. We had this idea long before you. We could have made millions with it. Except for the fact that we would never, ever take this behavior out into the public, for other non-us people to know about.

Except I kind of just did, didn't I? The cat's out of the bag now. Simon Cowell, come discover us.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Gimme Links

I just had to call this post that, because that motherhumping Britney Spears song will just not stay out of my head. Anything that happens turns into that song. Just say gimme, then follow it by singing whatever you want in that bullfrog croaky way that's in that song and you've got a recipe for madness. Really. Watch.

Gimme gimme LINKS, gimme LINKS, gimme gimme LINKS...

Or maybe you're not thinking about links. Maybe you're thinking about work. Yeah, I think about work a lot too.

Gimme gimme BOOKS, gimme BOOKS, gimme gimme BOOKS...

I could do this all day. However, I shall spare you, as you are more than capable of taking this and running with it, I'm sure.

Anyhow, thanks for all the people who said they link to me, and I am scurrying to catch up with putting all ya'll on my listy-poo over there in the sidebar. It may take a little while, so be rest assured I will get you on that list just as soon as I can.

I think that I am suffering from vacation-deprivation, people. I know, I just got back from San Francisco, but I really think that a measly weekend away just wasn't enough. The weekend already seems like it was EONS ago and other than going to see my dad when he was sick earlier this year, I have not taken one vacation day. Not one! That is just evil.

I think I realized that I need to have more of a vacation than I have allowed myself for a while when, on Saturday night, Nordic Boy asked me if I wanted to go out to dinner and a movie, and I said that I did but only if we left town to do so. So, we crossed some water, which is not hard to do living where we live, and we drove out to the suburbs. And not even a particularly picturesque suburb. Nope. We went out to the land of strip malls and no sidewalks just so that I could feel like I was AWAY. And when I start to see Olive Gardens and Black Angus Steakhouses, I am out of my element.

In other news, Nordic Boy and I have been busting a gut laughing each night before we drift off to sleep. Like, we'll be just on the verge of full sleepy time, and one of us will say something in that half-asleep state that has woken us both up with laughing. Like, last night? The lights were off, I was drifting to see the Sandman, and all of sudden, Nordic Boy sleepily sings me a little lullaby. The song? "Mama, don't let yer babies grow up to be cowboh-ehs..." And he sang it with as much twang as I have ever heard in my life. What the--? Where did that come from? The deep recesses of Nordic Boy's R.E.M. state, that's where. I woke myself up with a full belly laugh and that got him laughing and there we are. Woken up, cracking up.

Yeah, I know. It's not that funny. I need a vacation.


As we drove across the bridge to the 'burbs, we had a great view of Mount Rainier over the lake. Which you can't really see here because my camera phone sucks dookie.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Hope It's Not a Bore-ah, Nora

Here's what I know about Nora Ephron.

1. She wrote all three of The Meg Ryan Trifecta movies: When Harry Met Sally, Sleepless in Seattle, and You've Got Mail. I can go with the first one, the second two make me go into a sugar coma where my eyes roll back into my head and my hands and feet spasm uncomfortably.
2. She appeared on the Oprah show this one time when all these celebrity guests were all "getting older is getting better!" and "older women are like a fine wine!" and she was all "getting older sucks kibble, are you all kidding me?" It was like Gargamel was trying to fit in with the Smurfs. Somehow, the fact that the woman who came up with the line "don't you think daisies are the friendliest flower?" was actually cynical and sarcastic in real life thoroughly entertained me.
3. She writes lots of books and stuff. Me = Librarian, hence I gotta bring it back to the codices and shit like that alla time.
3. She wrote an essay called "Where I Live" that talks about New York City, and lots of blogger-types are taking the concept and making it their own.

So that's what I am going to do (steal the Where I Live concept). Yes, I am following a list with yet another list, all in one post. Sue me. Even though I haven't read Nora's essay (look at me all first name basis with the Meg-pusher) and I really don't know how much I am bastardizing the idea, I shall go forth hencewith. Sorry in advance, Nora.

I Live...

1. I live on the Planet Earth, which is apparently going to hell in a handbasket and has been doing so for some time. Oceans are messed up. The air is messed up. Animals are dying off whole species at a time. People like to kill each other up in a frenzy of disgustingness. I think about all of these things a lot. Despite this, I am generally in a good mood most of the time. This may mean that the greenhouse gases have gone to my brain. We may be going down, but I'm going down smiling. Yeah. I'm clearly delusional.

2. I live on a street where the neighbors know each other. They stop and say hi, they ask you how you're doing. Except, I have noticed a distinct difference in the way they chat with me and the way they chat with Nordic Boy. The difference is that they don't really chat with me at all. This has always been the case between the two of us- if given the chance people seem to automatically be drawn to Nordic Boy and I am totally chopped liver. Kids, dogs, people of all ages. This is really weird because, of the two of us, I am definitely the chattier. Nordic Boy can be downright monosyllabic at times. This kind of chaps my ass, can you tell?

3. I live on a piece of land that looks like ass. I keep telling myself that it will not always look this way and in fact my yard grows ever more charming by the week. When things do not look nice, they drive me batshit insane. I am not proud of this.

4. I live in a house that I can't believe I own, like with papers and escrow and everything. I feel so frickin' grown up when I think about it. And sort of rich too, even though that notion is more than a little laughable in the grand scheme of things. But having a house. Crikey. I still can't quite get my mind around it.

5. I live with a Boy who says things like this: (handing me a smoothie for breakfast) "Here's a smoothie for you-thie!" He makes me laugh. I'm an easy audience for this types of silliness, it's true.

6. I live within walking distance of great thai food, indian food, deli, a farmer's market, a food co-op, a library, a large body of water, a MAC store, an independent hardware store, pizza, bookstore, bakery, bike trail, and my neighborhood still manages to have tons of trees.

7. I live for a great night's sleep. Awww baby.

8. I live far away from lots of people I love. Somehow they don't feel far away.

9. I live with the fact that I will be never be warm more than 10% of the time and that I am apparently reptilian. Hiss, bitches! Hiss! My tongue be forked and my ass be rattling! I'm cold and I will BITE YOU.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

What about the paper in John's hair?

I know, I know. I only wrote one measly post last week. YOU guys, on the other hand, were writing your hearts out. I am up to my eyeballs in catching up with what you all are up to. You're shaming me with post-iness. I'll do better this week, I promise.

First off, someone asked for the one and only photo I have of my San Fran trip. So be it.



My Shoe Did Indeed Match with the Harrison Ford Decor

Now that we have THAT piece of bidness out of the way, let's move on to more pressing matters. I've got two things to talk about. Ready? Ok.

1. I am feeling like I need to have a place on this blog for some reciprocal link love. The more I am looking at all your blogs via clicking on links in my comments and such, the more I am seeing that you are giving me link love. And I need to be better about reciprocating. So here is my plan. If you have me linked to your blog, email me or comment and tell me. Give me your url and I will create a lovely list of all ya'all's blogs so clicking over to you from me will be easy as pie. Why is the saying easy as pie in existence? I have made pie and I know that there is nothing easy about it. Maybe the phrase is referring to the eating of pie? Because that part IS easy. Still, it's a confusing phrase. I think it should be more like "easy as
trying-to-make-pie-but-fucking-it-up-every-time." That would be more accurate. Who's with me?

2. It's once again time for me to share with you a gem from my much-archived childhood. I don't know what part of my little-kid brain decided to save notes, letters, random kid-ephemera, but jeez louise I am glad. I am not a collector of things, but in this case I am so happy that my love of giving stuff away or throwing it out did not prevail over the years. With that preface, I give you this next piece. I call it: "Drugs Are Scary, Pumpkin." I'm the author of the part in italics.

"No, I wouldn't want a pumpkin without a nose! HA HA! You mean Mike E. is like that! How awful. I would have never of thought. That is stupid and so are drugs Pumpkin. I'll never get involved in them. They will ruin your life totally! P.S. Don't loose your nose Pumpkin. --Scalloped Potatoe

I won't lose my nose S. Potatoe! I won't even have it loosened for your sake!! Yes- Mike E. is like that! I was surprised too! He used to tell me but he doesn't mention it anymore- maybe he quit! Hopefully because if he doesn't he'll ruin his life!! I would never get involved with drugs either! It's dumb. And let me tell you something else Scalloped Potatoe- If we ever took drugs you'd be a baked potatoe in no time and I'd be a pumpkin pie! Well, enuf of that! Did you put that paper in John's hair?


Yup I sure did! Cute HA! I have to go to this dinner tonight with my Dad so I can't go to the concert. I want to but I can't. I wish I could, It would be neat. Maybe someone will tape it and I'll be able to hear it all. Our Scrambled Egg isn't studying, Pumpkin. Maybe we should teach her a lesson. Let's write her a note from so called Damon! HA! HA!"



Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Pumpkin