"The Funk of Forty Thousand Years"

Oh my god, have you guys heard about THIS???

Thriller Dance Day

Levels of awesome:
1. People learning the Thriller dance. Awesome.
2. People tutoring other people to learn the Thriller dance. Super awesome.
3. Everyone doing the Thriller dance all at the same time, globally. Mega awesome.

I have so many life stories related to Michael Jackson, Thriller, the Thriller dance, that I don't even know where to begin. But reading about Thrill the World made me immediately think about 11th grade Chemistry.

Let me start off by saying that 11th grade Chemistry was the class in high school that I sucked the most at out of every class I think I have ever taken. After going to college and learning that science was actually something that I had an affinity for, I can see now that my lovable but incompetent Chemistry teacher had something to do with my suckitude. Not that I am playing the Blame Game here, I know part of it was my fault, but Mister Victor wasn't helping me out and in fact had very little interest in making people understand shit. Sorry, Mister Victor, as I know you were a nice enough fellow and you used to make us laugh when we would make a mistake and you would say in your so-not-cool way "smooth move, ex-lax!" We appreciated your penchant for ridiculing mistakes. It's just not, in the bigger picture, the best teaching technique. I'm just saying.

There are three things I remember about that class in particular.

One was the time that I embarrassed myself in front of the class in lab when I presented my lab results and instead of saying Erlenmeyer Flask, for some godawful reason I said "Urethra-Meyer Flask." Oh yes I did.

Second was my friends Heidi and Bacchus (ok his name wasn't really Bacchus but he had a really unusual name like that). The three of us would spend lots of time in that class coming up with dirty words and phrases for the letters of the elements for the periodic table. (Number 67, Holmium, was already done for us! HO! Har har!)

Third was Suresh.

Suresh sat in the row in front of Heidi, Bacchus and me. He was a 10th grader, but the old puberty hormones hadn't kicked in so he looked about 12. He was geeky. Like, Urkel geeky. He had the exact same hairstyle as Orville Redenbacher. And he smelled like mothballs. He didn't trust his locker, he told us, so he would carry around every book to every class, and due to the fact that he was about four feet tall, the stack of books was taller than he was, and so he was constantly dropping them. And he had this calculator watch that he always wanted to talk about. ALWAYS. Every day he would, at some point, turn around and try to join in our conversation by telling us about his calculator watch. We always let him tell us, but then there was always a lull in the conversation after he had shown us the feature. Really, what can you say to someone who has just done a quadratic equation on his wrist for you? Especially when, at that point in your life, you don't know what a quadratic equation even IS and you just want to go back to making up dirty elements? We actually liked Suresh, and could tell there was something about him that could be tapped for friendship. Like the time we watched him ask Amy (a cheerleader), totally out of the blue, whether she shaved her legs or if she was naturally hairless, like a hairless dog. There has to be something rockin' about someone who would say funny shit like that, right? But we could never really make the connection with him. He couldn't cross over into raunchy giggle land with us, and we couldn't make the leap into let's-talk-about-my-watch-again land with him.

Late in the year (I want to say, for dramatic purposes, that it was the last week of school or something like that, but I honestly don't think it was), there was a day where we were left to our own devices in the classroom. (Can I just say that this seemed to happen a lot in my high school. The teachers would just leave and we would spend the hour running amok in the room. I am so proud of my education, I can't even begin to tell you.) And someone, I can't remember who, busted out a little radio or something and was playing it. Thriller was already years old at this point, but for some reason it came on the radio station that we were listening to. I will never forget this as long as I live. It was a classroom that had tiered seating, so the last row was higher up than the rows in front of it. Suresh jumped out of his chair so fast that it startled me, Heidi and Bacchus. He sprinted up to the top of the classroom, behind the back row and he BUSTED OUT THE THRILLER DANCE! Balls to the wall, full on, lip-syncing and doing every move perfectly. It was like the last scene in Napoleon Dynamite, for REALS.

I want to say that after that dance, we all became great friends and Suresh was suddenly cool. It didn't happen like that, but damn, it was a SHINING MOMENT. We were all agape. No one made fun of it. Everyone, even the hairless dog, was totally into it. Just for the duration of that song. It was the best.

See how the Thriller dance brings people together?

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

No Carrots for You

I eat a lot of salad. A LOT. I feel shy about this somehow, like it makes me boring-palette-person or something. I feel like I am confessing a dark secret of mine right now. You don't want to get mixed up with a girl like me, see? I eat fields of, and I wish I didn't have to tell you this, SALAD. Don't look at me! I'm hideous! Just leave me alone with my greens!

When I say a lot, I mean that when we do our weekly grocery shopping at the market, we are often responsible for cleaning out the lettuce bin. We buy 5 to 8 of these per week, easy. But still, I never take salad with me to work to eat for lunch. You may recall that I have a serious problem with lunch, almost to an epistemoligical degree, in that I just don't GET IT. Lunch is a lens through which things always seem out of focus. So you'd think that what with me being a salad eating machine, the solution to lunch time would be to extend the roughage lovefest into the daytime hours. But I never have, because salad transport always seemed to be an issue for me. Look, I never said I wasn't a big old weirdo, ok? These are my issues and I am just being honest.

This Monday was a new era in my lawn-eater ways. I bought me one of these bad boys:



I introduce to you, ladies and gentlemen, the FIT 'N' FRESH. Ta da! How exciting is THAT? There is a little salad dresser container in the top, that keeps the salad dressing seperate so as not to get mushy with the lettuce! And when you are ready for the dressing and the lettuce to consummate their union, you just twist that little dressing compartment lid and the dressing is dumped onto the salad INSIDE THE CONTAINER. You shake it up and then pop that lid off and salad eating time is ON.

Genius I tell you.

Aside from my lunch dilemmas, you may also recall that in my house, Nordic Boy tends to cook more often than not. So on Sunday, when I bought my Fit 'N' Fresh, Nordic Boy offered to make my lunch for Monday.

Me: Oooh, thanks. I'm going to have salad for lunch!
Nordic Boy: What do you want in it besides lettuce?
Me: Um, tomato. Olives.
Nordic Boy: Want me throw in some croutons and cheese?
Me: Sure. Oh, and carrots.
Nordic Boy: Carrots? Really? How about radishes instead?
Me: Instead? How come instead? How about radishes and carrots?
Nordic Boy: No, I think just radishes. I'll give you some carrot sticks on the side, if you want, but not in the salad.
Me: Why don't you want me to have carrots in the salad?
Nordic Boy: (shrug)
Me: Whatever, I'll eat what I'm given. Thanks!

This was earlier in the day, before we had done our grocery shopping. Later that evening, after dinner, I was folding laundry and Nordic Boy announced that he was going to make our lunches for the next day.

Nordic Boy: So did you want me to put some carrots in a seperate container then?
Me: No, I don't want to take two containers. Just throw them in the salad.
Nordic Boy: No. I don't think so. I'll put them in a bag for you.

Just at this moment my phone rang so I couldn't ask him why he was being weird about carrot segregation. After I got off the phone I went into the kitchen.

Me: What's with you and the carrots?
Nordic Boy: Nothing. What do you mean?
Me: Why don't you want me to have carrots in my salad?
Nordic Boy: Well, I'm giving you carrots in a bag. If you get to work tomorrow and you still want them in your salad, you can add them in yourself.
Me: (starting to crack up) You sound totally insane right now.
Nordic Boy: What?
Me: You just seem like you are avoiding putting carrots in that salad! Why?
Nordic Boy: (laughing but also cracking under pressure) I just don't want to chop them! Ok? There's too much chopping in salad prep!
Me: But you just chopped the lettuce, and the tomato, and the radishes!
Nordic Boy: I know! And I CAN'T CHOP ANY MORE! I CAN ONLY CHOP SO MUCH!

Then we laughed until we wanted to die.

This man feeds me, he cares for me when I am sick, he repairs my home, he maintains my yard, he drives me places, he always has a kind word for me. But the salad chopping. He has to draw a line somewhere and that line is at the mothersucking carrots.

Everyone has their limits.



I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Refined

When it comes to social situations, I consider myself a solidly above average type person. My mama and pops raised me right and I know how to be a gracious hostess as well as a good guest. I pride myself in making my friends feel welcome, comfortable, and appreciated. Bottom line, I am not a rudester.

But you know, sometimes. My mouth gets ahead of me. And I embarrass myself. And when I do, I have to add to that embarrassment by telling people about it. So here I am, broadcasting my bad behavior. Sorry, mom. I mean well.

I have an awesome co-worker, who has now become my awesome neighbor, along with her enfianced. In previous posts, I have called these two H and R, although I am now seeing that reading initials in blog posts can be kind of a drag, so I shall have to come up with some sort of nicknamery for all the people I have been calling by their initials. I have nothing handy for these two right at this moment, but as I keep typing something will pop out of my brain I am sure.

So our awesome neighbors invited us over for dinner this weekend. And so we went. And it was so nice. Despite the arctic winds outside, all was cozy and fun and delicious and a nice way to get over the grumpy pants mood I had been in all week. They made us salad, and soup, and risotto to warm up our bellies. There were placemats. And napkin rings! We felt very special indeed. Not only that, but when we arrived, brownies were being baked so as to be warm and fresh for us after dinner!

It's really easy to be a good guest with gracious hosts like these. One would think.

After dinner, we chatted and yukked it up for a couple of hours. And then it was time to head home. We bundled up in our coats and said our fond farewells to Hopscotch and Rambo (whoa. Where did THOSE nicknames come from? Hopscotch and Rambo? What is wrong with my brain? Oh well, that's what popped out, so Hopscotch and Rambo it is. Tra la la, Hopscotch and Rambo. I should totally be a celebrity so that I can name my children names like this, shouldn't I?) And as we did so, a thought occurred to me. We hadn't eaten any brownies. And here's where my mind went.

In all the fun we were having, we forgot to have dessert. If we leave now, Hopscotch and Rambo (oh dear god those nicknames) are going to go back into their kitchen, see that we all forgot dessert, and be all DAMN. I mean, if I had people over for dinner, and I made them brownies and then forgot to serve them, I would feel bad, right? So maybe I should do them a favor so that they won't have to feel bad later, right?

And then I opened my mouth and said this.

"How about a brownie for the road?"

That's right people. I DEMANDED my brownie. What the hell? What would possess someone to repay hospitality with this kind of behavior? We all forgot about the brownies, big deal. Shut up about it. Say thanks for the lovely evening and get yourself home. Only, honestly, I didn't mean it as a demand. I meant it as a favor. To them. So that they wouldn't feel bad later. And so that their brownies-for-guests efforts wouldn't go to waste.

Really, it made sense in my head at the time.

Of course, Hopscotch and Rambo (ok, now it's just sounding funny) were super gracious and cut us a big hunk of brownie to take home with us. And as soon as we left the house Nordic Boy looked at me and said "'How about a brownie for the road'? Really?" to which I said "I KNOW. I AM SO RUDE."

It comes from a good place. It really does.

Sigh.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Grumpy Like Martha

Well look at me. Non-posting foo', I am. My week has been filled with disgruntlement and general poopy-pants-ness and as you all know by now, I am not a disgruntled person by nature, and so when I get a case of the Grumpies (sort of like a case of the Mondays and just as annoying), I just sort of shut up. Because who wants to read complainy complainerson go on and on about things of little consequence?

You do, right? Because that's what you're gonna get today. Apologies in advance.

My Week of Superficial Complaints That Don't Really Matter In the GRAND SCHEME of things.

1. People in traffic. I am talking to you. Why all the anger, my pretties? You're just driving. And how does yelling and honking and going all Lou Ferrigno on other drivers help you? Please. You are harshing my mellow.

2. My neighbor, who has boughten up the perfectly lovely house next door and has been renovating it into the nastiest piecemeal McMansion monstrosity ever. You have to stop adding on. It's too big. And too ugly. And stop asking us if you can build just a little bit over into our property line, because NO, you can't. You already have a bazillion square feet over there and you don't need to colonize us with your Manifest Destiny of Home Expansion. Stop the insanity. And again, NO MORE ASKING.

3. Dude who was standing outside of my car door while I waited to pick Nordic Boy up from the rental car place this morning. Step back please. Despite what you may have heard, standing one foot away from a woman's car door and staring at her through the window with a wide-eyed, unblinking stare is not cute. Yes, even when you do that for a whole five minutes. Still not cute.

4. Martha Stewart. Boy you are cranky and rude to your guests on your tv show. I adore your website and tried to watch your show, but man. I thought you would have more manners and stuff. You are one grumpy lady. And apparently it is contagious.

5. On a related TV note, Charlie Rose, will you stop doing episodes about the failing economy? I know it's good to keep up with current events, and that's one of the reasons I watch you (the other being that I swear that you are stoned in most of your shows and this entertains me) but every day with the economic downturn? It's way depressing Charlie. I know, I know. If I am looking for cheery rainbows, maybe this isn't the show I need to be watching. You have a point. I'm switching to Facts of Life reruns.

6. My old neighborhood. This isn't a grumpy one, just a sad one. My mom tells me that things are falling apart around there. People I have known my entire life are getting old, and getting sick, and having lots of serious troubles. I kind of can't stop thinking about it this week. It's sad.

7. Basement room. Stop flooding and stuff. You're being a real drag.

8. Heating bill. Ouch.

See, none if it, except for the old neighborhood stuff, is really a big deal. But for some reason it is combining into a disgruntled mess.

I think the real thing is I work too frickin' much and I need a vacation.

I'll be better next week. I promise.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

The Way My Mind Works

1. I live in a little one-story house with no stairs, but my house sits up off the street so I have a small stairway that leads from the sidewalk to the front door. When I leave my house in the morning and I walk down these stairs, I say silently to myself "One two three four five six seven eight schlemiel, schlamozzle, hassenpfeffer incorporated!" I also then wonder why I do this on stairs, as Laverne and Shirley did that on a flat sidewalk, not on stairs, so why do stairs remind me of this? Next thing you know I will be tossing my gloves in the air instead of my hat while singing "you're gonna make it after all!"

2. Every time someone is going on a trip on a plane, I think of the time when Bio-Girl was going on a trip and Neighbor J asked her if she was taking any snacks. And then we all said "SNACKS ON A PLANE!" and peed ourselves laughing.

3. There are lots of times where Nordic Boy will ask me a question and the answer won't really matter much to me. ("What do you want for dinner?" or "What movie do you want to watch?") I will respond in these situations with "It don't matter to me." And he will say back "BREAD! That's a song by BREAD!" And it's funny. Every time.

4. You already know about our Markie Mark thing, but I'll tell you again. If Mark Walberg is ever mentioned in conversation, one of us has to say "FEEL IT! FEEL IT!" like in the beginning of "Good Vibrations." You would be surprised at how often Mark Wahlberg seems to come up in our house.

5. When people say the words "Saturday Night" to me, I find it difficult not to go all Bay City Rollers and say "S A T-U-R, D-A-Y NIGHT!"

6. I have bamboo in my yard that grows like crazy. We are constantly pruning them back. When I do so, I sing "Me Ol' Bamboo" from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Mostly silently, but sometimes aloud.

7. Sometimes, when I am at work and in non-cussy mode, and I need have a cuss-worthy moment, I often say "Aw nuts!" Like Michelle Tanner. I say it without the lisp though. I have some pride.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Destiny Will Arrive

It was the very last breath of the 1970s. I was in Australia, visiting relatives. There are many things about this trip that were exciting for a teeny midwest girly like me, but there was one thing that was more heartstopping, more electrifying than anything else. Was it the fact that I got to see koalas, emus, and kangaroos in person? BORING. Was it the fact that I got to walk all the way across the Sydney Harbor Bridge and then visit the famous Sydney Opera House? SNOOZEFEST. There was one thing that blew all of that boolshizz out of the warm blue Pacific water.

Olivia Newton-John was from Australia. And she was blitzing the Australian media promoting XANADU.

I know that people my age have a fascination with the movie Grease. And believe me, I am not dissing it. I can sing the "brusha brusha brusha" jingle just as well as anyone else. I know every last syllable of that movie and if you are a pop culture child of my generation, you probably can too. And I also give props to ONJ for her "Let's Get Physical" years. Anyone who can rock the terry cloth sweatbands is ok by me. But in between the 70s era Grease and the oh-so-80s "Make a Move on Me," square in the crack between decades, was my favorite ONJ effort: Xanadu.

I am just going to say this. Xanadu has an Andy Gibb look-alike. And ELO music. And a duet with CLIFF RICHARD. And those awesome 70s barrettes with the ribbon hanging off the ends. And rollerskating. Lots and lots of rollerskating.

You'd think, that with my obvious love for the movie, that I would be all atwitter about the Broadway musical remake. Au contraire. In fact, I am annoyed with the musical. I saw a clip on the Today show, and I wanted to barf. The reason for the pukey feeling was that they were trying to camp it up. YOU CAN'T CAMP UP XANADU, PEOPLE. The campy, it must be organic. You know what I mean? It's like, they were trying to HIGHLIGHT the campy. Which makes me, as an audience member, feel like an idiot. Do they think that I don't KNOW that Xanadu is silly, far-fetched, over-dramatic, and largely nonsensical? Do they think I need this pointed out to me?

What can I say? I can be ok with "Time After Time" being remade. But this? I can't do. I have my standards.

Happy Friday.



I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Wave 'Em Like You Just Don't Care

Well, apparently I am the only one left on earth who cares about how old I am and who can answer the question "how old are you?" correctly. The only one! All ya'll out there are just like Nordic Boy and have no idea how old you are and you don't care, and I am amazed! Look at you, being all healthy! I was expecting...well, not that. Doesn't anyone think about mortality? The passage of time? You mean to tell me that I am the only one who thinks time is careening out of control, and that being 10 years old, or 15, or 25, feels like yesterday and it's ree-frickin-diculous that years are piling on years and hey, will someone step on the brakes because this whole time thing is WAY TOO FAST and birthdays just seem to highlight that fact?

Anyone? Anyone?

Oh well. I am so on my own with this one, I can see that. Still, you guys really blew my mind. All the comments and all basically saying the same thing.

You know what really gets me. Here I was trying to write a post with the clear subtext of Nordic Boy as weirdo and me as sane person and you guys went and ruined that whole premise. Man!

In other news, despite Nordic Boy's lack of knowledge about his own age, we had a damn fine birthday. Well, almost. It started off rocky, because we had both taken the day off to do FUN! BIRTHDAY! THINGS! but then he found out he had a meeting he couldn't miss in the morning. No matter. It would only last an hour and then we would meet up and start with the birthday activities. Except those bastards at his workplace kept him over the one hour time limit that was promised. And not just by a teensy bit. By over FIVE HOURS. That's right. A one hour meeting turned into a six hour meeting. With no lunch, even! So, he didn't get out of work until evening, which means that him getting the day off for his birthday boiled down to a day off wherein he was still at work.

I thought this might have made him a bit grumpy, so I pulled out the failsafe grumpy-combat behavior. When he got home and opened the door, I greeted him with a song and dance version of "'S Wonderful" that would have made Gene Kelly proud. And you know what he did? He joined right in, even throwing in the Georges What's-His-Name accent and everything. I don't care what anyone says, nothing is more cheerful than a badly sung but balls out show tune. Oh fine, if you want to see it done WELL, then you can click here. That's only if, you know, you want to see it IN TUNE. Boring.

Then, on account of him not having had any lunch, we had to hightail it out the door to get a nice birthday dinner kind of early. Ok, really early. At 5:30. Who says we aren't getting old when we are rocking the early bird special like that?

Thanks for all the well-wishes, guys. I know Nordic Boy appreciated it, and now feels quite validated that he doesn't know how old he is. You've shown me what's what, that's for sure. Knowing your age is like, SO yesterday. I see that now.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Aging Gracefully. Or Something.

My parents come from a land where age ain't nothing but a numba. Not even a numba, actually. People don't give a rat's ass about how old they are back in the homeland. I remember having conversations with aunts and uncles and cousins where I would ask them how old they were and they would shrug and say things like "uh, I don't know. Forty, maybe? Forty-five? I know I'm somewhere in my forties." As a child, a very American child who was used to birthday cake and presents and parties, I would bug out at this sort of answer. "But, when is your birthday?" I would ask. "I don't really remember. In the spring. I'll have to go look at my passport and I can tell you an exact date then. Now let's go eat a mango! They are falling from the sky!"

Ok so they didn't really say that stuff about the mangoes. I just put that in because eating mangoes that fall from the sky (or, um, mango trees) is one of the great pasttimes of the Motherland. (I almost typed Mothership there, instead of Motherland. But that's a totally different thing, to be discussed at another time).

The point being, how old one is is totally not at all important there. No one thinks about it. No one cares. No one is obsessed with seeming younger. Or older. They are too busy sitting in all that white sand and swimming in warm blue reefwaters and serious business like that. Isn't that age-free mentality hard to picture? Isn't it weird to even try to think like that?

Not for some people. Take, for instance, my dear Nordic Boy. As anyone who knows him well can attest, he is as far from Island native as you can get. Corn-fed midwest boy is what he is, all American, apple pie, blah blah, stars and stripes. But that guy? Cannot remember his age to save his life. I have known him many years now, and at any given moment, you can ask him how old he is, and HE WON'T KNOW. He will just blurt out some number, and then look at me as if to say "Is that right? It sounds ok, but is that right?" NO, it is not right. And not only is it not right, he is always aging himself. He always thinks he is older than what he really is. ALWAYS. And you want to know something? The only reason I really care about him knowing his age is that I am the same age and when he ages himself, he is dragging me right down with him and I DON'T LIKE IT.

I am not proud of this. Don't hate. Appreciate.

I know I should be thankful that he doesn't care about this crap. Perhaps it will rub off on me at some point in our lives. It's only fair, right? I mean, there are lots of ways in which we have taught each other valuable things. I have taught him how to eat/love super spicy food, and how to do a spot-on Indian "screw in the lightbulb, wipe the table" dance maneuver. (And if you are unclear on that particular dance move, you need to get yourself to an Indian party, pronto). The least he can do is teach me how to forget my age.

Today is the birthday. If you ask him how old he is turning, he may say 72. Just nod and smile and tell him he must soak in a Palmolive/Oil of Olay stew to maintain his youthful veneer. And I will do my best not to freak out.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Festool Fairy

Here is my discovery for the week...

watching someone be totally confused can be BARRELS OF FUN. It can make your whole day.

Here's what happened. And I am warning you that this, once again, may be the type of story that only I find funny, but Ima tell you anyway. Just pretend-laugh for me and I shall be satisfied.

Nordic Boy's birthday is coming up fast. And although he is generally happy with whatever birthday gifts may come his way, there is really, truly only one set of things on his wishlist. Items from a company called Festool. Tools, tool storage, all that stuff that I have no understanding of whatsoever. Suffice it to say for the sake of this story that this brand is not readily available at Home Depot, Lowe's, Ace, etc. It's German-made, fancy, ergonomic, environmentally friendly, hyper-efficient, blah blah blah. Nordic Boy has the catalog and he pores over it. Salivating. Almost crying with yearning. And when there is any workplace bonus money, or birthday money, or any extra money of any kind, he's buying Festool. And with the scarcity of anything that could be called "extra money," that's not very often.

Wednesday night, at around 9pm, Nordic Boy and I were chatting it up. Here's the fun part.

(Doorbell rings).

(Nordic Boy opens the door. There, on the front steps, is a woman, in her 40s or so, definitely of the soccer mommish persuasion. In her hand, she holds a piece of Festool merchandise. No packaging, no box. Just the merch itself.)

Soccer Mom: (holding out the merch and smiling) Here. This is for you.

You know that confused sound that Scooby Doo makes when he's not understanding something? AARRH?? If any sound would have come out of Nordic Boy at that moment, it would have been that. And from me too, for that matter. Who is this soccer mom fairy godmother, coming to our doorstep late in the evening, with this VERY SPECIFIC item that only Nordic Boy would want and just handing it over?

Nordic Boy: Um, what?

Soccer Mom: This. It's for you.

Nordic Boy: But---how?---who?---I don't---understand.

Soccer Mom: Are you Nordic Boy?

Nordic Boy: Well, yes. But, who are you?

Soccer Mom: Well, I'm coming from Mountlake Terrace (a suburb of Seattle) but my son goes to the high school down the street from here.

Nordic Boy: What? What are you talking about? Why---who...WHAT?

I wish I could convey the level of confusion. It was like Nordic Boy's head was going to explode. Sheezus it was FUNNY.

Soccer Mom: So I figured since I was going to be in the neighborhood I would just drop this off. Here.

(Nordic Boy takes the Festool product. He looks like he has seen Santa FOR REAL).

Nordic Boy: Thanks. B-but who ARE you?

You think this is confusing so far? Are you wondering who this Soccer Mom with the ability to grant wishes could possibly be? There couldn't be anything to add that would make this situation more confusing, could there?

Here's what she said next.

Soccer Mom: This is a gift for you from your daughter in California.

I wish that Nordic Boy would have been taking a drink of something. Because he would have done a SPECTACULAR spit-take if he had.

Nordic Boy: MY WHO??

Soccer Mom: Have a great night!

And she left.

After some information gathering, we discovered that the item had been ordered online from our dear friend Bio-Girl for Nordic Boy's birthday. The distributor for this area was (apparently, although this is not entirely clear) Soccer Mom, who obviously has great customer service inclinations (home delivery and friendly too!), but whose communication skills are clearly lacking. Bio-Girl assured us that she in no way indicated that she was posing as Nordic Boy's offspring and has no idea where Soccer Mom came up with that jive.

So all is well. Nordic Boy gets a birthday gift that he adores and is reassured that he hasn't sired a child in California that he had no idea about and who wants to express his neglect of her by buying him fancy presents, and everyone is happy. Except me. Because I was hoping Soccer Mom really was Santa and that she was coming for me next with that Lela Rose outfit I've been dreaming about. Dang.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

To the Beat of the Rhythm of the Night

Back in the day when I was a young lass, I was friends with sleep. Me and the Sandman, we would kick it. Hardcore. I could sleep any time. Anywhere. When I was a teenager, my friends and I would carouse about town doing teenage things (2am sundaes at McDonald's! whoo hooooo!) and then I would crash into sleep wherever I ended up. In the back seat of a car? No probs, holmes. On a friend's couch? Bring it! On the floor of a friend's living room, my blue mascara (oh no) crunched together, my white keds kicked off and my jaw all aslack? Totally. I would sleep. Just like that.

Somewhere, in my early early 20s, things changed. The Sandman broke up with me and sleeping was never quite the same again. I would spend hours, awake. Reading, watching tv, gnashing my teeth in frustration. At the time, it was the least of my problems. I was in the middle of a period in my life I like to call Puberty the Sequel, where everything that happened was dramatic and exhausting. So in addition to the lack of sleeping, I was doing a lot of Diane Keaton-style crying about stuff. You know that whole montage in Something's Gotta Give where Diane Keaton just walks around busting up crying over everything? That was me, around age 20. (And if you have never seen that montage, you have to so totally click on that link there. It is so freakin' funny.) So really, I didn't have time to sleep. I had a full day's worth of waterworks to get through and I was burning the midnight oil doing it.

After Puberty the Sequel ended, I went into a phase where I could sleep, but would wake up over anything. Traffic noises outside my window, a creak in the ceiling, the next door neighbors having sexual furniture-moving episodes that I could hear through my wall. (What is a sexual furniture-moving episode, you ask? It was what I chose to name the sounds that I was hearing, which could not be described any other way than to say that my neighbors were clearly knockin' boots and pushing their furniture around at the same time. I tell you, there is a fetish for everything). Just when I was getting over this hyper awareness of sound and sleeping through all the racket, I moved. And my new apartment? Was totally silent. I remember my first night in that apartment. I was wide awake most of the night, freaked out by all the nothing that was happening in my presence. No traffic, no neighbors, no nothing.

The Sandman was chased away once again, and came back slowly and cautiously and settled into my new silent room. And then? Wham! Nordic Boy got sick. Really, really sick. In and out of the hospital, almost kicking the bucket kind of sick. When that was going on, my sleeping habits grew even lighter than they ever had before. "Sleeping with one eye open" is what I believe it's called. I was atuned to everything about Nordic Boy-- I would wake up if his breathing pattern changed. I would wake up if he moved in the slightest. I was watching him for any changes and so conking out was out of the question. And during this time, the Sandman was fed up and just hightailed it out the door and never came back. To this day, I will wake up if Nordic Boy so much as sighs in his sleep. The fear of that period has never left, I suppose.

So for the past two days, Nordic Boy has had a very slight cold. You wouldn't even know he had a cold really, it's so slight. But for the past two nights, the congestion has made him snore. I am talking full on, buzz saw, cartoon style snoring. It's like a nasal nocturne all night long and it ain't soothing. So for me, the girl who usually is functioning on a few hours of sleep a night, and who wakes up when a mosquito farts, this has meant no sleep at all. At all.

The Sandman has screwed me over once again. Maybe some day I will sleep a full 8 hours again at some point in my life. Sleeping for real seems like part of my lost youth, gone forever just like Pixie Stix straws and DeBarge.

I'm tired, peeps. As usual. That's all.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl