Ok you guys. I really have to wrap this story up. Because I am getting bored with this story and although you are being really nice to me about it and I appreciate that, I know you are too. You know how, in movies, there are montages that show scenes that are happening to denote the passage of time? I can almost promise you that this post will have a montage. Settle in, because I am pushing through this sucker, right now.
Last we talked, I had told you that I had the Best Time Evah with Nordic Boy, but then janky old ex-boyfriend Poop Nugget shows back up and I took him back like a stupid cud-chewing cow. Regurgitating my bad boyfriend right back up.
Yikes, that was really gross imagery there. Sorry about that.
The following day, I walked back into work, and Nordic Boy smiled at me. And I thought I was going to melt from happiness. And cry because of Poop Nugget. And pee my pants at having to be an ass to Nordic Boy. All the liquid feelings, they were upon me all at once.
Again with the grossness! Sorry 'bout that.
Nordic Boy and I had made a plan to have lunch together that day. I went up to him in the morning and told him about Poop Nugget. You know what he said?
Nordic Boy: Oh. Ok. I get it. Where do you want to eat lunch?
Here's where I have to explain something. And anyone who knows Nordic Boy but at all would back me up on this, because these qualities about him kind of smack you right in the face.
1. Nordic Boy is not possessive.
2. Nordic Boy is consistent.
3. Nordic Boy does not freak out.
4. Nordic Boy is unconditional.
Now, being the immature 19-year-old that I was, and being in a relationship with Poop Nugget who was very possessive, and very inconsistent, and freaked out lots, and was very conditional (I mean come on, don't assy cheaters have to have standards??), I SO DID NOT UNDERSTAND THIS.
I totally didn't get this reaction. It would be fair to say that I thought Nordic Boy was maybe hard of hearing. Although he did look kind of disappointed, he was not being sarcastic, or condescending, or mad, or embarrassed at being sort of dumped.
I thought he was just trying to save face. So we went to lunch, and had another great time, and at the end of that lunch, I gave him the old "I hope we can still be friends" line. And I was so sad, because I wished that we could really be friends, because I liked him so much. So much it kind of hurt me in my gut.
And you know what happened? He totally WAS still my friend. He did not let things get weird, at all. He still joked it up with me, he still gave me rides home, he still asked me to lunch, he still watched movies with me, he just...acted NORMAL.
Remember how I said that I wasn't used to maturity? I also was not used to people acting so friggin' normal. Who DOES that?
So, from that day forward, Nordic Boy was the best friend I ever had. We were the type of friends where we never got sick of each other, or mad at each other, and we always laughed our heads off together, and we saw each other every day, and we always secretly had a crush on each other that just about killed us but we didn't talk about it. It was the only thing in the world we didn't talk about. We hung out just the same, we did everything just the same. Just minus the smooching. But we were always, unbeknownst to each other, ALMOST smooching.
I remember there was this one time? We were watching a movie in my apartment and Poop Nugget called. The purpose of his call was to pick a fight with me all the way from another state. And I sat there and had this fight with him over the phone, while Nordic Boy sat there with the movie on "pause." And after I got off the phone, drying my pathetic eyes and trying to pull myself together, Nordic Boy had me doubled over in laughter within 5 minutes. Because no matter what, Nordic Boy can make me laugh. You know how, when you are watching a scary movie and the stupid girl in the movie is about to go into the serial killer's abandoned cabin because she is just that brain dead? And how you yell at the screen, going all "NO! Don't go in there! The hockey mask pyscho is behind that door! STOP!" That's a similar feeling that I get when I think about nights like the night Poop Nugget called to pick a fight with me with Nordic Boy right in the room. I look at my young self and I think about Nordic Boy and I go "NO! The guy you should be with! IS RIGHT THERE! HE'S RIGHT THERE!!! IDIOT! Don't you see him? GAWD you are dense."
But I didn't see it. Or actually, it would be more accurate to say that I did see it, but for some reason, for once in my life, my ballsiness had run out. I couldn't let myself go there. I can't explain this.
This is where you all get to psychoanalyze me about how I obviously didn't think I deserved a good dude and that I had self esteem issues and that I must have thought that I needed drama in my life and blah blah blah. Go ahead, you know you're thinking it.
Well, that sort of explains it in the Poop Nugget era. But that era didn't last for very long. We broke up soon after. And then I dated some other dudes along the way, and they weren't bad dudes. They were nice. But I don't know why I didn't jump on the Nordic Boy train (does that sound dirty? I didn't mean it dirty. Well, not entirely) earlier than I did. Maybe I thought that I would lose him as a friend. But that doesn't make sense either, because every time I was single, Nordic Boy and I would hook up. And then when we weren't hooked up, it still wasn't weird. Still best friends, like always.
And to be totally honest with you, I was always in love with Nordic Boy. Like, CONSCIOUSLY. I knew I was. What's more, I knew he felt the same way. I knew it! And I knew that he knew it! And he knew that I knew. I knew that too. BLAH! I don't know what the hell was going on.
(Here's where you can insert a time-passing type montage. Nordic Boy and I, having zany adventures, sit-com style. Theme song from "Friends" playing in the background...)
Are you guys still awake?
Ok, let's cut to the chase. I started dating this other guy. He was significant, in that our relationship lasted about a year. I don't have a handy nickname for him so we'll skip that. He was a good guy, really. Just completely clueless about who he was. (I know, I know, from this story so far, who am I to talk? But truly, over the time that had passed, I think I started to know who I was a lot more. Just trust me on that). And when that relationship ended, I was exhausted. Not just from him, but from my life in general. I had been a stuggling artist-type for a long ass time, and I was POOR. Like, sometimes I didn't have enough to eat poor. Add to that some other Super Serious Drama in other parts of my life, and I was THROUGH.
Through with what, you ask?
That's right, people. I was so over everything, that I was all BUMP THAT NOIZE and I LEFT THE COUNTRY. For serious.
I was going back to the homeland in the South Pacific, to sit on some white sandy beaches and let my relatives stuff me with curry and coconut milk. Did I mention that I made this decision to leave literally overnight? One day I was living (by this time I was in Madison, WI) and working and having an apartment and things to do, and the next morning my bags were packed and I had closed out my meager bank account and I was OUT. Ileft the few possessions I had in my apartment and left with one suitcase.
I told Nordic Boy I was leaving. And I said that I didn't know if I was coming back. Like, ever. And as usual, Nordic Boy was (a) not possessive, and (b) consistent, and (c) did not freak out, and (d) unconditional.
Then I left. For months and months.
Months and months- kind of like this story, huh?
So I went back to Fiji, and I got some sun. With just family around me. No friends, no dudes, no job, no car, no tv. I didn't even have a phone to call anyone. I was completely unplugged.
Nordic Boy wrote me every week. And I wrote him back. And it would be true to say that I didn't miss anything about America (well maybe Cool Ranch Doritos) but I did miss him. And eventually, I wanted to come back.
So I said something like "hey you wanna be my dude or something?" and he said "GODDAMMIT YES, LADY" and that was that. I got on a plane, crossed an ocean and it was a done deal.
See why I never told the story before????
Ok you guys. I really have to wrap this story up. Because I am getting bored with this story and although you are being really nice to me about it and I appreciate that, I know you are too. You know how, in movies, there are montages that show scenes that are happening to denote the passage of time? I can almost promise you that this post will have a montage. Settle in, because I am pushing through this sucker, right now.
See, you all THINK that you want more of the story. Because you think that it's what, like half way done? A quarter way done?
Let's just put it this way. My last post? Was the first week that I met Nordic Boy. And if you will recall, I began that post by saying that our getting-together story was several years long. We are one week in, people. ONE WEEK.
I'll keep going with the story. But when you are cursing me at the end of this entry, please remind yourselves that you asked me to do this. Kaythanks.
So when we left off, we had the perfect set up. I was free of the dastardly cheaty boyfriend (aka Poop Nugget), I had successfully gotten crushworthy Nordic Boy to hang out with me outside of work, and the planets were aligning, if only I would get myself together.
In my apartment, I had two couches that faced each other, with a coffee table in between. He sat on one, and I sat on the other. Nordic Boy and I chatted it up and then decided we would play cards. The only problem was that I, at that time, only knew little kid card games. No Hearts, no Poker, no nothing. So we played rounds of Crazy 8s, and Old Maid, and King's Corners, and War. For hours. It was a blast. HE was a blast. It would be no exaggeration to say that it was just about the best time I could remember having up until that point. As we played and talked, I made up my mind. I was going to Make Something Happen.
Although (as I have already stated) I was a pretty immature 19 year old with many other faults I am sure, one thing that I have never had a problem with is Making Something Happen. In high school I was actually known for this. As my friend Ali who has known me my entire life has said many a time, I had balls. Gigantic ones. I wasn't skerred of nothing. Everything I wanted in life, I went and got. It was like, my thing. So even though I had lots of doubts about whether or not Nordic Boy had any of those types of feelings about me at all, and all of the evidence thus far had pointed in the direction of no, probably not, I didn't care. I was going Make Something Happen.
So here's what I did. (And you know what? This story is so fricking embarrassing my eyes are watering a little bit right now). I wound down the cards but kept the conversation going. And then I got up to get us something to drink, and when I came back, I sat next to him on the couch, instead of across from him. He didn't even bat an eye at this. Then I started to scoot in. Right into his personal space.
Oh I am a smooth one. You better believe it.
I scooted in, and then I scooted in some more. You'd think that a dude would realize this, wouldn't you? You would think that the dude would show some signs of (a) heightened flirtatiousness, or (b) winding up for making a big move, or (c) showing signs of uncomfortable shifting away with repulsion. Nordic Boy did none of these things. He acted perfectly normal. No change. Chatting, chatting.
I scooted until I was practically on his lap, people. And then I even leaned in. I leaned! And...nothing. I swear to you it was like he had no depth perception or something. And it's not like he was leaning away. He still was acting friendly, sweet, interested in the conversation. What the hell, right?
You think you have seen the full range of my Ballsiness? Oh no. You haven't.
At the next pause in conversation, when it seemed most appropriate to bring in a new topic, I said this:
"So, do you want to kiss, or what?"
Let's all say it together, shall we? BALLLLZZZZZZ.
Everything in the room became very still. Nordic Boy looked at me, SHOCKED. Not a traumatized shock, but it was clear that he wasn't expecting that in. the. slightest. Never mind that he had The Leaning Tower of Librarian Girl not 4 inches from his face. A couple of seconds went by. It felt like oh, 8 thousand years.
Then he said:
So we hooked up. And it was lovely. And that should be the end of that tune.
But the next day? Poop Nugget called. And apologized. And said he wanted to work this out, and please baby baby please.
AND I WAS A BIG STUPID ASS AND TOOK HIM BACK.
And then I had to break it to Nordic Boy. How do you think he took this? Will this story ever end? Does anyone even care?
I didn't think so.
Thanks for all the questions, homies. Let's start with this. Every time any one of ya'll has asked me how Nordic Boy and I got together, I demurely say that I will tell you another time. Either that or I flat out ignore the request. Why is this? What sort of sordid tale am I trying to cover up? Did we meet on a secret CIA mission? Did we meet on the Lost island and are now under a gag order from Bug-Eyed Ben? What IS IT?
Nothing so exciting as that. The reason that I haven't told the story is because it's not pithy. Most people I know, it seems, have these concise, cute little stories of how they met their honeys. "Oh, we met at the Starbucks where he accidentally picked up my Mocha Choca Lata Ya Ya by accident." Who are you people, that you have the little stories that you can tell in less than 2 minutes flat? Does it really happen all cutesy like that? Really?
Nordic Boy and I have a semi-interesting how-we-got-together story, sure. But it's just a really, really long story. Looooong. Like, several years long. That's right, I said YEARS. It took us a good long time to actually get together. And I don't really believe, in my heart of hearts, that anyone in their right mind would want to hear such a mind-bogglingly long and complicated story just to answer a "how did you meet?" question. Or do you? I don't know. But, it's been asked, on this here blog, just enough times for me to answer it. At least, Chapter One in the story of me and Nordic Boy. Because you would want to poke your eyes out if I wrote out the whole thing. You might want to anyway, just with Chapter One.
I was 19 years old when we met. A BABY. A TEEN. That kind of freaks me out when I think about it like that. I was an actor type back then and I landed a sweet job at a sweet Equity theater company in the Chicagoland area. I dropped out of college (scandal!!!) to go pursue my dream, which entailed being a crew-type person to pay the beels while I acted on the side. I ended up doing everything at this job of mine: I built sets, I built costumes, I stage managed, I choreographed, I "assistant directed" (cough cough made coffee cough cough), I did it all. My very first day, the production manager took me on a tour of the building. I met a bazillion people, all of whom were much older and more seasoned than I, and I felt dwarfed by my lack of experience. The tour ended in the scene shop. There, high up on a scaffolding, weilding a nail gun, stood Nordic Boy.
Let me back up for a second. At this time in my life, I had a boyfriend. Let's call him Poop Nugget. Poop Nugget was back at my ex-college in Michigan, and he was cheating on me all over the state. And that wasn't even the biggest part of his dickish behavior. He was just a sort of condescending person in general and he didn't make me feel very good about myself. I have always, always had pretty nice boyfriends in my life, before him and after him. This one was the exception to that rule. But I stayed with him because he was Mr. Big Deal at my college and all my friends thought he was a Dreamboat and I didn't want to be the asshole who dumped the Dreamboat.
That shit is the stupidest crap I think I have ever said. But there you have it.
Anyhow. Back to the theater scene shop. I can't lie. I took one look at Nordic Boy and I was SPRUNG. It was fog machines and sappy music and holy jeebus that is one nice lookin' fella there. So, like the chipper chippy that I was back in the day, I marched over to him and said "HI! I'm Librarian Girl!"
He didn't even turn around to look at me. He just said "Hey" in a nice but totally not-interested way and kept working.
(An aside. I have to tell you that, if Nordic Boy were co-blogging this entry with me, he would be hotly contesting this portrayal of himself. Every time we talk about this period in our lives, he tells me that I have it all backwards. That he noticed ME right away and I was the one who seemed like I was just being friendly but not interested. But really. It was HIM who was friendly but not interested. I trust that you all will believe ME, your close blog friend, right?)
From that day forward, I was INTRIGUED by Nordic Boy. I wasn't really in the market for a boyfriend or anything, since I was so busy being faithful to unfaithful Poop Nugget and all. But Nordic Boy was fascinating to me. He was the boy-wonder of the theater, because he was the Master Carpenter there and he was only 20 years old, which was so cool and so nuts. All of his friends, at work and outside of work, were in their 30s and he fit right in with them. He was mature.
At this point in my life, friends, the one thing I was not...was mature.
I wanted to befriend Nordic Boy. BADLY. Besides his intriguing position at the theater, he was really nice, and made funny jokes, and he was SO the only person anywhere near my age that worked there. I diligently said hello to him, and asked him how he was, and became quite obnoxious about it. I would do oh so subtle things like this:
Me: (at the end of a shift, to the entire room) Hey, can anyone give me a ride home? Nordic Boy?
Nordic Boy: (from way across the room) What? Oh, yeah. Sure.
The Rest of the Employees: (snicker snicker)
(All of us working on a huge set, me nowhere near Nordic Boy).
Me: Ouch! I got a sliver in my hand. (walking myself all the way across the backstage area, onto the stage, passing by maybe 20 people who could have helped me out). Nordic Boy, will you help me get this out?
Nordic Boy: Um, ok.
Slowly but surely (ok, maybe it was within one week of me working there), I finagled us both into a routine whereby he was driving me back to my apartment after work every night. And every night, as he dropped me off, this would occur.
Me: You want to come in for a bit? We could watch a movie or something. Or we could walk somewhere and get something to eat.
Him: (As always, said super nicely and completely unreadable) No thanks. See you tomorrow!
I could not, for the life of me, get him to do something with me socially, outside of work. At work, we were (I thought) totally bonding. As we worked together, he just got funnier, and nicer, and hotter by the minute. So I persisted, unsuccessfully, with the invitations. After a while, I just came to expect the "no thanks" response and gave up hope. Then, one day, out of the blue...
Me: You want to come in for a beer or something?
Nordic Boy: Ok.
So he came up. And I remember I was freaking out, because in reality, I didn't have any beer. The one time he accepts the offer, and I don't even have what I said I had. When we got up to the apartment, he didn't seem to notice though. The other reason I was freaking out? Was because just a few days before this, old Poop Nugget had called me up, and confessed to cheating it up with some girly we both knew back home, and we had broken up.
So here I was, Poop Nugget Free, and single, and it was like Nordic Boy had some weird radar or something because this is the exact moment that he is sitting on my couch, in my apartment, all cute and all.
This post is getting really long. See? Even Chapter One of the story is all wordy. I've got to go, guys. I'm still in my pajamas and I have shit to do. I'll leave you either (a) wondering if Nordic Boy and I hit it off that night, or (b) thanking your Lucky Charms that I have wrapped this shit up. I'll tell you another time about what happened next.
I'll leave you with this tragic tip. I had not seen the last of Poop Nugget.
Now there's a sentence I never thought I'd say.
I know you all are totally hung over from celebrating Millard Fillmore and suchlike, aren't you? I knew it. President's Day is way raucous that way.
The big news over here is that this weekend the temperature went up into the upper 50s. And of course, as people here do whenever that happens this time of year, there was much gallavanting about in flipflops and shorts. Not me, folks. First of all, my inner thermometer was telling me that there was no way that it was that warm. Second of all, I do not bust out the summer wear until it is at least 65 degrees.
Here's my problem this week. I have nothing to say. Nothing. My motor mouth has a problem with its spark plugs. Does that metaphor even make sense? I really should stay away from car references, as the only types of cars I really understand are the ones that Fred Flintstone drives, where his feet stick out the bottom and he's just running around town. (How idiotic is that, by the way?) I'm just saying. I am all out of blogging material. The reason being that I am working, working, working, and none of that has been blogworthy and Nordic Boy is on a business trip all week so I have no stories to tell you about him, and I didn't do one social thing all weekend, so I am just one boring mothereffer today. I could regale you with my feelings on the Snoop Dogg reality show, or how I went bra shopping yesterday, or how I went for a walk around my city on Sunday and Monday that were over three hours long each day just for the hell of it, but really? That's the best I can do?
So. Yeah. Hi.
(crickets chirping in the background)
Remember, a long time ago, you guys all commented and asked me questions? Remember that? That was so fun, right? You have been dying to do that again, I can just tell.
Ok so maybe you haven't been wanting to do that. But please. Help a girl out, will you? I need fodder. So come on, bring it. Ax me a question. My brain, she is busted. I am always a little scared to do this whole Ask Librarian Girl thing, as it's like inviting people to a party and then what if no one comes? What if no one gives a rat's ass about asking me anything? Then I get to look like a big asshole. You know what I mean? It's like asking me to do a Trust Fall. And I don't do Trust Falls, people. Ever.
So, comment or email me and I will answer all, much like Miss Cleo. Except I can't tell the future, and I am not Jamaican, and I won't charge you by the minute. And I look stupid in a do-rag.
Someone asked to hear the hand-holding drama story that I mentioned a couple of posts ago. FINE. For YOU, I will re-live my pain.
It was the 5th grade. I had a crush on Mike. Mike was this little freckley faced dude with feathered hair that looked winglike on the sides of his face and a comb in his back pocket at all times. You remember those combs? Like this.
Except his was blue.
He could do this creepy thing where he could make his eyeballs shake. I am trying to think of how to explain it...he would stare at you and then his eyeballs would sort of vibrate from side to side in a wickedly grotesque way that would make all of the girls say "ewwww." All the girls loved him. You can totally see why.
Mike and I had a long, torrid flirtation with each other. I don't really know why I liked him and I have no idea why he liked me. It was just one of those things that WAS. Oh, and to add to the twisted web of elementary school romance, Mike had a twin brother who I liked back in 2nd grade. Liked him so much that I got to invite him to my house for after-school snacks one time. I don't know what happened to my romance with the twin, but by 5th grade I was all about Mike.
It's sort of coming into focus that I was going through the boy population kind of fast in elementary school, huh? I suppose I was. Playing the field and all, you know. Don't hate. Appreciate.
One day, we had an assembly. It was the high school choir, come to sing us some soft rock hits, as they are wont to do. They even had choreography of the sort of Up With People bullshit style that was so popular then (and maybe still? It's got to be popular still with the Claymate contingent). At this assembly, I somehow got in line next to Mike as we were filing in, which meant that we were sitting together. Rapture!
During the singing jubilee, as Mike sat next to me, he nudged me with his elbow. This was disconcerting as I was trying to Play It Cool by not looking at him or acknowledging that he was sitting right next to me. I glanced over and saw that he had his hand next to him, with his palm up. You know how, in the Matrix (stay with me here), Neo would get ready to fight by staring down Mr. Smith and putting his hand out in front of him, palm up, and then making that beckoning motion with his fingers? That's what Mike did! He beckoned me.
At first I didn't get what he wanted me to do. I looked at him, all "what do you want, fool?" (I was still Playing It Cool, see) and then his eyes looked down at my hand, resting in my lap. He beckoned again.
I went for it. This was too exciting for words. While the sound of some Michael W. Smith or Phil Collins tune rang in four-part harmony in our ears, I put my hand in Mike's. And we held hands for the rest of the show.
Sounds sweet, right? Like an episode of the Wonder Years or something. Except Mike was no Kevin Arnold, that's for damn sure. Because the whole time he was holding hands with me? HE WAS HOLDING HANDS WITH THE CHICKEE WHO WAS SITTING ON THE OTHER SIDE OF HIM TOO.
That's right, ya'll. I was involved in a hand-holding three-way and I DIDN'T EVEN KNOW.
I know this makes me sound like a dimbulb. How could I have not noticed that he was holding hands with someone else? I don't know. I was too busy Playing It Cool to notice, is the only explanation I can give you. And besides, you shouldn't be questioning me in all of this. I was the VICTIM. Mike was a hand-holding playa and I fell for it. Too bad, so sad.
I believe this was the first time I really touched a boy with any sort of romantic intention. How sad is that?
When my friends told me later what he did (yes, people, my friends knew what was up even if I didn't) I gave Mike his walking papers. I wish I could say that was the end of him, but he plagued me all the way into 6th grade. Remember this story? Same Mike.
Ain't that a kick in the balls.
First of all, I just realized that my site meter passed the 66,666 mark in the past few days and NONE OF YA'LL told me. Why would I think that you are paying attention to my site meter? I don't know. I just think that everyone is sitting around waiting for the Sign of the Beast to occur in their lives.
Speaking of Satanic Evilness, lookee where I was this morning.
Happy Valentine's to me!
Speaking of Valentine's, you know what Nordic Boy got for me, a day early? A good chortle.
Him: (while making dinner, singing to himself) J-j-j-j-j-j-gee, you nut!
Me: Did you just say "YOU NUT?"
Him: Yeah, I am so gangsta, yo.
Me: It's G-UNIT. Not Gee, you nut.
Him: What's G-Unit?
Me: The name of the group. G-Unit. With 50 Cent in it? It's a GROUP.
Him: Oh, I thought they were saying "gee, you nut!" Like, hey g, you're such a nut!
Me: That's actually, well...awesome.
And speaking of awesome, while helping a teen patron the other day, the subject of today (Thursday) came up. She was incredulous, shocked, amazed that we, the library, would be open on VALENTINE'S DAY. I think that she wanted to cry on my behalf for having to work on such a Very Important Day.
And speaking of it being a Very Important Day, lookee what else I saw today.
BLUE SKIES IN FEBRUARY!
This is so joyous that it makes me grin like a toothy idiot.
And speaking of things that make me overjoyed, check this out.
I have seriously watched this like, five times in a row. And it's still funny.
I know you are going to be SO SHOCKED when you hear this. Lots of times, I don't have any idea what is going to come out of my keyboard when I sit down to blog. I just sit down, open up this here window and start puking out words.
You have fallen out of your chair with incredulity, haven't you? I can almost hear the collective thudding of asses on floors across the land.
I will give you a moment to collect yourself.
Here is my random thought for today. When I was in the 6th grade, I was (due to my ballerina chops) really flexible. I remember all of my friends saying that I should SO TOTALLY try out for cheerleading in 7th grade because of all the kicking and splitsing and jumping around I could do. Never mind that I could never be a cheerleader because: (a)I always had dance rehearsals immediately after school, often until 7 or 8 at night; and (b)I did not have mile high bangs held up by Aussie Scrunch Spray like anyone else who was cheerworthy, in fact I had no bangs at ALL. Despite this, I became sort of like a stupid pet tricks event for my classmates. Hey, my friends would say, Librarian Girl can touch her kneecap to her ear! While raising up on her other leg and standing on tiptoe! DO IT! And I would do it. Hey! She can kick her back leg behind her until her toe taps her on the top of her head! DO IT! And I would do it.
Does this sound pathetic? Yeah, I know. But it was adolescence. And this attention was like an all-you-can-eat buffet. I was belly up to the buffet and engorging myself, all too gladly.
In fact, not only was I a dancing pony for all of my friends, I started saying this phrase like I was hot shit: "I'm FLEXIBLE AND SEXABLE."
In 6th grade. Like, 11 years old. I was walking around saying that I was flexible and sexable! I hadn't even kissed a boy, or touched a boy, (besides one unfortunate hand-holding incident in 5th grade that only ended up in betrayal and heartbreak but that is a story for another time). The point is, I hadn't even really figured out what sex was (beyond the mechanics, which I knew but found to be highly disgusting and had all kinds of skepticism about). Looking back, I wonder if any grown-ups ever were in earshot of me saying such a thing with my big mouth. What must they have thought? What would I think if I heard a little girl marching around saying such a thing?
The other day, at the library, I saw two little girls, about 8 years old, doing the Macarena dance together. When they did the hip-swivel part, they would say "sex bomb!" in unison. At first, I was horrified. Then, I realized they had no idea what they were saying. Third, I remembered my flexible and sexable days. And then I wasn't so disturbed.
Unless you count the fact that the Macarena lives on in the hearts of the youth of today. Now THAT. Is disturbing.
Hi! We are having winds here the likes of which will blow your skirt right up over your head! Wish u were here!
New subject! Do you ever say the phrase "code of silence?" Like, let's say you were telling someone something and you wanted them to lock it in the vault, never tell a soul, lip-zipped, upon pain of death. Would you ever say "I'm going to tell you something, but it has to be in the code of silence after this, ok?"
Me either. Until I started hanging out with librarians. Librarians say words that I have never heard people use in casual conversation other than in books, which I suppose makes sense. For instance, librarians that I know often use the word "bailiwick." Isn't that a funny word? "That music collection is Matilda's bailiwick." Fie, me wee faerie. A pox on her bailiwick, I say!
So, the code of silence. I hear this phrase a lot, for those "off the record" work type conversations. A bit dramatic, yes? Like we are all library spies, working the underground resistance movement or something.
It gets even better. The other day, someone was telling me something that they wanted to keep just between us. And as he said "the code of silence," he made a gesture with his hands. As he said the words, he brought both his hands up over his head and pantomimed like he was putting a tent over the two of us.
Me: What did you just say?
Him: Just, you know, this is under the cone. The cone of silence.
Me: Did you just say CONE?
All this time, I thought people were saying "the code of silence," which was strange enough for me. But now? The CONE? What exactly is a cone of silence? Is it like an ice cream cone? A traffic cone? A pine cone? And the way that he gestured. He was literally putting the two of us underneath an invisible cone. The cone of silence.
Maybe it was just him. I kind of want it to be everyone though. The cone of silence is way, way better, right?
And does anyone get why I named this post what I named it? Because come on. That's funny.
Well wasn't yesterday's post the silliest boo-hoo fest you ever saw in your life?
Let's counteract that crap right now, shall we?
Awesome Things About My Week
1. Super Tuesday! Have I ever told you that I am a politics junkie? Well, maybe junkie is too strong of a term. A heavy user, let's say. I can't help it, it's in my blood. My dad used to be the mayor of a small island city, you know. Back in the early 60s. You should see the photos of him and my mom back in the day. My mom was rockin' the Jackie O. look and everything. Plus I have an uncle who was a member of Parliament for many years back in my homeland. The British imperialists left the scene and my DAD was one of the people who took over the joint! How cool is THAT? Democracy rocks, ya'll.
2. Nordic Boy left for Portland this week on a biznazz trip. And before he left? He made me some enchildas and some lasagna and froze it up for me to heat and eat. Dang, I should give that dude a medal or something.
3. I am working on a special project for work, and my end date on this project was supposed to end soon, but it got extended. So all week, people have been coming up to me and saying "you're extended!" and talking to each other about me and saying "she's extended." Is it just me or does that sound weird and funny?
4. It is Fashion Week. Between that and Super Tuesday, I may have to be surgically separated from the interwebs.
5. I read a review of my blog that was so, so nice and totally out of the blue. It made my day yesterday. Thanks, PL.
6. The weather has been in the upper 40s! The fact that I am filing this under "great news" should probably sound off some sort of alarm bell.
7. I have this thing with numbers. I always seem to see numbers in patterns and I feel compelled to point out the pattern aloud. COMPELLED. I am not talking about complicated patterns. Just stupid shit like if the time is 12:12. It's like A Beautiful Mind for the mathematically remedial. I seem to always be looking at a clock when it's freakin' 12:12. Then I may comment to whoever is there with me: "Look. It's 12:12." I swear I am not TRYING to look at the clock at 12:12, or 11:11, or notice that the odometer in a car is symmetrical with 11011 miles on it. It just happens. I don't even know what kind of response I am looking for when I say these things. Me: "Hey, your flight number is 828. Symmetrical." Possible responses: Great? Good for you for noticing? Who cares? Shut up?
Any of these would be acceptable I suppose. Anyway. I especially have to point out when I see sixes. This is mostly because I am a juvenile boy who thinks it is funny to say "666! The sign of SATAN!" at any opportunity. Nordic Boy has taken this on too. If I say "hey! You're going 66 miles an hour!" in our car, he will respond appropriately with "THE SIGN OF THE BEAST!"
Yesterday was a good day. Because this happened in my car.
The beast, I say! The BEAST!
This time of year, if you live where I live, you may start to go a little haywire. The reason? THERE IS NO SUN WHERE I LIVE. It rains. All day. Every day. Often with winds that make the rain come down sideways into your face. And you have the knowledge that the sun will not peek out again until March, if you are very, very lucky. If you are not lucky, then maybe you'll see the sun in April, or May. You start to feel soggy, like you will never be warm or dry again. You don't want to leave your house. You don't want to get out of your cozy jam-jams and slippers. You start to do crazy things like watch Dance Wars MORE THAN ONCE on your Tivo. What seemed like a delightfully snuggly season back in November now seems like a mushy bowl of Corn Flakes. YOUR LIFE SEEMS LIKE A MUSHY BOWL OF CORNFLAKES.
When I was a kid, I went swimming at the local pool. I was a skinny little kid, 'tis true. There's no denying it. I remember this one day I got out of the pool dripping wet and this twerpy little dickwad named Matty laughed, pointed at me, and said "damn! You look like a drowned rat!" I felt like a drowned rat when he said that. Cold, shivering, hair flattened.
This weather makes me feel like Matty is sitting right on my shoulder.
So Friday. I was determined to turn things around on Friday. I was going to go out in that rain and do something social. In your FACE, February! I will not be a prisoner of my pajamas because of the likes of you! But the month of February wanted to kick me in the bawls. Here's how it went.
1. Blah blah worky worky forgot to eat lunch.
2. Blah blah worky worky staying late and I can't say more because I would like to remain undooced.
3. Due to the staying late, I missed my bus to take me to my dinner date with a bunch of pals. Food? Who needs food?
4. I make it home and Nordic Boy whips me up something to eat. The pull of the pajamas is STRONG, people. I am home. I am warm. I am somewhat dry. But I rally. IN YOUR FACE, FEBRUARY.
5. I change my outfit (one way to cheer myself up is to have a wardrobe change. It works for me) and head out to a party. Nordic Boy, sensing some tragic foreshadowing I think, offers to drive me.
6. I am dropped off at the block where my friends' condo is. I have never been to this building before. The intercom thingy? Not working. So I stand outside (rain rain rain, cold cold cold) and wait for someone to come out of the building so I can get in. Fifteen minutes. It seems longer.
7. I take the elevator up to the 3rd floor and go to the address I was given, which is 311. I knock. Ready to party! IN YOUR FACE, FEBRUARY.
8. A very timid looking lady, who I have never seen before opens the door. "Yes?" is what she says to me. I realize that this ain't the right place. This lady is clearly not anywhere near a party. I apologize and go back to the lobby. I do not fail to notice that this lady is in her pajamas.
9. I call Nordic Boy and ask him to look at my party invite to be sure of the address. He does. I am sure. Who was pajama lady then?
10. I ask the attendant in the lobby of the building if he can help me. He can't. Plus, he is rude.
11. I go back out to the intercom. I scroll through the names and find my friend's name. So yes, she definitely lives here. I dial the number. Still not working.
12. Rain rain rain. My hair, she is flattened. My toes, they be cold.
13. I call Nordic Boy. He drives back to help me. I feel the pathetic drowned rat feeling. Damn you Matty.
14. We give up. I go home. My sweet friend Hopscotch calls to check on me from the party. I can't bring myself to go out and try again, even though I miss my friends who I haven't seen in FOREVER.
15. I get in my pajamas. I watch bad tv. I go to bed before 10pm.
16. February says to me: IN YOUR FACE, Librarian Girl.
My friend Knickerknapper (man I am getting good at giving people blog names) once complained to me about his girlfriend.
K: Sometimes, she asks me what I'm thinking about.
K: So, I feel like I'm supposed to say 'I was thinking about you,' or 'I was thinking about how much I love you' or something like that. But honestly, that's not what I'm thinking about.
Me: Really? That's what you think she wants to hear?
Why would she want to hear that all the time? When she could be hearing awesome things like the following?
Me: What are you thinking about?
Nordic Boy: Tractors.
Me: Yeah. I'm gonna need you to expand on that.
Nordic Boy: I was thinking about when I used to get to drive tractors. Like when I was a teenager.
Me: You did? You got to drive tractors? Like big ones?
Nordic Boy: Yeah.
Me: I don't think I have ever seen a tractor. Like up close.
Me: Wait, I think I may have touched one. Once, a long time ago.
Nordic Boy: You touched one? What does that mean?
Me: In elementary school, we got to take a field trip to a farm. I remember we got to see a real cow and go on a hayride. And I think that we saw a tractor there, and I think I touched it as we walked by. It was green, I think. I don't know. I must have been like, 6.
Nordic Boy: You are so city.
Me: (proudly) I've been on a riding lawn mower before.
Nordic Boy: Congratulations.
Me: Us at 15. You on a tractor in Wisconsin. Me on a lawn mower in Michigan. It's kind of romantic when you think about it.
Nordic Boy: What?
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