I saw this book in the library where I work. It's called 97 Things To Do Before You Finish High School.
It got me thinking. How had I spent my youth? Did I measure up? Had I done all the things that the new-fangled youth of today are doing? So I went through the list and made a list of my own. What follows is the list of the things in the book that I didn't do before the tender age of 18. Dig if you will the picture of what this says about me.
1. Join a club.
I was racking my brain on this one. I wasn't anti-club or anything, but I honest to mergatroid can't think of any club that I ever joined. I was a part of the school thespian society, but that was the biggest bullshit club ever. There were no meetings, and all you had to do was be in a lot of plays and you were in the club. I even held an office in that club. "Scribe." Can someone please hold my hand because the sheer theater geekiness of that title is making me a little faint right now. I never scribed anything for anyone in a thespian-related context so I have no idea what the hell that was about. I remember the day I was "elected" scribe. There were four offices. President, Veep, Scribe and Treasurer. None of these people had any responsibilities at all. It was after rehearsal and our teacher was like "who wants to be thespian president?" and someone would say "ok, me." When he said "scribe" I was like "I'll do that." But that's not really a club, is it? You want to know something else bullshizzy about that club? When I was a senior, we had a graduation awards ceremony, where people got called out for best GPA and Most Volunteer Hours and real shit like that. And, for some reason, my name got called that year and I got a thespian award. Like, it was a little trophy and everything. Why I got one and no one else did I never figured out. Weird.
2. Give technology a break
There weren't cell phones or email or PDAs when I was in high school and I was the last kid on earth to even get a VCR player or an answering machine. My technology consisted of tv-watching and...um...yeah. Just tv watching. And, come to think of it, when we spent summers in Fiji, there was no tv there. So I guess I did have a break from technology. Sort of. Does that count?
3. Host a film festival with your friends.
Really? This is what the kids are doing now? FAN-SWAH.
4. Start or join a book club.
Oopsie, future librarian. I didn't even know that book clubs were a thing to like, DO. I never talked about books with my friends, really. Unless it was to tell them that this one or that one was good. But discussing? Nuh-uh.
5. Sing karaoke.
We didn't know nothing from karaoke. But this one kind of counts because we sang in front of each other all the time. Theater geeks do that, you know.
6. Dine high end on a low budget.
Not unless you count the Olive Garden, which I TOTALLY DO.
7. Record an oral history.
Kids today, I tell ya. They are doing fancy things. I didn't know shit about what an oral history was. Although one of my best friends in high school, Mike, made me a present for graduation. It was a multi-page list of every single inside joke we had with our friends. The list was more than a hundred items strong, and I still have that sucker and I love it. One night, for some reason, Mike and I tape recorded ourselves reading out the list to each other and telling the stories behind why each item was so dang funny. I don't give a monkey ball about possessions usually, but that tape was one of the most important things I ever owned. It was crazy, and funny, and nonsensical, and awesome. I lost it somewhere and I can still make myself get a little misty over the fact that I lost it. Sad. Don't you feel so sad for me? I know, my problems are so yooge. I deserve a telethon. It ain't easy being meezy, baby.
8. Spend quality time with your grandparents.
Never got to do that.
9. Learn a martial art.
Only the fine martial art of cutting others with my eyes.
10. Enter a sports competition.
Nope, but I spent much of my youth in dance auditions, and if you want to show me a more cut-throat event, I would love to see it. Maybe cock-fights?
11. Determine your blood type.
12. Detox your body.
That would have gotten in the way of my very serious Cool Ranch Dorito and Faygo consumption.
13. Plant an herb garden.
The thought of me doing this NOW is laughable. As a teen? Whatever.
14. Know your silhouette and colors.
I am starting to doubt the validity of this book. Did they really just say that? Am I being punked?
15. Visit your state capital.
I went to the city, but never the actual building. There is nothing at all entertaining about this one.
16. Take a camping trip.
Still have never done this to this day. No one wants to take me, I think. I have asked numerous camping-type friends to let me tag along and no one has ever helped a girl out. What does this say about me that my friends are too scared to take me into the woods with them?
17. Hike to a mountaintop.
We didn't have mountains in the midwest. That's still true, right? Now that they have earthquakes there, who the hell knows.
18. Make a podcast.
Once again I reiterate that I was brought up in the days of yore when we had to do things like order plane tickets over the phone and buy stage makeup because drug store/mall makeup didn't carry brown colors and there was no such thing as a self-service slurpee maker and we played text-based games on our Commodore Vic-20s. So, nope.
19. Keep a scrapbook.
20. Learn to match beats.
Although I did know how to run a sampling machine and a sound board in high school. Do they still even make sampling machines? Or did I basically just say that I know how to work a Victrola?
21. Create a comic strip.
No way. The closest I came was I created a storyboard once for a film class. Sort of the same? Kind of? A little? Ok not really.
22. Paint your room.
23. Write your own manifesto.
Kids are writing their own manifestos these days? NUTS.
24. Contribute to community beautification.
Please. I mowed my parents lawn until I wanted to DIE. That was all I could take.
25. Visit your local officials.
If by this you mean my local McDonald's drive-through officials.
26. Write an op-ed.
Dang, I missed out on that one. I had very strong opinions about Betty versus Veronica.
27. Understand the stock market.
My economics class in high school was an effing joke. As were most of my classes.
28. Learn basic car maintenance.
I still need to get around to that.
29. Learn CPR.
Yeah, that one too. What the hell have I been doing with my life?
30. Ride a horse.
I had never even seen a real horse except but once in 6th grade camp.
31. Bury a time capsule.
What was I going to put in there? My acid washed jeans and my autographed photo of Soupy Sales?
That's it. Out of 97 items, I didn't do a third of them before finishing high school. A FULL THIRD. A sampling of the ones I DID do, however, are: throw a house party, learn about safe sex, take an art class, make your own halloween costume, and go skinny dipping. You know, all the important ones.
I saw this book in the library where I work. It's called 97 Things To Do Before You Finish High School.
There is something about summer that makes me just want to rock out to cheesy music. Even more than usual. I don't know what it is. It's like the sun comes out and fries my brain and all of a sudden you find me driving around town blasting Lady by Styx or Poison by Bel Biv Divoe or Whatever U Like by Nicole Stingzinger. Or whatever her name is. You know what I mean.
Here is something exciting. I got home last night and there was a large, very official-looking envelope in my mail from Stanford University. Ooh la la, Brains R Us. You know what it was? A degree. A Pee Aitch Dee. Ooh la la again!
Ok, so it wasn't mine. The name on the degree was Biology Girl, who had her degree sent to me because I am her in-case-of-emergency person (as Miranda Hobbs would say) or her "constant" (as Desmond Hume would say). When she moves or travels or what have you and she needs a permanent address to give out or whatever, that would be me. Which is awesome because then I get fancy, interesting mail with calligraphy instead of the nine thousand credit card offers that stuff my mailbox on a daily basis.
To celebrate her degree, we went out and had a fancy dinner. This was marred only by the fact that (a) Nordic Boy was tired from a long day at work followed by a long few hours after work ripping off our roof for replacement and so he was almost falling asleep into his Penne Sorrentina; and (b) I was tired and spaced out from a long day where I finished a big job assignment; and (c) Biology Girl was tired from a long day to the point where her ass was sore from writing a long paper that she has submitted for publication just under deadline. But other than that, it was a grand celebratory time.
So during dinner, Bio Girl suggested that we have some sort of ice cream or other such summery dessert after dinner. I thought that I expressed that this was a great idea, but apparently Nordic Boy and I were so tired that we gave a half-hearted response to the whole thing and she thought it was a no go. This was further complicated by the fact that (did I mention that I was tired?) no sooner had we walked out of the restaurant, I totally forgot about the dessert idea. I had a hazy understanding that we were about to go somewhere for something, but I couldn't remember. In the twenty or so paces from the restaurant to the car, I forgot where I was going.
We got in the car.
Me: (driving) Now, wait. Where am I supposed to be going?
Nordic Boy: (silence, barely awake)
BioGirl: Um, I guess you're taking me home?
Me: Oh. Ok.
See, she thought the ice cream idea had been shut down. So she went home. And I took her there, with a vague idea that maybe there was something I was forgetting.
I drove home, walked in the door, and then thought the following: "Man, you know what sounds so good to me right now? Ice crea-- hey! Wait a minute!"
I texted BioGirl to ask her what the hell she let me forget about the ice cream for. She said she thought I didn't want it. I told her I plum forgot. She was polite and didn't tell me that I am clearly a senile old bat.
I got back in my car, went to the store, got us some ice cream, and went over to her place, degree from Stanford in hand.
The best part of the whole night? Was when we were munching on our ice cream, half watching "I Survived a Japanese Game Show."
Her: Well...(munch munch)...you know...(totally unimpressed)...I'm officially done with school now.
Me: Yup (munch munch)...you have your papers to prove it and everything.
(pause, munch, munch)
Her: This ice cream is good. Lots of peanut butter cups in it.
Sometimes I think she and I are the Bartles and James guys. Without the wine coolers. Although perhaps we need to have the wine coolers, just to liven things up.
You know what I heard? I heard it was Take Your Blog Readership to Work Day some time this week. Josh said so. But then, Josh says all sorts of squirrelly things that are not to be trusted because he may be just joshing, so I don't know if this one is for reals.
Hey- Josh could be JUST JOSHING! How could I have never thought to say this before? These are the moments in my life that should be celebrated in some sort of Italian Roast Instant Coffee commercial.
Anyway, I will pretend that Take Your Blog Readership to Work Day is real. To that end, yesterday during a lunch break, I took some half-hearted photos with my craptastic camera phone while on a lunch break to show you, my Readership, how I roll as I work in Librarianship. Because anything that has that many "ship" words in it HAS to be fun, right?
First of all, yesterday was an awesome day on the Librarian Ship because this morning, before we opened, there was a surprise party. And the surprise party was FOR ME. See, I am transferring to another library location next week, and the staff at my current location threw me a party to say "later, gator." It was way awesome.
You want to know something really pathetic about me? (Just add it to the list, yo). I have never had a party thrown for me before. Like, EVER. Except when I was growing up and my parents threw me a birthday wingding. But, as an adult? No parties thrown for me. I have thrown lots of parties for others, lots for myself, and I have attended lots of parties thrown by others for others, and I have always had this secret thought in my head, sort of wistful-like, about how awesome it would be for someone to throw me a party. One where I don't have to organize anything. Because, you know, I am usually that person, who organizes things. And I love doing it, but this? Today? Walking into a room and having the food taken care of, and a cake, and flowers, and a nice card, and everything? And all I had to do was show up and take it all in? LOVED IT.
They even got me flowers, those rascals.
Ok, on to more common work things in the life of me.
Well this first thing isn't very common, but I have to share. People often call and leave me strange messages on voicemail. Like, people who have the wrong number. I don't know what it is, but it happens to me more than the average amount. This morning, I showed up to a voicemail message that went a little something like this:
"Um, hi. I think maybe I have the wrong number. I'm not sure. This is the SeaTac airport cargo department calling, and we have a crate of frogs here for you to pick up. But it doesn't sound like the library would be the right place for this call to go. So, um. If it IS you that is expecting a crate of frogs, then call me back."
A crate of frogs! First a surprise party and now a crate of frogs? This must be my lucky day.
Enough ridiculousness. I have boring photos to share!
The first thing that you are probably thinking of when thinking of a librarian gig is books. And you would be right, there are a lot of books in my life. Stacks and stacks of them that I get to handle and love and care for. But if I were to be perfectly honest with you, the thing I interact with more than books? Would be this.
The daily screen stare down
Usually the computer is turned on though. Obviously.
One thing my building has is an abundance of windows. Even as I sit at my desk, I am bathed in the glow of the Seattle sun, which makes scant appearances like an agoraphobic starlet.
I realize the window panes in this photo look like scary prison bars, but the effect in person is really nice. Really. Trust me.
And by the way, the word agoraphobia? Cracks my shit up. Because see, in Hindi, the word "gora" means "white person." So like, to my ear, it sounds like the word "agoraphobia" means "fear of white people." Which strikes me as hilarious. No offense to white people. Or real agoraphobics. Or people who are afraid of white people.
This is my office door. It has a port hole in it! Is that not the best thing ever? So when I am in my office, and my door is shut (not very often, but still), people can come and view me through the port hole. Or I can view the outside world as if it is a wondrous aquatic world that I dare not enter without a wetsuit.
Behold the strange librarian life.
I feel like I am painting a very odd picture with these photos. Prison-like windows, a port hole door...what does this say about my work life? That it may drive me a little crazy?
To keep myself sane, I have a photo stuck on my wall right behind my computer monitor, so that it is in my peripheral vision at all times that I am computing. It's a photo of me and my pals on our annual beach house summer vacation. Looking at it can get me through just about any bad day.
You may be asking yourself, Librarian, do you sit in your office all day? Why no, dear reader, I don't. Very little time is actually spent in my office. I spend most of my time in the library. But running around there taking photos is sort of unseemly, plus I was on my lunch break and I do most often eat my lunch at my desk (is that bad? It seems bad to say that) so that's the photos that you're getting.
I'll leave you with a photo of the stairs that lead from my office to the library proper. I run up and down these goldarn stairs about a jillion times every day. It is healthy for my ass and a pain in my ass all at the same time.
Upsy downsy upsy downsy
That's all I could muster up, friends. Five minutes of sitting at my desk and taking photos during a lunch break. But that's ok, right? Especially since Josh probably made this whole thing up anyway.
I feel totally high right now. You know why?
IT'S SUMMER, PEOPLE!
We have had two, count 'em TWO, glorious days of sunshine, right in a row. It is too exciting to bear. I am going to make this one quick since I have to clear my schedule for traipsing around in the sunlight and thawing the hell out.
Remember how I told you that my friends, Hopscotch and Rambo, recently got hitched? And how my hiney was in motion on the reception dance floor in celebratory glee? I have a post script to that story.
So picture me, busting a move in the middle of a crowd of wedding guests of all ages. Are you picturing it? I don't feel like you are really picturing it. PICTURE IT.
In the midst of this crowd of dancers, there were these two teeny little girls. They were wee ones after my own heart, as they were dancing it up just as hard as their little legs could go. But then, you know what happened?
They saw my shoes. My lovely, delicious sunshiney shoes.
AND THEY WERE CAPTIVATED.
They both, simultaneously, got down on their little round bellies, crawled toward my dancing feet, and started to worship the shoes.
I had to stop dancing and stand there for a minute. They both just melted there on the floor in front of me. They reached out with both hands, and petted my shoes. For a good long minute. Pet pet. Pretty pretty. Pet pet. Shoooooooz.
Everyone laughed. My friends snapped photos of this. And the kiddies just stared and petted. Not to be interrupted. Eventually, I had to stop the madness and I just sort of gently withdrew from the little hands.
I have been told I have nice shoes before. But this? This is getting ridiculous.
Nordic Boy doesn't really have any goopy nicknames for me. There was a phase where he called me Mushmouth because of the way I trip over my words when I am excited about something. And he calls me "Cool Breeze" a lot for some inexplicable reason (as in "what's up, Cool Breeze?") but I couldn't really tell you why. Maybe because I am cold alla time? And he also calls me "Chuckles" a lot, because, you know, I can get the giggles something awful. And the only time he says it is when I am in a fit of laughter, and I can't stop, and he doesn't quite get what the heck is so dang funny (this happens pretty regularly) and he'll just say in a wry sort of way "laugh it up, Chuckles." Oh, and sometimes he calls me birdie, or sweetie. I guess that is a little goopy, but on the scale of disgustingness, that's not so bad, right? No sugarlips, no snookums, no snugglebunny, no nothing like that. And you all know how I feel about the word "poopsie" so that is out.
Well, get this. The other night? Nordic Boy fell asleep as I was reading in bed. I read for about an hour, and then I turned out the light. In his sleep, he turned toward me, put his hand on my hip, and said the following quite clearly.
"Goodnight Candy Princess."
Oh. My. Goodness.
Candy Princess? What the heck is THAT? It's so...I don't know...My Little Pony-esque.
I am sure he would be so overjoyed that I am sharing this with you, by the way. But I can't keep it in. It's too GOOD.
In other news, can I mention to you that my friends and I are friggin' geniuses? We need to be officially designated as a Think Tank. Behold the lively conversation.
Me: I was driving over by Magnuson Park today, and there was pollen flying around over there the size of cotton balls! It was like pollen snow. It was nuts.
Nordic Boy: (doing a weird King Tut head bob)
Me: What is that? A dance?
Nordic Boy: No. I was dodging the pollen. Like, the pollen balls are so big, you have to navigate through them. Like that. (King Tut head again).
Me: That should be, like, the next big thing in video games.
Biology Girl: Yeah, like the Wii. But instead of a hand controller, you put this controller thing on like headgear.
Me: And the screen has pollen coming at you, and you have to not get hit by it!
Nordic Boy: It would be called POLLEN DODGER.
Biology Girl: And the goal of the game would be to get through all the pollen, and at the end, you get to save CANDY PRINCESS.
Me: Ha ha ha!
Her: Ha ha ha!
Nordic Boy: (embarrassed silence)
I am here today to proclaim something. Ready? This I do proclaimeth to thee:
I will not talk about the rainy weather for the REST OF THE SUMMER.
Because man. Us Seattle people? We can talk about the rainy weather. Especially in June. Constantly. It's like how LA people always talk about traffic and New York people always talk about how New York is better than everywhere else, and how Chicago people talk about where they had their last John Cusack sighting. We have to talk about rain in June! Like we have never seen rain in June before!
The thing is, it rains in June every year. Summer doesn't really start here until late June or early July. And even then it is a mild summer with rainy days thrown in. But yet, every year, we all whip ourselves into a frenzy because OH MY GOD IT IS RAINING IN JUNE. It is June Rain Amnesia. And I am guilty of it and so I shall not mention it on this here blog for the rest of the summer. Deal?
In other news, yesterday I was so tired I felt like I had a hangover. And this time, it wasn't because of insomnia. It was because of Michael J. Fox.
Nordic Boy was out of town and so I had the house to myself on Monday night. And so I did what any former Women's Studies major would do on such an evening alone. I watched the Bachelorette on tv. And it was a two hour episode. The shame! The dirty, disgusting shame. Why do I watch things that are guaranteed to annoy the everloving jeebus out of me? WHY? I think it is maybe because I want someone to talk to, and there is nothing that will get me talking like an episode of the Bachelorette. It is prime talking-back-to-the-tv fodder.
Anyhoo. After that I should have just thrown in the towel and went to bed. But I didn't. Instead, I perused my Tivo Suggestions. And you know what was on there? Teen Wolf, starring Alex P. Keaton and Frances from Pee Wee's Big Adventure! What could I do? It was right there! I had to say YES PLEASE. And I sat there and watched the whole thing. And stayed up way too late. And felt like a zombie for the rest of the next day.
This whole responsible adult thing is such a charade.
Last night, I could have had a repeat performance of the Tivo Suggestions Monster, but I was saved by Hopscotch, who came over and graciously indulged me with actual human conversation. This was lucky, as I had a fresh recording of "Some Like It Hot" simmering in the Tivo box and I could have so easily gone there.
See, when there are other people present, they can lure me away from the Tivo Suggestion Monster. Like last weekend?
Me: (turning on the Tivo) Oh my god.
Nordic Boy: What?
Me: (overcome with excitement) LOOK what is on the Tivo!
NB: The Ghost and Mr. Chicken?
Me: SWEET. Let's watch it!
NB: I'm sorry. I can't.
Me: What, are you busy?
NB: No. I just...can't.
Me: But it's DON KNOTTS! Mr. Furley! Bugging out for two hours straight!
NB: Exactly. I can't do that.
Me: Oh. Really?
NB: Really. I just can't do it.
Me: Aw, fine.
My friends and Nordic Boy help me with these boundaries. It's good, because otherwise, I may never sleep again.
I have a serious case of the Mondays today, people. It happens to the best of us. I think it has something to do with the following facts.
1. Nordic Boy, who returned from a biznazz trip on Friday, just departed this morning for another biznazz trip. Dang job. Making him travel and leave me alone to make dinner for myself. But alas, money must be made for the purchasing of plants to insert into the bald yard. Dolla dolla bills, ya'll.
2. The gods are peeing rain down on us again and this fetish is getting WAY OLD.
3. I have a mountain of TPS reports to do. Ok, maybe not a mountain. More like two. But that is two too many.
4. My pops and his neverending medical issues can wear me out sometimes. You know all this stuff about getting older is getting better and smear on some Oil of Olay and Age Defy yourself and all that? Screw that. Getting old is hard, and your body starts breaking down, and it's scary and mean and sucks major dingus.
Ok, mini-tantrum over. I've been thinking. I should talk about books on here sometimes. You know, me being a librarian and all, you'd think I'd want to talk about books. And by golly I do. And so I shall. Salt and Pepa? Sing us a little intro.
Let's talk about books, babe-ee
Let's talk about you, and me
Let's talk about all the good books
And the bad books that can be!
Too much? I think that was probably too much.
So rather than do a review of a book (because, let's face it, you go to Amazon or to your local library or to Goodreads or to Josh for those), I will do what I do best. Tell a silly story with no real point, but in this case a book will be the fundament to the whole shebang.
That is right. I said FUNDAMENT. I is so smart.
Let's start out with a crowd pleaser. Charlotte's Web. How about Charlotte's Web? That is SOME BOOK. Get it? Like, how Charlotte weaves "some pig" into her web? And I said SOME BOOK? Woo. I exhilarate meself.
I read Charlotte's Web for the first time in 2nd grade. Or rather, it was read to me. In our 2nd grade class, our teacher read aloud to us, a chapter at a time, right before lunch. It was the highlight of my day. Not only because it is a lovely book that teaches little urban kids that pigs are in serious danger of being killed up as soon as they are born and that the pig death could happen at any time after that point, but because my 2nd grade teacher was hella weird and she only stopped being weird when she read us that book.
Miss Tiva was mean. Not a big departure for me in my own personal teacher landscape, really. Not only was she mean though. She was an oddball. First of all, she picked her nose. Didn't even try to hide that shit, either. You'd think that, when teaching kids who are at the age when they need someone to model for them good nose hygiene, that one would refrain from nasal mining. Not Miss Tiva. Not only that, she picked at other things too. Her face, the underwear out of her crack, whatevers. Even as 2nd graders, a peer group where we were still learning basic bodily hygiene ourselves, we were all totally sicked out by Miss Tiva.
The other thing about Miss Tiva was that she was seriously hooked on phonics. Like, addicted to phonics. She would drill us on the goddamn phonics until we wanted to DIE.
Her: "Dog. Dah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ahg. Repeat that please."
Us: "Dog. Dah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah..."
We would always get lost on those phonics things. We could never remember how many "ahs" or whatever to repeat.
Also? Miss Tiva freaked the shit out of me because this one time, I was at the eye doctor with my dad, and I turned the corner in a hallway, and there she was. Seeing a teacher outside of the classroom, just walking around in NORMAL SPACE is freaky enough. But what was even freakier was that there was TWO of her. Miss Tiva had a twin! Meanness times two! A child's worst nightmare! I could never shake this eerie feeling about her after that. In my mind, I was always thinking, she has a SPARE SELF.
But, for one chapter a day, I loved Miss Tiva. She read us that book and I forgot about her, and her scowl and her bad picking habits and her phonics. There is still a part of me that, when I read the words "Templeton" or "goslings" or "Charlotte," still hears those words in her voice.
It has been the rainiest days ever the past couple of days. And not just the regular misty moisty (hey, remember that song?) Seattle style rain. This is more the pouring down rain where you actually need an umbrella ella ella when you go outside. It's serious damp out there.
I had this meeting this morning, where I had to talk almost non-stop for over three hours. There are very, very few people that I would want to listen to for three hours and my name is not on that short list. SHUT UP SHUT THE HELL UP is usually how I feel when there is an overabundance of blah blah blah. And when it's me doing the blah blahing it is no different. So, for the rest of the day, I was craving a nice tall forty ounce of shut up juice.
This week has seemed longer than all get out and my mind is kind of mushy. Not mushy like in smoochy but mushy as in creamed corn. Did I really need to clarify the style of mushy? Was that condescending to you, my darling blog friends, who can surely understand via context what sort of mush was intended? Sorry.
At the risk of sounding Ramtha, I have been surrounded by lots of negative energy lately. I am usually pretty Teflon-ish when it comes to such things because, you know, whatever. But today, it totally made me tired. My Teflon wears a little thin. But what can you do, right? The only thing you can do is make a gansta style statement that is just this side of nonsensical but all the hip hop stars do it so it must mean something right? So, let's try it. Let's make a statement about negative crap.
Yo, I just gotta keep it postive through all the haters, cuz. All this negativity is just a way for the suckas to keep me down and I ain't havin' that. It's all about postivity and that's real, son. As long as I'm keepin' it on the positive tip and keepin the hustle goin then there ain't no room for negativity in my life. Ima just do my thang.
Wow, you know what? That kind of works. Scary.
Is there a script somewhere that hip hop artists follow? Because they all say that. Just like all professional sports coaches say this in the locker room after a game is lost.
Well we went out there and did our best but today the other team just played a better game because you know we started out playing hard but we were down a couple of players and that really hurt us in the end. We're gonna have to regroup and come out fighting next week and I think we're gonna do that because we have a strong team and we're gonna come out on top but we made some mistakes out there today and we're gonna have to deal with that.
REALLY. It's like a SCRIPT. Handed out in coach school.
You know what I think? I think librarians need to have a canned statement to make after a hard days work of librarianing. So when we leave the library each night and the papparazzi stuff their microphones in our faces (as they do) asking us for a statement, we will be prepared.
Well we started out strong today with a string of reference questions answered but then a committee meeting came up and we just lost our footing for a moment but we recovered during lunch when my salad was full of crispy postivity. We dodged some dicey situations in the afterschool hours and could have given up but we came through and finished clean with a batch of new books and some witty repartee. Peace.
Here's another weird thing about me, and no, the list of weirdiocrity is nowhere near exhausted.
I have a weird aversion to stuff. Things. Possessions. Paraphenalia. I hate stuff. Tchotckes. Home detritus. Accoutrements. Appurtenances. Trappings. GEAR.
You know those people that Oprah likes to parade out for all of us in a 21st century style freak show, the ones with hoarding problems? And that Australian guy who comes on and makes them get rid of all their piles of twenty year old never used wafflemakers and their closets full of brand new clogs? And we all get to say "oh my god, they are SICK!" and feel so good about ourselves because although we may have a display case full of miniature giraffe knickknacks and Thomas Kincaide figurines, at least we aren't LIKE THEM?
I have the opposite illness. I don't like having stuff around me. At all. Blankness, to me, is nice. I love it. Mm, mm, good.
What does this say about me? I feel like a stuff-anorexic. And it's not even like I feel this way for saintly reasons. I am not trying to make a big statement about the Overly Bloated Consumption of Crap in American Society. Although I do think people tend to have too many things, that is pretty much a fringe benefit to my feelings. A bonus. Like I can pretend that it's because of that that I don't like having stuff, but truly, it's an aesthetic thing for me.
I think things look nicer when there isn't a lot of stuff crammed everywhere.
That's right. I just think it looks prettier. How shallow.
So, even though I am a librarian and I likee the booksie, I haven't bought a book in like...years. The sum total of my book ownership is twenty two books. I just counted. I don't have knicks nor do I have knacks, I have one set of mugs (what is with the mugs, people? Everyone I know has a bazillion mugs!), I own less than a dozen movies, I have four canvases on which I paint, and when I am done painting on one, I just paint right over it. And clothes? You think I have a lot of clothes, right? Not true. Whenever I buy something, I give something away. I have four pairs of earrings. I have three necklaces. I have two tubes of lipstick. Not because I am Mother Theresa. Not even close. It's just because if anything in my living space gets complicated, I will seriously lose my shit.
Let's just think about that for a second. If anything in my living space gets complicated, I will SERIOUSLY LOSE MY SHIT.
That just don't seem right, do it? There's a little screw loose somewhere, is what I'm thinking.
The latest thing for me is my mantle. When I moved in, I was excited to have a fireplace. I was not excited, however, for the ugliforousness of the fireplace. Check it.
That's a Pa Ingalls stew-making fireplace if ever I saw one and you know I am right.
So, I started the home improvement whine machine. Here's how it goes. I whine for a day or two. Then Nordic Boy springs into action. A weekend goes by... and voila! I get a new mantle.
Dang I love that dude.
So now, I have a pretty fireplace and a nice big mantle. With nothing on it. What the hell is a mantle for, if not for putting out pictures, and knickknacks, and objects aplenty? THAT'S WHAT IT'S FOR.
But I couldn't do it. It was just so...uncluttered the way it was. And uncluttered floats my boat to an almost sexual degree.
To much information? Sorry.
Someone who was in the home interiors business once said to me that one's home should reflect one's soul. That your outer landscape should reflect your inner landscape. I have always loved that.
But! Then it would follow that I am a vacant person. Do I look dead behind my eyes? Has Elvis left the building? Are the lights on but nobody's home?
Last weekend, Nordic Boy coaxed me into putting stuff out on the mantle. Just try it, he said. You might like it.
So I gathered up a few things. Photos, all the vases I own (three), a decorative bowl that I usually keep fruit in on the kitchen table. I kept it there for a few days, and the whole time, it bugged the everloving shit out of me. I HAVE A MANTLE DISORDER. And as a result, I took it all down after a couple of days of interior design pain. And you know what's even sicker? The only thing I got out of this exercise is my saying to myself "Three vases? THREE? Why the hell do I have three vases? THAT IS TOO MANY VASES!"
Oprah, please help me.
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