I'm thankful for conversations like...
Him: I'm thankful that I found you.
Me: That's sweet and everything, but the fact is that I found YOU.
Him: That's what you think.
Me: Re-writing history, are we?
Him: Nope. See, most people think that when you meet someone you want, that you have to think like a fox. That you have to be clever like that to get who you want. But when I saw you looking at me like a fox, I thought to myself, "Self? How do you catch a fox? By acting like a CHICKEN, that's how."
Me: So, you acted like a chicken? To attract the fox?
Him: (tapping his temple) I had it all figured out, see?
Me: That is the folksiest, oddest thing I have ever heard you say. Have you been watching Dr. Phil?
Him: Laugh all you want. The chicken doesn't mind. The chicken...is content.
Me: The chicken...is weird.
Him: The fox...is just jealous.
I'm thankful for conversations like...
It's the morning before Thanksgiving, and I am gearing up for work. I never know what the holidays are going to do when it comes to libraries. Sometimes, it can make people extra cheery and they will smile at you more and thank you more for what you are doing for them. Other times, it can make people become a collective ball of wrath. So, I am always a little cautious at work during the holidays. People of Seattle, are you going to be pearly white smiles like the Osmond family or are you going to be crazy-eyed freaks like Bride of Chucky? These are the pre-Thanksgiving wonderings that I deal with.
Something you should know about me and how I roll. When I come home from work, Nordic Boy is usually home already. And when I walk in the door, we have this weird habit of having a big ass party for about two minutes as soon as I walk in the door. It is like we are a couple of dogs or something. You know how dogs greet you like they haven't seen you in eleventy years even when you just saw them a few hours ago? That's us. (This is making me think of that part in When Harry Met Sally when Meg Ryan says, "Is one of us supposed to be a DOG in this scenario?" But what I'm saying isn't so insulting because we're both the dog in this scenario. Plus, dogs rock so I'm standing by my dog comparison).
Anyway. When I get home, there is dancing. There is singing of silly songs. There is parade marching. We celebrate the reunion. Every day. I don't know who started this, but it just comes out, naturally. We mix up the style a bit. It could be vaudeville, it could be opera, it could be a rap of some sort. Whatever moves us at the time.
The other day, I walked in the door after 8 long hours of dealing with Bride of Chucky wrath with nary a pearly Osmond smile to be found. When I walked in, Nordic Boy stood up and started to jig.
Him: (singing) You're home! You're home! I'm dancing like a gnome!
Him: What? I'm dancing! You're home! It's exciting!
Me: I just...you have to...I can't....
Him: What's going on?
Me: I saw so much crazy today. SO MUCH CRAZY. We can't be crazy at home today. It's too much.
Him: Wow, that's a lot of crazy.
Him: I mean, to out-crazy the gnome dance is pretty dang crazy.
Me: You have no idea.
Him: I'm kind of jealous that you're getting your crazy from someone else.
Me: I wish I could be monogamous with the crazy. But everyone else wants to give me the crazy too.
Him: No one else has given you the gnome dance yet, have they?
Me: Not yet.
Him: Well, that's something.
Letter to my high school self.
(Copied from Marty). (Who stole it from RA).
Dear You. I mean Me. Dear Younger Me,
Man were you excited to be a grown up! Remember that? I guess for you, reading this way back in time, it's not something to remember, but something that is happening, you know, in the present. Your present, not my present. These time travel things really confuse me. And I remember they always confused you too, so I guess I will start off by saying that although I am much more mature and knowledgable in some ways, being really super dumb about time travel is something that still remains the same. I know that of all the things that you're wondering about Adult You, time travel acumen is probably not at the top of your list so I shall stop talking about that, as I don't really know why I opened with it anyway. As an addendum to this captivating account so far, this first paragraph illustrates that your capacity for blabbing is something that shall stay with you for years to come.
So, to recap. Time travel- still confuses me. Blabbing- still happening.
So being an adult? It turned out fan-frickin-tastic. I am so glad that I can say that to you, because I know you had really high hopes of taking over the world with your wit and your charm and suchlike. However, there are a few things that turned out differently than you had planned or dreamed of...ok maybe a lot of things. Most things. All things?
First of all, I know you always thought that you would be living in a big city, and because most of your experiences with big cities were related to Chicago or New York, you always pictured yourself there. The bad news is that you didn't end up in either of those two places, at least long term. The good news is that you did end up in a fabulous city. Seattle! Ta da!
Don't look at me like that, Younger Self. I know that in your mind, Seattle is a kind of outback no-brown-folks grunge forest where people wear bad lumberjack fashion, but really, it's a city. A pretty big, pretty diverse one. Well, maybe it's not that big back when you/I were in high school, but now, it totally is. Really. We have skyscrapers and you aren't the only brown person on your block and everything. I see you are skeptical so let's move on.
Also, you are not single and living with your best friends in some sort of funky communal artist tenement, being all arty by day and dating it up at night. See, um, the thing is, although you do have a super terrific group of funky friends, many of whom are actually artist-types, you don't live with them. You live with a dude. Like, a partner-type dude. All hetero-domestic-bourgie style. With a mortgage and everything. And the dude is someone that makes you feel goopy and giddy and you don't want to date anyone but him.
Wait! Don't stop reading this! I promise you- it is awesome. Like, you didn't think boys like this existed sort of awesome. I know you totally don't believe me on this, because all the guys in your high school (barring the gay ones) are total dickwads who you don't mind making out with and stuff, but living with one of those clowns? Unacceptable. And yes, I have to agree with you on that. But those boys are not all that's out there. You're going to date some really nice ones along the way when you're an adult (and a couple of those dickwads too, I hate to tell you), and then you'll find that your best friend is the Ridonkulously Awesome one that you really want to be with and it will rock. And you know what else? He's not the only awesome dude you know. You know lots of awesome dudes now who will not at all compromise your feminism. Dickish dudes are not as all-encompassing as you thought. Rare, yes. But a nice dude is not as unicorny as you think.
Am I totally blowing your mind?
Also, as long as we are on the subject of boiz, may I offer a word of advice? I know you have a checklist of Things That a Boy Must Have in Order to Be Worthy of YOU. You have it all figured out, I know. They have to have the right politics, and the right opinions about things, and a cool career that doesn't sell, buy, or process anything a la Lloyd Dobler, and all like that. Listen, I am not dumping on the idea of standards. You deserve what you want in the romance department and I am not telling you to throw the list out. But the main thing on your list? Should be that the boy should be nice. Someone who is kind and makes you laugh and is unconditional and just helps you to be more and more who you are. Not someone that you feel like you have to measure up to. The bad news is that you're going to go through a phase where you don't get this. The really, really good news is that the phase is very, extremely short. Because really? A dude isn't a badge that you wear. And you're not a badge for him to wear either.
Boy, did I get tiresome in my old age or WHAT?
Well hold on sister, because I ain't done yet. So, your job. You are, right now, one of the most overly trained young ladies that you know, and guess what? You won't be making any money doing what you were trained for! Instead? You...are a librarian. Like, that's your job! I don't even know HOW to explain that one to you, so I will just let you sit with it. Just trust me on this, you'll really like your job. And actually, being a librarian turns out to be regarded as a pretty cool thing to be, and people will actually be jealous of you for getting to do this.
So far, you think I am full of shit, don't you?
Let me change gears for a second and compliment you on your hair. You never gave in to the big hair craze of the 80s and early 90s and honey, GOD BLESS YOU. The decision to not have bangs that you Aussie Scrunch Spray to high heaven was grand foresight on your part. As an adult you will be able to look back at photos and laugh at all your friends' hair and feel smugly satisfied with yourself. You were certainly gripped by other fashion afflictions so I am not quite sure why you held out on the hair thing, but good job, my dear. Good job.
Now, for something blunt. If I recall you were an unusually blunt young lady so I know you will appreciate this. I need to compliment you on your balls. Dang you have huge ones! In hindsight (ballsight?) I really do look back and marvel. You have set a high standard for my lifetime ballsiness levels and I gotta tell you that I am nowhere near where you were, although I still try. I don't know why but I really mellowed out somewhere along the road (actually I know right when it happened- I was twenty-three) and although I enjoy the mellow quite nicely, I do miss how open and expressive and unafraid you always were. So yeah. Kudos on the ballage.
Those are a few things that have changed over the years. Next time I might tell you about somet things that have remained the same. I feel I must stop now because you just might be catatonic with shock at what has been revealed here.
Sorry about that.
Ok, one more. New Kids on the Block are still popular.
Hello? You ok? Hello?
I might have gone too far with that last one.
Have I ever told you about the weird house next door to me? NO? Oh, you have to hear this one.
As you may recall, when I first moved into my current abode, the place next door was a rental that housed a group of adorable goth college students that sometimes forgot to wear clothes and had a wireless account that would pop up on my computer with the moniker "Necropolis of Angels." I felt very maternal towards these nymphs with black eyeliner. I really thought they were so cute.
After a few months, the house got put up for sale. The goth kids moved out and a woman, let's call her Edna, bought the house. Edna didn't move in. Rather, she was going to fix it up and sell it. We had seen the inside of the house before and it was quite nice already, as was the outside, but a little minor spruce up seemed in order. Like maybe a new front door, or a nice power wash, or some tree pruning, or the cracks in the driveway fixed up. Spit shine it up a little (pardon the disgusting phrase) and that house would have been pretty dang nice.
Edna, however, had bigger plans. She started tearing that house to smithereens, redoing everything that she could think of. She had a couple of guys that worked on it for her, and I think they maybe had drunk some Ty Pennington Kool-aid or something, because they started to make the house bigger.
Soon, it was the biggest honker on the block. Now I know that big houses are as American as apple pie and Robin Leach (well, you know what I mean), but Nordic Boy and I are not a fan of big houses. It would be accurate to say that we are small house enthusiasts. Compact living is what we love and therefore, we do not live large. We live small. There were many things we loved about our block when we bought this house (easy trip to both of our jobs, easy bus routes, diversity on our block, proximity to good grocery stores, etc.) and the fact that the aesthetic of the block consisted of cute, small houses was part of the charm. We didn't sign up to live next to a McMansion. The framing of that house next door started to get taller and taller, and we started to squirm a little.
We hadn't seen anything yet.
As the crew of people (who we are pretty sure are relatives of Edna's, by the way) started to work on the house, things got kind of unbearable. The crew? Had no idea what the fark they were doing. And if there's one thing about Nordic Boy, it's that he is a crafty craftsman of the perfectionist persuasion. When he sees people start to slap shit together on a house (this act is what he calls "the dark side of DIY"), it makes him a little uncomfortable, but he can swallow it. But Edna's house was winning a gold medal in janked up bad construction and design. I wish I could describe the horrific things that started happening to this house adequately, but let me just give you a couple of examples. Various types of mistmatched shingles were tacked on top of brick walls, so you could still see the brick walls through them. Finishing nails were used as structural support for stairways. Wall seams on the garage were duct taped together. Downspouts were installed so that water would be poured directly onto windows. A white picket fence was put all the way around the top of the garage, like on the roof of the garage, for a reason that has still not been made clear.
I am not making this up. It is the most rickety renovation ever. Like you could sneeze near it and pieces of the house would fall off. The largesse of the house is now the least of our complaints. The sheer MESSED-UP-NESS is mind boggling. People who walk down our street regularly stop in their tracks and stare up at this house with their mouths hanging open. If we are outside, they ask us about it. "What is the DEAL with this house?" they say. We shrug our shoulders and then we all stand there and shake our heads together. This happens at least once a week.
Months went by. They kept adding weird stuff to the house. A year went by, and they were still adding. Cedar shingles over here! Red brick over there! Colonial style eaves over there! A strange gold eagle ensignia nailed to the front of the house! How long could they keep doing this? Would it ever end? This woman paid a decent price for this house to begin with, had more than doubled the size, and then proceeded to fuck the entire thing up beyond recognition. In this economy, we kept wondering...was she thinking that she was going to turn a profit on this thing? Who the HELL was going to buy it? How much money had Edna poured into it over the past year of Extreme Crazy Home Makeover?
Finally, this summer, she seemed almost done. Suddenly, there was a FOR RENT sign in front of the house, with flyers. Of course, having watched this renovation for over a year, we were curious. We snagged a flyer.
Hey guys! You could have been my next door neighbor by renting this deliciously remodeled 3-bedroom home. For just FIVE THOUSAND AND FOUR HUNDRED DOLLARS A MONTH!
I don't know where you guys live, but in my world, that shit is Bee Ay En Ay En Ay ESS. Over five thousand dollars a month? In rent?
Let me just say this. I live on a nice street, yes. But not a fancy street. My street has little houses with little cute yards. This is not the Hamptons. Or TriBeCa. Or Daddy Warbucks MoneyTown. We do not pay that kind of money for rent. Or for mortgages. Or for anything. ESPECIALLY NOT JANKY HOUSES THAT ARE DUCT TAPED TOGETHER.
That For Rent sign sat there, and sat there. No takers? Really?
Then, one day, there were people. And they were living in the house! They were strange, nocturnal people who never seemed to go in or out, but we saw cars in the driveway and lights on at night. WOW. Someone had forked out the cash to live in the weirdo house.
Only, they hadn't forked out the cash. One day, Edna came up to our door. She asked us if we had met the new neighbors. We said no, we hadn't. She said that she was there that day to serve them up with an eviction notice, because they had never paid any rent. Not one dollar. Edna had rented to them without references, without a deposit, and now, without any rent.
We had squatters next door, y'all! And they were living it up with the duct taped walls!
The next week, they were gone.
What would happen next? Surely Edna and her money pit were going to have to part ways soon. How long could she keep this up?
Then, a month or so ago, the sign went up. FOR SALE. We were relieved. Edna was going to be free of her self-made disaster.
We picked up a flyer for the house, and you know what that sucker is going for?
ONE MEELLION DOLLARS.
Ooh la la, my street is so fancy! I have a house for sale right next door, in this stankface economy, for a cool million! And you even get a picket fence on top of the garage! I think I saw that on Cribs once!
There is NO WAY IN HELL that any of the houses on my street are going for a million dollars. Who is this Edna person and how does her mind work? I mean, where does she think she is? And can she honestly look at that house and think yes, that is a fine quality piece of real estate I have created?
It's been sitting there for another month. Empty. The duct tape peeling off in the cold.
Something's gotta give, people. Right? I mean, seriously. Right??
Hey, guess what time of year it is? The time of year when I make "gee I am cold" into a topic to blog about! Aren't you excited!? For today, all I will say about this is that this week, it officially became colder than a snotsicle. And that leaving my house will become more and more difficult for me as the weeks go on.
One of the things that happens every year at about this time is that I notice that I have no wintery clothes. Well, not NONE, but decidedly few. I just don't tend to buy sweaters, or pants. I am a skirts and dresses and non-waterproof shoes kind of lady. Last week, I decided to hightail it over to some retail establishments to remedy this situation. As I was browsing in Anthropologie, one of the sales ladies came up to me and put her arm on my back and said "oh my god! HELLO!" as if we were great friends and she was beside herself with happiness at running into me. I am fairly certain that I have never seen this lady before in my life. So either she has boundary issues or I am in that store way too friggin' much and have become part of the Anthropologie family.
Speaking of family, Nordic Boy reminded me this weekend that his mom is a genius. When he was growing up, and they were riding in the car, and his mom wanted to cuss out some road rage at another driver? She would call them "87 bags of assholes." The number would fluctuate depending on how mad she was. Irritate her slightly, and she might say "52 bags of assholes." Really get her goat and it would be "94 bags of assholes." The more mad you made her on the road, the higher the number. Tell me that is not the soul of a poet, I dare you.
And speaking of Nordic Boy's mom, can I just tell you that her son, my illustrious loverman, has no compunction whatsoever about falling asleep in social situations? He honest-to-goodness does not give a RAT'S ASS about putting his head back, stretching his legs out, and snoozing it up like a big old grandpa right in the middle of a party. I don't know why this behavior amuses me so much, as it might be interpreted as an Emily Post no-no I am sure. He did it this weekend and BioGirl and I sort of had to stifle a full on giggle-fest because it was happening and we were reminded that this was not the first time, not by a long shot. Why is it funny? I don't know. That dude is just SO HIM at all times, with no apologies, that it ends up being sort of comical. Not just nodding off, mind you. Full on sleeping. Not fighting it at all, but rather, embracing the sleepy sauce. Sorry, were you talking? Are there people around? Was there social interactivity happening right now? NO MATTER. I have very important snoozing, right in your face, to attend to.
Speaking of not caring, why did I get irritated when I saw that interview with Jennifer Aniston? And why does it bother me when people ask if one is "Team Angelina" or "Team Jennifer"? Why does it get my feminist hackles up that no one points the finger at Brad Pitt in that whole situation? And also, WHY DO I CARE?
And then I remember I am the Pop Culture Librarian, which gets me off the hook in all sorts of embarrassing pop culture related thoughts and feelings.
Well well well. I have skipped some days in my NaBloPoMoFo attempt. I'm sure no one would have given a flying fork or even noticed it had I not said anything so I suppose mentioning it is probably a bad idea, but there you go. I have mentioned. And what is my response to this blatant disregard of posting duties? Whoopsy doodle.
I was off work yesterday since it's a holiday and us servants of the civil get holidays off and let me just tell you this...having a weekend, and then working one day, and then having another day off? I LOVE this. I mean, I like my job and everything, but being independently wealthy would not be a problem for me, I guarantee you.
I had a loverly weekend, thanks for asking. Here are some leftover weekend thoughts, for your perusal.
1. Why do I keep watching Grey's Anatomy? For the love of Petey Wheat. Those effers are annoying as hell. And yet, I watch them. I keep trying to tell myself that the whole thing is a postmodern deconstructionist allegory for our failed healthcare system, because really, if these are the best doctors in the country? We are FUCKED, people.
2. Breakfast establishments of our great land, I implore you. You need to put silver dollar pancakes on your menus. Every time I go out to brekkie, I want to get pancakes. But a gigantic one? Too much pancake. And I kind of maybe want something else too, but there's no way I am getting a whole pancake PLUS something else. I can't believe restaurants haven't put small pancakes on their menus yet. Do I have to think of everything?
3. I went to see my friends' band play on Saturday night, which, as I said before was awesome. What I didn't tell you was that the band that played right after them was straight out of Spinal Tap, which might have been a teensy bit more awesome. Unfortunately BioGirl and I left at the beginning of that set, because it was bone-shakingly loud. That's right, we left due to loudness. Ergo, we are ancient.
That's all I got. I feel like it's not enough. So here's something extra.
Just got back from seeing my friends' band play. You should check them out. They rock.
Looking at a sad row of pansies getting the crap kicked out of them by torrential rains...
Me: Aw, those flowers don't look like they're doing so well.
Nordic Boy: What a buncha pansies!
Me: Good one.
Let's sing a little Super Freak by Rick James, shall we?
She's a very sleepy girl!
The kind whose under all the covers!
She will never let your spirits down,
Once she gets a good night's sleep!
That girl is pretty sleepy,
She needs a super sleep!
The kind of girl you read about
In sleepy magazines!
That girl is pretty sleepy,
She needs a super sleep!
I really need some respite
Snooze it up real deep!
She needs a super sleep! Super sleep! She's super sleep-ay, yow!
Ok, enough of that. And if you're wondering what a "sleepy magazine" is, I can't help you. My brain is too tired to explain itself.
So. Last night. What did I do? Run screaming through the streets like much of the country, partying and drinking and singing patriotic songs? Nope. It was a very Granny election eve for me. And STILL I AM TIRED.
I did get invited to an election party last night with all my crazy friends, which I thought about going to. The problem was, I was too freaked out about the election. Whichever way the durn thing went, I knew I was going to be emotional (shut up don't make fun of me) and I just didn't know if I wanted to do that in front of every person I know. And although I was indeed going to be happy if the thing turned out the way I was hoping, I kind of knew it wasn't going to be a running-amok-in-the-streets sort of happy. I knew it was going to be a getting-choked-up-sitting-in-disbelief sort of happy. So, I opted to stay home.
Here's a list of memorable moments from election eve '08.
1. BioGirl came over for dinner. Nordic Boy had baked us up some fake-chicken parmesan using our bakeware plates. He brought them out wearing oven mitts, piping hot, and set the plates down. "Watch out, it's really hot!" he said. BioGirl immediately touched the plate. "Ouch!" Those scientist-types. Always needing hard evidence.
2. Me, acting like a geek, part 1. I printed out 3 maps of the country- one each for Nordic Boy, BioGirl and me. We all guessed on our maps which states were going to vote blue and which ones were going to vote red. Whoever got the most right at the end of the election would win! Win what, exactly, we never figured out. Just a sort of all-encompassing electoral college-knowledge pride, I suppose.
3. Me, acting like a geek, part 2. As the results started to roll in, we would mark each state that we got right. I was marking mine in by shading in the state. Whenever Wolf Blitzer would call a state, I would start a-shading, which takes a couple seconds. Every time I would look up, no one else would be shading. "How come you're shading things in so fast?" I asked. "Because we're just checking things off like normal people, not coloring states like we're turning these in for a grade, you nerd."
What can I say? I was controlling my election anxiety by channelling my inner Monica Gellar. Neat and tidy, people! The states will look neat and tidy!
4. When we all had made our guesses, we tallied up the electoral votes on each of our sheets. My blue states added up to 303. BioGirl's added up to something like 325. Nordic Boy's added up to 345. "THREE FORTY FIVE?" I scoffed. "YOU ARE CRAZY. THERE IS NO WAY HE'S GOING TO GET THAT MANY! GET A LOAD OF NORDIC BOY! HE'S SO RIDICULOUS."
5. So...yeah. Nordic Boy's optimism wins the day on THAT one.
6. But my map was prettier.
7. CNN beaming in guests like they were holograms? And the crazy hologram senate-seat chart? FREAKY.
8. Knowing my city and my street, I knew that should Obama win, there would be some celebrating from the neighbors. It wasn't going to surprise me if people ran into the street with joy (they did) or sang loud drunken patriotic songs (they did), or hugged and kissed each other like it was 1999 (they did). One thing that happened that I was NOT expecting? Was for the little elementary-school age kid who lives across the street to run out onto his front yard with his trumpet and play a jubilant rendition of "Mary Had a Little Lamb." Right at the moment when the election was called for Obama, we got a loud-ass celebratory nursery rhyme! Express yourself, kid! God Bless America.
9. While all of that celebrating went on, I just sort of sat there. No one said a word. BioGirl got a couple of phone calls. Nordic Boy and I just sat. And sat. And stared at the tv. It seemed like hours. My face leaked. He came over and put his arm around me. Tight. I felt like I was underwater. There was no jumping up and down, there was no dancing, there was no hugging. I just felt...silent. Moved in a way that was a little out-of-body. Like it was a dream. Was it a dream?
10. BioGirl went home, and Nordic Boy and I went to bed. I didn't sleep a wink.
11. Mary Had a Little Lamb will always make me think of this night.
One of the things you might not know about me is that I am way into the politics. I find them stinky and yet so compelling, much like a fine cheese. Local politics, national, and international. All of it. I have facts and opinions and theories and the whole kielbasa, which for the most part I try to keep to myself unless asked because I realize not everyone wants to hear it. I come from a very political family, where you either knew some shit about the world and what was going on in it or you would be at a loss at the dinner table. I have this memory of being in 2nd grade, and I went to school and started an argument with my 2nd grade teacher when she showed the class a clip from Bedtime for Bonzo to illustrate who our president was (and what kind of effed up civics lesson is THAT, by the way) and I told her that she needed to not dumb it down and that if she was going to talk Bonzo, she better not leave out the part about how the human in that movie was also into supporting the Contras in Nicaragua.
That lady never did like me after I did that.
So anyway, election times are always exciting to me. There, I said it. EXCITING. I try to keep the feelings quashed in front of other people so as to seem appropriately apathetic like a good American, but inside, I love voting. Love it. Nordic Boy and I, we read up on the issues, we talk about it at dinner, and when we get our ballots in the mail we sit down and we vote. It's a big deal in our house.
Maybe it's because in my family, we didn't always have the right to vote. My grandparents didn't have full voting rights under British colonization. When he could, my dad and his brother stepped up to run for office to govern themselves. My dad ended up as mayor of a small city back in the homeland (although he couldn't, sadly, see Russia from his house) and my uncle was a member of parliament for many years. It's hard for me to express how poignant that is. It means that I can't take voting for granted and that there have been times, when in the act of voting, I have choked up a little. Does that sound Pollyanna-ish? Naive? I'm sure it kind of does and believe me I am simultaneously deeply cynical about the whole business too. I know politics is fucked up. I know that I feel like my vote doesn't matter a lot of the time. But I can't not vote, and vote seriously, as if it matters, even if in some ways you could argue that it doesn't. If I didn't vote, it would be like I was dismissing my entire family, stretching way back for generations. I think about them, and I think about all the people who want to vote all around the world, but can't. I think about the twisty, windy path it took my ancestors to get me to where I am right now, able to sit in my house, with a ballot mailed to me for my convenience, and how I am able to take a few hours out of my life to access some information about what's on the ballot, figure out how I feel about it, and then fill in the ballot, easy peasy. Fill them in like it's nothing. Read up, look up some stuff, fill in some dots, and done. All while in my pajamas if I want to. Something that is so impossible, so difficult for so many, and I just get to do it. No probs. It sort of blows my mind, every time I think of it. I just can't seem to take this one for granted, no matter how jaded I become.
I didn't set out to write a sappy post about voting. But there you have it. I am a politically cynical chickee who can still feel a sort of reverence for voting. Roll your eyes if you must. I won't be upset.
That's it for now. All this talk makes me want to go watch Bedtime for Bonzo again.
You know how, in war movies, when the battle is being lost, the commander or general or head war cheese will yell out "FALL BACK!" when he wants everyone to retreat? That's what I think about when I turn my clocks back an hour. FALL BACK! FALL! BACK!
Ok, yes, I say it out loud. If you must know.
Here's what my yard looks like right now.
Fall: a time when not cleaning up my yard actually looks kind of ok.
My friend Neighbor J has these crazy ass neighbors.
Wait, that sounds like I'm talking about myself. Because if I call her Neighbor J, then that would mean I was her neighbor, right? But nope, sadly in this case, I am not talking about myself. Because Neighbor J is called Neighbor J because we used to be neighbors, and then we both moved, and so now it's more like she is a Neighbor Emeritus. A neighbor in the existential sense, like Mr. Rogers and his tv neighbors. She now has new actual geographic neighbors, and they are a bit highstrung. One example of this is that they have screaming fights with each other (the neighbors have it amongst themselves, not with Neighbor J. God can I convolute a story or what?). And one of the things they call each other when they fight is "YA FRICKIN' NUTJOB!"
I love this phrase. Ya frickin' nutjob is something that I wish I could use more often. Her neighbors use it with complete abandon and although I do not envy the fact that they are having throw downs like that, I do enjoy saying that phrase.
So...anyway. You all talked me into something again. And this guarantees I will be saying this, about myself, at least once a day for the next 30 days:
"YA FRICKIN' NUTJOB."
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