Oops, did I just take a week off from blogland? Why I believe I did. Lookee that.
This week Nordic Boy bullied me into getting an iPhone. Maybe bullied is the wrong word. More like nagged me into getting one. Boohoo, poor me, right? He has been at me to get one for about a year and this week I finally caved. You may be asking yourself why I need to be nagged into getting something as nice and coveted as an iPhone. And the answer to that is the fact that, contrary to what it may seem like, in my heart of hearts I am what is commonly referred to as a Cheap Bastard. Maybe it's all that free stuff in libraryland, but paying for stuff really sucks the big one in my book and given the choice I am Squeezy McTightwad. Also, I am big on cell phone etiquette (also due in large part to what I see in libraryland) and the people who can't stop looking at their effin' phones are weird, and the mesmerizing powers of iPhones just raise the phone-love exponentially, and I am scared of becoming one of those people. When I am talking to you, I will not answer my cell phone or simultaneously text someone else, unless it really truly can't wait, and then I will say "I'm sorry, excuse me" and use my phone quickly. Cuz just talking on it and texting and checking it and stroking it and loving it in front of someone that you are supposed to be interacting with in person and doing that as a matter of course is way rude. When did acting that way stop being a rude thing to do?
Ha ha, I am cracking myself up. I am so GET OFF MY LAWN YOU STINKING CELL PHONERS! I need to practice shaking my fist at people to complete the crotchety picture.
My fist that is holding my iPhone, that is. My shiny, shiny iPhone.
Another highlight of my week was going over to Hopscotch and Rambo's house to play board games. We played Catchphrase, which I had never played before, but gave me all kinds of agida because it has this beeping siren thing that beeps at you very loudly the whole time you are playing and the beeping grows faster and faster as your time runs out and I was just waiting for something to blow up because that beeping was a pre-blow-up sound if ever I heard one. Which I guess I haven't. Heard one, that is.
We also played Loaded Questions, which was very difficult. The game goes like this- one person asks a question to the others (for example "who would play you if there was a movie made about your life?") and everyone else writes their answer down, and then the question-asker has to guess whose answer was whose. This game proved rather difficult, as apparently the four of us share a brain. We kept answering questions quite similarly, or even the exact same, making it kind of pointless to try and distinguish between the answers.
Most of the time, that is. Let's recreate a round and you can try and guess who said what. Ready? Ok.
Question: If you found $50 on the street, and you had to spend it immediately, what would you buy?
Answers given by Hopscoth, Nordic Boy, and me, in RANDOM ORDER:
Clothes, clothes, and insulation.
I'll give you a moment to contemplate that before you guess.
Oops, did I just take a week off from blogland? Why I believe I did. Lookee that.
As you get older, you may start to realize that there are things about you that are starting to resemble your parents. Like, for me, my sneezes are getting more and more overpowering. This is scary to me because both of my parents have sneezes that can bring a brick house down. When my dad sneezes, people are concerned for him. He is a slightly built man, but the sound that comes out of him when he sneezes is like a lion on a megaphone. My mom's is loud too. Like, it might hurt your ears if you were standing too close. My sneeze, so far, is not in ear-drum-blowing territory yet, but each year, my honker sneezes a little bit louder, and I am not ashamed to tell you that I am terrified of becoming a combo Disney Dwarf/Spice Girl hybrid named Scary Sneezy Spice.
In related news, did I ever tell you about Nordic Boy's propensity, (well, it's seldom, but it does happen every so often) to scream bloody murder at the tv screen? Let me tell you it is HIGH-LARIOUS. My theory is that he has a very specific gene sequence in his DNA that causes him to do this. To quote Will I Am, he got it from his momma. I love Nordic Boy's mom. She is gregarious, energetic, the life of the goldarn party. She is one of these people that you don't have to say a word to the whole time you are around her, because she is so vivacious and full of life and stories and jokes that she will just entertain you like a high energy vaudeville act until the sun comes up. No lie, she is a performer at heart- give her an audience and watch her go. I love it. Still, when you meet her, and you meet Nordic Boy, it's truly hard to see where the heck he even came from because there is not a lot about them that is alike. Nordic Boy will not tap dance for you, figuratively or literally. Will not happen. He is not one to make a scene about anything, whereas his mom has a spotlight magnet hidden in her purse at all times. There are many other ways they seem quite opposite, not just temperament, and I shall spare you the list because it would take all day but you get the picture.
One thing Nordic Boy's momma does is she yells at the tv. Tv is a two-way conversation as far as she is concerned and those effers on the screen more often than not need a good talking to and she will dress it up in a curse-filled bow while she is at it. Many of her comments are of a decidedly proletarian bent, where she is speaking up for the common folk who earn a living from the sweat of their brow. It is really a sight to see.
Nordic Boy doesn't yell. Like, ever. I don't think I have ever seen him yell and I have known him for eons. It's just not in him to do so. First of all he doesn't have much of a temper to begin with, so getting him to a point where he is even mad at all takes some doing. And if it does happen, yelling just does not come into the equation.
Every once in a blue moon, when we are watching tv, I SWEAR TO YOU HIS MOM POSSESSES HIM.
Last night, we were watching some economic meltdown coverage on BBC America. Everything is perfectly silent. I am typing on my laptop, and he is sitting across the room watching the show. And out of nowhere he yells out "THESE GODDAMN PEOPLE HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THE FUCK THEY ARE DOING! STUPID SHITHEADS. MAYBE IF THEIR ASSES HAD EVER WORKED AN HONEST DAY IN THEIR LIVES THEY WOULD WAKE UP! BUNCHA FUCKERS! JESUS THEY NEED TO GET THIS CRAP TOGETHER!"
And then, back to silence.
I looked at him, my jaw on the floor. He looked at me, his face as shocked as mine. And then we almost peed ourselves laughing.
"My mom!" he gasped. "She's HERE."
It's in the DNA, people.
Happy early Valentine's Day, everyone!
I grew up being intensely cranky about Valentine's Day, but I am mellowing out about it in my old age. Plus this year it is sidled up right next to President's Day so you can get romantic about Grover Cleveland if you want to and double up on the holiday goodness and so how can I get cranky about that?
I think the most favoritest Valentine I ever received was one from my mom when I was in college. It was some big, large, glittery ridiculous Hallmark number (my mom loves buying gigantic cards from Hallmark) with hearts all over it and a sappy embossed Hallmark-written calligraphy poem inside about how perfect I am (my mom thinks I am way perfect, please don't try to argue this point with her) and written across the bottom in my mom's careful writing it says the following:
"'I DON'T KNOW WHY I LOVE YOU LIKE I DO.' I learned this from a commercial about spaghetti. I love you, my darling daughter, MOM"
I don't know if you have to know my mom to realize how friggin' awesome that is. Every time I look at that card I laugh and tear up all at the same time.
Oh, and in case that totally went over your head, there used to be a commercial- like for Ragu sauce or something. And there was this cheesy rendition of that song on it. And this is how my mom chose to express herself. You gotta love a lady like that.
I hope you have a loverly weekend, everyone, and that you have someone in your life that writes you kooky love cards like that.
Is the title of this post too obscure of a pop culture reference? Even for me? Oh well. Just pretend that it makes sense.
My job, sometimes, is a simple barrage of questions, all the live long day. Questions from library patrons, questions from other staff people, questions from all sides. The current form of library job I have doesn't just have information-type questions, but it also has decision-making type questions. That I have to answer. All day. What should we do about this? How should we handle that? The something-or-other is on the fritz, do something! And I have to answer. Decisions, decisions. Which leads me to have conversations like this, on the phone, at the end of my day, when all my question-answering and decision-making powers have dried up.
Nordic Boy: I'm ordering a pizza. What do you want on it?
Nordic Boy: Hello?
Me: I'm here. Just...
Nordic Boy: They have a special on the Super Margherita pizza.
Nordic Boy: And I'll get a salad too, right?
Nordic Boy: Or would you rather get the Tree Hugger pizza?
Nordic Boy: Hello? Are you there?
Me: Yes...I...that sounds...um...I...
Nordic Boy: Oh, I see where you're at. Never mind. Come home. I got this.
Nordic Boy: Hang up.
With a week that ended like that, I spent my day off, Friday, in my pajamas. All day. I don't think I moved more than two or three times the whole day. I never do that, unless I am sick or something. I watched the entire season 1 of Family Ties (thanks, Netflix Instant Player), a few episodes of Kate and Allie ("just when you think...you're all by yourself...you're not"), and two depressing documentaries. What is more depressing? Heavy documentaries or the fact that I watched Season 1 of Family Ties and topped it off with Kate and Allie? I'll let you decide.
On Saturday, I worked. When I came home from work, my living room was cavernously empty, as Nordic Boy had donated away a bunch of our furniture in preparation of our new couch, which is an event that is so exciting that I can't quite talk about it right now. Then I spent the evening hanging out with BioGirl and Nordic Boy, and almost passing out with tiredness by 11pm. Woo hoo!
Sunday, I woke up early and watched another depressing documentary. This one was "Deliver Us from Evil," which made me cry my eyes out, which was unfortunate as I was having friends over for lunch and so they were met with bleary eyes and sniffles from me. "Hi friends, it's so good to see you....waaaahhhhhh! Oh don't mind me, I'm just an emotional wreck. I always get this way over bagels sandwiches and mini-doughnuts."
Sunday evening I went to bed with visions of the new couch that is to come dancing in my head. Did I mention how exciting this is? So exciting that I slept like ass. That's right. Over a couch.
Usually, Nordic Boy is a very heavy sleeper. His head hits the pillow and he is out. And when he wakes up in the morning, he is awake and fresh. Not me. It takes me a long time to fall asleep, and if I hear the slightest noise, I wake up, and when I wake up in the morning, it is like being ripped from the jaws of death.
Imagine my surprise when I woke up at 3am because Nordic Boy was getting up. He walked out into the living room for a minute, and then came back in.
Me: What are you doing?
Him: I just had to check and see if it's snowing.
Me: Is it?
Me: How did you know that?
Him: I don't know. I guess I heard it.
HE HEARD IT? He heard it. A train can come through our room and he will not hear it, but snowfall? All of a sudden he's got bat ears.
Oh, and also? I AM GETTING A NEW COUCH ON MONDAY.
Oh hay, did I forget to tell you? There was an earthquake here in Seattle. Look at me, so west coast, forgetting to tell you about an earthquake.
Last summer I was at my parents house and there was a tornado warning in the area around their house. We had to go sit in the basement and listen to the radio and hope to heck that we wouldn't be swept away to Oz. And it was SO NORMAL to me. We did this on a regular basis when I was growing up, and hearing those tornado warning sirens, eerie and loud in the still, tornado-colored air (I swear there is a specific color of gray that befalls the surroundings when a tornado is on its way in Michigan) and the tornado smell. Didn't phase me at all, really. I mean, it's scary, but I'm used to that fear. If that makes any sense.
Since I have moved to Seattle, I have been in various earthquakes, and although I have never panicked or anything during one (I'm too lazy to panic), they have freaked my freak somewhat. Even the little ones. I was never one of those people that didn't notice an earthquake (you crazy Californians). If the ground is shaking, even in a not-violent way, you bet your sweet hiney I NOTICE.
But Friday morning? When Nordic Boy and I were being shaken awake at 5:30 in the morning? Not only were we not scared, we didn't even think it was an earthquake. Our windows were rattling in their frames, our roof was shaking. Rather than an earthquake, we jumped to our own individual conclusions reflecting our respective WORST NIGHTMARES.
Me: Oh my god. There's someone rattling our window! (ie a murderous killer who is going to break in and eat our brains after sawing us to bits with a machete).
Him: Oh my god. There's a squirrel that somehow got into my roof! (ie my well-insulated, newly built, tightly seamed roof that I love like the fruit of my loins.)
See how our fears differ? I am deathly afraid of Hannibal Lechter. Nordic Boy is deathly afraid of roof penetration.
Ok Librarian Girl, snap out of it! For serious! You have got to start updating this dang blog more often! This is NOT EVEN COOL.
Oh hello. You seem to have stepped in whilst I was giving myself a good talking to. Pardonne moi.
You know what I am not understanding lately? Twitter. I mean, I have a Twitter account, and I use it sometimes, but really? As a concept, I just don't quite understand it. I looked at my Twitter account the other day, and it was crazy to see how many people are following me on Twitter. I am not saying this as a brag- ooh la la- I am so popular people are following me on Twitter! I'm sure just as many people are following you. But why? What are we doing? What is the point? I thought that it was maybe just a few of my friends that want to know that I am waiting for a table at a restaurant or that I am about to go for a walk or that I am on my way to Target. But no, it's hundreds of people! All wanting to know these types of things about each other.
So I have no wisdom to impart to this whole Twitter concept, nor do I have any real critique of it. I just want to say, a la Jerry Seinfeld: "Twitter. What! is the deal! with THAT?"
There are many lovely things going on in my life lately, which is a good thing because I am all done with watching Deadwood and I was afraid that the void would be too much for my poor heart to handle. But so far, I have been able, as the Deadwood folks have taught me, to "sally fuckin' forth," which hasn't been too hard because I have been filling my time with many other lovely things, like the giant tome that is the Kaufman biography of Doris Day (which doubles as a bicep strengthener). And going out to family Italian restaurants that have jazz bands and dance floors where frilly little girls twirl around to upright basses. And awesome friends that throw pie parties. (And seriously? A pie party? Why have I never thought of such a thing before? There should be all sorts of social activities that are built upon the premise of eating pies!) And my lovely gentleman friend with whom I reside bringing Dance Dance Revolution into my house to stay with us forever and give us even more of a reason to challenge each other to dance offs. As if we needed more of a reason. Plus Battlestar Galactica is back (the final cylon! that totally surprised me), and so is Lost, so never fear, the time that I spend sitting on my ass absorbing the light from the tv directly into my brain is being maintained.
The loss of Deadwood has not broken me. The confusion about Twitter just might.
- Dec 2013 (2)
- Nov 2013 (10)
- Oct 2013 (6)
- Sep 2013 (6)
- Aug 2013 (7)
- Jul 2013 (6)
- Jun 2013 (4)
- May 2013 (6)
- Apr 2013 (3)
- Mar 2013 (1)
- Feb 2013 (3)
- Jan 2013 (6)
- Dec 2012 (3)
- Nov 2012 (2)
- Oct 2012 (7)
- Sep 2012 (5)
- Aug 2012 (8)
- Jul 2012 (4)
- Jun 2012 (11)
- May 2012 (6)
- Apr 2012 (9)
- Mar 2012 (8)
- Feb 2012 (7)
- Jan 2012 (14)
- Dec 2011 (8)
- Nov 2011 (10)
- Oct 2011 (12)
- Sep 2011 (13)
- Aug 2011 (10)
- Jul 2011 (10)
- Jun 2011 (11)
- May 2011 (16)
- Apr 2011 (9)
- Mar 2011 (14)
- Feb 2011 (5)
- Jan 2011 (11)
- Dec 2010 (13)
- Nov 2010 (14)
- Oct 2010 (21)
- Sep 2010 (14)
- Aug 2010 (20)
- Jul 2010 (14)
- Jun 2010 (15)
- May 2010 (23)
- Apr 2010 (12)
- Mar 2010 (12)
- Feb 2010 (10)
- Jan 2010 (13)
- Dec 2009 (9)
- Nov 2009 (11)
- Oct 2009 (9)
- Sep 2009 (13)
- Aug 2009 (13)
- Jul 2009 (10)
- Jun 2009 (15)
- May 2009 (12)
- Apr 2009 (12)
- Mar 2009 (6)
- Feb 2009 (6)
- Jan 2009 (6)
- Dec 2008 (9)
- Nov 2008 (14)
- Oct 2008 (8)
- Sep 2008 (7)
- Aug 2008 (7)
- Jul 2008 (12)
- Jun 2008 (9)
- May 2008 (7)
- Apr 2008 (10)
- Mar 2008 (12)
- Feb 2008 (11)
- Jan 2008 (10)
- Dec 2007 (9)
- Nov 2007 (25)
- Oct 2007 (8)
- Sep 2007 (10)
- Aug 2007 (8)
- Jul 2007 (10)
- Jun 2007 (13)
- May 2007 (11)
- Apr 2007 (10)
- Mar 2007 (9)
- Feb 2007 (5)
- Jan 2007 (6)
- Dec 2006 (11)
- Nov 2006 (12)
- Oct 2006 (7)
- Sep 2006 (10)
- Aug 2006 (9)
- Jul 2006 (9)
- Jun 2006 (10)
- May 2006 (8)
- Apr 2006 (11)
- Mar 2006 (10)
- Feb 2006 (8)
- Jan 2006 (16)
Librarianwonder.blogspot.com by Pop Culture Librarian is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.