Some people write poetry

Text from BioGirl: I am in the grocery store and they are playing Rick Astley in here and it's making me think of you!

Text to BioGirl: That's funny because I happened to see a Murder She Wrote mystery novel at work today and that made me think of you!

This is how you say that you miss someone in my language.

One two free

I meant to blog this past week, really I did. However, most of my week was taken up with going to a librarian conference in Portland (and Nordic Boy had to work in Portland too so we saw each other EVERY DAY OF THE WHOLE WEEK which is so luxurious I can't even tell you). While there I cavorted with my cohorts on a national level. (Whenever anyone uses the word "cohorts" I can't help but think they are saying "co-whores" so I give you full permission to think the same thoughts now). I could say many things about my week, but let's start with this.

My week in Portland: or, the week of FREE SHIT.

Free shit item #1.
Our hotel upgraded us to a fancy suite. Living room! Dining room! Bedroom! A shower as big as our entire bathroom at home! We had multiple tvs! It is really alarming to me how much this made my week. Next thing you know I will be one of those assholes who will only take baths in Evian or something.

Free shit item #2
Natalie Merchant did a free concert for the librarians. And according to the lady who introduced her, this was something that Ms. Merchant asked to do. She sought out the librarians. The last thing she did was sing at the TED conference. Ms. Merchant is wooing the geeks, hardcore. And it was free. Well, there's the registration cost of the entire conference, but besides that.

Free shit item #3
Aside from the various speakers, author talks, workshops, etc. there is a large exhibits area where hundreds of library vendors set up booths so that they can market their wares to librarians. Database vendors, architects, computer hardware and software, all of that sexy stuff. Also making a big showing, not surprisingly: publishers. The publishers bring with them stacks and stacks of free ARCs (Advanced Readers Copies, galleys, or if you want to be less of a dick you might just call them books that haven't been released yet). And they just hand those suckers out. And although I am a person that does not collect or hoard anything, including (and especially) books, I GO APESHIT for the free books. I came home with more books than I need to own. Because they were free. Since, you know, I don't work in a place where I ever get free books to read, no sir.

Free shit item #4
Portland trains. I went everywhere I needed to go in Portland on a train. For free. It's enough to make you sing a Sheena Easton song. As if you need a reason to do that, which I don't.

Free shit item #5
I was there for the free day at Portland Art Museum. Did I partake of this? Well, no. But still, I totally coulda.

All in all, it was a lovely week. I even gave a talk on a panel at the conference and of the hundreds of people listening (and let me tell you I had no idea when I signed up for that madness that it wouldn't be 20 people) not one person threw tomatoes at me. I call that success.

Lastly, Nordic Boy and I had one of the best dining experiences ever at a little family-owned italian restaurant that we found. It was like being in someone's house. If that house had just a few tables, and a man on a guitar singing italian songs, an old italian grandpa who seemed to know every customer and hugged everyone goodbye as they left, and a little boy who shyly handed us our dessert menus when the time came, and italian soccer playing on a tv in the corner, and food so good I wanted to punch someone in the face. Or something like that. You know what I mean. Plus they gave us our salad for free, which qualifies it for Free Shit Item #6, which I almost forgot about. It was just lovely. It was all Nordic Boy and I could do not to be disgusting and eat the same long strand of spaghetti from either end, ending in a smooch. Which I assure you we did not do. But if we had, it might just have been warranted. It is my new fave place to go in Portland.

Bye Portland, land of the free, home of the fave. Until next time.

Spin offs and pop locks

Busy as a motha-eff over here, so listing it shall have to be.

1. Got caught up on Lost episodes over the weekend. Nordic Boy has renamed the series "There's Too Many People in the Fucking Bushes." Which there totally are, right? I think there should be a drinking game where you drink every time someone pops out of the bushes.

2. Also for Lost watchers: don't you love it how the appearance of the smoke monster is always preceded by that maracas sound? So jaunty, that smoke monster.

3. Friends came over for dinner this weekend, and over dinner, we tried to think of tv shows that had the most number of spin-offs that we could think of, as a contest. Nordic Boy and I jointly won the day by coming up with Happy Days, Mork and Mindy, Joanie Loves Chachi, and Laverne and Shirley, which may seem like a no-brainer in hindsight but no one had come up with a quadruple until that point. The room erupted in "AW SNAP!" at our easy win, but then Delium got up and did a celebratory pop-lock in our honor. Because he knows how to show respect, that one.

4. After the contest was exhausted, we looked up lists of spin-offs on the Interwebs and discovered two intriguing titles. "Blansky's Beauties" (an undiscovered Happy Days spin-off) and "Richie Brockelman, Private Eye" (offa Rockford Files). How could shows with names like these have failed? To quote every single contest show sage on tv: America got it wrong, people.

5. Many of my friends are on Match.com, and they all seemed to talk to me about it this weekend, separately. What does it say that most of them talk about it much as you would talk about a visit to the dentist? Painful and tedious, but it just has to be done.

6. There's a restaurant in Seattle called Daniel's Broiler. Ever since St. Patrick's Day, every time we go past it, we sing "Oh Danny BROIL! The steaks, the steaks are cah-alling," to the tune of Danny Boy. We shall see how long this takes to get old to us. I am guessing on a shelf life of five years or so.

7. I get to go to Portland with Nordic Boy for the whole week, starting tomorrow. This is not entertaining to anyone but me. I am holding back a celebratory pop-lock even as I sit here.

Consumables #10

Young @ Heart
A doc that follows the rehearsal process and performance of the Young at Heart Chorus, a group of elderly sweet people who sing rock songs. My favorite parts were the trippy music videos. Also, the version they do of Schizophrenia by Sonic Youth is pretty awesome too.

This American Life
I was catching up on some episodes that I missed, and the recent one about the Ukrainian funeral made me laugh so hard that there were multiple audible snorts. The only problem with this was that I was listening to it in the privacy of my earbuds while I was walking through my crowded city. Nice.

America's Next Top Model
Andre Leon Talley? That's who you're going to add to the judges' panel? FOR REAL? Tyra, that is just way too transparent of an agenda, even for you. Putting someone that's nuttier than you are on the panel just so you can look like you have more sense. I see what's going on here.

Alice in Wonderland
Loved the sets. Loved the costumes. Loved all of the art direction. Devolving the story into an action/war sequence at the end, not so much. I get it, you have to Hollywood-it-up, but dang. And Johnny Depp trying to act all not-pretty? Ha ha, Johnny, we know you're a knockout no matter what you do.

It's No Fun Being An Illegal Alien
Biogirl bought a car this week (woo-hoo!) and I was there with her at the car dealership for moral support. And while there, they were playing a set of most inappropriate songs through their loudspeakers. First, it was "I Want Your Sex" by George Michael, which I found odd. Then it was "Illegal Alien" by Genesis. Wow. It was as if the used car dealership folks were like "How can we take an already oily atmosphere and dial the ick up just as much as we can?" With the song choices, I'm calling that done and done.

Welcome Mat

I think a lot about what love is.

(I wanna know what love is.... I KNOW YOU CAN SHOW ME....)

Please continue singing that song in your head as you read this post. Just do it- it would make me happy.

The people that I love the most, that are family to me, are the ones that I can count on. The ones who let me invite myself over to their house, and always make a space for me to butt right in. One of those people in my life is Allison. We can go for a little while without talking, but really? She lets me barge in whenever I want.

And I am jonesing for a little barging, because this last month has busted my bawls. So I bought a plane ticket to Chicago and told her I am coming over. I just told her. I need to see you, foo'. And like she always does, she said yes. Come over! Stay as long as you want! You are always welcome!

You are always welcome. I love it when people really mean that.

Who lets you butt in, makes the effort, makes a space in their life just for you and never puts you off? You should go hug them so hard that their eyeballs pop out a little. Because that's family.

Also? Chicago better not have snow when I get there or I will bust a cap on someone.

Suck it, Madge

So hey, guess what happened this weekend? A nice group of delivery people brought us a brand new dishwasher! Right to our doorstep!

(Well, we had ordered it and paid for it and such, so it wasn't exactly a surprise, but still, we did a pantomimed maypole style dance in our living room when the delivery truck pulled in just the same).

We were extra excited about the delivery because we have never had a dishwasher before. Well, Nordic Boy did once in an apartment back when we first knew each other. And I had one at my parents' house (or rather, as they no doubt would point out if they were reading this, THEY had one which I used). Nordic Boy did not grow up with a dishwasher present. Hence the disproportionate excitement over a dishwasher. I remember when I was a kid and I would stay home sick from school, I would always watch the Price is Right. And whenever Bob Barker would unveil the first Showcase in the Showcase Showdown and it contained something like a dishwasher or a fancy fridge or something, I would always scream out "PASS! You have to pass!" Because we all knew that the second Showcase was going to be a trip to Bora Bora or something. And when faced with the promise of a trip to Bora Bora, who would want something dull like a dishwasher?

This was long before I knew better. I'm not saying I wouldn't still pass so that I could have a chance to go to Bora Bora. But I would have to think about it. What an old fart I have become.

Nordic Boy got down on the floor and did some alchemy on the thing, whereby borg-style hoses were attached and water supply and drainage were encouraged, and other dishwasher midwifery was performed, and one hour later? Automated dishwashing. EASY PEASY.

I tell you we took a flying leap right up to the 1950s with that purchase. We feel downright UPDATED.

As soon as the dishwasher was installed, we loaded it up (because of course we didn't do dishes the day before just so that we would have a load ready) and started it. Then I put a load of laundry that had been washing into the dryer. Then our Roomba started up. Then we opened up our windows (oh spring, I love you) and conked out on the couch. It was as if we had to punctuate the fact that our housework was getting done in an automated fashion by sleeping through the whole thing. We are lazy! And we have things that will clean up after us! And we love it!

Now if only we could get a robot to cook our meals for us. Someone get that whole cylon thing started already.

Oooh. Ahhhh.

Let them eat cake

You ever have those moments where you can't think of a word?

I did. So I asked Nordic Boy if he could remember the word I was describing. He couldn't either. The mystery word was: rice cakes.

While we tried to come up with this very elusive word, we shouted out possibilities. As soon as we said them, we knew that wasn't it, so we kept trying. Here is our list of alternative terms for rice cakes.

Rice pies
Rice patties
Rice cookies
Rice pucks
Rice discs
Rice rounds
Rice biscuits
Rice crisps
Rice puffs
Rice crunches
Ricey Rice Things
Cardboard Hell Snacks
Styrofoam Rice Crap
Compacted Rice
Rice Saucers
Arid Extra Rice
Snap Crackle Dust
Mummified Rice
Rice Jerky

Consumables #9

This week my brain was invaded by

A Single Man
To be honest, I wanted to not like this movie. The whole Tom Ford hoopla has just gotten to be a bit much for me, (and by the way, wouldn't Tom Ford's voice make a great charming-but-deadly villain's voice in an animated movie? Am I right?) and I just thought that Tom Ford has been seducing the world via his movie full of pretty, pretty aesthetics, and hell if I will be seduced by pretty aesthetics.

And then I remembered who I am and that I will almost always be seduced by pretty aesthetics. Um, hi, haven't I ever met me before?

Also, Colin Firth is just to-die-for in this movie. No pun intended.

So fine, Tom Ford. You got me. I shake my fist at you in futility.

To Be and To Have
This was a sweet documentary about a small one-room school in rural France where a caring, dedicated teacher mentors a group of elementary school kids in just about the best educational environment one could imagine. Warm fuzzy scale: off the charts.

The Oscars
Could the Oscars be any more boring these days? There is so much advance notice on who will win everything that there is no suspense in the slightest. The biggest surprise of the night for me was spotting Kayla from So You Think You Can Dance during the dancey bits.

The Bachelor wedding
You guys, I watch more than my fair share of bad tv, believe me. And I don't really spend any time beating myself up about that. But anything to do with The Bachelor? I watch it, and I just HATE MYSELF. The icky factor just sticks to me like I have been dipped in something disgusting. And this week, I watched the wedding. I have no excuses for myself. Someone, please intervene.

The Marriage Ref
I am not really a fan of the "take my wife, please!" style of comedy, where the butt of the joke is the joke-teller's spouse. And this show sort of goes there, in a way. I end up feeling bad for the couples, rather than thinking that their fights are funny. Still, how can I resist wanting to see a panel of mismatched celebrities interacting? This week it was Ricky Gervais, Larry David, and Madonna, for Pete's sake. I'm going to want to watch that. Maybe.

Stuff in my life has been making me feel like this lately:
Again and Again by The Bird and The Bee

Wow, this wasn't a really great week for the consumables, was it? Only two things I really enjoyed. I have to step it up next week.

Petal Pushers

As I have noted repeatedly, ad nauseum, my yard, when we moved into this house, was a disaster. When we came to see the house with our real estate agent, we pulled up at the front sidewalk and could not see the house itself from the street. It looked like a city-scaled lot in a Jurassic rain forest. When we made our way to the front door and inside the house, we had to immediately turn all of the lights on because although it was the middle of the day, no sunlight was able to make it into the house because the flora in our yard was covering all of the windows. I shit you not, it was like our house was inside frickin' Jumanji.

Despite this, we loved the house and the neighborhood, and so we were those people that buys the eyesore house on the otherwise super cute street and started to rehab the shit out of it.

The first weekends we were there, we called up all of our homies to come over with their chainsaws, machetes, and weedwackers (that's right, I said machetes, effers) to try and unearth the house from under all the green. It was an epic battle that yielded over TWO HUNDRED yard waste bags full. We had to get a U-Haul truck with which to cart it all away. And when we started doing this, we were the neighborhood heroes. The neighbors came from up and down our street to say what a great job we were doing, and how they were so glad someone was saving this house, and la la unicorns and rainbows. We felt downright beloved.

Well, now it's been a few years since all of that acclaim, and our front yard looks halfway decent. It's got pretty flowers, and it frames the front of our house nicely, and we keep our walkway swept and purty. One of the lovely things we have going in our yard is a big camellia plant. And when spring arrives (which it sort of has here, kind of), it blooms. Here it is.



The camellia plant is right down by the sidewalk and borders our yard with our next door neighbor's. Our next door neighbor is Margie, a woman in her 80s who has lived in her house forever, and before I go on with this story I have to emphasize that Margie is the sweetest neighbor you'd ever want to have. Truly, we love Margie, and Margie loves us I am sure. However, that camellia plant? Drives sweet Margie frickin' bananas.

The problem with the camellia plant, apparently, is that it drops its petals like a brazen hussy.



And when it drops those petals and there is a breeze, some of those petals, god damn them, mosey over to the part of the sidewalk that is in front of Margie's house. This is a problem for Margie.

I first realized that this was a problem for her a couple of years ago when I came walking up my street and saw Margie on her sidewalk, picking up the petals, one by one, and walking them over to the strip of sidewalk in front of our house and placing those petals back on our side. Her back was turned to me as she did this, and when I called out "good afternoon, Margie!" to her, she had the sense to look embarrassed by this behavior. Still, those petals. They irk her, I know.

I should also point out that Margie's yard is spotless and professionally manicured. Not a branch out of place. So I know that Margie has high standards for yard management. And there is no place for fallen hot pink petals anywhere in her jurisdiction because she obviously finds them gauche. And we do our best to sweep up the petals, but really, there is only time on our docket to sweep our walkways maybe once a week. And these petals are on a 24/7 release plan. Sorry, Margie, but you might have to live with the petals.

Last week, she swept all the petals up off her sidewalk and placed them in a neat little pile at the bottom of our front steps, just waiting there for us when we got home from work. HINT HINT, young couple who lives next door to the Margster. CLEAN UP YOUR SHIT.

Have you ever been scolded, silently, via yard waste placement? I tell you, it is not ideal.

This weekend, we were out in our yard pruning some trees when Margie came over to Nordic Boy. They exchanged very nice pleasantries about the gorgeous weather and other neighborly talking points. Then, she sweetly asked Nordic Boy if, as long as he was pruning anyway, if he might consider cutting back the camellia plant, as it tends to pee petals all over her sidewalk. Nordic Boy said that he would be happy to do that, but that short of cutting off all of the flowers one by one or taking the plant out altogether, that there was bound to be some petal pee pee that got unleashed. Margie looked very downtrodden at this news. She actually hung her head a little bit. I sort of felt bad for her and for the fact that our camellia petals were clearly breaking her heart. Until I stopped myself and realized that THAT IS NUTSO.

Does this sound nutso to you too? I thought that Margie was clearly in the minority when it comes to judgment about camellia petals, but yesterday, something happened that made me think that perhaps Nordic Boy and I need to be more diligent about our sidewalk petal pollution.

Our street gets a fair amount of foot traffic and bike traffic, as well as car traffic. Yesterday, as we sat on our stoop after finishing the pruning, a woman walked by with her dog.

Her: Beautiful day, isn't it?
Nordic Boy: Yes, it is!
Her: Are you enjoying it?
Me: We certainly are! You?
Her: Yes! (looking at our camellia plant as she walks by) Ooh, I love this. So pretty!
Nordic Boy: Thanks!
Her: (looking down at the petals on the sidewalk). Oh, except for that.

And then she was on her way.

Really lady? You too?

So I need you to tell it to me straight. Because maybe we are too enamored with ourselves from taking Jumanji yard and turning it into regular yard, but I can't help but think "doesn't anyone in this neighborhood remember what this place looked like when we moved in? Because if there was a Nobel Prize for yard rehab, then we would WIN, and you guys should be GRATEFUL WE SAVED YOUR BLOCK AND RAISED YOUR PROPERTY VALUES." And now the petals are too much? How did this happen?

Tell me for reals. Don't hold back. Is Margie being weird about the petals? And did she send dog lady as a secret agent to reinforce the petal argument? Or are we being terrible, terrible neighbors by not cutting this plant down or sweeping up the petals on a daily basis?

Consumables #8

I am allergic to Tom Cruise. Always have been, even when I was a little kid. As a result, I have never seen a Tom Cruise movie. No Top Gun, no Rain Man, no Jerry Maguire. Nothing. The only exception to this is Eyes Wide Shut, and I saw that because my curiosity about what Stanley Kubrick was going to do outweighed my Tom Cruise allergy. Sad, right? Because that movie was so not worth breaking the Tom Cruise ban for.

This week, I saw my second Tom Cruise movie ever: Valkyrie. The reason? I am a sucker for a World War II movie. Give me a movie set in World War II and pass me the popcorn. I sat through all 900 hours of Band of Brothers, for Pete's sake.

Once again, the movie was not worth breaking the Tom Cruise ban. When will I learn?

To cleanse the palette, I watched The Train, which had many things that I love. World War II plus John Frankenheimer, plus Burt Lancaster. I love Burt Lancaster.

The Politician
I just skimmed this one and I only have three words to describe it. Smarmy, smarmy, smarmy.

Lost in the Meritocracy
Just ok, nothing to write home about.

With all the publicity for this movie everywhere, I can't get this song out of my head. The Dude abides, people.

Lastly, my friend sent me this via email with the subject line: "This made me think of you." I can't convey how much this friend of mine understands how my mind works.

Time, time, time, see what's become of me

I haven't heard from my friend Delium in a couple of weeks (other than when he sent me a link to jean-pajamas as a misguided attempt at defending his "leisure pants" days). He hasn't come over or called me for two weeks. To be fair, I haven't called him either. But (of course!) I have an excuse. My excuse is that, although Delium was my friend first, since we were baby teenagers, and we even dated in our early college years, slowly over time, Nordic Boy has stolen him away from me. That's right, I said it. Friendship theft! Right in my own home!

And before I go on, I don't think I have ever stated that my friend Delium is not really named Delium. Because, obviously that is not a name. The reason I call him Delium is that his real name is something like Richard Daly. That's not his actual name, and no I am not friends with the former mayor of Chicago (who I think is dead, right?) but it's something like that. And there was a period of time a few years ago where he got on some sort of junk mail mailing list with the most effed up misspelling of his name ever. The result was that for a few months, all of his junk mail was addressed to "Delium Ulrichter." How awesome is that? Instead of spurning this incident, I have embraced it and now call him Delium.

Anyway, back to the Friendship Theft. At first, Delium was most definitely my friend and just acquaintances with Nordic Boy. But as the years went by, I noticed a shift occuring. Not a subtle shift, either. Delium was totally falling in love with Nordic Boy, the more he got to know him. I, all of a sudden, was the side dish.

And can I just tell you, with no resentment in my tone whatsoever (ok maybe a little bit), that THIS ALWAYS HAPPENS TO ME? Nordic Boy is much less social than I am, and has fewer friends overall than I do, but dang. When someone puts in the time to get to know that guy? That is when I become liver of the chopped variety. People who take the time to get to know him, love him. No, let me rephrase. They looooooove him. Love, love, love. They become friends with him, and they also become fans of him. And Delium is no different. To this I say, yeah yeah, I know, Nordic Boy is awesome. WHATEVER. And also, humph.

The reason that I hadn't called Delium is because that dude doesn't call me no more. He only calls Nordic Boy. So now I have to hear news about my friend through him! The nerve. So I just wait for Nordic Boy to fill me in on what's new with Delium, or to make social plans for us with Delium. Hence, I don't call him as much anymore. Chopped liver does not know how to dial a phone, you know.

So Delium calls me yesterday to catch up and figure out when we can make a plan to hang out. We decide to meet up for dinner on Sunday. The question is: what time? See, Delium has a bit of an issue with time management. He is super busy, with back-to-back engagements, and no matter what time we say we will meet, he usually is late, or early, but not anywhere near the time that we agreed to. This is because he has a serious issue with interpreting what time really means. For example, if I say let's get together at 7pm to go get some ice cream, he hears that and might think "She doesn't want me to pick her up at 7pm, she wants me to leave my house at 7pm." Or perhaps "We'll probably have to wait in line for ice cream, so we better go early. I'll show up at 6:30." Meeting up at 7pm is not as simple as just saying we will meet up at 7pm. This is not news to him, by the way. I am not talking shit about my friend behind his back. He will be the first to tell you that he has a problem with understanding time. Hence, the following weird conversation that we had.

Him: What should we have?
Me: How about we go get a burrito?
Him: Ok. What time?
Me: Well--
Him: And I am talking about Food In Mouth Time.
Me: What?
Him: Food In Mouth Time. What time do you want the food to actually be in your mouth?
Me: That sounds weird. Food in Mouth Time? Really?
Him: Well, that way I know what to extrapolate. If I know what time you want to actually be eating, then I'll know what time to pick you up. Like, if you want to eat at 8, then I will come pick you up at 7:30.
Me: Can't we just say that we're meeting at 7:30? Or that you're picking me up at 7:30? Isn't that the same thing?
Him: Not to me. I need Food In Mouth Time.
Me: I just don't know if I can go with you on this Food In Mouth thing.
Him: Do you want me to be on time, or don't you?
Me: Fine. Food In Mouth: 7:30.
Him: Thank you.
Me: You're really weird.
Him: You wait, Food In Mouth Time will sweep the nation.
Me: Sure.
Him: Wait, Nordic Boy is coming too, right?
Me: Sigh.

Don't You Forget About Me

Hey, in all the bird-pooping hullabaloo that went on last week, I forgot to tell you that blog friend Annie from Madison came out to Seattle last week for a librarian shindig (or training, if you want to be technical) and she came to see me at my liberry and then we went out and had a nice meal and did I mention that blog friends are awesome? She was just as nice and funny and sweet as could be. And I managed to not make a fool out of myself by falling down or having a booger flap out of my nose or any of those other pesky things that could happen to me when I am in the flesh. So in terms of blog friends, I must now brag that I am holding strong at 100% awesome people.

Also in the 100% awesome camp: my weekend. The Spring Fakeout continues and I made it through an entire weekend without being a turd target for my local avian populations (or any other populations, just to be clear), so that's a positive start right there. That's one good thing about being crapped on: any other moment in your life you can congratulate yourself that you are not being crapped on currently. Like right now, as I type this? Not being pooped on. Score.

In other news, Nordic Boy and I went and ordered us up a new kitchen faucet this weekend. I don't know what it is about us, but whenever we need to buy anything for our house, and I mean ANYTHING, we always have to go through this rigmarole to special order it. We never, ever, pick out an item that is on the shelf, or in stock. We don't try to be difficult, but apparently we just are difficult by nature. (A companion band to Naughty By Nature, anyone? Nordic Boy and I headline as the emerging hip hop artists Difficult By Nature? To this I say: genius). Friday we went into the plumbing supply store and asked if they carry the faucet that we had picked out from the catalog. The manufacturer (Grohe) is one that this supplier advertises that they carry "the complete line of." They have a big display of every faucet you can think of. Except the one that we want. Of course. The salesperson goes on a long tangent trying to show us similar faucets. We, being the picky design bastards we are, don't want one LIKE the one we picked out. We want the one we picked out. He was annoyed with us, but he wrote our special order down and said that he would have to call around and see if he could get our part in from anyone in the state. In the whole state? Really? Yes, really. The guy says he will call us back later that afternoon. He takes our name, our number, and writes it all down.

He doesn't call back.

So we go in the next day and ask again. The person now helping us (a different guy) asks us who was helping us yesterday. We point out the person. And you know what that guy does? He looks us in the face and says he doesn't remember us.

Listen, I am not saying we are all that memorable. Like people who see us once have to remember. But he just saw us 24 hours ago, and argued with us about our faucet. It was a lengthy exchange. And now you don't remember us?

This is when Nordic Boy realizes that he can just order the dang thing hisself and we dropped and walked.

That'll teach you to not remember us. That is how Difficult By Nature rolls, holmes.

Speaking of gangster behavior (and please do not point out to me that internet ordering of Grohe fixtures cannot be found in the gangsta street code), somehow Nordic Boy and I have been ending our lights-out conversations at night with the following phrase: "Shut your face and go to sleep!" Somehow, this has become disproportionately funny to us. The lights go out, we talk a bit more, and then one of us will shout out "Shut your face and go to sleep!" and then we giggle a bit before drifting off to the see the sandman. Why, why is this funny? It is apropos of absolutely nothing, and I don't even know who started it. Still, I highly recommend it. It's so loving, is it not?