Lost My Shoe in the Dinosaur Room

Holy smokes, I love my life. Today, a patron at my library told me a joke to "pay me" for all the help I had given him. And it was a corny, but very funny joke. It's all in the way you tell it, is what I say, and he was Telling It. Jokes for information. This is a bartering system I can get behind.

Speaking of things that are all in the way you tell it, the buzz around the library these days is all about poetry. In case you didn't know, it's National Poetry Month. So if you've got some poetry in your soul, you better get that shit out into the world before April 30. Because poetry in May, is like, so ten minutes ago, like Armed and Famous and that talk show with Karen Walker who kept wanting to sing everything. Did anyone else notice that? That girl would sing the phone book if she could. Kind of reminds me of that episode of Northern Exposure where Shelly woke up one day and couldn't stop singing. That was kind of painful too. Maybe I have something against singing? I don't know.

Gosh, I don't know how I get myself into these pop culture tangents. I was talking about POETRY. And, I don't mean to brag (ok, maybe I do a little), but I am known, in my little circle of comrades, as being quite the poet. I have often written poems for people in birthday cards, in emails, just whenever the mood strikes me. So, I had this grand idea to write a poem, in honor of Poetry Month, on this here blog. Except, I'm just not feeling it. That's right, I'm going to go ahead and proclaim that I have impressive poetic talents, and then I am NOT GOING TO PROVE IT. The phrase "put up or shut up" means nothing to me, people. I will neither put up and god knows I will not shut up. Sorry.

However, I will provide you with a poem for your Poetry Month expectations. It comes in the form of a note that I received from a young poet when we were both in the 8th grade. There are two lessons I want you to take away from this. One is that poetry comes out in the most unexpected places. This particular one deals with love, with sex, with death, with the very nature of life itself. From the days of the dinosaurs to the modern day, it is a plea from the poet to make her mark. To be remembered. And two: if you ever write me something on a piece of paper, I will horde it for the rest of my life and possibly share it with others for a good laugh. Be warned.

With that, I give you, Brooke, and her poem, which I like to call "Ha Ha, Remember That."

Hey chickeeeee!

What's going on over there? Not much here. This field trip was totally bogus is what I'm thinkin. Who gives a rip about dinosaur bones? Not me- I only give a rip about RB's bones! Ha ha just kiddin ya hon. I almost lost my shoe in the big dinosaur room! I about died! But I played it off. Oh my god, I totally love that song Be Near Me! Ha ha! Remember that? Do you like LD? I heard he likes Monica now. Don't tell anyone, kay? I would die. Mr. Straw is so funny! He always has to wear those plaid shirts and sneakers. He's "sexy"! Ha ha! Remember that? This bus is shaking my hand so my writing looks scary. Do you think it looks bubbly? April said it did. This is the longest note ever! I'm bored. Write me back, ok? Unless you fall backwards! Ha ha! Remember that? Bye bye tut alu. Or however you spell it.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Betrayal!

His name was Marlon. In sixth grade, he had that most glamorous of descriptors: he was new. At that age, if you were new and didn't look like a troll, it was instant popularity. To add to this newness, he had an additional trifecta of Cute. One, he was shy. Sixth grade girls go wild for shy. This was the same shy that made me like George the best out of all the Beatles, before puberty set in and I was all about John's rebelliousness. Two, he had moved from Chicago. The big city of all our midwestern dreams. And three, he had (brace yourself) a red leather jacket like Michael Jackson wore in the "Beat It" video. Oh yessss. The zippers. He had all the zippers! Really, need I say more?

He was in the class across the hall from me. Honestly, he was way out of my league. Who was I to go after Marlon? But I did. I used the tried and true method of telling all of my friends, especially the big-mouth ones, that I liked him. This method is like putting a message in a bottle and sending it out to sea. You don't have to really do anything more than say what you want and hope that it comes back to you. Kind of like "The Secret" but less freakishly weird. It helps if you give this bottle to a bossy messenger who will transport it directly to its destination and knock your beloved over the noggin with it.

Soon, via messenger, Marlon was my boyfriend. My friends had told him that I liked him, and he had told them that he liked me, and, through a somewhat lengthy arbitration, we ended up agreeing to Go Together. Marlon and me. Going Together. And I hadn't ever needed to even talk to him. How easy was that?

Marlon and I had quite the relationship. We never spoke. Ever. We never wrote each other notes. We wouldn't even make eye contact. No matter. We were Going Together, a matched set, and the fact that he knew it, I knew it, and everyone else knew it was enough for all of us. Every once in a while, Marlon would come over to my lunch table and sit next to me and eat his sandwich. Silently. I would continue to talk to my friends, as if he wasn't there. It was a beautiful arrangement. We even attended the sixth grade dance at the same time, and there was never any expectation that we would dance together, because, yikes, that would mean we would have to touch each other. (As a side note, I have to say that Marlon was also a wicked breakdancer, and when he did The Worm in the middle of that dance, I fell even more deeply in sixth grade love with him).

In the spring, all the sixth-graders in our school got to go to this nature camp for a weekend. In our factory, cement-encrusted town, this was the school's way of making sure that we all understood that there were actual trees in the world. One weekend for trees, and a lake, and even a horse or two! To us, it was like friggin' Grizzly Adams. I was so excited. Until I found out, through the sixth-grade messenger service, that Marlon couldn't go. His parents didn't give their permission. My dreams of not-talking to Marlon for an entire weekend were shot. Damn.

I went to the nature camp weekend anyway, and had a great time. I sang camp songs, saw camp fires for the first time, and I played basketball on the little blacktop court, just to remind me of home. And when I got back, I looked for Marlon in the hall before school.

When Marlon saw me walking down the hall, he actually looked at me. Full in the face. Stared, in fact. His face was cold. My friends came running up to me. "Marlon wants to break up with you," they said, sad but excited by this new drama. They regaled me with a story about how Marlon had heard from Mike (another boy in my class) that Mike had managed to hold hands with me at nature camp. I was shocked. I hadn't held hands with anyone! Lies, all lies!

This was the point at which I actually marched up to Marlon, ready to defend my hand-holding virginity. But he wouldn't listen. He just walked away from me, every time I tried to explain. And just like that, it was over. Betrayed by Mike. Spurned by Marlon. Unjustly accused.

The next month, Marlon moved back to Chicago, taking all of his zippers with him. I never saw him again. I probably live on in his memory as a brazen hussy who spread her hand-holding promiscuity all over nature camp. That still kind of bugs me.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Huh-Hi

Sometimes, my friend Delium will stop by the library to pick up some goodies and say howdy. One day, he happened to be standing there as I was helping another patron. As the patron walked away, Delium commented "wow. Your work-voice is very pleasant. And you somehow have a work-voice that doesn't sound like a work-voice. It sounds like you just talk that way normally."

What? I have a work-voice? When I started to pay attention to it, I had to admit I do. It's different from my regular voice. Warmer, with more clarity. I'm not saying that I walk around in my personal life talking with a cold, hard slur. The difference is more subtle than that. But if you know me really well, you can tell the difference. And I guess I'm ok with that. But there is a line that must not be crossed.

The other day, someone from work called me at home. After I hung up with them, I turned around to see Nordic Boy looking at me.

Me: What?
Him: You just did the double goodbye.
Me: What is the double goodbye?
Him: You know, like flight attendants do. "Buh-bye."
Me: I did not.
Him: Oh yes. You did.

Listen, I'm not saying that there's anything inherently wrong with the double goodbye. All of you double goodbyers out there, don't be mad. Some of my best friends are buh-bye people. It fits on them. I, however, am not a double goodbyer. Or so I thought. But apparently, the Work Character that I have inhabited since I have started this librarian gig has evolved into someone who says buh-bye. How did this happen?

My brother would laugh if he heard about this. When we were growing up, we would take these epic trips back to the homeland that required up to thirty six hours on airplanes, all in a row. We would get on and off these planes ad nauseam, and one of the things we would do, as we got punchier and punchier, was, as we would de-plane, say "BUH-bye!" to the flight attendants. This, as a child, was hysterical to us. Now, look at me. I'm saying if for reals.

Also, there is the concept of Keeping It Fresh. This, despite what it sounds like, has nothing to do with Ziploc bags or Summer's Eve. It is an acting term. When you have to memorize lines and say them over and over, night after night, performance after performance, you have to work at Keeping It Fresh. You have to make sure that you sound like you are saying those words for the very first time, every time. It's hard. And it applies to librarians too.

Every night, we have to read a series of closing announcements over the loudspeaker thingamajig. At regular intervals for the last half hour before we close the doors, we have to let people know we're closing, so that they can prepare themselves for the shock of leaving the library. We have a little script that we read for this. It goes something like: "May I have your attention please. We're closing. Get out." Only, you know, nicer than that. That's why we need the script, or we may accidentally say something goofy like what I just said. Anyhoo. About two months into my job, I was doing the closing announcement. A patron walked by and saw me speaking in to the loudspeaker. When I was done, he said, all smiles, "Hey! That's crazy! I totally thought that was a recorded machine talking!" Yeah. So apparently my work-voice when I started this gig was akin to Rosie the Robot from the Jetsons. May. I. help. you. with. that. reference. question.

So I guess evolving to a place where at least my work-voice is pleasant is a step up. And that's all I have to say about that. Buh-bye.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Lunch Feats

There are things that are hard to understand that I pretty much grasp, like Standpoint Epistemology, or Gertrude Stein, or Buckwheat. Then there are things that are easy, straightforward, and seemingly impossible to not grasp that stump me. One of these, ladies and gentlemen, is lunch.

You heard me. I don't understand lunch. My whole adult life, I have never quite gotten behind the concept of lunch. I'm telling you, it's the most enigmatic of meals, and it continually looms just outside of my reach. It's maddening.

Breakfast is easy for me. I get into phases where I can just eat the same goldarn thing for brekkers every damn day. Right now, I am in a longstanding grapefruit and oatmeal phase. Day in and day out, I eat grapefruit and oatmeal in the morn, and it makes me happy. I had a Cheerios phase before that. And a hard-boiled egg and toast era before that. Easy peasy. No soul searching required.

Dinner. Also easy. Dinner is the time to mix it up, anything goes, whoo-hoo, crazy time! Hankering for a burrito, or stir fry, or chick pea curry and rice, or ravioli? No problem! Go nuts! Ok, ok, and the truth is, Nordic Boy is the chef of the house, and I seldom have to make my own food choices for dinner. Easy. I eat what I'm broughten, and I like it that way.

But lunch! Why can't I figure this out? Every single day, around midday, I start to feel hungry, and I have NO IDEAS. I'm telling you, this happens to me every day! A sense of confusion comes over me. I don't know what to do. The other day, Biology Girl called me to see what I was doing, and I was walking around, trying to figure out what to do for lunch. Walking around, in my very own neighborhood, where I already know what all the options are, but for some reason, I feel like I have never seen lunch options before in my life. When I finally decide on the grocery store, I wander the aisles. Nothing looks good. Nothing. WHY? I could walk in there five hours later and rustle up a dinner, no problem. I have some sort of lunch block in my synaptic pathways. Maybe I have been hypnotized to go into glassy-eyed confusion whenever the concept of lunch comes up. Because I end up eating a Cliff Bar and an orange on more days than I can count. And I don't really WANT a Cliff Bar and an orange. But at some point I just give up.

What do you guys eat for lunch? Teach me, oh blog-reading, lunch-eating yodas out there. The part of my brain that decides on lunch is missing. Along with the part that understands the metric system.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

The Non-Victory Garden

There are things that are fabled to have calming powers. The sound of sea waves. Counting to ten. The scent of lavender. Intelligence for Your Life, with John Tesh. These are things that are supposed to make you feel less stress in your life and make you a more relaxed goomba. But what if these things don't work for you? What if you're allergic to lavender? Or John Tesh? What then?

When I was a kid, my dad had a heart attack. I came home from school one day, and my brother told me that dad was in the hospital. This news, coming from my brother, had just about as much believability with me as many other stories he tried to pass off as fact. (Like the time he told me that the reason I was shorter than him was not because I was younger, but because I had been adopted from a pygmy tribe, like the Oompa Loopahs, and my parents were just waiting for the right moment to tell me that I would never grow another inch). Because of this track record, I proceeded to debate this news about my dad with the technique called "Nuh-UH!" To which he replied back with the tried and true "Yeah-huh!" After a few rounds of this, I went to Mom, who informed me that, yes, this time my brother was actually telling me the truth. Scary shit.

The day my dad came home from the hospital, my sister and I gave him a present. We had read somewhere that stress was bad for people with heart trouble. And we knew that dad, due to working the way he did, had stress. We also read that having an aquarium full of pretty fish was something that relieved stress. So we enlisted the help of my mom, bought a smallish aquarium, and went to Meijer's to pick out a couple of fish. My dad loved the present, and we waited to see if their fish personalities would come out and inspire us to name them. That first night, I sat on my dad's lap and we watched the fish together. Calm, tranquil. Until:

Him: Oh!
Me: What?
Him: Nothing. The big one bumped into the small one.
(pause).
Me: Oh!
Him: Did you see that?
Me: The big one. He bit the small one.
Him: They're just playing. The small one sure dodged that quick, didn't he?
Me: I want to name him Smarty.
Him: Good name. I'll name the big one...Bully Boy.

We both laughted at the names, and thought it cute how they played together.

Only, the thing is, they weren't playing. The big fish? Was pissed off and psycho. And the small fish? Was being nipped, slowly, to death. We woke the next morning, and Smarty had chunks bitten out of him and was cowering behind a rock. Eeek. This was many things, but stress-relieving was not one of them. I was freaked out that my dad had to watch his fish cannibalize each other, which was the exact opposite of calming. I felt horrible. Welcome back from the hospital, Dad! What your blood pressure and your tired ticker need is the soothing sight of your pets killing each other. Feel better?

So, this weekend, we finally had some sunny, dry weather. (You all should be used to these weird segues of mine by now, so you can stop looking so confused). Nordic Boy and I commenced with Monster Yard Clean-up, Act 2. In case you forgot, the house that we bought last summer had a yard that resembled this, on a pretty city street alongside yards that look like this. We are doing our best to clean it up and make it look presentable, which is a Herculean task, and I so wish I was exaggerating. So, this weekend, we got our gardening gloves on and jumped in.

Gardening. One of the things that's purported to be relaxing. Do you see where I'm going with this? I think you do. Let me just preface what's coming next by saying that I am, by nature, a stress free person. If you looked up "que sera sera" in the dictionary, my mugshot would be right there looking back at you. I don't yell at people when I'm driving, I don't sweat work when I'm kicking it at home, and ballistic library patrons have never made me cry or even ruffled my feathers, really. Those everyday things that get people's knickers in a twist are things I don't even tend to notice. But put me in the middle of a messy garden? Here's what happens.

Me: (pulling on a deep-growing weed) Goddamn, muther-humping, crap eating nutsucker!!!!
Nordic Boy: WHOA. Everything ok over there?
Me: Yes (grumble grumble) I'm fine (grumble) I just (grumble grumble) feel all...(tug on weed)...kinds (tug tug)...of...(tug)...HATRED.
Nordic Boy: Take it easy, slugger. Take a breath.

Then we look at each other, and I have to laugh. We have a good chuckle and I move on to the next task. Minutes later:

Me: You god damn asswipe weed! You are coming out of there if I have to rip you out with my teeth, you big...FUCKWAD!
Nordic Boy: Sheezus! What the heck is going on with you?
Me: I don't know. But I'm feeling the pissy feelings, I gotta tell you.
Nordic Boy: Here, why don't you just put these clippings into the yard waste bags and stop pulling up that stuff?

So I do. Although, I have to stop every once in a while, and look at the mess, and SIGH. You know, one of those annoying, irritated, impatient SIGHS that crusty, moldy, deeply unhappy people emit. SIGH....SIGH...

Nordic Boy: I swear to god, you're the only person I know that needs anger management help for GARDENING. You never get mad about anything, yet THIS is what sends you over the edge? What is up with that?

What is up with that, indeed. I have no idea. I need help. Maybe I need John Tesh?

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Twins and Winds

Ok, I know what I said about telling you about my dreams and how I would try and stop myself from telling you all about ridiculous, uninteresting mind-burps like how it was snowing poker chips or how I was running through a field of post-it notes. But sometimes, I have these really crazy pop culture dreams that I think you may actually find interesting, and I then have to break my promise to you and tell you all about it. Because I am fickle and untrustworthy that way, ya'll. Sorry. So like, last night? I had a dream with the Olsen twins in it. Except there weren't just two of them. There were sets of two, at all different ages. So there was a set of them that were toddlers, and two of them that were the straight-to-home-video ten-year-olds. There was a set that were pre-teen, from the Two of a Kind days, and a set that were teenagers that starred in that show with that guy who played Gwillem on Hope and Gloria. Finally, there was the current Mary Kate and Ashley, with their garbage bag style dresses and ratty hair. They all lived together in a house, and I was a guest at this house, and there was barely enough room to contain all of the twinnage. In my dream, I remember cracking this joke: "wow, you guys really have a FULL HOUSE here, don't you?" See, even when I am unconscious, I churn out the side-splitters.

Speaking of side splitters, Neighbor J sent me a photo the other day that cracked my shit UP. Let me set the scene for you. A few summers ago, a bunch of us rented a beach house on the Oregon coast to max and relax. We've done this a few times over the years, and it's always the highlight of the year. One day, we all woke up and walked down to the beach, only to find that the winds had severely picked up. It was more than gusts-- it was a consistent, constant wind of the sort that makes you have to lean into it to walk. I would say the wind was at least 30 miles an hour. I'm not kidding. You guys know how I feel about being cold. I am in a constant state of shivering me timbers if it's anywhere under 68 degrees. Neighbor J is the same way. So the two of us? Not happy with the wind. But Jenny and Neighbor B were going windsurfing and we wanted to stay and watch. So we gathered up our beach towels and wrapped ourselves in them like two big beach burritos. It was not pretty, and for once in my life, I didn't care one whit about how it looked. I was COLD. In the middle of this, Neighbor J snapped a photo of me, Nordic Boy, and Biology Girl. And this photo has gone down in history as one of the most mysterious images in both Neighbor J's and my personal collections. Because Biology Girl and Nordic Boy? They look like they are standing in the middle of a perfectly mild, sunny day. Biology Girl even has a HAT on. How the HELL she managed to keep a hat on her head in the middle of that windstorm is a subject of speculation between Neighbor J and me to this day. Did she have a piece of duct tape on her head? And Nordic Boy. Sure, his hair is messed up, but other than that, he looks perfectly comfortable. He doesn't look wind whipped. He's downright BASKING. All of this makes what I am doing look even more insane. The caption of this photo may as well be "Joe, Mary, and crazy Aunt Harriet." Because I look like I've been let free from the loony bin for the day. But HONESTLY. We were in a WINDSTORM. With my left hand, I was holding on to that empty folding chair so it wouldn't fly down the beach. You believe me, right? Right????



Remember Jane and Blanche in "Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?" Yeah, that's me. Joan Crawford as Blanche, in hot blankets.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Name Gangs

Have you ever noticed that names come in bunches? Like, you'll make a new friend named Kate, and then all of a sudden you meet 6 or 9 other Kates, right in a row? Maybe you would never have noticed all the Kates lining up like that had you not had one especially highlighted for you. Or maybe people with the same name travel in groups, springing themselves upon unsuspecting bystanders, drowning them in Kate-ness. I'm telling you, these roving bands of same-name people exist. I went to high school with a scary gang of people named Amy. There were four of them, joined at the hip, as they strangled people to death with rosy-cheeked, girl-next-door cuteness. I always wondered about them. Like, did they just happen to all befriend each other, regardless of the name? How did this Amy gang happen?

There was a period of time in my life when my friend Palindrome and I always ended up dating boys with matching names. I started dating a Paul, and so did she. She dated a Matt, and so did I. It went on like this for a period of about two years. It was eerie. As a matter of fact, now that I remember it, my other friend Emily was also dating a Matt at the same time we were. So three of us, all dating Matts. I have never since dated a Matt, and neither have either of the two of them, as far as I know. But for a brief period in the early 90s, we were all tripping over Matts.

There are names that crop up in my life over time as well. Some of them are understandabley ubiquitous because of the popularity of the names. Everyone my age is overrun with Jennifers and Heathers, so I suppose it's not a stretch when lots of pivotal people in my life have those names. But then there are ones that aren't so common, yet crop up two, three, four times anyway. I have two important Nancys. I had a very important Julia when I was a kid, and I do again now. I also have important Jasons. And Kevins. And not just because those are kind of common names. If that were true, I would have a Brian, an Amy, a Mike. But I don't.

I think the name gangs could all be averted if we took some advice from name visionaries like Jermaine Jackson. He named his kid Jermajesty. Now, tell me, the odds of someone meeting two people named Jermajesty in their life? Not going to happen. Or the parents who named their kid Urhines Kendall Icy Eight Special K (thanks, Sauntering Soul, for finding this name, you have no idea the joy it has brought me). They are insuring that their kid will share a name with no one. And god bless the parents of college football player Luscious Pusey. Pure poetry, is what that is, right there. It's enough to bring a tear to my eye.

So what name gangs have come into your lives? Comment and email. I want to know.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Almost Famous

I know that there are quite a few readers of this little blog who are currently in Library Skool, and quite a few members of that group are getting ready to graduate, interview, and take Libraryland by storm. I know that your brain is chock full of wonderful things that will prep you for your new identity as a For Reals Librarian. You've been taught legions of things, from the innards of the AACR2 to the difference between a verso and a recto, and all the ins and outs of FRBR. All good stuff, most assuredly. But here's the thing that no one tells you in Library Skool. You, my dear graduate school students, especially those of you who are getting ready to work with the public, are on the verge of bonafide, genuine celebrity. You're about to be a star. A big star. And I'm here to give you a little tip on how to handle that.

So, let's say you're going to be a reference librarian. There you'll sit, day in and day out, helping everyone who approacheth your mighty brain circuitry with style and aplomb. Even people who never come up to actually talk to you at the desk will see you as they walk by. Your face will be burned into their consciousness. They will feel like they know you, even if you've never really registered who they are.

When I first started as a librarian, I was unaware of how this all worked. Until one day, when I was browsing in my local Storables store, and I heard the following conversation, coming from two teen boys on the other side of the aisle from me, who apparently had the mentality that if I couldn't SEE them, I couldn't hear them either.

Boy 1: Dude, did you see that girl?
Boy 2: What?
Boy 1: I just saw that librarian.
Boy 2: Who?
Boy 1: You know, that librarian that works at X library. With the black hair?
Boy 2: Yeah, so what?
Boy 1: Dude, she's hot.
(this, my friends, started to brighten my day, until...)
Boy 2: Ugh! No she's not!

I shall not start debating with you on the relative genius of Boy #1 and the obvious mental impairment of Boy #2. My point is, rather, that I was out at a store, and these random people, who I don't remember ever seeing before, knew me from my job at the library. I may have interacted with them at some point, or they may just hang out at the library and have seen me from afar. But they knew me. They had taken note of me. I had become a celebrity librarian.

Now, at first, this took some getting used to. I would walk in to the grocery store, head down, just wanting to get in there to buy my oatmeal, oranges and Izzy soda and head out the door, when I would hear "Hi, Librarian!" I'd look up to see the person working the deli counter, smiling and giving me a wave. I always felt awkward, not knowing them back. It was like being at a party where someone comes up and says "hi" to you by name, and you have to be the big dork and sputter out some nameless "hi" back to them, sure that they'll be offended that you so obviously don't have a frigging clue as to who they are.

So, all you Almost For Reals Librarians reading this, I am here to tell you. Embrace the celebrity. You are a public figure now. Work it, own it. If you need help on how to do this, watch famous people on the red carpet. When the papparazzi and fans yell out Julia Roberts' name, she gives a good, full face smile, and waves. Do you think she has any idea who she's waving at? No, she doesn't. She just does it. And that's what you have to do, too.

I went to my local bakery today, and as I walked out the door, a man said to me: "Hey, Librarian Girl!" (And yes, he actually said the words "Librarian Girl." I'm not just saying that). To which I looked right back at him, waved, and said "Hey! How are you?" like I'd known him all my life. He said, "Great!" and I said "Nice to see you!" and was on my way. That's how it has to be done, my friends. It'll feel weird at first, but trust me. It's the graceful thing to do.

So, Library Skool graduates, promise me this. Be a good celebrity, the kind who will stop for the masses. Not the bad kind who throws cell phones at people and forgets to wear underwear. That's all I'm saying.

Addendum: I forgot to mention that the whole reason I got to thinking about this celebrity stuff is because I went and had me a random celebrity sighting. This weekend, I was walking down the street, and right there, in front of Barney's, was Clinton Kelly from "What Not to Wear." I was talking on my cell phone as we passed in the crosswalk, and I noticed him. And he noticed me noticing him. And he flashed his pearly whites at me. I, being the graceful young lady that I am, smiled back and said, as clear as day, right in Clinton's range of hearing, into my cell phone: "Oh my god, I'm looking at Clinton Kelly!" Classy, yes? The even worse thing about that is that the person I was talking to (Nordic Boy) had absolutely no appreciation for who the heck I was talking about.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Profile of a Crybaby

I love this blog and all the perks it comes with, such as ready access for me to talk about nonsense so as not to annoy nonconsensual listeners in other parts of my life, as well as linking up with all you lovelies out there who comment and email and invite me over to see your blogs, where we have virtual tea and crumpets and talk about what's new with you. There is one thing about my blog that I have always been dissatisfied with, and that is my Blogger Profile. The way they have it set up? Bo-ring. They give you a random question, which yeah, is kind of funny, I guess. Then they give you a section called "interests." And you just have to list things. This, for me, is excruciating. Why that is so, I'm not quite sure. I know this is how things are done in the social networking world. You go on match.com and you have to list your interests. You go on MySpace and you list interests. But what does that really do for you? What does it tell you about me to know that I like La Push beach and Brian Kinney? I guess it tells you something, but...ehh. It just doesn't do it for me. It's so lacking in description. There's no real voice that comes through. Which brings me to a Life Lesson that I want to tell you about. In my usual way, this Life Lesson will appear to have nothing to do with the fact that I hate my Blogger Profile, but to me it does, and in this here blog, if I say it relates, it relates! (Look at me going all authoritarian on you! Kind of sexy, yes?)

So, I once had this job that changed my life. After years of surviving on arty pursuits that didn't have things like health insurance or day time hours, I had landed myself a Real Job. I could go to the doctor if I needed to! I would arrive at work at 8am and leave in time for dinner! And the best part of this was that I was working for an organization that could not, in any way, be described as working for The Man. It was grassrootsy, it was progressive, it was changing the world! I was not a sell-out! I remember that I got the call to be hired on my birthday. I was so excited. No more wondering where the next paycheck would come from, no more moving around in order to find work. It was a good, good day in my life.

Fast forward two years. Me, a little older, a little less pep in my step. The Real Job? It was crap on a bun. I dragged myself to work, where I sat at my desk, feeling invisible for the first time in my life. Invisibility is something I had never had to deal with, ever. I've always had girlfriends who talk about going through phases in their adolescence where they felt invisible, and I had never understood that. Growing up in the Midwest, looking like I do, all islander brown goodness, I had never had the option of being invisible. People were always looking at me. I commanded attention, whether I wanted it or not. So, at this job, the force of invisibility was crushing. Issues would arise at work, I would communicate them to my peers and supervisors, and it would be as if I had never spoken. Everything I said and did passed by, unacknowledged. I would bring up concerns and potential solutions on a weekly basis, over and over again, and each time I did, I would be looked at like they had never heard any of it before. Nothing made a dent. It was as if I was encased in a sound-proof booth, like the ones they used to make Miss America contestants go into during the interview competition, where I would wave and yell and jump up and down, but no one could hear a word I was saying. It was discouraging, to say the least. It was like Kafka had taken over my life.

During this period, there were times that were so full of disillusionment that I would go into the bathroom at work, go into a stall, lock the door, and cry. This behavior is so ridiculously un-me I can't even tell you. Yet there I was, sobbing silent tears of frustration in the poo-poo closet, probably twice a week. I was miserable.

One morning, I drove Nordic Boy to work. After we pulled up to his building, there was something in my voice that gave him pause.

Him: Hey, everything ok?
Me: Yeah. I think so.
Him: What does that mean? You look really sad right now.
Me: I...just...don't want to go to work.
(tears start busting out of my eyeballs)
Him: Whoa! Hey. What's going on?
Me: I hate it there! I keep talking...no one listens...nothing changes...it's so messed up...and I have to...cry...in the bathrooooooom.
Him: What?? You cry in the bathroom? At work?
Me: Yes.
Him: On a regular basis??
Me: Yes.
Him: That is totally unacceptable! There will be no crying at work! If work is making you cry, and there's no way to make it better, you have to quit. You can go back to what you were doing before, until you find something else. You're not trapped. You're giving your notice. Today.
Me: (silence...silence) I can do that?
Him: Oh my god, you can totally do that.

The thing was, him saying that I should quit? It was a shock. Because even with the invisibility and the crying and the sound proof booth, I had somehow forgotten I could QUIT. I just up and FORGOT. I had gotten myself into a space where crying at work was just something I did. Just part of my day. Excuse me, everyone, it's 3:30, it's time for my crying break now. YIKES. I mean really, what kind of shit is that?

That day, I quit. And I went back to no health insurance land for a little bit. But I found something else to do, sooner than I thought possible. And I re-learned that Life Lesson: if you're hating something that bad, do all you can to change it.

So, I'm taking that god damn profile out of my sidebar. It doesn't make me cry at work or anything, but I do hate it. I'm making my own "about me" page. Check it out, it's right over there.

Take two things away from this post. One: if you've got an "about me" page in your blog, make it your own. Two: no crying at work.

I told you they were related.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Go Go Gadget Jetsetter

This morning, I drove Nordic Boy to the airport. We didn't exactly have a tearful goodbye, the likes of which one usually sees at airports. You know that whole opening montage in Love, Actually? Yeah, it was nothing like that. This isn't because I won't miss him while he goes on his trip. I just won't miss him any harder than I do on any other given work day. This is because he's flying off to another state, for the day. He'll be home in time for dinner. As a matter of fact, after jetsetting around for the day, he'll most likely make it back home before I'm even done in Libraryland. He is being flown to another state for a ten a.m. meeting. I just have to repeat that. He is being flown, to another state, for one 10 a.m. meeting. Who does that?

Ok, enough italics. It just blows my librarian mind that people do this sort of thing for a living. I mean, when I have to go fill in at another branch of my library system, that's as far as I travel for my job. But Nordic Boy, his mad skillz are mad skillzzy enough that he's wanted all up and down the west coast, and people will pay for him to come meet with them. That's pretty crazy, when I really start to think about it.

So today, basically what he's going to be doing, is visiting the site of a new high-rise that's under construction and inspect it. When he does this, I like to call him Inspector Director. Director, because his actual job title has the word Director in it. Inspector because of the whole, you know, inspecting thing. If I'm feeling especially energetic, I will even sing him the Inspector Gadget song, because well, that's just the kind of person that I am. So, as we were driving to the airport this morning, we had this conversation:

Me: Nah, nah-nah nah-nah, Inspector Director, nah nah-nah nah-nah doo doo!
Him: You know, when you think about it, my job is kind of weird.
(This is one of the many things I love about Nordic Boy. When I act like a complete nutter and sing non-sensical songs for no reason other than I am having pop culture Tourrett's, he will continue the conversation as if I am not abnormally abnormal. You gotta love a guy like that).
Me: What, you mean because you are getting on a plane in order to go to a meeting in another state that will last a couple of hours, and then you're going to turn right around and fly back?
Him: Well, sort of. But it's more than that. I mean, just think about what I am actually doing.
Me: Ok. And?
Him: I go all this way, go to a construction site, walk around and point out all the things that they've done wrong. And they just follow me around and take notes.
Me: Yeah, so?
Him: Don't you think that's weird? They're the ones building the frickin' high rise. Shouldn't they already know how to do it? Why do they need me to come in and point out mistakes? I mean, what if the library hired someone like that? What if someone came in and followed you around all day to point out when you forgot to answer a question? You wouldn't forget to answer a question. You're a professional. You know your job. You don't need someone walking around you all day telling you how you've fucked up.
Me: Actually, I do have someone who follows me around to tell me how much I'm fucking up. That's just called "mean library patron."
Him: But you don't hire someone from out of state for that, right?
Me: No. They come in for free.
(pause)
Me: You know, you're right though. You do have sort of a diva-ish job. Walking around telling people what to do. It's quite rude, actually.
Him: I know. It's like I'm paid to be an ass. But at least I'm nice. So if you have to have someone doing this to you, at least it's a nice ass.
Me: Ha ha! You said "nice ass!" Ha ha!
Him: You should be thankful that I don't bring my work home with me, or else I'd be pointing out the things that you do wrong. Like that joke? So wrong.
Me: A-HA. But you DID just point it out. You couldn't help yourself! Nah nah-nah nah-nah, Inspector Director, nah na-nah nah-nah, doo dooooo!

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Sleepy Time Gal

Most of the time, I'm not the jealous type. I don't really go around envying people about the bling in their step or the skip in their rings. I'm pretty happy with what I've got and that's the honest-to-britney truth. Off the top of my head, I can think of two things that make me feel the fang-pangs of the green-eyed monster. One of them is height. I feel like a shorty shortcake a lot of the time and I flippin' hate it. It is infantalizing to have to constantly ask your friends to get things off high shelves for you. And one of the reasons that I am Skirt McGurt is that when I try to buy pants, I always feel like a member of the Lollypop Guild because the legs are always, always too long. I think that in the grand scheme of things, I'm actually not very short. I'm of average height, is what I'm told. But I feel short. Perhaps I have some strange version of a Napoleon complex. Or maybe I just happen to hang out with garagantuan people.

The second thing I am jealous of is...ready for this? People who talk in their sleep. Of all things, right? I know.

It all started with an ex-boyfriend. One night, as he slept, he started to say this: "bubonic...bubonic..." This gave me no end of giggles. Why is it entertaining when someone talks in their sleep? Why, when someone starts to do it, do we gather around and prod them into saying more nonsense? You know you've done this. At some slumber party or in some relationship at some point in your life, you have tried to make someone talk in their sleep, and felt some sense of victory when they started spewing gibberish. That's what I did with my boyfriend. I said "bubonic" back to him. To which he replied "mmm...cactus...bubonic cactus." I teased him about this forever. I made up a song called "bubonic cactus" which I would sing to him whenever the need struck me. Months of entertainment came out of that.

Nordic Boy will sometimes tell me a little something when he sleeps. And one time he told me a real earful. It went like this: us, both asleep. Me, needing to make a midnight pee-pee run. I got up, not wanting to make any noise as to wake Nordic Boy up. I tip-toed across the room, careful to step around any creaky parts of the floor. Trouble was, there was a chair in the middle of the hallway. I crashed into it in the most grand, spectacular way you can imagine. Like, remember that Sesame Street skit where they would focus on a particular number, and then that guy who played Bentley from the Jefferson's would dress up like a chef and stand at the top of a flight of stairs and sing something like "SEVEN...SPECTACULAR...CUPCAAAAAKES," and then he would go crashing down the stairs, smooshing the cupcakes all over the place? It was a fall like that. (And man, was that a convoluted, weird-o pop culture reference? Mr. Bentley and the falling cupcake chef from Sesame Street! How many of you got that one?) Anyhoo. So I crashed into this chair, and fell flat on my back on the floor. In response to this, Nordic Boy sat straight up in bed and yelled "GODDAMN IT, LIBRARIAN GIRL!!!!!" I am not sure I can describe just how hilarious this is. First of all, I have known Nordic Boy for many, many years, ever since we were young hoodlums. And in all this time, he has never once yelled at me. Ever. And I mean EVER. You think I'm exaggerating, but I promise you, I shit you not. Nary a raised voice, not even an irritated sigh, has come my way. So to hear this booming, roaring, in-need-of-a-serious-chill-pill voice come out of my sweet Nordic Boy was friggin' comedy of the highest order. I literally sat there on the floor and cracked my ass up. He, however, proceeded to flop back down and reconvene with the sleeping. And, when I told him about it the next day, he swore up and down that he didn't do that, he couldn't have done that, and I was crazy if I thought I had really heard such a thing. He still disputes this story to this day and seems mortified that it just might be true. Lemme tell you, it totally happened. He was just completely asleep the entire time.

Why does this make me jealous? Why do I want to have someone tell me that I said something crazy in my sleep? I'm not sure. It's like, when people talk in their sleep, they seem so close to their unconscious. It's right there, out in the open, and for some reason I envy that.

Last night, I almost got my wish. See, I was having this dream, where a housecat who was the size of Hulk Hogan was trying to kick my ass. He was walking on his hind-legs, coming towards me, and I was determined not to turn and run. I bent both my knees and prepared to go Charles Bronson on his ass. And as I started to go for the roundhouse kick...

Nordic Boy: (shaking me) Hey! Hey!
Me: (waking up abruptly) What?
Him: You were yelling out in your sleep.
Me: I was?? Really? What was I saying?
Him: It was like a Bruce Lee sound. "Bwaaaah!" Like that.
Me: Really? Bwaaaah?
Him: Yeah. Are you ok?
Me: Yeah. This gangster cat was after me and I was about to chop him down.
Him: Oh.

So, what do you guys think? Does this count? Am I a sleep-talker? I think it counts, but can anyone use "bwaaaah" in a sentence? Go ahead, try it.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

You'll Want to Date Me After Reading This

I'm realizing that a couple of recent posts I've written have made me sound like I am all that and a bag of jujyfruits when it comes to romancing the dudes. You know, the motorcycle boyfriend and the m&m-thrower and all of that. I feel that I need to share with you some sort of story to even the score a little bit, so you all will know the truth of the matter, which is I am just as big of a dork as the next girly out there. In fact, in thinking about writing this post, I am all overwhelmed by the sheer volume of dorky dating stories that I could reveal to you. It's like a tome-size menu of delicious options and I hardly know where to start. I guess I'll just pick one. Here's one that I like to call I Am Buster Keaton, How Are You?

First of all, let me start off by saying this story involves a Hot Boy named, oh, let's say his name was Sam. Sam was Mega Hott. The reason I say this is because the freakishly stupid behavior that spews out of me in this story must be measured by this fact. The boy's hotness was like a Stupidity Magnifier. All of my behavior was like, larger than actual size.

Episode One
One of the first times Sam and I hung out alone together, we went on a long walk. I guess you could call it a hike, although I wouldn't have at that time because I was a quintessentially city-only girl and hiking was not a part of my vocabulary. In fact, the first time that I went on a hike that was called a hike, I distinctly remember having this thought: wait just a mothersucking minute. Hiking is just...walking. I'll be damned if hiking ain't just a fancy word for walking! Who knew?

But I digress. So Sam and me. Walking/hiking. Having a good time, and I'm very excited about this prospect. A little too excited, as it turned out. We ended our walk/hike after a few hours, starving and more than ready for lunch. We found a place to sit and spread out the two sandwiches that we'd brought. I take my sandwich out of my little baggie, and unwrap it...and proceed to drop it on the ground. Let me elaborate on this for one moment, please. Because I didn't just drop
it. In my hungry unwrapping of said sandwich, I somehow opened the wrapping so hard, that the sandwich flew out, in much the same way potato chips fly out when you accidentally open the potato chip bag too hard. So the sandwich flew, coming apart in the air, and landing spectacularly in the only puddle that was present for miles around. Bye bye sandwich.

Sam felt bad for me. "Here, we'll share my sandwich," he said, handing it over. "Thanks, Sam," I replied. As I reached for the
sandwich, I swear to you I had some sort of hand-conniption, because instead of taking the sandwich, I KNOCKED HIS SANDWICH out of his hand and onto the ground. At least it wasn't in the puddle, right? We could've eaten that sandwich off the dry grass, right? Wrong. Because my hand-conniption turned into a feet conniption. "Oh, oops, I'm so sorry!" I said, as the sandwich fell and we both scrambled to grab it before it hit the ground. And, in the scrambling, I somehow managed to step on the sandwich. Smooshed it right in the dirt. Did I mention we were starving? And in the middle of the woods?

Episode Two
This one also involves food. Maybe the moral of the story is I should not be allowed to eat in public? You be the judge. Sam and I were walking through the city one day, and we happened to walk by a Wendy's. "Oh, Frosty's!" I said. "Remember those from when you were little? Let's go in and have one!" So we did. We each had an order of fries and a chocolate Frosty. And when we were done, I took his tray and my tray. And as I walked by another table where people had just left their trays, I took those too. Why was I all of a sudden cleaning up after strangers? I'm telling you, the hottness was overpowering me and I was losing brain matter. I went over to the garbage receptacle, talking to Sam the entire time. And I was talking so hard and so fast that I wasn't paying attention to what I was doing. So, instead of throwing away the garbage and putting the trays on the stack on top of the garbage can, I just threw it all in the garbage. Like, the trash and the trays. All of it. In the garbage.

Sam: Um. You just threw our trays away.
Me: Ha ha, what? You're so funny! I did not.
Sam: You did. The trays are in the garbage.
Me: Oh. (starting to reach my hand into the disgusting fast food garbage)
Sam: We could probably just tell someone that we did that, so you wouldn't have to fish it out.
Me: Oh. Right.

See how nice Sam was being? Saying "we did that" instead of "you did that, and what the heck is with you all the time, you big spaz?"

Episode Three
One night, Sam was driving me home from work. We pull into the parking lot of my apartment building. I said goodbye, and opened the car door. But then. Oh man, even telling this is bringing back the sheer stupidity of it all. I opened the car door and started to get out. The heel of my shoe caught on the floor of the car as I was getting out, and I fell out of the car. Ass up, and face down. You think that's the worst part, don't you? You don't think there's any more to say, right? Let me cap this off by saying this. My pants split. Oh hallelujah, save me Lord, they did.

Hey listen. I'll guarantee you. Sam never forgot me.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Neighborly Birthday

Today is the birthday of my friend Neighbor B. Neighbor B, as you all know, may as well be a member of my blood relations, he means so much to me. And so the day he was birthed, that's a big day in my life. And you know that I have to give a shout out to my birthday peeps, so here I go.

First off, let me tell you this. Neighbor B is not big on celebrating his birthday. He's just an understated dude and doesn't go in for celebrating hisself. Now, you all know how I feel about birthdays, and for years now I have been chasing Neighbor B down and figuratively force-feeding him his birthday. That's right, I'm not above bullying people in an entirely unladylike manner, especially on this subject. But, now that I have this blog, I can express all those mushy feelings I have towards my loved ones right here and not badger them and smother them like Pepe Le Pew always did with those poor sexually harassed cats. Hmm. Wait a minute. I just associated Neighbor B's birthday with unwanted cat/skunk love. This was not my intent. I apologize. Let me start again.

One of the first times I hung out with Neighbor B, we played this game. It's called "Loaded Questions." You draw a question, everyone else writes down their answer, and then you have to guess whose answer is whose. It was during this very game that I started to love Neighbor B. I remember it down to the very question. It was: "what was the worst fashion trend you ever succumbed to in your life?" The other people playing the game had lengthy, mortifying answers, like "floral gunny sack dresses with a turtle neck underneath, with large gold chains on the outside of the turtleneck and metallic gold shoes" or "loud, baggy hammerpants with a pink and purple design, like something Hulk Hogan would wear." I mean, really excruciating, true-confession stuff. And then, there was Neighbor B's answer. "Tank tops." That's it. That is the worst thing he could come up with. He had once worn tank tops back in some early bare-armed heyday and that's as fashion-faux-pas-ed as he was going to get. You have to love a guy like that. You just do.

The other thing that has to be said about Neighbor B is that there is a part of me that wonders if he is part robot. Not a robot in a scary, post-apocalyptic way. An android style, benign, Data-like robot. Let me make the case. He is very involved with all-things technical. He's probably got some sort of program running right this very moment that washes and dries his clothes, feeds the birds in his yard, makes doughnuts for breakfast and wipes his nose. Whenever you go to his house, there is always some sort of project going on of the technical variety, and it almost always involves wires, cords and cables. He seems to tend to his cords like a mother bird tends to the twigs that make up her nest. He rearranges them, he moves them around, he fondles them. And when he's done, they do something fantastic and automated. It's awesome. So when I joke that Neighbor B.'s house is merely a facade for the operation he is running where he single-handedly rules the world, I am only 40% joking. I have never in my life seen anyone do so many different things just with the use of cords alone. I am very glad that he uses his android powers for good and not for evil, or else we'd all be in big trouble, you guys.

There was a time when Neighbor B was my actual, geographic neighbor (as opposed to the more existential neighborliness that we feel for each other now). We lived in a side-by-side duplex, and the wall that separated us was not the most soundproof wall in the world. Every day, at some point, Nordic Boy and I would pause for a second because we heard a sound. At first, we were all like "what is that?" After a while, we figured it out. It was Neighbor B, next door, working with his cords. As he worked with them, they were being jostled or slid across the wall, creating a soothing, ambient sound, not unlike the wind in the trees. From that day forward, it was a welcome sound. When it would start, we'd look at each other and say "...cords..." which was really shorthand for "ah, Neighbor B's home. And he's up to something with his techie projects. All is right in our world." It was like he was communicating some sort of greeting to us through the wall, even if he didn't know he was doing so. Rustle, rustle, hey guys. Rustle, rustle, how are you? We even took to nicknaming him "Russell Cords" in honor of his rustling sound. The rustling of the cords was one of the things I missed the most when Neighbor B moved away.

Happy birthday, Neighbor B. I love you to bits. (See how I worked in the techie-talk there? I said "bits." Did you catch that?)

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Ax me a question

Thanks guys! You totally came through with the questions, you bunch of Bernard Pivots. Actually, some of you are a little more James Lipton than Bernard Pivot, I noticed. You know who you are. So, here be my answers, homies.

french panic asked:
I do not know this Glamorous song you speak of. Does this make me a)uncool or b)ultra cool for ignoring Top 40 radio?

You dastardly french panic, you. I see your evil plan. I, being your blog-friend, already KNOW that you're cool. Which means I have to answer this question by sayingthat not knowing this song means you are choice b. Ultra cool. But see, then it would have to follow that people who DO know this song (ahem, like me) would have to be in the uncool category. So it's like a zen riddle. How can either of us be uncool if we're on opposite sides of this conundrum? I am forced to conclude that a degree in the Science of Fergie does not have any bearing whatsoever on coolness.

Also french panic:
In a recent post, you mentioned wearing acid-wash jeans and having a motorcycling boyfriend at the age of 17. Acid-wash was cool in my school when I was in grade 6 or 7. This would make you approximately 37 years old. Are you in your late 30s, or did acid wash have an extended hey day in the US that I am not aware of?

Frenchie, you are really grilling me with these questions. Are you really Christiane Amanpoor and you're just faking this whole Canadian thing? Because you just went and asked me my AGE. Yes, you did. But no, I am not in my late 30s. And honestly, I wasn't actually wearing acid-washed jeans in that story when I was 17. It was added for dramatic effect. I did wear acid-washed jeans in high school, but I think they were pretty much over by the time I was in 9th grade. So that would put me in the dirrty thirties, but early rather than late. Or even mid would be an acceptable answer. Just not late. Not yet.

Parttime Librarian asked:
Have you been a librarian long?

No, I'm a baby librarian, just out of the pupa stage. Although, because many of my colleagues are all I've-been-here-for-thirty-years, I think I will have a librarian-pup feeling for a while. Pass the puppy chow, 'cause I'm all cute and cuddly and stuff.

Sphinter asked:
Am I dreaming this up or are you in Seattle?

You are not dreaming. Although if you would like to conjure me away to a city, try for London, please.

Also Sphincter:
If you are in Seattle, is it true that one of the floors in the new SPL is illuminated by colored lighting (like red and/or blue?) If this is true, this seems odd. Is it as odd as it sounds?

I can't think of a floor that is illuminated, but there are many crazy things about that building that you may have heard about. Like the escalators and elevators are all illuminated in chartreuse. And there is a whole floor that is entirely (and I mean ENTIRELY) red. It's like being inside a big uterus. Not that I remember what it's like being inside a uterus, but it just seems very hello-I'm-in-an-organ. And I really like it. What does that say about me? Discuss.

Teej asked:
What's the coolest thing that a librarian can help the average citizen do--a service most people aren't aware of?

Oh Teej, where to begin? I truly think that libraries in general and my library system in particular rocks the hay-owse in so many different ways. But if you want to know something that maybe isn't very well known...how about the fact that our Central library has private music practice rooms? Notice I said music practice, not
make-out practice. Just to be clear.

Teej also asked:
Are "Bunnicula" and "The Celery Stalks at Midnight" and "Howliday Inn" still popular with the cool kids? Or maybe I never was one of the cool kids.... Oh.

Oh yes indeedy, they are very popular. How can a vampire bunny rabbit ever go out of style? It's like Chanel. Timeless. And I must tell you that whenever I get asked for Bunnicula, I tend to go home and annoy the bejeezus out of Nordic Boy by putting "icula" on the end of any word that I can. "How about a snackicula?" "That Clive Owen sure is hotticula." "I'm going to take a bathicula." You think I'm making that up, but I assure you, I've really said all of those things.

Katie K asked:
...it's not a question but I want to hear about you in library school!!!

Katie, I just have to tell you that your experience of library school (as I've seen from your blog and the blogs of your friends) is SO MUCH BETTER than mine was. You guys seem to have cornered the market on mighty nice people. People who like to hang out and have a sense of humor and don't flip the fuck out if they get a half-grade lower than their peers. My library school people were way intense, like we were learning how to be friggin' CIA agents or something.

Spacecase asked:
What's the largest overdue fine you've ever seen?

Aw Spacecase, I wish I could come up with some crazy ass answer like someone had $10,000 in overdue fines for checking out too many Zamfir cds. Alas, I don't. I don't do any circ at my job (oh look at me dropping the terminoogy..."circ," my non-librarian friends, is short for circulation, which is the department of the library where they actually check books in and out and collect fines and such like), so I don't really see fines too much. I'd say the highest I've seen is maybe 200 bucks, something like that.

devo2007 asked:
What is the gross national product of Zimbabwe?

Hey, what do you think this is, some kind of reference desk or something? I'm off the clock, mister.

pencilwriter asked:
Do you color your hair?

My hair is 100% virgin (please no wisecracks about the rest of me, people). As of now, I have never had any chemicals, perms, treatment, or color. I did contemplate dying my hair midnight blue when I was in 10th grade. It was a grand idea that lasted maybe 5 minutes.

llojackie asked:
How old were you when you had your first kiss?

Honestly, llojackie, I can't really remember who was first (whoa that sounded sluttalicious, didn't it?), I think there was lots of kissing in the spin-the-bottle era of 7th and 8th grade. I don't really count those as my first kisses because they were so...ehh. The one I really count was from my boyfriend in 11th grade. It was the first one that made my knees weak, literally. It was like, all of a sudden, my entire body woke the hell up. Hello, sexual awakening, nice to meet you.

nikki_rgbld asked:

What is your favorite book?

How you gonna ask me that? That is too hard. I am horrible at favorites. Favorite book, movie, song, band. I can't decide shit like that. How about that one book that I wrote that blog post about? The one where Celine Dion is posing with all these random babies? Let's say that is my favorite book. It's so wrong that maybe it's right. There's a thin line between love and hate, you know.

heather1432 asked:
Why do you blog?

Shit, I don't know. It seems like the right thing to do.

laurielaugh asked:
Tell us a strange fact about you that we haven't heard.

I don't know if you haven't heard this, but I dream pop culture and/or historic figures. In recent nights, I have dreamed that I was having a beer with Eddie Izzard, and that I was swimming in the ocean with a young Anne Bancroft, and that I kissed Proust at a bachelor party (and I don't even know what Proust looks like).

crzzzydaisy asked:
What is on your bedside table?

A reading lamp, a book (Brokeback Mountain), a little Italian ceramic bowl for my miscelleneous jewelry, and a framed quote of a line from a Neruda poem that says "by night, love, tie your heart to mine, and the two together will defeat the darkness."

josh asked:
If you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be?

Wow, Josh, you got all literal when I asked you to channel your inner Barbara Walters. Next thing you know you'll want to star on a show where you sit on a panel with four other really annoying women. And you'll be wearing something with metallic gold buttons on it. I'm avoiding that tree question, in case you're wondering. I can't pick one. Kind of like that favorite book question up there. Is there a
Celine Dion tree? If there is, that's what I'll pick.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Ask It

As you read this post, please turn on the song "Glamorous" by Fergie, and listen to it in the background as you read. If you don't have it, just hum it to yourself. If you can't hum and read at the same time, just think about it as you read. Because you guys? My life in Libraryland lately? It's The Flossy, Flossy. Let me prove it to you.

First of all, what does it say about me that I find the word "librarian" hard to type? I always mess it up and type librrian or librarin or liabriar. It's like I'm typing along, perfectly normal, and then I get to the word that describes my very own profession and my hands have a spasm of...excitement? dread? electricity? I don't know what it is. (Are you humming "Glamorous" yet? If you weren't before, you should be by now).

Oh and also. Today at work, I helped six different kids find Garfield books. Like, you know, the comic strip. Did you guys know that Garfield is still the shit with the kiddies these days? I didn't. I thought Garfield had peaked in the early 80s. My friend in 5th grade, Kari, rode high on popularity that year based purely on her ability to draw a perfect Garfield on command. And here it is, years later, and the kids mob the comic section when the Garfields are shelved. (...Glamorous...)

You know what else? I often eat lunch at my desk. So do my colleagues. This causes us to constantly be telling each other "I'm going on a break." And for the life of me, I cannot utter the words "on a break" without wanting to yell it like Ross and Rachel.

Oh and furthermore on this string of nonsensical gibberish that you've gotten sucked into reading, was I the only one who was creeped out by that strange choir on the Oscars that sang in sound effects? I still can't quite figure out why, but that seriously scared me.

Still singing that Fergie song? I thought so.

My week is scattered right now, people. I don't know if I can muster up a good post this week (see Exhibit A, above). Why don't you all de-lurk and email me some questions? I know you're out there. I see your hits on my site meter every week. Go ahead, muster up your inner Barbara Walters and ask me a little something something. Because I really have nothing to say, for once in my life. So, it's all on you. What do you want to know about Librarian Girl? Put it in the comments or email me at librarian.wonder@gmail.com

See how I turn this around and make it about you having to write something?

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Damn Fine Things

This is a belated Valentine's list of things I've been loving lately. Sort of along the lines of Oprah's Good Things. No, wait, Oprah doesn't have Good Things, that's Martha. Oprah is Favorite Things. I think. I can't really keep that straight. Whatever. Let's just say that this is a list of Librarian Girl's Good Nice Lovely Damn Fine Things. And what an eloquent preface to it, if I do say so myself.

1. I saw this episode of Star Trek, The Next Generation the other day, and I noticed that Captain Picard sometimes greets people like this: "REPORT!" No hello. No hey, tell me what's new. No what's up. Just barking out..."REPORT!" I adore this. Next time you want to greet someone, yell "REPORT!" in their face. Preferably with an English accent. It's sexy when he does it.

2. I love the sentence "I shit you not." In response to "really?" or "no way!" or "for reals?" There's something vaguely Shakespearean about that word order, which, when combined with the cussing, adds up to beauty. Heart it.

3. Nordic Boy has the most creative nicknames for me that I never tire of hearing. "Pass the salt, Sweetneck." "Come over here, Sexylocks." "How are you, Smooch-knuckle?" They just roll out, a never-ending stream. Better than a sonnet, I tell you. So, be creative with your nick-namery, my Pretty Lobes out there.

4. When Biology Girl and I call each other on the phone, we can immediately start talking, almost in the middle of a thought, and the other person will totally understand what is being said. For example, the other day, I picked up my phone and she yelled "whoo-hoo!" instead of saying hello. Because I had done something that day that was woo-hoo-worthy. And she knew that, and was calling to express the Love. It's no "REPORT!" but it was still nice.

5. And, speaking of talking on the phone, I, amongst my closest loved ones, have this tendency to answer the phone like an old man. "Yyyyelloh!" is what I belt out. I find this funny. Every time I do it, I find it funny. So it's probably more like this: "Yyyyelloh!...hee hee hee." I imagine myself wearing a big medallion and tinted eye-glasses, like Elliot Gould in Ocean's Eleven. I don't expect you to understand this. It's my own brand of hilarity. Maybe the French would think it's funny. Me and Jerry Lewis. Huge in France. Yyyelloh!...hee hee hee.

6. How ballsy is it for Vera Wang to try and tell us that we need to buy a mattress with her name on it? Way ballsy. Wait, this is a list of things I love. Not things that are stupid. Although, granted, often those are the same things, so it can be hard to keep track.

7. There's a re-mix out right now of that Justin Timberlake song "My Love," where, instead of saying "Because...I can see us holding hands..." etc, he says "be-be-be, be-be-be-be-becaaaaaaause." Have you guys heard this? Now, every time Nordic Boy asks me why something is, I just say "be-be-be, be-be-be-be-becaaaaaause." It's such a joy living with me and not annoying in the slightest, can you tell?

8. Because of the gorgeous Tivo device that lives with me in my home, I don't really see commercials very much any more. However, in the past couple of weeks, I have seen two that are worth noting. First, there was a promotion on some channel where they were going to play all of these Patrcik Swayze movies back to back all weekend. Why one would want to do that is another topic for another day. However, the commercial for this event featured an announcer voice of the monster truck variety screaming "SWAYZE GONE CRAZY!" a bunch of times. Can I just say that that needs to be celebrated, perhaps with its own holiday? How have I lived my whole life without the phrase "Swayze Gone Crazy"? How?

9. Ridiculous commercial #2. There was a promotion on Spike TV (that bastion of high art that is basically the Ultimate Fighting Channel) for re-runs of CSI called "DEATH BY SEX WEEKEND." I really have no commentary to add to this.

10. Neighbor B's dad doesn't say "jist." As in "you get the jist of what I'm saying." He says "jizz." Honestly, he really does. I don't know what kind of regionalism that is, but he honest to god, with no trace of humor, says "you get the jizz of what I'm saying." I shit you not.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Try This Flirting Technique

In 7th grade choir, we sometimes had a sub, Mr. Beemer. Mr. Beemer was well-known for sitting in his office all hour, while the class went berserk in a Jack-the-pig-hunter sort of way. People would run around, playing tag on the risers or wrestling amongst the folding chairs, pummelling each other in that fun-but-actually-very-mean way that middle schoolers can have. Or, if you were like me, you would sit there and talk with friends, write notes, or flirt across the room. I give you the following example..

So, there I sat that day, talking to my friends. As we talked, we all periodically looked over at 7th-grade cutie Seth and giggled audibly, just, you know, to make a point.

As I was talking, all of a sudden...ping! Something hit me on the shoulder. I looked back. I couldn't figure out what it was, but oh my god, Seth was LOOKING in our general direction. This was big news, because cool boys were always stand-offish. They didn't LOOK at anyone. They glanced, maybe. They looked bored and let their eyes pass over you, through you. They didn't LOOK. But there he was. Looking. I turned back around, and I'm sure I did something extremely subtle like squeal "ohmygod!" and clap my hands together. I'm not proud of this, people. I'm just being real here. This is who I was in 7th grade.

Ping! Something else hit me. What the hell? I turned around, looked on the floor, and what did my little eyes spy? M&Ms. Someone was throwing M&Ms at me. I looked up, and there was Seth, looking back. Could it be? I turned back around and alerted my friends. They kept an eye out, so the next time one of them hit me, they saw it. It was Seth. Be still my beating heart.

As the pelting continued, the pile of M&Ms around my chair started to collect. And this is what became apparent. They were ALL GREEN. Seth was picking through his little bag of M&Ms, and getting the green ones out to throw at me. Because, you know. Green M&Ms. Wink wink.

I ask you to please tell me what 7th grade brain could come up with a gesture more funny than that? Seriously, if Margaret Mead was studying the sexuality of American kids being struck dumb by their own puberty, she would find no better archetype of behavior than this. Am I right or am I right?

And, to show you that I was not above this M&M affection/aggression construct, I will reveal that I did not just keep giggling and being pelted. I started picking up those M&Ms and throwing them back. And, in this way, Seth and I got to interact. We didn't actually talk, of course. Because that would have been too much. But we had a green M&M fight, and felt our hormones surging through our charged up adolescent bodies. How sweet it was.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Dead Wrong

When I was a senior in high school, I felt like I ruled the world. Totally indestructable was I, full of hope and optimism and strutting around my town like I owned everything in it. Everything I did was fun and exciting and felt new, and I was brimming over with life. It was in this state of mind that I applied to a job at the hospital where I was born. I needed extra running-around money, and what better way to line the pockets of my acid-washed jeans than to do a little office work for the local hospital? File some papers, answer some phones, chat with the other workers in the office. Like the rest of my life at that point, it was perfect. I set it up, and showed up to the Records Office on my first day.

"Hi, welcome! Let me show you to your desk."

This was a thrilling sentence to me, as any job that I had ever had until this point had never involved anything called "your desk." I got a desk! Mine! I immediately began fantasizing about myself at my own desk, in a cute 40s-esque pencil skirt with Lauren Bacall hair and back-seamed nylons. I decided I would put a fresh flower on my desk each day that I worked, and I hoped that I would be lucky enough to have a sassy desk neighbor who would crack jokes with me and give me advice about boys.

"Follow me please."

I don't remember who this disembodied voice that I keep quoting belonged to. I remember she was female, and my supervisor, and that she seemed nice enough. I wish I could remember more about her so that I could piece together the kind of person that would put young, fresh-faced me in the position that she did. Because, you guys? It was messed up.

We got in an elevator and she pushed the button for the lowest level ever created. It was like, a sub-sub-basement. I figured my fantasy desk would most likely not have a window nearby, but I kept the faith. I was still hopeful.

The doors opened, and I swear to you, I was in hell, people. We entered a gigantic room, with no overhead lights. There were cubicle walls as far as the eye could see. The only lights in the entire room were from little desk lamps that were placed on each desk in each cubicle. As the disembodied supervisor led me through the maze of cubes, I peered into each. There sat sallow-faced workers, typing on computers, the green glow of the screens (this was back in the day when computers were all black screens with green letters like in the Matrix) illuminating their blank faces. There was no talking. There was no sunlight. There were no fresh flowers and Lauren Bacall hairdos.

"This is your desk. Have a seat."

I sat in my little cubicle, in front of my little computer screen, and looked at the tall stack of folders next to my keyboard that reached well above my head.

"Each of these is a patient folder of a deceased patient. You'll just take each folder, look up that patient's name in the computer files, and find the field that says 'status.' And all you do is change whatever is in that status field to a 'd.' D for deceased."

Oh yes. You heard that right. Old Disembodied was telling me that my job was to sit there and look up all these dead people and then change their active records to inactive by typing in a little d. For deceased. D for Deceased! Did Cookie Monster ever sing a song like that? "D is for Deceased, and that's good enough for me"? I don't think so. Because it's not good enough for me. In fact, I can counter that statement with a whole lot of other D statements. Like D is for Damn, that's fucked. Or D is for Dude, are you shitting me?

Anyhow, with those instructions, Disembodied walked off and left me there. And I, although a product of parents who taught me never to take any shit from anyone at any time, put my head down and got to work. I don't know why I didn't object to the fact that this was not what I agreed to do when I applied and accepted this job. I was a very strong-willed 17-year-old who had lived on her own and fended for herself many a time, but something about the environment was overwhelming. I just forged ahead and started in on those folders. Not too far into this project, as I looked at the names of these faceless people and officially switched their status from alive and kicking to dead as a...dead guy, a thought occurred to me. A thought that was even more horrifying than the task at hand. What if I came across a name of someone I knew? My city was not tiny, but it was interconnected enough that I could imagine such a thing happening. This thought put me over the creep-out line. I called my boyfriend on the phone that was thankfully on my desk.

Me: (whispering) Hey. It's me. You've got to come pick me up.
Him: Why? What's wrong? I just dropped you off an hour ago.
Me: I can't do this! I have to look at dead people's files!
Him: What?
Me: I can't talk about it right now. Can you just come and get me?

And he did. I just walked right out of there. I wish I could say that I never went back, but I did. Every day for about two weeks. I never could finish a shift there though. I always, always bailed early. And I never took myself home, or called my parents. I would call my boyfriend, who would ride up on his motorcycle, and I would get on the back and we would ride the fuck out, usually way too fast. Looking back, I think I needed this dramatic exit each day. Something to remind me that I was young, cocky, and indestructable. Something like grabbing onto my boyfriend with my arms and knees from the back of a speeding motorcycle. Something to remind me that I was seventeen and life was delicious. That was the statement I needed. D is for delicious.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

But am I dumb or DUMB?

One day, Nordic Boy and I were talking about a mutual friend.

Me: That last guy she dated, he was a man, but not really a MAN.

Him: What? What does that mean?

Because the word "man" up there? In the first part of the sentence, I said it normally. The second time I said it, my voice went all weird. It was somewhere between Barry White and Eartha Kitt, the way I said it. I growled it out, like the big world-class lunatic that I am.

Me: You know, think about it. He was a man. A very cute man. But he just wasn't...a MAN.

There it was again. I didn't even know what I was saying, and why the hell I kept channeling Catwoman. This time I even clenched both of my fists as I said it. I maybe even drooled a little.

Him: What are you even saying? What's the difference between a "man" and a "MAN"?

Me: Oh come on. You know. A MAN.

Him: Just repeating it doesn't really tell me anything. And what's with that voice?

Me: It's just. Hard to explain. But there is a big difference between a man and a MAN.

Him: Oh my god, you have to stop saying MAAAAN like that. You need to explain that immediately because you are being scary.

Me: Like you. You're a MAN.

Him: But not a man?

Me: Exactly. You're just so...so... you're a MAAAAN.

Him: Holy shit. That is freaky.

Me: Do you really not understand me?

Him: I guess I kind of get it. You think I'm attractive, so that makes me a (sigh)....MAAAAN.

Me: NO. That's not it at all!

Him: Gee, thanks a lot.

Me: No, darlingest, I didn't mean it that way. Just because someone's a man and not a MAN doesn't correlate to hotness. It's just a different kind of hotness.

Him: You are totally not making any sense at all.

Me: Ok, like...Russell Crowe is a MAN. George Clooney is a MAN. You know...

And people, this is where I started to do this ridiculous interpretive dance. Like a strange cavewoman grabbing onto a brontosaurus shank and doing a yummy-yummy two-step.

Him: Whoa. What is happening to you?

Me: I'm trying to describe the difference between a man...and a MAN.

Him: By doing the mambo?

Me: Ok look. A man can be totally hot. Like Jude Law. Or Anderson Cooper. Or Orlando Bloom. But a MAN...that's just another thing altogether. It's someone you can CLIMB. Someone that will just clear off a table and have you right there. Like Clive Owen.

Him: So, Jude Law can't have you on a table? Yeah, right.

Me: You're being way too literal. It's a quality. It's indescribable. It's...

Him: ...a MAAAAN?

Me: Are you seriously telling me you don't understand what I'm talking about?

Him: Seriously.

Me: Now, let me just put it to you this way. It's the same for women. There are women, and there are WOMEN, I'm sure. Equally hot. Just different.

Him: Like?

Me: Nicole Kidman and Salma Hayek. Both hot, but Salma? A WOMA--...

Him: (interrupting me) Totally. Get. It.

Me: Thank you.

See how I educate?

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Mind the Gap

I have to preface this story by saying that it's NOT about being all anti-corporate and hipster-cool and I-only-shop-at-thrift-stores-and-listen-to-indie-bands-and-forage-food-by-eating-boll-weevils-from-the-dirt. Sure, I have my moments when I am sure as hell skeered by Walmart and the fact that Proctor and Gamble owns everything, and that they both probably own me and this blog and the wax in your ears. But that's not what I am talking about right now. Ok? Or if I maybe AM talking about it a little, it's not in that totally annoying holier-than-thou Judgy Judgerson with a side of generalizations way. Because I know it's more complicated than that. So just remember, I'm not being annoying in that way with this story. Annoying in OTHER ways, I'll grant you, but not that one. Ok, preface over.

I was reading this entry by Josh about Gap clothes. How they allow you to fit in, be from everywhere, or nowhere. They are the ultimate place to shop if you want to blend in. As I am a fashion devotee, it was an interesting thing to think about. And because I am a compulsive collector of slightly amusing anecdotes, it made me think of this one that centers around my local Gap.

For a long time, I didn't shop at the Gap. I can't remember if this was a conscious decision or not. More than anything, I think it was just not a "me" store back in the day. So much of where we shop boils down to the marketing of the place, and the clientele, and whether we think our identities mesh with those two things. I could find a pair of nice black pants at Anne Taylor, or Eddie Bauer, or Club Monaco, or J. Jill, or J Crew, but I'm less likely to step foot in all but one of those choices, just based on what it looks like from the outside and whether the people shopping there look like my people. Think about your favorite store, and that logic is probably going to factor in somewhere. When I think about my friends, and what their favorite clothing stores are, it always, always fits them so well that it's almost poetic. Well, poetic if you think about clothes the way I do, which admittedly, is pathological.

Ok, so back to the Gap. I didn't shop there for a long time. Just didn't. Analyze it however you wish. Until last year, when I went in there to buy some t-shirts for Nordic Boy. I went up to the counter with my items, and the woman working there gave me the "save 10% if you sign up for a credit card" spiel.

Me: No thanks.
Her: It's really a great deal. With the credit card, you also get lots of other perks and discounts throughout the year.
Me: No thanks.

And then the urge to over-explain my "no thanks" overcame me. She looked very disappointed. I remember working retail for commission and all that shit. I felt for her and wanted her to get why I was rejecting her.

Me: It's just, I never shop here, so I don't really need a card.

The girl stopped folding the t-shirts and stared at me like I'd blown snot on her cupcake.

I got the urge to over-explain AGAIN. I don't know what came over me. I do not usually jibber-jabber like this to total strangers, ya'll. (Wait, I guess that's pretty much ALL I do on this blog, isn't it. Jibber-jabber to strangers. You got me there).

Me: Yeah, I mean, heh heh, I actually have never shopped at the Gap before in my life.

I may as well have punched this girl in the sternum, friends. Verbally, I kind of did.

Her: You've NEVER SHOPPED HERE?
Me: Well, no, I mean, not that I wouldn't, or don't shop here on purpose, or I mean--
Her: Hey you guys! This girl has never been in a Gap before!

And she called her co-workers over. Yes she did. They all gathered around her and stared at me.

Me: No, I didn't say that. I've been in a Gap before, I just hadn't bought anything here until today--

Her: So, like, where do you live?

Like I had to be from Siberia, or the top of Mt. Everest, or Mars to have made such a statement.

Me: I live down the street.

Her: And you've lived there for like, a while? You're not from...somewhere else?

Me: No. I'm from here. Can I have my t-shirts please?

She and her Gap-mates stared at me some more, but they gave me my shirts and I scurried out the door. I immediately went home and had a snack of boll weevils. They sell those at Starbucks now, you know.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Whine and Cigarettes

The other night I went to a swanky party at a high-end restaurant in my city. It was the kind of place where they serve food like you see on Top Chef, with amuse buches and amuse-geules and unamused bony maitre d's who smile pained smiles as they lord over the power of getting you a good table. I arrived in what passed for day-to-evening-wear (which, really, is kind of impossible. My fabulous hipster-librarian clothes and my fabulous party-girl clothes are really not the same thing, regardless of what Rachel Roy is trying to sell us all) and ready to rock. Except, honeys, I was tired. I had worked a full day at the library, and although many of you non-librarians think we are sitting in overstuffed wing-backed chairs and reading novels all day long with cats in our laps, I assure you that library work can kick the crap out of you by the end of the live-long day. Or even in the early part of the live-long day in some cases.

But there I was, ready to go, rocking a black on black ensemble that hopefully was more NYC than Johnny Cash (you know I love the Man in Black but I really don't want to look like him) and said my hellos to the few people I knew and started in on the many that I didn't. First off was cocktail hour. This was definitely a wine and cheese sort of crowd, and there were many reds and whites to choose from, and not much else in the drinky-drink department. I suppose I could have ordered something else, because the last time I had red wine I had formulated quite an opinion on it, but I figured I would just go with what was right there.

I picked up a glass of red off a tray that floated by me, that was attached to a white coated waiter. And I know this will subtract off some of my urban sophisticate points, but you guys. Red wine? It tastes like ass. I'm sorry, but I'm just being real. If Jenny from the Block can be real, then I can too, right? And red wine may as well be toilet water as far as I'm concerned. Please. Just admit this to me. Just between us. The Emperor has no clothes, and red wine is just a way for people to feel like they are the Earl of Fancyland. This opinion of mine may put me on the hit list of Wine International, most of Europe, and Niles Crane wannabes everywhere, but that's my opinion and I'm sticking to it. Red wine tastes like rotten grapes. Go figure.

So I proceeded to walk around with my glass of red and not take a second sip. I didn't even bother to get another drink. I was THAT tired. And after a lovely meal that was more Elia than Marcel (in that there was no foam involved) I excused myself to my friends because I needed to get the hell home and sleep my knickers off. I was the first to leave the party at the witching hour of 9pm. NINE P.M. What is happening to me? This is a crying shame, is all I can tell you.

As I made my way to the door, one of the waiters came up to me. "Do you need help out?" he asked. Help? To leave a party? No thank you. I think I can figure out how to ride in an elevator and then find the front door. "Please, allow me." He punches the "down" button on the elevator. Ok, great. Thanks for sparing my finger the effort of button-pushing. I am tired enough to actually appreciate this courtesy. When the door opens, I get in, and...he gets in too. He then pushes the L-for-lobby button. "No, really, you don't need to walk me out," I insist. "It's my pleasure, miss...how was your dinner this evening?" As we chat pleasantly in the elevator, here is my inner monologue. "This place really is swanky. They actually escort you right out the door? Unless this guy's just doing this to hit on me. But he called me 'miss.' Such a formal word. If he was trying to be social, then wouldn't he loosen up a little?"

As we walked out of the elevator and out the front door, he did loosen up. He got his loose on, in fact. As we stood there on the sidewalk, he said, "so...do you want to hang out for a bit and share a cigarette? I have one left." Share. A. Cigarette. Is this what the young people are doing these days? No more "can I have your number?" or "can I see you again?" Just an offer to suck a communal cancer stick on the sidewalk? Classy.

"No thanks." I'm way too tired for this. I think I need a drink. Where's that wine again?

Kiss the rings I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Irene Cara Was Sort of Goth

When I was a kid, I had a small record collection. I also had a kiddie record player that would close up like a little red and white suitcase, with a white plastic handle on it. The first record I remember owning was a re-telling of the Wizard of Oz. It came with a book that you could read along in sync with the story. The songs weren't nearly as good as in the movie, but I went along with it anyway. All of the voices on it sounded tinny and creepy, and I wouldn't listen to it unless it was light outside. The second record I remember owning was the soundtrack to the Sound of Music. That record was the shit because I could run around and act out all the scenes. In my version, Rolf wasn't a Nazi and Liesel didn't say "whhheeeee" after he kisses her in the gazebo because I liked to think that playing it cool was the way to be sixteen going on seventeen. I memorized every song on that record, except for Climb Ev'ry Mountain, which is the biggest grandmaw song I have ever heard in my life to this day.

My sister collected records and so I got to listen to everything there was to listen to back in the day, from Billie Holliday to Mozart to the Beatles. But those records weren't MINE, so whenever I actually got to have a record for my very own, it was momentous. One day, my sister came home with a 45 that someone had given her that she didn't want. I distinctly remember her scoffing at it and berating the poor soul who had deigned to give it to her. "Can I have it?" I drooled. And thusly I came to own my first rock record. And, whenever I got the chance, I put that sucker on my little red record player and rocked out with my baby bootay. "If you want my body, and you think I'm say-exy, come on sugar let me knooow..." Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Rod Stewart was my very first rock record. Thanks, Big Sis. You couldn't have given me Hendrix or Joplin? I would've even taken Sonny and Cher or something. But Rod Stewart? This probably explains a lot about my deep love of cheezy goodness that's lasted me throughout the ages.

As the times changed, records stayed in vogue, but tapes were now added into the scene. I spent many a night listening to Casey Kasem or Rick Dees or Shadoe Stevens or John Garabedian with a tiny tape recorder. I would hold it up to the radio and press record to get the songs I most wanted, and those mixed tapes were like GOLD to me then. I also bought tapes at the record store, and the first one that I bought for myself was the soundtrack to "Fame," which was one of my favorite tv shows at the time. I played the shit out of that tape, and sang my little heart out to "I Sing the Body Electric" although I had no idea what the hell I was saying. I even took that tape with me on a trip back to the South Pacific, and it was there, at
my cousin's house, that I played it until it literally wore out. I remember my brother saying "well, I guess it didn't live
forever after all, ha ha" and me being so so MAD at him for making fun of my tape that was gone, never to be played again. And even though that happened years ago, I swear to you I could sing you every song on that soundtrack, backwards and forwards. Those songs were so on my level, as an elementary school kid, it was truly heartbreaking to lose that tape. It had a song on there entirely about hot lunch in the cafeteria, people. Listen to this poetry that Irene Cara was belting out: "Macaroni and baloney, tuna fish, our favorite dish. Hot lunch, hey. If it's yellow, then it's jello. If it's blue, it could be stew, ooh, ooh." Oh man. How can you argue with something as simple as "hot lunch, hey"? You can't. And that's why, when that tape wore out, I cried. Really, I did.

So imagine my surprise today at the American Libraries Association conference, when I saw a demonstration of an online karaoke site. The demo was using the theme song from Fame! Be still my beating heart. I watched the words go up on the screen as some brave volunteers sang along to these words from my childhood.

"Fame, I'm gonna live forever. I'm gonna learn how to fly. I feel it coming together. People will see me and die."

Wait, what the-. People will see me and what? They'll DIE? How come I don't remember it saying that? I remember it saying "people will see me and cry." Still a little creepy and definitely very egotistical, but I can live with that lyric. But DIE? Really? This song has death in it? Did you all know this?

See what I learn at these conferences? Life changing.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl