You Guys So Get Me

Really, ya'll. What would I do without you? When I am in a mood to spout off some Grade A 100% Organic cranium crap, who would care if not for you? There are things in life that I find so frigging entertaining, so mouthwateringly giggleworthy, that I must spread the joy. And to be honest, most people don't care about my particular brand of joy. But you all do, and I appreciate that. I see things in life and I think: I have to tell my blog friends about this one. And I know you'll get it. For example.

At work today, someone asked me a question about the movie "Evening." I asked them who was in that movie. They said "Vanessa Redgrave and Meryl Streep," and I said "Oh yeah, isn't Claire Danes in that too?" and she said "see, I named off the older people in that and you named off the younger person, which kind of mirrors us!" I took all kinds of glee from this comment, and set aside the fact that the person who said this to me looks to be about the same age as me. Who cares? I will take it, so there. Don't judge. Let me have my glee.

And speaking of glee, I've got another one for you. My tivo box, as you other tivo-ers know, will record things for me that it thinks I might like. Because I don't really ever rate the shows I do watch, my tivo box suggestions are really hit or miss. Like, it keeps recording The Roy Rogers Show for me. Stupid tivo box. On the other hand, it will sometimes get me great choices of things I hadn't ever seen before, which is how I found the new love of my life, So You Think You Can Dance. Love you again, tivo box!

The other day, I was scrolling through my tivo suggestions, and saw that it had recorded Oprah for me. And under the title "The Oprah Winfrey Show," it had a summary of what was on tap for the patron saint of Nate Berkus (you guys, I love Nate Berkus. Don't hate). But this summary had nothing to do with Nate, or anything else that I was expecting. What did the summary say? It said the following: "Oprah discusses her bad hair day."

YES. IT. DID.

Oh I wish I had taken a photo of the screen for you, so that you could see that I am not making that up. But I didn't so you just have to trust me. She discusses her bad hair day!? As a SHOW?

Of course I had to see this. And you know what? She sure did discuss her bad hair day. Granted, it was only for about ten minutes, and then she went on to talk to regal Iman and giggly Naomi Campbell for the rest of the show. But she led off the show with a TEN MINUTE discussion of her bad hair day!

What could be dumber than that, you guys? The only think I can think of is if someone were to spend an equal amount of time writing a blog post about the whole damn thing. That would probably be the same type of person who would write about their trips to the hair salon, and shopping, and their obsession with having a nice yard. Now THAT person would be banal.

Oh. Oops. Um, yeah.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

What Exactly Is It That You Do-Do?*

Nordic Boy is the poster child for the term "consummate professional." Really, as I go through all of the people that I know, many of whom are tops in their field and superstars in their own right, he rises to the very top of the list, by far, when it comes to those who know their shit when it comes to what they do. He's called upon by people all over the country for help, and he collects industry awards by the armload every year, which he brings home, never shows anyone, and then I run across a fancy award graveyard in the back of our garage, ask him about it, and he looks at me and just shrugs. That's because, although he's kind of a genius at what he does, he's also at the top of another category of folks: those who keep it humble, like Jenny from the Block, or Fergie, who still eats at Taco Bell. Ok, maybe not exactly like Jenny and Fergie. Like them, but not full of shit. Slight difference.

On a conscious level, I am proud that he is like this. It's one of the things I love most about him. He's wicked smart but never shows it off, and I find that kind of incredible when people are like that. Really, most people who are good at stuff totally wear it on their sleeve, and there's nothing wrong with that, for sure. If I were a genius at something, I fear I would be silkscreening t-shirts for myself proclaiming my talent ("World's Greatest Pickle Briner!") and prancing about town making people want to kick me in the nuts. But not him. He just doesn't do it.

Ok, true confession time? This quality, sometimes, drives me INSANE. Really, it does. When people ask him what he does, he never really tells them. He glosses over. He understates. He almost goes out of his way to not tell people. Even our closest friends don't really know what he does. The other day, we went out to dinner with some new friends, H and R. Imagine my surprise when H asked him what he does, and he TOLD THEM. I had to stop myself from making a Scooby sound. arrrrhh? He just up and told them all about it. Ok, maybe it was less "all about it" and more two or three sentences, but WOW. Where did that come from? It was really shocking.

Ok, so my point is that he's good at what he does. More than good, actually. Tops. Why, then, do I start to shake in my boots every time he does a little home improvement project? Because I do. I try not to, but I can't seem to help myself. I am convinced that, when he changes a light switch cover, his hand may slip and he might somehow have a freak accident whereby a bolt of lightning hits our house, charging the wiring that is near his hand, sparking out at the precise moment flowing right into his brain and it will fry right up and cause him to DIE. Really. These are the thoughts that take over. And normally, I am not a morbid person, or a worried person, walking around thinking about people dropping dead. What is wrong with me?

Yesterday, while I was at work, he was moving the water heater from our laundry room downstairs to the utility room, and then re-routing some pipes. I could not begin to tell you what all this entails because I do not understand such things, but I'm sure this doesn't seem like rocket science to anyone out there. On a scale of difficulty for him, I don't think it even registered on the scale. And yet:

Me: I'm leaving for work now. BE CAREFUL today.
Him: I will.
Me: Keep your phone in your pocket. I'm going to call you on my break to make sure you're ok.
Him: Ok from what?
Me: I just want to make sure you don't electrocute or anything.
Him: From re-wiring a water heater? I don't think that will happen.
Me: It's WATER. And ELECTRICITY. Together. That freaks me out!
Him: Ok, call.

A couple of hours into my work shift, I see that he's left me a message.

Him: It's me. I'm done with the water heater. I'm alive. I'm going to eat lunch.

On my lunch break, I call him back.

Me: What are you doing?
Him: Putting in the new duct work for the dryer.
Me: Be careful!
Him: Oh my god.

An hour later, I find this message on my voicemail:
Him: I did the duct. And guess what? I'm aliiiiiiiive! Aliiiiiiiiiive!* Thank god almighty I'm still walking the earth! Thank Jesus! I'm aliiiiiiive!

I love this man. And yet, how he mocks me.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

* That's two references to the same movie. I'm so talented.

It's Bananas, B-A-N-A-N-A-S

Quite unexpectedly, my friend Alli is coming to visit next weekend. Turns out she has a client meeting for work in my city, so she is going to make a stop to come visit me in ugly yardland. Yippee! I don't have anything more to say, really, on that, except to say that thinking about the impending visit makes me do a foot-to-foot exotic Does-She-Have-To-Pee-Pee dance, which I'm sure is quite alarming to onlookers. I know this news is infinitely exciting to me, but doesn't really have any bearing on all ya'll out there, and so the entertainment value of this post so far is severely lacking. To make up for this, I shall tell you the following Alli anecdote. My apologies, in advance, go out to her for what I am about to say.

When we were in high school, oh boy, how shall I put this? Alli had this ridiculously sexually charged friendship with this dude, let's call him Shekky. They never really DID anything sexual. The point was they wanted to. Inside each of their virginal hearts, they BURNED for each other. It was palpable. They tried to hide it within the bounds of their friendship. They were JUST FRIENDS, you understand. Totally platonic friends who don't at all notice each other in that way. So they would hang out, and pal it up, and act all innocent about the whole thing, but under it all, this unconsummated yearning built up and built up, with nowhere to go. It just had to be expressed. Somehow, some way.

The way that it started getting expressed was through jokes. Dirty ones. Now I know that all teens like the dirty jokes so maybe this doesn't seem like a very good way to express undercover tingly nether region feelings. I mean, I didn't have a platonic but secretly yummy friend that I was yearning for but yet I still thought it was hilarious to utter the number 69 no matter what the occassion. That's just teenagers, right? Yeah, but in this case, it was more than that. The dirty jokes between Alli and Shekky were getting out of control. Which brings us to the notes.

Shekky would write Alli these "joke" notes. Ha ha, just for a laugh, he didn't really mean any of it, it's just funny! Except, oh yeah, oops, the note just happens to be Filthy. There was this one note that he wrote her, and the subject of the note was how he wanted to put Alli in a giant banana split. Naked. And all of the things that he wanted in the banana split with her. You know, the whipped cream, the chocolate sauce, all of it. Ha ha, really funny, just kidding!

So what does Alli do with this banana split note? She reads it, and then leaves it, opened up, on her kitchen table. I don't know why she did that. Was she so flushed and atwitter from the note that she just had to leave it somewhere? Or did she feel guilty about the note and somehow want to be caught with it? Because that's what happened. Her mom found the note, you guys. OY VEY.

When I think about this even now, a chill goes down my spine. Alli's mom is not one to be trifled with. She was, when we were kids, what one would call a mother bear. Infinitely loving, but a straight shooter. She wasn't taking crap from anyone, least of all us kids. So, for her to be the one to find that note, where seemingly innocent Shekky was talking about sliding around a human size banana split with her daughter. Oh. God. Someone's head was going to roll.

Here's where it gets so fascinating to me. Alli's mom did not freak out. She did not yell. She did not forbid Alli to see Shekky. In fact, she didn't do anything. She left that note right there, and didn't say a word. None of us knew that she had seen it.

One day, after school, we were all hanging out at Alli's house, having a grand old time as usual. I wish I could remember who all was there, but I can't remember. I just remember Alli's mom walking in and saying hi to all of us, and when she spotted Shekky among the gaggle of teens, this is what she did.

Her: Hiya, Shekky. How are you?
Him: Fine, Mrs. J.
Her: You hungry?
Him: No, I'm good Mrs. J.
Her: You sure? Not hungry for a banana split? I know how much you like those.
Him, and Alli, and those of us who knew about the note, bugged out and froze.
Him: (hoping against hope that it's not what it seems) Um, no, thanks, that's ok.
Her: You sure? No whip cream? No chocolate sauce?
Him: No. Thanks.

I can't imagine his embarrassment. To be called out, in front of Alli, in front of her friends, by Alli's MOM. How awesome is that?

I don't know if Alli got a talking-to about that note after this happened. What fascinates me about this episode is that Alli's mom knew, somehow, that that note wasn't really indicative of what her daughter or Shekky were really doing. Was that mother's intuition? Did she just know her daughter that well? I never could figure out how she knew that she didn't have to go ballistic about this. The mysteries of parenting, I guess.

I wonder if Shekky was off banana splits for good after that.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Shelf Life

I try not to point fingers, everyone. I really do. Who am I to point a finger at anyone else for anything? Me, who watches "So You Think You Can Dance" and rewinds and watches the routines twice? Me, who is almost always the first one to leave a party? Me, who, at times, can't tell the difference between Toto and Loverboy?

HOWEVER. I just have to point this one out. It's too shocking. And I am warning you that if you are not a librarian, or don't use the library, this post may be the equivalent of three or four quaaludes being injected directly into your jugular. So be it. I just can't keep silent about this any longer. It's too unsettling.

I have a friend who lives in a ginormous metropolitan city. One of the top five largest cities in the U.S. I don't want to say which one, because, you know, I'm trying to be graceful within the confines of this conversation. Who cares if I am talking shit about something? I will have my pinky finger up and speak in a genteel manner even as I do so. So, she lives in this big city. And this city has a large, historic, well-established library system. And here's what she asked me.

Her: In your library system, how do you shelve your fiction?
Me: By author.
Her: And then what?
Me: Just by author.
Her: You know, at my library, they shelve the fiction by last name of the author only, and then by title.
Me: Say whaaaaa?

Are you all getting this? Do you understand the sheer wrongness of what's going down over there in that metropolis she's living in? Last name of author and then TITLE? Let me break this down for you.

Let's say that you read the novel called Selfish and Perverse and loooved it. And really, with a name like that, who wouldn't? So you figure, because you are smart this way, that maybe you'll like something by the same author. You mosey over the the fiction shelf and look for the author, Bob Smith. There's all the Smiths (minus Morrissey maybe, har har), together on the shelf. Only all the Bob Smiths are not together. Because first, the books have been shelved by last name. All the Smiths. Together. THEN, the books are shelved by TITLE. So Alice at Heart, by Deborah Smith would come first, then next to that would be Cry Wolf by Wilbur Smith, and then Deadly Grace by Taylor Smith, and so on like that. So all the Bob Smith books would not be right next to each other. Not collocated, as we librarians like to say. So in a yooge library, the Smiths might take up stacks of books, and if you just wanted all the Bob Smiths, you would have to browse every Smith book there.

I know librarians read this blog. I can hear you breathing out there. Tell me, have you ever heard of this shelving system before? And if, perchance, you work for this library system of which I speak (or another one that shelves this way), can you tell me why this is happening? Because that is not practical and that is not orderly. And as a librarian, I must have the practical and the orderly. At least when it comes to items on the shelf. When it comes to knowing the difference between Toto and Loverboy however, I can slide into the sloppy and the useless.

HEY. Non-librarian readers! STOP SNORING. As Stephanie Tanner used to say: how rude.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

I'm Totally Burying the Lead

This is the type of post that has no rhyme nor reason but is just a post about the last few days in my life so if you're looking for things like continuity and sequiturs and so forth you should brace yourself for disappointment.

First of all I have discovered that I have lost the ability to feed myself. Not in the sense that I cannot lift fork and knife and guide it into my face. It's more that I am unable to figure out what to eat and prepare the decided upon entree. This is because Nordic Boy is the cook in my household, and although I help with the food preparation, he is the one who decides what we are eating. When I come home, he will have shopped and started preparing whatever meal it is, and so the part of my brain that has to come up with a dinner idea ALL ON ITS OWN has atrophied to the point where I have become one of those sitcom husbands that needs to have a frozen casserole left in the freezer for him when wifey goes to visit mother. Last week, Nordic Boy went on an overnight business trip. When dinner time rolled around, I was completely engulfed in dinner-decision-inertia. I had to call Bio-Girl, TWO STATES AWAY, to help me. She suggested I go get some take-out and not mess around with trying to come up with something to cook. She gives it to me straight, that girl does. Do NOT try and cook! Back away from the kitchen! Proceed directly to take out joint! Which I did. And when I got to my favorite Indian restaurant, the proprietors CALLED ME OUT. They smiled with surprise and said, "Oh! YOU're coming in to pick up your order?" To which I said, meekly, "yes." To which they replied "Your partner usually comes in to do that." All surprised. Like THEY KNOW that I don't know how to get my own damn dinner any more. Did I defend myself? Did I take back my dinner-getting power? No. I looked down, said "he's out of town," and slunk out the door. SHAMED.

A few days later, Nordic Boy and I showed up there for dinner with our friends H and R (not H&R Block, although wouldn't that be cool if we knew them?) so I got over my shame fast. Nothing will make me get over myself like an order of killer alloo mutter.

On Friday night I went to my first bbq party of the summer, which was a lovely cap to my day and much needed, as I had to deal with doggie diaherria at work that day. And oh how I wish doggie diaherria was a euphemism for something. So a party is just what I needed. Who cares if it's June and 55 degrees in Seattle? We are going to pretend it's summer goddamnit and I don't care if I have to drink hot chocolate while we grill something. Who's with me?

On Saturday I spent the entire day with Nordic Boy, as we have both been so busy lately that, as I crawled into bed after the bbq on Friday, we looked at each other with a look that could easily be interpreted as something along the lines of "and you are?" We capped off the night by going to see Ocean's Thirteen, which was good but was Ellen Barkin supposed to be scary or sexy in that? Because I was scared.

The following evening I went over to my brother's house for dinner and to celebrate my nephew's 5th birthday. My nephew is a little social dude-about-town, with lots of stories to tell me about his friends at swimming lessons and his friends on the block and his friends at school. I asked him out of all his friends who his best friend was and he didn't even hesitate before saying "I have two best friends: Mommy and Daddy." I just about went into sugar shock and fell to pieces with how cute that is. I gave him a conductor's whistle as part of his birthday present and it was a huge hit. I think his parents might just want to kill me after hearing that whistle for oh, about the 347th time that night. Happy Birthday to all of you!

Oh, and um, you guys? My dear friend Neighbor J is currently, as-we-speak, right now, at the present time, now o'clock, HAVING HER BABY. Labor started yesterday. When I told Nordic Boy that it was go-time for her, his response was: "Hi-yabba!" That about sums it up.

Hi-yabba!

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

My One Dad

In honor of Father's Day, I present you with two lists.

Ways That I Am Just Like Dad

1. I love to walk. Dad, when he was well, would walk several miles each and every single day, no matter what. I love to walk too. There is nothing I would rather do than take a walk with or without a pal in tow. Granted, I don't always wear walk-appropriate shoes, but still. Strolling is how I be rolling.

2. We both, at one point in our lives, owned Members Only jackets. Mine was lavender. His was grey.

3. We both shake our heads when the commercials for Benny Hill dvds come on, but we both laugh at them anyway.

4. I don't know how I picked this one up, but I wash my hands like a doctor. I have no choice but to admit I got this from my dad. I make sure my entire hands are thoroughly scrubbed, front and back and between all my fingers, and then I turn the faucet off with my elbow and walk over to the towel rack with my hands raised up in the air, palms facing me. Nordic Boy finds this INCREDIBLY WEIRD. Astonishingly, no one else I know has ever called me out on this.

5. I prefer to eat things with a spoon, even if they are fork foods. Pie? Spoon. Green beans? Spoon, please. When my dad does this, it drives my mom batty. When I do it also, it almost drives her to violence.

6. My Dad speaks English-English, not American English. I have picked up the following phrases from him, and have to consciously Americanize the way I say them:

I want to say "post a letter" not "mail a letter"
or, "have a shower" not "take a shower"
or, "hostel" instead of "dorm."


Ways My Dad and I Differ

1. I curse too fucking much. Sorry, Dad.

2. That dude can watch/read the news until the cows come home. BBC News, New York Times, CNN news, C-Span, Bill Moyers, The Economist, David Brancaccio, AAAAHHHHHH! I can't handle the sheer volume of news sources. On the bright side, when my Dad refers to the Dow Jones index, he refers to it like Dow Jones is a dude. He cracks himself up doing that, and I crack up with him. I don't know why it's funny. It just is.

3. Dad actually ENJOYS story problems. You know, this train is heading east from New York at 45 miles per hour and that train is heading west from Jersey at 25 miles an hour and so what time will it be in Kankakee when they have a head on collision. Straight up story problems, involving math and logic and a pencil and paper. He thinks they are fun. Like, when we would sit around the fireplace during the holidays, having a grand old time, my dad would bust out some crazy ass story problem, like it was a GAME. It's not a game, Dad. FOOSBALL is a game.

4. Dad doesn't like mushrooms. He says he can't get over the idea that he's eating a fungus. I, on the other hand, am a fungus eating foo'.

5. My dad once said that Charlie Brown had the right idea. His closet is full of the same exact outfit, and he never has to decide what to wear. He just wears the same damn thing every day. I am having trouble breathing just writing that.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

I'm Bringin' LYLAS Back

This, everyone, is the cover of a little autograph book that I own. It was seeing action when I was in 7th grade. Having this memento gives me joy, and as I am known for doing, I have to share this particular brand of embarrassing joy with you, my blog friends. What do these autographs say about my 7th grade self? What do they say about my peers? Join me, won't you?



"You've been a great friend to me. I hope we stay friends forever. Watch yourself with those boys. Stay cool! Keep smiling. --April LYLAS."

This one's pretty boring, but I included it because I have to wonder who "Rodney" is-- was he some sort of logo? Was she a 12-year-old marketing genius, branding her signature at an early age? I suppose we'll never know. I also included this page to illustrate the omnipresent LYLAS emblazoned across the bottom of the page. LYLAS. We need to bring that back. Promise me, the next time you sign any sort of document (mortgage payment, bar tab, what have you), you will write "LYLAS" in the corner.



"You are wild. Stay that way. Have fun in the future. --Jeanne"

Oh my god. I am wild. So says Declarative Sentence Girl. She's totally a robot. So very succinct. Beep. Boop. Beep.




"You're a great friend, you're also intelligent, sweet, and pretty. You have a couple faults but then everybody does. Stay the way you are and you'll go far in life. Good luck in everything you do!"


OH SNAP. What kind of shit is THAT? Ouch.




"To a super cool dude that I like a lot. To a great racket ball partner. The generic one is making me mad. She is such a jerk. Well the sub is watching. See ya later."

The "generic one"! I love it. It's like Voldemort- she whose name cannot be spoken. I wonder who the generic one was? And how it came to be that the insult in fashion was to call someone GENERIC. So poetic. Oh, and another thing? I AM NOT A DUDE.





"I knew I signed it I don't know what happened to it I wouldn't know Love your sister ? Sheryl"

What is with the question mark? And why was she calling herself my sister? And the message- is it me or does it not make any sense? I think this one was a little boozy suzy, if you know what I'm saying.





"I'll try not to say oooopssy!! Yep yep yep ahh hahh ahh hahh!! See you and Gino next summer! Love Shasha"

Oh, dear. Shasha. I think that, actually, she NEEDS to say oooopssy. Because reading that makes me want to say oooopssy. Yep yep yep.






"To a super and to my best friend. We have had our disagreements but we had gotten over them (resently!) You are the most coolest and wild gal i have ever know. You are a sweet etc. person! And stay the same! You can change just a little! Well I better rap it up, ok, Bye-Bye. Luv ya, Poopy. PS Stay cool baby! Vanity. William."

Holy smokes. First of all why did I have a best friend named Poopy? I honestly don't remember calling her that, you guys. Maybe that was the disagreement that is referenced here? I was calling her Poopy and she was having a hard time accepting this? My other question is, what is with the cartoon eyes labeled "Vanity"? And who the hell is William? I wish, I WISH I could remember what that meant.




"Hey Bud How have you been well I have to go talk to my fans. Reuben 2000"

Ok either Reuben was not expecting to graduate until the year 2000, or he was ahead of his time and adopting 2000 as a part of his name. You know, like Andre 3000 of Outkast. Even with the weird signature, I totally love this message. If any of you ever ask me to sign anything, I am totally writing this.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

I DO Know How to Quit You

I am going to write a whole post advocating something that not a lot of people are advocating. I don't care! I am taking a stand! I am all rebellious like that. Koo-koo-cah-choo. (I don't know why the walrus and the eggman have anything to do with being rebellious and taking a stand. It just seemed like the right time to say koo-koo-cah-choo. Just roll with it).

Here's one of the cornerstones of my life, as I am living it, all happy and tra la la and dancing around the mulberry bush. Quitting. I am 100% behind the idea of being a big ol' quitter. Dissatisfied? Unhappy? Pissed off? Here's the answer: QUIT. Recuse thyself. I'm not just talking about jobs. I'm talking about all sorts of stuff. You know how everyone is always telling you you have to finish stuff? Horse pucky, I say! And furthermore- nuh-UH! ("Horse pucky." Apparently I am a 92 year old coot all of a sudden). Up and quit! Join the quitter's revolution!

Ok, ok, let me clarify. There are plenty of things in life that are worth working on. Don't get me wrong. I work on stuff all the time. I work on my hair in the morning. I work on, um, work stuff. Both worthy endeavors, to be sure. But here's what I think. I think that we live in a culture that is defined by the concept of WORK. Everything has become work. We work on our relationships, we work on our friendships, we work on our asses. Here is my highly intellectualized theory about that. Screw THAT. Screw it! It's a total load.

I totally don't believe in relationships being work. WORK? While I am trying to get my smooch on? Hell to the nizzy. If I get to a place where being around my date feels like work, that is a sure sign for me to check OUT. Bye, sucker. I gots a job and it ain't you. Same with friends. Once the friendship starts to feel like work, it's curtains. There's too much in life that is hard by definition. My dad in the hospital? Hard. Wondering if you still want to be my friend? Not hard. Not hard, because I'm not doing it. Sorry. Ok, not really that sorry.

I can go on and on about the joys of quitting, the many levels, the many different ways it has set me free. I am a quitting evangelist, really. But today's quitter's sermon has a focus. The focus is on feeling ok about the act of quitting in the middle of a story. Narrative interruptus. A surprising number of people have trouble with this. I know, because I see them in the library every day, reading stuff that they don't like and persisently, unhappily, wasting time finishing it, grinding their teeth and hating it the entire time. Don't do that, people! There's lots out there you will like. Don't flush your reading time down the terlet. (And yes, yes, I KNOW that Nancy Pearl, the most famous librarian ever, has said something to this effect in her reader's advisory classes and talks. I KNOW. But I'm saying it too, totally independent of Nancy Pearl. I love Nancy just as much as you all do, but I was a student of quittology long before I knew about Nancy Pearl. So BACK OFF.)

This goes the same for movies. Do you watch a movie long after it has started to go south? Do you know the exact moment it goes south and still sit there until the end? I understand this more if you are actually at the theater. You have paid a hefty price to sit there and watch that movie, and I am cheap enough to understand the idea that we want to get what we paid for, even if we paid for a pile of doo-doo butter. But dvds? Cut your losses. Turn it off.

I turned off a movie last night, and almost started to feel guilty about doing so. But the thing was, it had started to get depressing, and not in a way that I felt was GOOD for me. You know, like when I watched Who Stole the Electric Car, it was depressing, but I felt like I was learning about something I didn't know about and so the educationalness of the interestingness was palpable (god I am eloquent. I just have to soak in what I just said). This one was not only depressing, but it was a surprise depressing. The worst kind of depressing, right? It's like you're having a nice chat with a promising dude, and all of a sudden he tells you about how proud he is of his hairy back. AWWWW! I thought this was going to be good, and now you went and sucker-punched me with the Hairy Back Pride. Damn. (By the way, that totally happened to me. I did not make that one up). The movie that I was watching was a documentary on the Sundance Channel called "Gay Sex in the 70s." Whoo! Post-Stonewall, disco, free love, happiness time! I'm down with that! Pass the popcorn! Except, halfway into the movie, it got depressing. Which brings me to life lesson number two: movies about the 70s are great about being surprisingly depressing. Not movies made IN the 70s, necessarily. Movies that are fundamentally about the 70s. Exhibit A: Saturday Night Fever. You think it's all John Travolta dancing around in a white jumpsuit to the Gibb brothers. And it is, at first. But then you get smacked in the mouth with suicide and non-consensual sex and horrible horrible non-dancey times. Exhibit B: the movie "54." Again, you think you're going in for Ryan Phillippe and Neve Campbell shaking their groove thing around the club, but no. It's Mike Myers, being all disgusting and creepy and you getting to feel really dirty when the movie is over.

So remember,
Lesson one: quitting is ok.
Lesson two: relationships should not be work.
Lesson three: beware of disco movies.

Especially number three. Number three is the one I'm most sure about.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

P.S. Do any of you guys do MySpace? If you do, email me. I resurrected my page, and I can't figure something out and I need help. Because apparently I am old and decrepit and don't understand the innernets any more.

Oh Deer.

The other night, Bio-Girl and I were talking about boys. She and I both have a long litany of relationships in our lives that go something like this: girl dates boy. Boy freaks out and breaks up with girl. Girl goes on with her life. Boy shows up at some point later on (oftentimes years later on) and proclaims that girl was the love of his life. Girl, by now totally over it, shrugs and says tough breaks kid. More years go by. Repeat.

And now, I give you, the genius that is Biology Girl.

Her: I've got the perfect metaphor to illustrate this situation.

Me: Give it to me.

Her: It's like, Jack (the ex) is walking down the street. And all of a sudden, a piece of trash, like a piece of paper, blows right into his face. Of course he's going to want to get it off of him. It's trash! In this scenario, I'M the trash.

Me: I thought this was supposed to be an uplifting metaphor.

Her: I'm not finished.

Me: So far, you have cast yourself in the role of "a piece of trash."

Her: I'm not finished! So, Jack gets the paper off of him, and it begins to blow away. As he looks at it flying away, he notices that this piece of trash is actually A WINNING LOTTERY TICKET. D'oh! So of course he's going to regret that he thought it was regular trash. See? He's going to run after the trash. He's going to regret not picking up that piece of trash for the rest of his life.

Me: I see what you're saying. But still. Trash?

Her: But see, you and me, we're valuable trash.

Pause.

Her: Ok, I've got a better one.

Me: Thank god.

Her: It's like this. Our ex-boyfriends are like deer. So you've got this deer, and there's a car coming toward him. He looks up, he is in the path of the car! It's deer in headlights! He has to freak out and run away!

Me: Wait a second. Are we the CAR in this situation?

Her: Yes.

Me: We're the car? The car??? Driving at the deer?

Her: But what the deer doesn't realize until later is that we're not driving at him to run him over. We're driving at him to pick him up. We just want to give him a ride, drive along with him, that's all.

Me: So...we're a deer taxi?

Her: YES. We're a nice deer taxi. Only he just hasn't realized that, until it's too late, and we've driven by, and we're gone. So he's left, running after the taxi, trying to hail it.

Me: How does a deer hail a taxi, anyway?

Her: With his antlers, of course.

Of course.

There's a reason why she's getting her doctorate before reaching 30, folks. I think I've demonstrated why.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Me me me

I have been tagged by my blogger pal the Well Dressed Librarian. I don't usually do the "8 facts" meme because it's freaking hard to think up things about oneself without the context of a larger post in mind. However! I'm participating in this meme for three reasons and three reasons alone. One, us well-dressed librarianfolk need to support each other in our fabulousness. Two, WDL is one of my favorite blog people. Three, he tagged me by calling me a "gorgeous celebrity," and guys, flattery is like GOLD to me.

Here's the rules of engagement:
Each player lists 8 facts/habits about themselves. The rules of the game are posted at the beginning before those facts/habits are listed. At the end of the post, the player then tags 4 people and posts their blog names, then hopes they notice they have been tagged and continue this chain ad nauseum.

1. You know how Joel McHale always jumps into the tv frame at the beginning of that show "The Soup"? I love that. I wish I could just jump into people's line of sight that way. Can you imagine this at the reference desk? No one at the desk then HEY! A librarian shoots in from the side? That would rock.

2. At the end of interviews on talk shows, sometimes the guests are so naive about how talk shows work that they get up and leave at the end of their segment. If you're a big star, you know that you don't get up and leave when the segment is over. You sit there and soak in the applause, the show cuts to commercial, and THEN you get up and leave, off-camera. The pre-mature leavers are often non-celebrity guests. And when they don't know that they are pre-leaving, I feel all motherly towards them. The sheer unjadedness of these people, not knowing talk show rules, touches me. I know. It's weird.

3. I make up swear words. For instance, if I drop something, you may hear me say this: "punk ass kibble sniffer!" That's one of my regulars. What it means, I couldn't really tell you, but it works for me.

4. I have a stomach of steel. I do not have problems of the Pepto variety. Granted, I eat pretty healthy, so maybe that's it, but even when I don't, my stomach is ok. I have only barfed once in my life (TMI, I know) and it was actually very poetic because it was on the bed of a guy that was a total dick to me. That's a story for another post.

5. I have never seen a Tom Cruise movie in its entirety.

6. You know how some women mother people? I tend to sister people.

7. I have never been camping. I would like to go, but I have a secret fear that I will HAAAAAATE it. And then what would that say about me as a person? Will it say I am a nature-hater? I don't want that. At the same time, when I am not sleeping in my own bed, I enjoy such things as room service and cable.

8. My closest friends my entire life have been girls and gay boys. At this point, I am at my lifelong peak of hetero boy close friendships. I have three.

I have a weird thing about tagging people for memes. Like I don't want to be pushy and tell them what to do with their blogs, you know? So, I'm tagging four people, but it's sort of half-hearted. I won't be upset if you don't acknowledge the tagging.

The woman who brought bullhonkey back.
The woman who always smiles at me during meetings.
The woman who I must have coffee with someday.
Coffee with this one too. She rocks.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Where Have All the Corsages Gone?

My college roomie has come and gone, friends, and she was gracious enough not to bring up the time freshman year when we all took the Purity Test and I got into a fight with my chimp of a boyfriend over it. Then again, the graciousness went both ways because I didn't bring up the time that she broke the heart of the statewide pingpong champion. Oops, except maybe I did bring it up, like right now. Sorry, roomie.

Her graciousness did not stop there! She took Nordic Boy and I out for a lovely dinner and she did not crap her knickers when she saw our ugly yard for the first time. It was very generous on both counts. I took her to see the library (I swear to god it was at her request- I do not drag people who visit me from out of town to the library unless they specifically request it, which- considering the library here, they often do) and we had a lovely time hanging out.

On Saturday afternoon, roomie and I stopped in at the Nordstrom cafe to quench a powerful post-library thirst. As she ordered her drink, the barista asked her what her name was in order to yell it out when the bevvy was served up. And my roomie gave a bogus name! She, who is like me in that she has a non-common name, picked an alias that was short and easy to remember: "Kate." I thought I was the only one who goes undercover when I get coffee and smoothies! That made me happy. Like there's a whole underground movement of us who are "Jen"-ing and "Amy"-ing ourselves to fight the power of mangled first names! Aww yeah! All ya'll out there masquerading as Janes! Can I get a wutwut?

As we sat with our beverages (and it should be noted here that her cup said "Katie" instead of "Kate" so I guess getting names wrong may be an equal opportunity, um, opportunity), we chatted and watched the city go by. We saw, in the span of maybe twenty minutes, a man ride by on a unicycle carrying a brown fur suitcase, another man on a pedal-powered dune-buggy, riding down the street with ads stuck all over his vehicle, two women in identical white vinyl mini-trench coats and heels with spray tanned legs and porn star hair, and more than a few tuxedo'ed and gowned prom goers. And I gotta tell you, the prom goers were the ones that I stared at the hardest.

Prom fascinates me, you guys. Prom! The etymology of this word is "promenade." As in stepping out, walking about, galavanting free. The lore used to be that this event is when many, many people lose their virginity. Is that really true? None of my friends lost their virginity on prom night. None. If anyone out there did lose their crunchberry at prom, will you please let me know? Just one person. They've got to be out there, somewhere.

Part of the reason I am fascinated with prom is because I have never experienced one. That's right, I never went to my prom. I remember when I made the decision to not go to prom and I told my friends, many of them said to me: "but you HAVE to go to your prom! If you don't, you'll regret it for the REST OF YOUR LIFE." And yes, people, I am a shell of a person. I don't know how many times a day I go over and over this mistake that I made. Every time I lose my lipstick, every time a patron is rude to me, every time I can't figure out what to eat for lunch, I think GOD DAMN IT IF I HAD ONLY GONE TO PROM THIS NEVER WOULD HAVE HAPPENED TO ME.

Not only did I not go to my prom, but I never went to any formal dance of any kind when I was in high school. And it was not because I was not getting dates, friends. It was because I was taking a stand. Some people were protesting apartheid in South Africa, some people were trying to save baby seals. My issue was the tyranny of formal dances. I am not even kidding you, this was a topic that would get me CRAZY pissed off in high school. Here was my problem. You were not allowed to go as a single person. Tickets were only sold to couples. I found this compulsory couplehood revolting (still do, as a matter of fact) and so my protest was to vow never to set foot in a formal dance at my school until I could buy my own motherfarking ticket. Fight the power, Librarian Girl! We shall overcome!

So, in the four years I was in high school, I stuck to my guns. When I was asked to go to dances, I would just say NO. Even when it was really tempting and the dude was really cute and I really wanted to make out with him in a hot evening gown (that's me in a hot evening gown, not him), I would turn that opportunity down. I was making a POINT and I was willing to give up smooch time to make it (and honestly, what is more of a valued currency than smooching? NOTHING). And for four years, people didn't make that big of a deal out of it. If I didn't go to Homecoming, or Sadie's, big deal. But when I was a senior and my very own prom was at stake, things started to get ugly. People actually begged me to reconsider, for my own good. I would regret it, they all said, over and over again. And I have to admit, after all the badgering, I started to cave a little bit. I was going to miss my prom! Was it worth it? Didn't I want to get an updo and slow dance to "It Must Have Been Love" by Roxette? Didn't I?

My boyfriend at the time was an older man and there was no way in hell he was going to show up at a high school prom, so that was out of the question. My friend Joe asked me and I seriously considered it. I really did. But, when the time came, I just couldn't do it. I had made a solemn vow for independent souls like me everywhere, and I couldn't go back on my word. Hence, no prom for me.

Oh yes. I rocked it like Norma Rae. Only it wasn't a union thing. And I didn't really change the system or anything. And I don't look anything like Gidget. But other than that, it was totally the same thing.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Baby Love

I didn't write a post for Mother's Day, as I was spending it in the Midwest sans innernets, sniffing hospital fumes. So, although it's a bit late, I would like to say a little something that is semi-related to Momma's Day and to Pappa's Day, because my dear, dear friends Neighbor J and Neighbor B are about to beget a littlin'. Any day now, our family will be welcoming a new juvenile into its bosom. (And Neighbor J, I will refrain from making any comments about bosoms, as in your bosoms. Except to say. Wow). And my dear dear friends will become Mom and Dad. As in, their KID will call them Mom and Dad. Not me. Because that would be weird.

In honor of this blessed event, I would like to write a note to Baby Neighbor, the newest Neighbor in our loving familia.

Dear Baby Neighbor,

Hey girlie. It's your Auntie Librarian Girl here. I know you are going to have lots and lots of Aunties and Uncles in your life, as your mom and dad are well-loved, so it may be a little confusing at first. You can just remember me like this: I'm your cool Auntie that is somewhat immature. Everyone has to have one. Ben Gellar had Monica. Darlene Conner had Jackie. Go rent Auntie Mame when you're old enough and you'll get what I'm talking about. I'll be the Aunt that will slip you a twenty and not laugh at you when you're feeling oh. so. dramatic. And, I will laugh at poop and fart jokes. Then again, so will your parents so I guess you're covered there. I will keep you dressed in fabulous outfits, should that be your wish, and I will listen to as many boy stories as you can dish out (or girl stories, should that be your preference).

You'll be meeting Uncle Nordic Boy soon too. He's the one that looks like he's deep in thought all the time and who always has paint stains on his hip clothes. I know you'll love him. Not just because I think he's cool, but because, in little kid circles, he's a complete rock star. I don't know what it is about him, but the kiddies think he is the BOMB. I have seen crowds of little children jump up and down and CHEER when he walks into a room. "YAYYYYYY!" they all say. I don't know what the mystique is. Maybe it's all the cool tools he always has on his person and the way he's always fixing stuff. At any rate, when you're old enough to wield your first hammer, he's the man to show you how to hold it.

There may come a time, when you get close to your teen years, when you start to have conflicts with your parents. I honestly don't know what those conflicts may be, as you are blessed with Extremely Cool Parents. The only fights I can imagine at this point would be some kind of argument over the typeface that you've chosen to use on a
party invite or something. Because kiddo? Your mom is crazy-talented when it comes to graphic design, and her knowledge and aesthetic of fonts and typography are a wee bit scary. So here's a piece of advice for you. Your first ever Auntie advice from Auntie Librarian Girl! A momentous occassion, to be sure. Here it is: do not, for the love of all that is holy, ever use Comic Sans. EVER. Just don't. She may
ground you, just for that. While you're at it, stay away from Jokerman too.

Here's something else. Talking on the phone. Your mom and I like to do this. A lot. We talk on the phone like our lives depend on it. So, if you get to an age where you are talking on the phone a lot, and your mom gets mad at you for doing so, you can use this ammunition to argue your need to be on the phone. Remind her of the hours she has spent talking to HER friend, and how much she relies on that. (Sorry Neighbor J, to give you up like this. I have Cool Auntie duties now, though. It's, like, my job).

Now let me give some advice on your dad. First off, you are going to be the coolest kid around, because your dad is going to rig up some cool ass technology gadgets for you. Forget ipods. You will probably have some sort of music device that pipes music directly into the side of your sunglasses or something. Your friends will be dying of envy. But here's the downside. I'm going to give it to you straight. Do
not let him build you a robot playmate. Oh, he might try. He might tell you it will rock. But don't let him. The kids at school will think it's weird, and you'll be known as Robo-Girl. So cool gadgetry, yes. Creepy robot people to play with, not so much.

So, little girlie, I will save up any further advice for you until you've moved out of your mom's belly. I just thought it was time we get acquainted. I am over the moon excited to meet you, and I'll be cheering you on in whatever you do and I'll be there for you in whatever way you need me. I know you've got two parents that love you to pieces, but you can add me to the list of folks that love you unconditionally. I will always listen to what you have to say, and I'll do anything for you. Those are the Auntie vows I pledge to you.

Oh, and let me know when you need that twenty.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Hyperactive

You know how I am always talking about how librarians tend to have secret lives that you would never guess were there? It's totally true. I am not trying to perpetuate a stereotype- you know the one, where the stodgy librarian whips off her glasses and takes down her hair and all the buttons pop off her shirt and then it is ON. That is merely one incarnation of the secret lives of librarians. The diversity of librarian secret lives is really boundless. I have seen it proven over and over again. I have, on occasion, revealed some of the secret lives that I carry around in my own life portfolio. And today, I'm revealing one more. Ready?

There was a brief period, back when I was first in college, when I was HYPER. I mean, bouncing off the walls, extrovert-to-the-max LOUD and PROUD, kind of insane, hyper. Energy for DAYS. There was loud verbiage spilling from my mouth at all times. You remember Gilda Radner on SNL as the little girl named Judy Arlene Miller? Yeah, that was me when I first showed up at college. If you know me now, this seems ludicrous, and you're probably having a hard time picturing me acting this way. Because now, I am the person who is known for thinking before she speaks, a person who would never, ever jump up and down for no reason at all. Or even if there was a reason. Jumping up and down is no longer on my list of ways to express my glee. I don't really know if I am even one who feels something called glee any more. I am now known, first and foremost, as the Responsible One. The one who has all their Shit Together. Steady. Reliable. But when I first arrived at my dorm my freshman year of college, the words "woo-HOOOOO!" was a word I would use in just about any situation. I would routinely walk up to people I didn't know and say "Hi! What's your name?" no matter who you were or what you were in the middle of doing, and by the end of the conversation, I might actually be hugging you. Oh yes. I was that girl. By the end of my first week, I was the person who knew everyone on my floor, and my dorm room door was always open and my room was always filled with people. All. The. Time. And I was always up for fun! That was me! Fun! Fun! Fun!

Talk! Talk!

Jump! Jump!

Giggle! Giggle!

What? Did you say something? I was busy talking! And jumping! And giggling!

Oy. It makes me exhausted just thinking about it. I have a souvenir of this time in my life, and it makes me laugh every time I look at it. It's a handmade flier, announcing "Quiet Hours" in the dorm for exam week. These were the hours that you were supposed to shut the hell up so that people could study or sleep. So, the sign says something like "Quiet Hours 11pm-5am." And, in the white space of that flier, someone had graffitied in the words: "Librarian Girl, THIS MEANS YOU." That says it all, doesn't it? We have a sign telling people to shut up, and I am literally the Poster Child of those who need to shut up the most.

The reason I am bringing up this time in my life is because my roommate from the good old (extremely hyper) days is coming to visit me this weekend. My roomie was not, and is not, hyper. She bore witness to all of my lunacy and kept her head about her the entire time. She lived with me for a whole year and never once told me, god bless her, to CALM THE FUCK DOWN. On the contrary, I think she found my antics entertaining. At least I think so. We're still friends so that must say something.

It's kind of a funny thing to hang out with her now, knowing that she knew me best at a time when I was so different than I ever was before or since. It really was a sort of flash in the pan, Haley's Comet sort of time for me. I got every ounce of extroverted energy out of me all in one go. And then, almost overnight, it burned itself out, and I went back to being laid back, still social, but overall pretty introspective. I can't explain this. Maybe it was hormones. Who knows. I'm mostly amused at my 18-year-old self when I look back at it, but there is a small part of me that's a little embarrassed too. I left that college just as this phase was burning out, and the thought that there is a whole group of people out there who only knew me during this era makes me feel kinda funny. And there's a part of me that wonders, after all this time, if my roomie friend really sees me for who I am now, or if that Lunatic Me is lurking about in her mind when she looks at me. You know how, when you see someone do something truly embarrassing, there's a part of you that associates them with that act forever? Like, when this girl named Melody barfed on my desk in 7th grade math, I could never look at her again without thinking about that. You know what I mean?

Maybe, in honor of my ex-roomie's visit, I should resurrect High Energy Me. I could greet her at the airport by running toward her full speed and shrieking at the top of my lungs, ending up in a hugging/jumping display of affection. Or I could giggle and introduce myself to every cute boy I see (another trait of that era) and invite strangers into our conversation as much as possible (I did that too).

I don't think so. I think I'll just enjoy the fact that I have this friend, who has seen me with my metaphoric pants down, and who still loves me in spite of this. She didn't just tolerate me, she loved me. I'm sure of that. That's so cool, it fills me with glee.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

My Ass Is Grass

Even though all I seem to do on this here blog is talk a lot of horseshit about movies and clothes and the really stupid embarrassing things that I seem to do on a daily basis, in real life I do have concerns that go beyond those things. Really, I do. I know it's hard to believe that I'm not just walking around worried about the way that my living room is color-coordinated 100% of the time, but I'm not. Maybe 80 or 90% tops. But still, I have plenty of other concerns. Worldy concerns. Philosophical concerns. Existential, political, all of it.

A big topic around my house these days is climate change. And before I even get into this I can assure you that I am not about to suggest to anyone that they use one sheet of toilet paper per use. I don't care if Sheryl Crow does that; she must not be doing any sort of number one-ing or two-ing of normal human proportions. Still, climate change is a big conversation in the Librarian Girl/Nordic Boy household. We've always been of the green persuasion, but now that we have our very own house, the conversations have escalated to where we're talking about it on the daily. Nordic Boy, I have to admit, is the more informed of the two of us because of his sustainable builder, engineer mind. I may think that having an energy efficient house is like, really cool, but he's the one that can tell you all about what system is the best, and oh, how to BUILD IT. That guy will tell you the R-value of your favorite slippers on your feet, he's so into this stuff. But still, we are both on board for this whole eco-stuff (see how I'm not the technical one? "Eco-stuff"? I mean, really).

A lot of the stuff we do is completely intuitive and common sense. Use less gas, live in a smaller space, buy local food, energy-efficient light bulbs, yadda yadda. No problem. Piece of cake. But then, a line was drawn. Nordic Boy presented an idea to me, and I balked. Complete and total resistance spewed forth from my pores. And it wasn't about giving up a food that I like. Or about cutting back on a luxury I was addicted to. It was about my YARD.

If you've been reading my blog for very long, you know about my new yard. It is a big shitty dirt pile that the previous owners neglected and so now Nordic Boy and I have the monumental (not even exaggerating) task of making it presentable. Add to this my need for things to LOOK NICE and the task becomes even more daunting. I have spent many months, as we have been cleaning up in preparation to start planting stuff, dreaming about what my yard will look like when this is all said and done. I had a vision, people. A dream.

Nordic Boy: You know, we should really think about planting our yard with things that are low-water use.
Me: Totally. I am down. Sign me up.
Nordic Boy: You know what's not low-water use? Especially with our soil make-up? Grass.
Silence. Silence. Silence.
Me: What?
Nordic Boy: Look, I've made some sketches of what our landscaping would look like with all native, low-water use plants. You'll still be able to walk on it. It will still be all green and lush. Just with native ground cover. Not grass.
Me: NO GRASS? AT ALL?
Nordic Boy: Hey, look on the bright side! No mowing!

Who knew this was where my eco-friendly lifestyle would come to a screeching halt? Grass! It was the thing I could not let go of. I come from the Midwest, where people, even people who don't have a lot of money, have impossibly large lawns of grass. As a kid, I rolled around in grass, ran through grass, picked dandelion bouquets for my mom out of the grass. I am a lover of grass! Who knew? Had you asked me hypothetically what my feelings were on grass before this, I would have thought you were crazy. Who has an opinion about grass? Weirdos, that's who. Well, here I am, weirdo grass lady.

The no-grass conversation started last fall. Smart guy, that Nordic Boy. He knew I needed time to mull this over. And the sketches he presented to me-- very convincing. His landscape ideas were certainly gorgeous. Over the winter, I read articles about grass. I looked up alternatives to grass. And you know what? I got used to the idea. It took me about six months of grass-grieving, but one day, I woke up, and I was OVER grass.

Me: I totally don't want grass.
Him: You DON'T?
Me: Nope.
Him: What happened? You were so anti-anti-grass before.
Me: I just needed time. I'm sure I will miss grass at first. But I'm willing to give your way a try.

So on Monday, Nordic Boy got up bright and early and started phase one of Grassless in Seattle. I have to admit. It looks really good.

So I have let go of grass. It was stupidly hard. It's all well and good, you guys, but if I start with that one square of toilet paper thing, someone stage an intervention. Really.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

I Think Therefore I Blog

Oh my goodness! I have been nominated as a THINKING BLOGGER. You may be wondering what that means. I am too, yet I am too lazy to look it up. Oh yes, I am a librarian who is, sometimes, too lazy to look things up! I sometimes have library late fines too. Don't tell anyone.

Regardless if I know what the heck it means to be nominated for this, I will graciously accept. How can I give up the chance to say "it's just an honor to be nominated" like all those famous nominees for famous things do? Somehow, I doubt being a Thinking Blogger has a red carpet event attached. Rats. Because I would have totally gone out and rocked a Naeem Khan number. Oh well. Maybe I can get all gussied up and blog in full evening attire even though no one can see me? So what if that's pathetic? You can nominate me for the Pathetic Blogger next. I can live with that, and plus, I have a shot at winning that sucker.

So yes. Me. A Thinking Blogger. How can I argue? I both blog and think. Sometimes simultaneously. In fact, let me demonstrate the sheer strength of my thinky-ness. After I am through, you may call me Thinky Tuscadero for the rest of the week.

Nice thoughts:
The weather here is GOH-GEOUS. I didn't have to wear a coat to work for the past couple of days. I had a lovely dinner with my pals Heather and Jason last night. Life is good.

Wonderings:
I wonder if my yard will ever look nice? I wonder what's next on my Netflix queue? I wonder why Mike Holmes always has to wear those awful gold bracelets? They must have sentimental value.

Ideas:
Wouldn't it be cool if there was a nice clothing lending library? Clean, exciting clothes that you could check out and then return after wearing? That could be really cool. Or really gross. Not sure which.

Apprehensions:
Did anyone see that episode of "Planet Earth" where they showed the great white shark attack? That shit was the scariest thing I have ever seen in my LIFE. Nordic Boy and I both yelled "HELL NAWWWWW!" at the exact same time when we saw that.

Premonitions:
I predict that I will be kind of bored during the new Pirates of the Carribbean movie. I predict that I shall lose a tube of lipstick in the next week or so and then find it as soon as I buy a new one. I predict that I shall have some ice cream tonight.

Chimera:
Does the sequel to Donkey Kong, called "Diddy Kong," have anything at all to do with P. Diddy? If so, I am deeply, deeply troubled.

Conjecture:
Had I ever had a Dorothy Hamill haircut as a child, I would be a totally different person today.

Conviction:
Chocolate cake is the best cake flavor by far. Watermelon on a hot summer day rocks out. People who are afraid of tofu are funny and overly dramatic about it. "AHHHH! TOFU! AHHHHH!"

Observation:
Orangutans sure had a film heyday in the late 70s. There was Clyde in the "Every Which Way But Loose" movies, and then there was the Planet of the Apes movies, and even on tv shows. Even Little House on the Prairie had an episode where an orangutan showed up in Walnut Grove. (If anyone can cite any sort of fact about this episode, I will be very impressed with you. Neighbor J, you don't count.)

Inspiration:
This was the name of the song that I had my first slow dance to. Or maybe it's called "You're the Inspiration." You know, that song by Chicago? And actually, come to think of it, it may have been "Hard Habit to Break." All those Peter Cetera ballads sound the same, don't they?

Conclusions:
I so totally AM a Thinking Blogger. Think think think. I'm all about that. Look at all that stuff I just came up with. I think I need to work on an acceptance speech.


Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Looking Out for Number One

I gotta break it down, fellas.

I may not have a lot of things. I don't have a Zac Posen outfit, or an appetite for destruction, or a biological clock (or if I do the ticker is broke), or an understanding of why one would use representations of mallard ducks as a motif in home decor. The list of things I don't have goes on and on. But one thing I do have, friends, is boundaries.

Do you have good boundaries? Think about this. Really think. Because it is my feeling, after thinking about it for oh, maybe a good half hour or so (sufficient time for me to start making proclamations like this), that there is a severe lack of boundary-having among most people. It baffles me. How does this happen? How are people so unaware of what they really want? Why are so many people spending all sorts of time doing shit that they do not want to be doing and could pretty easily get out of? It's rampant.

What if we all had good boundaries? What if you heard people say things like:

You know, thanksgiving at Aunt June's is miserable. I'm not going to Aunt June's for Thanksgiving any more. Even if Aunt June might be a little disappointed, not going would make ME happy, and so I'm doing that.

My friend Jill never calls me. I always have to call her. And chase her around endlessly to try and make plans with her. You know what? I'm going to stop chasing Jill. Honest to god that chick drives me nuts, for reals.

Edwina wants me to attend her bridal shower, and her couples' shower, and her pre-wedding bbq, and her bachelorette party, and her bridal spa weekend, and her wedding. Each event requires a present. I'm just going to the shower and the wedding. Because, really. That's enough.

The above are things that I have absolutely no qualms about thinking to myself and acting upon. I don't even think twice about it. It just comes naturally. I just ask myself some questions: is doing item x making me annoyed, upset, pained, or exhausted? If yes, I need to stop doing item x. JUST SAY NO. It's really pretty easy once you get the hang of it. Try it. PLEASE, for the love of Bailey Quarters, just TRY IT. You'll be happier, I guarantee you. I see this happening all around me, all day, and it makes me so sad. And face it, it makes you sad too. I know it does.

I know it does because when I was younger and stupider-- (yes, people, there WAS a time when I was even stupider although I know this is hard to imagine. But really, I was much, much stupider back in the day. Ask anyone who knew me in college)-- I was a person who was constantly doing shit I didn't want to be doing. I had this relative who lived six hours (by car) away from me. Every holiday, I would get my ass into my beat-up car and drive to her house for the day. Six hours there. Six hours back. Did this relative ever travel to my town? No. Did she thank me for making the trek? Nuh-uh. Never mind that I was a poor student with loads of homework to do, and she had time and money and paid vacation and she was the adult in the situation. I look back at that and think that that was so pathetic of me. Putting all that effort in, for what? So that I could complain about it and feel a little resentful. Do you do that? Be honest. If you do, I-- as your blog friend--am telling you. STOP THAT. Do things because it comes from a place in you that WANTS to. There's enough crap in life that we have to deal with that is completely out of our control, as I've been thinking about these days with what's been up with my dad. Save up the effort in you for those things. Not for dragging yourself to a work-related party with people you don't really like that much. Or whatever your thing is. You know what I'm talking about.

I'm warning you though. If you start doing this, you won't be able to stop. Things that seemed perfectly acceptable to you before (oh ok! I will try and go out on a date with this mediocre dude who has Ken-doll hair and kisses like a salamander!) will no longer fly. And the other thing is, there are times the sheer force of people who are doing crap that they hate will make you feel like you are being a big selfish asshole. What do you MEAN you aren't going to go to your family reunion in Indianapolis because you're using your vacation time for staying at home and getting some much-needed rest? HOW SELF-INDULGENT, YOU ASS.

Go ahead though. Be self-indulgent when you can. Put yourself first. Ask yourself what you want and then do that, when you can. When given a choice, choose you.

Too hard? For the next week, at least, promise me this. Every time you are somewhere you don't want to be, doing something you don't want to do, take note of it. Just notice. And ask yourself why. Life is so short, friends. You gotta just do your thang. Seriously.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Might I Add?

Now that Bio-Girl and Ali went and spilled all my beans (well, some of my beans) I shall now take this opportunity to respond to the many allegations that were put forth while I was away. I just have to clarify a few things, expand on some others, and protect my rep. Because, you know, my rep was so perfect before.

1. First of all, let me elaborate on the moment that Bio-Girl alludes to where I first had an inkling that she and I would become friends. It was indeed in that cesspool of mildewy life jackets that was the canoe rental facility. She did grab some paddles and say "Beam me up, Scotty." This, alone, was not the reason that I fell just a little bit in love with Bio-Girl. The true reason was because she didn't actually grab the paddles. She just touched the handles, like they were the ends of big live-wires, and convulsed like she was conducting electricity through them, into herself. As she convulsed, she said "Beam Me Up Scotty" in an ethereal ET-meets-Carol-Channing voice. And she did this in such a way as to make sure that I was the only one who saw it. We barely knew each other, and I was the quietest person in that workplace, yet she had honed in and figured out that inside, I am a sucker for some weird ass funny shit. And she served it up. Awesome.

2. Bio-Girl did pack her bags and up and left me for getting all doctorate of barnacles and stuff. Only she didn't just pack her bags. She stuffed any and all carrying devices above and beyond the capacity for which they were made. She stuffed pairs of socks under her car seats. She piled clothes up to the top of the roof of her car. She wrapped my legs up in coats until there was no space between my legs and the floor of her car. She even had a box full of cheap wire hangers that she absolutely REFUSED to leave behind. "You can get more wire hangers when you get to California," Neighbor J and I tried to convince her. Nope. They must have a wire hanger shortage in California, the way she was holding on to those puppies. Please insert your own "No more wire hangers!" Joan Crawford joke here.

3. Yes, yes. I archived years worth of emails, formatted them all and made them look pretty, and printed them out and bound them chronologically in multiple volumes to give her as a present. If this doesn't make me a librarian, then I sure as hell don't know what does.

4. Nordic Boy and I serenaded her with "I Will Always Love You." And it was definitely the Whitney version, not the Dolly Parton version. And I must point out that this was way, way before Lorelei serenaded Luke.

5. On our drive to California, not only did I provide the tunes, I played all the CDs I brought in alphabetical order. Did I mention, um, me = librarian?

6. Alli mentioned the psychedelic wallpaper in my parents' dining room. She wasn't kidding, friends. They also have yellow Saarinen tulip chairs and a white tulip table. But the wallpaper is what really says it all. Here's the proof, I'm not even kidding you:



7. Oh, that nice musician. That story makes me sound so rock star, right? But just when you think that I was that cool, please read number 8, where I will demonstrate the truth of the matter.

8. The Michael Jackson button collection. I know that you've just been reading this far to see if I was going to talk about and/or defend the Michael Jackson button collection. Oy. Really? You guys really want to know? I can't bring myself to talk about it. And, I can't find a picture of it in action. BUT! I am happy to say that I still have a representative sample of the collection. Please keep in mind, I was eleven. Oh god.



Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

You Can Go Home Again

Well, I suppose I asked for it, didn't I? Now you guys all know about my Michael Jackson button collection and that I archive emails like a big dorky librarian and give them as PRESENTS. I'm not going to try and rebut these things. I do however feel that I have, in the immortal words of Desi Arnaz as Ricky Ricardo, some es-plaining to do.

Before I get to that, my trip was good, and although I got to see a lot of medical-building scenery that looks like this:

I also got time at my parents' house, which is heavenly, and where I can read in a hammock with a view that looks like this:



And, my pops was out of the hospital, and so I got to see him like this, the best view of all:



I am from the kind of city that is renowned for being depressed. It's a town that people think of as a --how do I put this delicately-- a pit. More than a pit. A boil on the ass of the you-nited states. When I tell people that this is where I am from, I have gotten looks of pity. How lucky you are, people say in their eyes, to have gotten out of a place like that. I don't know, maybe I am lucky. Maybe they are right. But I just can't seem to look at it that way. In fact, when people do this, I want to pop them in the jaw, as if they just told me that my mom was ugly or something. Nobody talks about my mom like that, sucker. And conversely, when people tell me about where they were raised, and sneer at it and put it down, I always want to question them about that further. How can you really hate it that much? If you were raised there, didn't that city raise you? Isn't it in your bones? Didn't it make you who you are, the good parts and the bad parts? And if you hate the place that made you, is the part of you who comes from there something you hate too? That makes me really sad. It's like hating your parents. Then again, some parents are evil, and if they were evil to you, then I guess it's ok for you to hate them. I get that too.

What I'm leading up to here is that I love my hometown. Love. It. So what if it's a boil on the ass of the earth? It's MY BOIL, and I love it. I love how, no matter what store I walk in to, what business I frequent there, everyone knows my mom and dad and is overjoyed to see me, their daughter. "Look at you, so grown up!" they say. They seem proud of me, and I don't even know them. I love how, although there are no Starbucks any where to be found, there are doughnut shops on every street. Even the gas station near my parents' house boasts "fresh doughnuts!" You gotta love a place like that. I even love the weird things about this town. Like the fact that there is a church being built there called the "Fragrance of Christ." The FRAGRANCE! Is that not just the greatest thing you've ever heard in your life? Eau de Messiah. Breathe deep. Or the fake German town that bustles just outside of town. It's called Frankenmuth. It's a German town- with no German people! It's German, of the Disney variety, with a Bavarian-esque outdoor shopping mall where the workers wear lederhosen and you...are supposed to do what exactly? I'm not sure. Walk around and feel German? Shop for t-shirts? Have a bratwurst? I have never, in my entire life, really understood Frankenmuth and the crowds that flock there. But it's fair to say that I have an inexplicable, unconditional love for Frankenmuth that I could not for the life of me explain to you. (And this trip, I introduced Nordic Boy to the enigma that is Frankenmuth, and he understood the glory and the bounty of the cheesy goodness. He even dubbed it with a nickname. "The Mooth." Where do you go where you want a stein of beer? The MOOTH. This is why I hang out with that guy, just for saying things like that).

I love how I can drive around, and literally have a story about almost every single house in town, or at least every street in town. There's the driveway where I kissed that boy after a party one night. There's the apple orchard where we played "Bloody Murder" at dusk in the summers. There's the ice cream parlor where I would go for Superman flavored ice cream (a Michigan staple) with my sister. Every square mile of that place holds hundreds of memories, and they're all pretty good.

I don't know. Maybe it is a pit, and there is no getting around that. But here's all I'm saying, you guys. My life, overall, has really been a dream. I have parents who love me, and friends who rock the hiz-owse, and a daily feeling much like kitties and puppies and rainbows. And half of that life was lived in that town. So what's not to love? I was born of the ass-boil-town, but it's what started all this beauty for me, so I'm grateful. Thanks, ass-boil-town. I was so lucky to be raised by you. I love my life and myself, and so much of that is because of you.

Ok, so now I've talked myself out and can't explain my Michael Jackson button collection, nor post any pictures of it. Convenient, no?

Alright, alright. Next time. I promise you.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Exit 69 and Other Random Trips

Since Librarian Girl made the trek back to our home state, I figured I'd take you on a little trippy trip down memory lane. I have fond and vivid memories that I need to catch you up on.

First, there are soooo many things I could say about the very "nice" person who she did "it" with. "Nice" is in quotes, because in her diary description of the affair, she described everything about the whole ordeal as being "nice"... his parts, what he said, the music, the mood. But, I've decided to take the high road. I'm keeping it clean and free from sex. So, here's a bunch of random stuff you should know. Oh, by the way, I'm Ali (a.k.a Ali-Slo-fro).

1. I'm not sure why I'm bothering to tell you this, because you just have to see it to fully appreciate it. Her kitchen growing up had this 70's, shiny, foily, orangey, brown and yellow, jungle scene wallpaper with giraffe's. I've never seen anything like it. It's a good thing we weren't pot heads growing up, because I think that wallpaper would've really jacked us up.

2. Tea was always included in visits to Librarian Girl's house. It was always the same kind of tea. It came with a miniature ceramic animal figurine in each box. What was the name of that? Something with Rose in the name? Red Rose? Anyway...So they had a whole zoo of teeny tiny tea animals in the kitchen. It totally worked with the wallpaper.

3. This I can't explain. We were always amused, and even amazed, by the fact that we had the same old-ass garage door openers. This was in high school and it was like everyone else in the world had skipped from Atari directly to the X-Box, but our parents were still clinging to Atari. That's what I liken it to. But they were garage door openers! Who notices this shit? We did for some reason and felt quite connected for having matching ones. When my family got a new garage door, which came with a new opener, I was sad! What the hell is that!? I wonder if her parents still have theirs.

4. She drove a little red car in high school. I think it was some sort of Mazda. It had this bendy plastic doll thingy hanging from the rear-view mirror. We used to bend her into precarious positions... usually sexual.

5. Librarian Girl had BALLS. Big f'ing huge balls (to quote Bugsy Calhoun from Harlem Nights). I mean we were all talkin' a big game, but it was just that. All Talk. She! She had balls. We were in this choir in high school and every year we had Spring concert. It was the concert where we broke free from Mozart, Rutter, and matronly choir robes and sang contemporary songs like "Cherish," by Cool and the Gang, in our coolest trendy outfits. People would sing moving renditions of, "She's Like the Wind," and really cheesy Michael W. Smith songs.

For this concert our director would hire a real live band. This band included a very "nice" musician. (Have you made the connection to the "nice" comment a couple paragraphs up? Clearly, I've taken exit 69 off the high road.) We were all in serious high school lust with said musician. He was older and very cool. All we did was stare at him, and giggle about him, and wonder what he would be like, and fantasize about hanging out with him and being his friend. Next thing we knew Librarian Girl was DATING HIM! We were all flabbergasted and scandalized. I mean she just up and asked his ass out. She immediately rose to legendary status with that move. Man, he sure was nice!

6. OK. Moving on. The Big Wheel. That picture says it all people. She was a bad-ass on that thing. Well, as bad-ass as one can be when you're not allowed to leave the driveway. She was bad! And it was a circle drive. She had territory to cover and she wasn't messin' around. Just look at her face!

7. In Junior High, she was a Michael Jackson super fan. I mean the likes of which you've never seen before. She had a sweatshirt that was down to her knees. This thing was COVERED in Michael Jackson buttons and baubles, pins and paraphernalia. She could bust a move that put Young MC himself to shame.

8. She wasn't kidding when she said her parents are cool. They really are. When we were in High School, they would sit and talk with us, rather that at us. They were always fun and easygoing and so totally the opposite of judgemental. Her mom actually giggles! It's the greatest thing. It's just so refreshing. But then again, so is Librarian Girl!

I don't know how to wrap this up gracefully, so I'll just quote the biggest doofus ever: "Seacrest... Out!"

A Very Merry Unbirthday

When I first heard that Librarian Girl was looking for someone to blogsit while she went to visit her folks, I thought “Ooooo! Ooooo! Pick Me!” And LG, who lovingly tries to support me in all I do, DID pick me. All of the sudden, I went from feeling like I chose the lucky suitcase on Deal or No Deal to feeling like Jack Skellington did when he realized how badly he had fusked up Christmas. For the past year and a half, LG has selflessly blogged her way into your hearts by making you laugh, cry, and occasionally utter the phrase “What the ?!?!?”. So how could I hope to fill her exquisitely chosen footwear even for a day?

And then it hit me. After all the tributes she has paid to her near and dear with Birthday Posts, no one has ever written one about her. So, since it is not quite the season for LG’s actual birthdayness, I present to you an Unbirthday Post to assure you all that LG is, in fact, as surprising and wonderful and, let’s face it, nutty as she seems.

We shall start back in the late 1990’s when LG and I met at the aforementioned glamorous canoe rental facility. According to LG, there was a moment when she knew we would become friends and it involved me getting so frustrated with that stupid job that I grabbed on to some paddles leaning against the counter, turned my eyes upward, and said the words “Beam me up Scotty”. If references to Star Trek can’t bring two people together, what can really?

In dating terms, our friendship became serious fairly quickly after that and we soon relied on each other for important things like distracting each other from ridiculously impossible math homework and paper writing to embarking on a quest to find the best donut shop in town. And let me tell you, no one can elaborate on the finer points of a donut better than LG. Forget about wine with all of its bouquets and noses and legs, the culinary world of glaze, sprinkles, and cake-like texture is where it’s at!

And so, we come to the time when I (being Biology Girl) decided to pack my bags and head to California a la The Clampetts to pursue more edumacation in the name of everyone’s favorite sea creature – the barnacle. (Okay, let’s be honest here, technically Nordic Boy did the packing and there’s no way a family of four could have fit in my car with all of the crap I had in there.) But in the way that no one but Librarian Girl can, she managed to give me a send-off worthy of one of our favorite TV shows leaving the air.

Here are the highlights:

1. As a going away gift, Librarian Girl gave me MULTIPLE binders with years worth of all of our emails to each other in chronological order. These tell my history better than anything I could try to write and I’d guard them with my life if I had to.

2. On my last night in town, I settled into LG’s guest room and started to mist up thinking of all I was leaving behind when suddenly a chorus of Whitney Houston’s “I will always love yooooouuuuu” burst across the hall sung by none other than LG and Nordic Boy.

3. During the long drive back to Cali, LG made sure to keep us stocked in Smart Puffs, snacky cakes, and an endless supply of tunes. And if that weren’t enough, she didn’t complain one bit about the fact that every time she got back in the car I had to literally pack her in amidst the houseplants, random pairs of socks, and my answering machine that tended to fly out when she opened her door.

4. Most importantly, during this time of trial, tribulation, and dealing with a gas station attendant who bore an unsettling resemblance to Charles Manson, LG pulled out all the stops to be silly and keep me laughing when part of me wanted to do anything but that. The night before we got to our final destination, she got us a spot in a swanky boutique hotel, took me out to dinner, and assured me that everything was going to be okay.

And, as usual, she was right.

Now, here I am almost five years after that historic trip, and I don’t think LG and I could be closer even if we lived right next door to each other. So thanks Librarian Girl for the love, friendship, and urgent phone calls about the latest example of why wearing socks with sandals really is a bad idea. I don’t know what I would ever do without you and, quite frankly, I have no intention of finding out.

Gotta Go. Bye.
Biology Girl

Blogsitter's Club

I'm going on a little trip this week, back to the land where I was done borned. My dad's been under the weather lately, and so I'm making the trek back to the midwest to be there with moms and pops. Dad is finally out of the hospital, but not out of the woods, so Nordic Boy and I are going to lend a hand with whatever is needed. Despite the sucky circumstances, it's always good to be back there, and great to see my folks.

My parents are very cool old people. They are so cool, in fact, that the longer you hang out with them, the more you forget that they are old. They are the opposite of every stereotype you can think of when you think of old. They are active, and open-minded, and not grumpy in the slightest. And, when it comes to most things, they put my knowledge of certain kinds of technology to shame. When it comes to the latest in camcorders and ipods and such, my parents can talk the talk. One of my favorite things to do is to take them to Best Buy or Circuit City (or "Circus City" as my mom calls it), and watch the beefy salesmen try to put one over on them. Watching my sweet parents correcting them on how many megapixels something should have is like New Year's Rockin' Eve, as far as I'm concerned.

One thing that my parents do not have, however, is an internet connection in their house. They had it for a while, and used it, but not enough for them to really get into it. So, while I am visiting them, I will be traipsing over to the local library for my innernet fix like Tyrone Biggums runs to the crackhouse. And, while I'm gone, I have asked two of my closest homies to blogsit for me. So people, get ready, because if you ever wanted to know the juiciest, most gossippy tidbits about me, these two are the ones that could dish. I gave them instructions that went something like this: "write about anything you want," and now I am thinking about every silly thing that I've ever told them, every stupid boy-story that they have in their vaults, every mortifying morsel of crazy shit I have done in my life, and it's all flashing before me like one long blooper reel, which is basically what my life is in many ways.

First up will be Biology Girl, from sunny/foggy California who I talk to just about every day and knows everything about my daily happenings from what kind of skivvies I prefer to wear to which ex-boyfriend has resurfaced lately, and then up after that will be Alli from Chicago, who I have known since I was, um, born, and knows all the shit about things such as My First Time. Oh, shiver me timbers. What have I done?

Whatevers, though! I am an open book! Have at it, girls! I'm not scared-a-you! BRRRING IT!

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Me With Fries

Hey people, I'm the guest blogger du jour over at Berg With Fries. I feel like I've been asked to sit at the cool kids' table in the cafeteria. Here's hoping I won't blow milk out my nose in front them. Go read it!

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Head Case

I decided I need to ditch my hair stylist. Sad, but true. The snooty-patooty atmosphere was just a little too much to stand, even if they totally give good hair. Plus, I am on this kick where I don't want to drive any where, and now that I live in my cute new neighborhood with all the delicious urban amenities, I really don't need to be driving five miles to get my hair cut. So, I found a salon (rated highly in my librarianesque over-the-top research I did beforehand) located about ten blocks from my house, and made an appointment. The first time I went there, the person I got was nice, and gave me a fair-enough haircut (you have to train your stylists into your hair, you know, so having her be spectacular the first time is kind of unfair). The only teeny, tiny, itsy bitsy problem was that she almost crushed my skull in her ninja-like hands. Before she cut my hair, she told me that she was going to give me a "complimentary scalp massage." Okey dokey. Go for it. I'm ready for relaxatio--OW OW STOP IT WHAT THE HELL MY HEAD MY HEAD!

Really. She was trying to smoosh my head like a pistachio. I tried to tell her "less pressure, please" and although she lightened up, it never got to a place where it felt good. Who likes deep tissue Swedish massage on their head? Not me, that's who. So, the next time I needed to get my haircut, I went to the same salon, and got someone else.

I know this has to happen all the time. Stylists must be used to it. People coming in, getting a haircut from one person, then switching over to another person until they find someone they want to stick with. It's like dating. If it ain't working with one person, you gotta move on to the next. But am I the only one that feels weird about this? It's just such an obvious judgment on someone's talents. You suck, I'm outie, ya punk. It's got to sting them a little, right?

For my second haircut, I walked in to find that Atomic Skullcrush wasn't working that day. Good, I thought to myself, I at least won't have to face her for today. I was introduced to the stylist for that day, who started me off with a massage that didn't belong in the WWE. She then started on the haircut. As she started snipping away, who should walk in but the Skullcrush. Oh well, I thought as I saw her eyes take note of me, she'll have to start her shift at her station, which is across the room, and the awkward moment will pass.

Only? It didn't pass. Because she wasn't there to start her shift. She was there to get her haircut. Right next to me. She came over and sat herself an arm's length away from me in the station to my left. And then, you know what? The dude that was cutting her hair swiveled her right around so that she was staring right at the the side of my head. Dead on. I tried to look nonchalant. La la la, I am getting my haircut and looking straight ahead at myself in the mirror, chatting away with the nice lady who didn't try and decapitate me with her bare mitts. After a couple of minutes, my stylist swivels ME around. There we are, face to face, (a couple of silver spoons). Did anyone get that joke? Anyhoo. So there we are, in our chairs, facing each other as we both get our hair cut. What does one do in this situation? Do I say hello? It seems presumptuous that she would remember me, but, to be honest, I know she does. I wait for her to say something. And wait. And wait.

Meanwhile, my stylist is still chatting away with me.

Stylist: So how did you hear about this salon?
Me: Oh, I just live in this neighborhood and read good reviews about it.
Her: So you just walked in?
Me: Yes. I made an appointment and came in.
(Skullcrusher: stare stare stare)
Her: Well, I hope your first time with us brings you back!
Me: Yeah, ha ha. I'm sure it will.
(Skullcrusher: stare stare stare)

It was a neutral stare, not a glare. I couldn't tell if she was even listening to what we were saying. She couldn't possibly be judging me for implying that this was my first time in here, when she and I both know that's not true, right? Right?

After a good ten-minute stare down (the Skullcrusher versus her victim!), we got swiveled away from each other. I managed to get out of there without further incident. But gawd, you guys. I felt kind of bad. And I'm not one to feel bad about stupid shit like this.

Maybe, because of her head-assault, my brain was tenderized into stupidity. She's the one that beat the crap out of my cranium, so why should I feel bad, right?

Has anyone out there felt bad for dissing a stylist? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl