Menage a Mike

Someone asked to hear the hand-holding drama story that I mentioned a couple of posts ago. FINE. For YOU, I will re-live my pain.

It was the 5th grade. I had a crush on Mike. Mike was this little freckley faced dude with feathered hair that looked winglike on the sides of his face and a comb in his back pocket at all times. You remember those combs? Like this.


Except his was blue.

He could do this creepy thing where he could make his eyeballs shake. I am trying to think of how to explain it...he would stare at you and then his eyeballs would sort of vibrate from side to side in a wickedly grotesque way that would make all of the girls say "ewwww." All the girls loved him. You can totally see why.

Mike and I had a long, torrid flirtation with each other. I don't really know why I liked him and I have no idea why he liked me. It was just one of those things that WAS. Oh, and to add to the twisted web of elementary school romance, Mike had a twin brother who I liked back in 2nd grade. Liked him so much that I got to invite him to my house for after-school snacks one time. I don't know what happened to my romance with the twin, but by 5th grade I was all about Mike.

It's sort of coming into focus that I was going through the boy population kind of fast in elementary school, huh? I suppose I was. Playing the field and all, you know. Don't hate. Appreciate.

One day, we had an assembly. It was the high school choir, come to sing us some soft rock hits, as they are wont to do. They even had choreography of the sort of Up With People bullshit style that was so popular then (and maybe still? It's got to be popular still with the Claymate contingent). At this assembly, I somehow got in line next to Mike as we were filing in, which meant that we were sitting together. Rapture!

During the singing jubilee, as Mike sat next to me, he nudged me with his elbow. This was disconcerting as I was trying to Play It Cool by not looking at him or acknowledging that he was sitting right next to me. I glanced over and saw that he had his hand next to him, with his palm up. You know how, in the Matrix (stay with me here), Neo would get ready to fight by staring down Mr. Smith and putting his hand out in front of him, palm up, and then making that beckoning motion with his fingers? That's what Mike did! He beckoned me.

At first I didn't get what he wanted me to do. I looked at him, all "what do you want, fool?" (I was still Playing It Cool, see) and then his eyes looked down at my hand, resting in my lap. He beckoned again.

I went for it. This was too exciting for words. While the sound of some Michael W. Smith or Phil Collins tune rang in four-part harmony in our ears, I put my hand in Mike's. And we held hands for the rest of the show.

Sounds sweet, right? Like an episode of the Wonder Years or something. Except Mike was no Kevin Arnold, that's for damn sure. Because the whole time he was holding hands with me? HE WAS HOLDING HANDS WITH THE CHICKEE WHO WAS SITTING ON THE OTHER SIDE OF HIM TOO.

That's right, ya'll. I was involved in a hand-holding three-way and I DIDN'T EVEN KNOW.

I know this makes me sound like a dimbulb. How could I have not noticed that he was holding hands with someone else? I don't know. I was too busy Playing It Cool to notice, is the only explanation I can give you. And besides, you shouldn't be questioning me in all of this. I was the VICTIM. Mike was a hand-holding playa and I fell for it. Too bad, so sad.

I believe this was the first time I really touched a boy with any sort of romantic intention. How sad is that?

When my friends told me later what he did (yes, people, my friends knew what was up even if I didn't) I gave Mike his walking papers. I wish I could say that was the end of him, but he plagued me all the way into 6th grade. Remember this story? Same Mike.

Ain't that a kick in the balls.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

And Speaking of Segues

First of all, I just realized that my site meter passed the 66,666 mark in the past few days and NONE OF YA'LL told me. Why would I think that you are paying attention to my site meter? I don't know. I just think that everyone is sitting around waiting for the Sign of the Beast to occur in their lives.

Speaking of Satanic Evilness, lookee where I was this morning.


Happy Valentine's to me!

Speaking of Valentine's, you know what Nordic Boy got for me, a day early? A good chortle.

Him: (while making dinner, singing to himself) J-j-j-j-j-j-gee, you nut!
Me: Did you just say "YOU NUT?"
Him: Yeah, I am so gangsta, yo.
Me: It's G-UNIT. Not Gee, you nut.
Him: What's G-Unit?
Me: The name of the group. G-Unit. With 50 Cent in it? It's a GROUP.
Him: Oh, I thought they were saying "gee, you nut!" Like, hey g, you're such a nut!
Me: That's actually, well...awesome.

And speaking of awesome, while helping a teen patron the other day, the subject of today (Thursday) came up. She was incredulous, shocked, amazed that we, the library, would be open on VALENTINE'S DAY. I think that she wanted to cry on my behalf for having to work on such a Very Important Day.

And speaking of it being a Very Important Day, lookee what else I saw today.


BLUE SKIES IN FEBRUARY!

This is so joyous that it makes me grin like a toothy idiot.

And speaking of things that make me overjoyed, check this out.

I have seriously watched this like, five times in a row. And it's still funny.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Now I'm Just Vexable

I know you are going to be SO SHOCKED when you hear this. Lots of times, I don't have any idea what is going to come out of my keyboard when I sit down to blog. I just sit down, open up this here window and start puking out words.

You have fallen out of your chair with incredulity, haven't you? I can almost hear the collective thudding of asses on floors across the land.

I will give you a moment to collect yourself.

Here is my random thought for today. When I was in the 6th grade, I was (due to my ballerina chops) really flexible. I remember all of my friends saying that I should SO TOTALLY try out for cheerleading in 7th grade because of all the kicking and splitsing and jumping around I could do. Never mind that I could never be a cheerleader because: (a)I always had dance rehearsals immediately after school, often until 7 or 8 at night; and (b)I did not have mile high bangs held up by Aussie Scrunch Spray like anyone else who was cheerworthy, in fact I had no bangs at ALL. Despite this, I became sort of like a stupid pet tricks event for my classmates. Hey, my friends would say, Librarian Girl can touch her kneecap to her ear! While raising up on her other leg and standing on tiptoe! DO IT! And I would do it. Hey! She can kick her back leg behind her until her toe taps her on the top of her head! DO IT! And I would do it.

Does this sound pathetic? Yeah, I know. But it was adolescence. And this attention was like an all-you-can-eat buffet. I was belly up to the buffet and engorging myself, all too gladly.

In fact, not only was I a dancing pony for all of my friends, I started saying this phrase like I was hot shit: "I'm FLEXIBLE AND SEXABLE."

In 6th grade. Like, 11 years old. I was walking around saying that I was flexible and sexable! I hadn't even kissed a boy, or touched a boy, (besides one unfortunate hand-holding incident in 5th grade that only ended up in betrayal and heartbreak but that is a story for another time). The point is, I hadn't even really figured out what sex was (beyond the mechanics, which I knew but found to be highly disgusting and had all kinds of skepticism about). Looking back, I wonder if any grown-ups ever were in earshot of me saying such a thing with my big mouth. What must they have thought? What would I think if I heard a little girl marching around saying such a thing?

The other day, at the library, I saw two little girls, about 8 years old, doing the Macarena dance together. When they did the hip-swivel part, they would say "sex bomb!" in unison. At first, I was horrified. Then, I realized they had no idea what they were saying. Third, I remembered my flexible and sexable days. And then I wasn't so disturbed.

Unless you count the fact that the Macarena lives on in the hearts of the youth of today. Now THAT. Is disturbing.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Hello Darkness My Old Friend

Hi! We are having winds here the likes of which will blow your skirt right up over your head! Wish u were here!

New subject! Do you ever say the phrase "code of silence?" Like, let's say you were telling someone something and you wanted them to lock it in the vault, never tell a soul, lip-zipped, upon pain of death. Would you ever say "I'm going to tell you something, but it has to be in the code of silence after this, ok?"

Me either. Until I started hanging out with librarians. Librarians say words that I have never heard people use in casual conversation other than in books, which I suppose makes sense. For instance, librarians that I know often use the word "bailiwick." Isn't that a funny word? "That music collection is Matilda's bailiwick." Fie, me wee faerie. A pox on her bailiwick, I say!

So, the code of silence. I hear this phrase a lot, for those "off the record" work type conversations. A bit dramatic, yes? Like we are all library spies, working the underground resistance movement or something.

It gets even better. The other day, someone was telling me something that they wanted to keep just between us. And as he said "the code of silence," he made a gesture with his hands. As he said the words, he brought both his hands up over his head and pantomimed like he was putting a tent over the two of us.

Me: What did you just say?
Him: Just, you know, this is under the cone. The cone of silence.
Me: Did you just say CONE?

All this time, I thought people were saying "the code of silence," which was strange enough for me. But now? The CONE? What exactly is a cone of silence? Is it like an ice cream cone? A traffic cone? A pine cone? And the way that he gestured. He was literally putting the two of us underneath an invisible cone. The cone of silence.

Maybe it was just him. I kind of want it to be everyone though. The cone of silence is way, way better, right?

And does anyone get why I named this post what I named it? Because come on. That's funny.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Turn that frown upside down, sucka

Well wasn't yesterday's post the silliest boo-hoo fest you ever saw in your life?

Let's counteract that crap right now, shall we?

Awesome Things About My Week

1. Super Tuesday! Have I ever told you that I am a politics junkie? Well, maybe junkie is too strong of a term. A heavy user, let's say. I can't help it, it's in my blood. My dad used to be the mayor of a small island city, you know. Back in the early 60s. You should see the photos of him and my mom back in the day. My mom was rockin' the Jackie O. look and everything. Plus I have an uncle who was a member of Parliament for many years back in my homeland. The British imperialists left the scene and my DAD was one of the people who took over the joint! How cool is THAT? Democracy rocks, ya'll.

2. Nordic Boy left for Portland this week on a biznazz trip. And before he left? He made me some enchildas and some lasagna and froze it up for me to heat and eat. Dang, I should give that dude a medal or something.

3. I am working on a special project for work, and my end date on this project was supposed to end soon, but it got extended. So all week, people have been coming up to me and saying "you're extended!" and talking to each other about me and saying "she's extended." Is it just me or does that sound weird and funny?

4. It is Fashion Week. Between that and Super Tuesday, I may have to be surgically separated from the interwebs.

5. I read a review of my blog that was so, so nice and totally out of the blue. It made my day yesterday. Thanks, PL.

6. The weather has been in the upper 40s! The fact that I am filing this under "great news" should probably sound off some sort of alarm bell.

7. I have this thing with numbers. I always seem to see numbers in patterns and I feel compelled to point out the pattern aloud. COMPELLED. I am not talking about complicated patterns. Just stupid shit like if the time is 12:12. It's like A Beautiful Mind for the mathematically remedial. I seem to always be looking at a clock when it's freakin' 12:12. Then I may comment to whoever is there with me: "Look. It's 12:12." I swear I am not TRYING to look at the clock at 12:12, or 11:11, or notice that the odometer in a car is symmetrical with 11011 miles on it. It just happens. I don't even know what kind of response I am looking for when I say these things. Me: "Hey, your flight number is 828. Symmetrical." Possible responses: Great? Good for you for noticing? Who cares? Shut up?

Any of these would be acceptable I suppose. Anyway. I especially have to point out when I see sixes. This is mostly because I am a juvenile boy who thinks it is funny to say "666! The sign of SATAN!" at any opportunity. Nordic Boy has taken this on too. If I say "hey! You're going 66 miles an hour!" in our car, he will respond appropriately with "THE SIGN OF THE BEAST!"

Yesterday was a good day. Because this happened in my car.


The beast, I say! The BEAST!

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

February Battle

This time of year, if you live where I live, you may start to go a little haywire. The reason? THERE IS NO SUN WHERE I LIVE. It rains. All day. Every day. Often with winds that make the rain come down sideways into your face. And you have the knowledge that the sun will not peek out again until March, if you are very, very lucky. If you are not lucky, then maybe you'll see the sun in April, or May. You start to feel soggy, like you will never be warm or dry again. You don't want to leave your house. You don't want to get out of your cozy jam-jams and slippers. You start to do crazy things like watch Dance Wars MORE THAN ONCE on your Tivo. What seemed like a delightfully snuggly season back in November now seems like a mushy bowl of Corn Flakes. YOUR LIFE SEEMS LIKE A MUSHY BOWL OF CORNFLAKES.

When I was a kid, I went swimming at the local pool. I was a skinny little kid, 'tis true. There's no denying it. I remember this one day I got out of the pool dripping wet and this twerpy little dickwad named Matty laughed, pointed at me, and said "damn! You look like a drowned rat!" I felt like a drowned rat when he said that. Cold, shivering, hair flattened.

This weather makes me feel like Matty is sitting right on my shoulder.

So Friday. I was determined to turn things around on Friday. I was going to go out in that rain and do something social. In your FACE, February! I will not be a prisoner of my pajamas because of the likes of you! But the month of February wanted to kick me in the bawls. Here's how it went.

1. Blah blah worky worky forgot to eat lunch.

2. Blah blah worky worky staying late and I can't say more because I would like to remain undooced.

3. Due to the staying late, I missed my bus to take me to my dinner date with a bunch of pals. Food? Who needs food?

4. I make it home and Nordic Boy whips me up something to eat. The pull of the pajamas is STRONG, people. I am home. I am warm. I am somewhat dry. But I rally. IN YOUR FACE, FEBRUARY.

5. I change my outfit (one way to cheer myself up is to have a wardrobe change. It works for me) and head out to a party. Nordic Boy, sensing some tragic foreshadowing I think, offers to drive me.

6. I am dropped off at the block where my friends' condo is. I have never been to this building before. The intercom thingy? Not working. So I stand outside (rain rain rain, cold cold cold) and wait for someone to come out of the building so I can get in. Fifteen minutes. It seems longer.

7. I take the elevator up to the 3rd floor and go to the address I was given, which is 311. I knock. Ready to party! IN YOUR FACE, FEBRUARY.

8. A very timid looking lady, who I have never seen before opens the door. "Yes?" is what she says to me. I realize that this ain't the right place. This lady is clearly not anywhere near a party. I apologize and go back to the lobby. I do not fail to notice that this lady is in her pajamas.

9. I call Nordic Boy and ask him to look at my party invite to be sure of the address. He does. I am sure. Who was pajama lady then?

10. I ask the attendant in the lobby of the building if he can help me. He can't. Plus, he is rude.

11. I go back out to the intercom. I scroll through the names and find my friend's name. So yes, she definitely lives here. I dial the number. Still not working.

12. Rain rain rain. My hair, she is flattened. My toes, they be cold.

13. I call Nordic Boy. He drives back to help me. I feel the pathetic drowned rat feeling. Damn you Matty.

14. We give up. I go home. My sweet friend Hopscotch calls to check on me from the party. I can't bring myself to go out and try again, even though I miss my friends who I haven't seen in FOREVER.

15. I get in my pajamas. I watch bad tv. I go to bed before 10pm.

16. February says to me: IN YOUR FACE, Librarian Girl.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Tractor Pull

My friend Knickerknapper (man I am getting good at giving people blog names) once complained to me about his girlfriend.

K: Sometimes, she asks me what I'm thinking about.
Me: So?
K: So, I feel like I'm supposed to say 'I was thinking about you,' or 'I was thinking about how much I love you' or something like that. But honestly, that's not what I'm thinking about.
Me: Really? That's what you think she wants to hear?

Why would she want to hear that all the time? When she could be hearing awesome things like the following?

Me: What are you thinking about?
Nordic Boy: Tractors.
(pause)
Me: Yeah. I'm gonna need you to expand on that.
Nordic Boy: I was thinking about when I used to get to drive tractors. Like when I was a teenager.
Me: You did? You got to drive tractors? Like big ones?
Nordic Boy: Yeah.
Me: I don't think I have ever seen a tractor. Like up close.
(pause)
Me: Wait, I think I may have touched one. Once, a long time ago.
Nordic Boy: You touched one? What does that mean?
Me: In elementary school, we got to take a field trip to a farm. I remember we got to see a real cow and go on a hayride. And I think that we saw a tractor there, and I think I touched it as we walked by. It was green, I think. I don't know. I must have been like, 6.
Nordic Boy: You are so city.
(pause)
Me: (proudly) I've been on a riding lawn mower before.
Nordic Boy: Congratulations.
Me: Us at 15. You on a tractor in Wisconsin. Me on a lawn mower in Michigan. It's kind of romantic when you think about it.
Nordic Boy: What?

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

"The Funk of Forty Thousand Years"

Oh my god, have you guys heard about THIS???

Thriller Dance Day

Levels of awesome:
1. People learning the Thriller dance. Awesome.
2. People tutoring other people to learn the Thriller dance. Super awesome.
3. Everyone doing the Thriller dance all at the same time, globally. Mega awesome.

I have so many life stories related to Michael Jackson, Thriller, the Thriller dance, that I don't even know where to begin. But reading about Thrill the World made me immediately think about 11th grade Chemistry.

Let me start off by saying that 11th grade Chemistry was the class in high school that I sucked the most at out of every class I think I have ever taken. After going to college and learning that science was actually something that I had an affinity for, I can see now that my lovable but incompetent Chemistry teacher had something to do with my suckitude. Not that I am playing the Blame Game here, I know part of it was my fault, but Mister Victor wasn't helping me out and in fact had very little interest in making people understand shit. Sorry, Mister Victor, as I know you were a nice enough fellow and you used to make us laugh when we would make a mistake and you would say in your so-not-cool way "smooth move, ex-lax!" We appreciated your penchant for ridiculing mistakes. It's just not, in the bigger picture, the best teaching technique. I'm just saying.

There are three things I remember about that class in particular.

One was the time that I embarrassed myself in front of the class in lab when I presented my lab results and instead of saying Erlenmeyer Flask, for some godawful reason I said "Urethra-Meyer Flask." Oh yes I did.

Second was my friends Heidi and Bacchus (ok his name wasn't really Bacchus but he had a really unusual name like that). The three of us would spend lots of time in that class coming up with dirty words and phrases for the letters of the elements for the periodic table. (Number 67, Holmium, was already done for us! HO! Har har!)

Third was Suresh.

Suresh sat in the row in front of Heidi, Bacchus and me. He was a 10th grader, but the old puberty hormones hadn't kicked in so he looked about 12. He was geeky. Like, Urkel geeky. He had the exact same hairstyle as Orville Redenbacher. And he smelled like mothballs. He didn't trust his locker, he told us, so he would carry around every book to every class, and due to the fact that he was about four feet tall, the stack of books was taller than he was, and so he was constantly dropping them. And he had this calculator watch that he always wanted to talk about. ALWAYS. Every day he would, at some point, turn around and try to join in our conversation by telling us about his calculator watch. We always let him tell us, but then there was always a lull in the conversation after he had shown us the feature. Really, what can you say to someone who has just done a quadratic equation on his wrist for you? Especially when, at that point in your life, you don't know what a quadratic equation even IS and you just want to go back to making up dirty elements? We actually liked Suresh, and could tell there was something about him that could be tapped for friendship. Like the time we watched him ask Amy (a cheerleader), totally out of the blue, whether she shaved her legs or if she was naturally hairless, like a hairless dog. There has to be something rockin' about someone who would say funny shit like that, right? But we could never really make the connection with him. He couldn't cross over into raunchy giggle land with us, and we couldn't make the leap into let's-talk-about-my-watch-again land with him.

Late in the year (I want to say, for dramatic purposes, that it was the last week of school or something like that, but I honestly don't think it was), there was a day where we were left to our own devices in the classroom. (Can I just say that this seemed to happen a lot in my high school. The teachers would just leave and we would spend the hour running amok in the room. I am so proud of my education, I can't even begin to tell you.) And someone, I can't remember who, busted out a little radio or something and was playing it. Thriller was already years old at this point, but for some reason it came on the radio station that we were listening to. I will never forget this as long as I live. It was a classroom that had tiered seating, so the last row was higher up than the rows in front of it. Suresh jumped out of his chair so fast that it startled me, Heidi and Bacchus. He sprinted up to the top of the classroom, behind the back row and he BUSTED OUT THE THRILLER DANCE! Balls to the wall, full on, lip-syncing and doing every move perfectly. It was like the last scene in Napoleon Dynamite, for REALS.

I want to say that after that dance, we all became great friends and Suresh was suddenly cool. It didn't happen like that, but damn, it was a SHINING MOMENT. We were all agape. No one made fun of it. Everyone, even the hairless dog, was totally into it. Just for the duration of that song. It was the best.

See how the Thriller dance brings people together?

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

No Carrots for You

I eat a lot of salad. A LOT. I feel shy about this somehow, like it makes me boring-palette-person or something. I feel like I am confessing a dark secret of mine right now. You don't want to get mixed up with a girl like me, see? I eat fields of, and I wish I didn't have to tell you this, SALAD. Don't look at me! I'm hideous! Just leave me alone with my greens!

When I say a lot, I mean that when we do our weekly grocery shopping at the market, we are often responsible for cleaning out the lettuce bin. We buy 5 to 8 of these per week, easy. But still, I never take salad with me to work to eat for lunch. You may recall that I have a serious problem with lunch, almost to an epistemoligical degree, in that I just don't GET IT. Lunch is a lens through which things always seem out of focus. So you'd think that what with me being a salad eating machine, the solution to lunch time would be to extend the roughage lovefest into the daytime hours. But I never have, because salad transport always seemed to be an issue for me. Look, I never said I wasn't a big old weirdo, ok? These are my issues and I am just being honest.

This Monday was a new era in my lawn-eater ways. I bought me one of these bad boys:



I introduce to you, ladies and gentlemen, the FIT 'N' FRESH. Ta da! How exciting is THAT? There is a little salad dresser container in the top, that keeps the salad dressing seperate so as not to get mushy with the lettuce! And when you are ready for the dressing and the lettuce to consummate their union, you just twist that little dressing compartment lid and the dressing is dumped onto the salad INSIDE THE CONTAINER. You shake it up and then pop that lid off and salad eating time is ON.

Genius I tell you.

Aside from my lunch dilemmas, you may also recall that in my house, Nordic Boy tends to cook more often than not. So on Sunday, when I bought my Fit 'N' Fresh, Nordic Boy offered to make my lunch for Monday.

Me: Oooh, thanks. I'm going to have salad for lunch!
Nordic Boy: What do you want in it besides lettuce?
Me: Um, tomato. Olives.
Nordic Boy: Want me throw in some croutons and cheese?
Me: Sure. Oh, and carrots.
Nordic Boy: Carrots? Really? How about radishes instead?
Me: Instead? How come instead? How about radishes and carrots?
Nordic Boy: No, I think just radishes. I'll give you some carrot sticks on the side, if you want, but not in the salad.
Me: Why don't you want me to have carrots in the salad?
Nordic Boy: (shrug)
Me: Whatever, I'll eat what I'm given. Thanks!

This was earlier in the day, before we had done our grocery shopping. Later that evening, after dinner, I was folding laundry and Nordic Boy announced that he was going to make our lunches for the next day.

Nordic Boy: So did you want me to put some carrots in a seperate container then?
Me: No, I don't want to take two containers. Just throw them in the salad.
Nordic Boy: No. I don't think so. I'll put them in a bag for you.

Just at this moment my phone rang so I couldn't ask him why he was being weird about carrot segregation. After I got off the phone I went into the kitchen.

Me: What's with you and the carrots?
Nordic Boy: Nothing. What do you mean?
Me: Why don't you want me to have carrots in my salad?
Nordic Boy: Well, I'm giving you carrots in a bag. If you get to work tomorrow and you still want them in your salad, you can add them in yourself.
Me: (starting to crack up) You sound totally insane right now.
Nordic Boy: What?
Me: You just seem like you are avoiding putting carrots in that salad! Why?
Nordic Boy: (laughing but also cracking under pressure) I just don't want to chop them! Ok? There's too much chopping in salad prep!
Me: But you just chopped the lettuce, and the tomato, and the radishes!
Nordic Boy: I know! And I CAN'T CHOP ANY MORE! I CAN ONLY CHOP SO MUCH!

Then we laughed until we wanted to die.

This man feeds me, he cares for me when I am sick, he repairs my home, he maintains my yard, he drives me places, he always has a kind word for me. But the salad chopping. He has to draw a line somewhere and that line is at the mothersucking carrots.

Everyone has their limits.



I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Refined

When it comes to social situations, I consider myself a solidly above average type person. My mama and pops raised me right and I know how to be a gracious hostess as well as a good guest. I pride myself in making my friends feel welcome, comfortable, and appreciated. Bottom line, I am not a rudester.

But you know, sometimes. My mouth gets ahead of me. And I embarrass myself. And when I do, I have to add to that embarrassment by telling people about it. So here I am, broadcasting my bad behavior. Sorry, mom. I mean well.

I have an awesome co-worker, who has now become my awesome neighbor, along with her enfianced. In previous posts, I have called these two H and R, although I am now seeing that reading initials in blog posts can be kind of a drag, so I shall have to come up with some sort of nicknamery for all the people I have been calling by their initials. I have nothing handy for these two right at this moment, but as I keep typing something will pop out of my brain I am sure.

So our awesome neighbors invited us over for dinner this weekend. And so we went. And it was so nice. Despite the arctic winds outside, all was cozy and fun and delicious and a nice way to get over the grumpy pants mood I had been in all week. They made us salad, and soup, and risotto to warm up our bellies. There were placemats. And napkin rings! We felt very special indeed. Not only that, but when we arrived, brownies were being baked so as to be warm and fresh for us after dinner!

It's really easy to be a good guest with gracious hosts like these. One would think.

After dinner, we chatted and yukked it up for a couple of hours. And then it was time to head home. We bundled up in our coats and said our fond farewells to Hopscotch and Rambo (whoa. Where did THOSE nicknames come from? Hopscotch and Rambo? What is wrong with my brain? Oh well, that's what popped out, so Hopscotch and Rambo it is. Tra la la, Hopscotch and Rambo. I should totally be a celebrity so that I can name my children names like this, shouldn't I?) And as we did so, a thought occurred to me. We hadn't eaten any brownies. And here's where my mind went.

In all the fun we were having, we forgot to have dessert. If we leave now, Hopscotch and Rambo (oh dear god those nicknames) are going to go back into their kitchen, see that we all forgot dessert, and be all DAMN. I mean, if I had people over for dinner, and I made them brownies and then forgot to serve them, I would feel bad, right? So maybe I should do them a favor so that they won't have to feel bad later, right?

And then I opened my mouth and said this.

"How about a brownie for the road?"

That's right people. I DEMANDED my brownie. What the hell? What would possess someone to repay hospitality with this kind of behavior? We all forgot about the brownies, big deal. Shut up about it. Say thanks for the lovely evening and get yourself home. Only, honestly, I didn't mean it as a demand. I meant it as a favor. To them. So that they wouldn't feel bad later. And so that their brownies-for-guests efforts wouldn't go to waste.

Really, it made sense in my head at the time.

Of course, Hopscotch and Rambo (ok, now it's just sounding funny) were super gracious and cut us a big hunk of brownie to take home with us. And as soon as we left the house Nordic Boy looked at me and said "'How about a brownie for the road'? Really?" to which I said "I KNOW. I AM SO RUDE."

It comes from a good place. It really does.

Sigh.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Grumpy Like Martha

Well look at me. Non-posting foo', I am. My week has been filled with disgruntlement and general poopy-pants-ness and as you all know by now, I am not a disgruntled person by nature, and so when I get a case of the Grumpies (sort of like a case of the Mondays and just as annoying), I just sort of shut up. Because who wants to read complainy complainerson go on and on about things of little consequence?

You do, right? Because that's what you're gonna get today. Apologies in advance.

My Week of Superficial Complaints That Don't Really Matter In the GRAND SCHEME of things.

1. People in traffic. I am talking to you. Why all the anger, my pretties? You're just driving. And how does yelling and honking and going all Lou Ferrigno on other drivers help you? Please. You are harshing my mellow.

2. My neighbor, who has boughten up the perfectly lovely house next door and has been renovating it into the nastiest piecemeal McMansion monstrosity ever. You have to stop adding on. It's too big. And too ugly. And stop asking us if you can build just a little bit over into our property line, because NO, you can't. You already have a bazillion square feet over there and you don't need to colonize us with your Manifest Destiny of Home Expansion. Stop the insanity. And again, NO MORE ASKING.

3. Dude who was standing outside of my car door while I waited to pick Nordic Boy up from the rental car place this morning. Step back please. Despite what you may have heard, standing one foot away from a woman's car door and staring at her through the window with a wide-eyed, unblinking stare is not cute. Yes, even when you do that for a whole five minutes. Still not cute.

4. Martha Stewart. Boy you are cranky and rude to your guests on your tv show. I adore your website and tried to watch your show, but man. I thought you would have more manners and stuff. You are one grumpy lady. And apparently it is contagious.

5. On a related TV note, Charlie Rose, will you stop doing episodes about the failing economy? I know it's good to keep up with current events, and that's one of the reasons I watch you (the other being that I swear that you are stoned in most of your shows and this entertains me) but every day with the economic downturn? It's way depressing Charlie. I know, I know. If I am looking for cheery rainbows, maybe this isn't the show I need to be watching. You have a point. I'm switching to Facts of Life reruns.

6. My old neighborhood. This isn't a grumpy one, just a sad one. My mom tells me that things are falling apart around there. People I have known my entire life are getting old, and getting sick, and having lots of serious troubles. I kind of can't stop thinking about it this week. It's sad.

7. Basement room. Stop flooding and stuff. You're being a real drag.

8. Heating bill. Ouch.

See, none if it, except for the old neighborhood stuff, is really a big deal. But for some reason it is combining into a disgruntled mess.

I think the real thing is I work too frickin' much and I need a vacation.

I'll be better next week. I promise.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

The Way My Mind Works

1. I live in a little one-story house with no stairs, but my house sits up off the street so I have a small stairway that leads from the sidewalk to the front door. When I leave my house in the morning and I walk down these stairs, I say silently to myself "One two three four five six seven eight schlemiel, schlamozzle, hassenpfeffer incorporated!" I also then wonder why I do this on stairs, as Laverne and Shirley did that on a flat sidewalk, not on stairs, so why do stairs remind me of this? Next thing you know I will be tossing my gloves in the air instead of my hat while singing "you're gonna make it after all!"

2. Every time someone is going on a trip on a plane, I think of the time when Bio-Girl was going on a trip and Neighbor J asked her if she was taking any snacks. And then we all said "SNACKS ON A PLANE!" and peed ourselves laughing.

3. There are lots of times where Nordic Boy will ask me a question and the answer won't really matter much to me. ("What do you want for dinner?" or "What movie do you want to watch?") I will respond in these situations with "It don't matter to me." And he will say back "BREAD! That's a song by BREAD!" And it's funny. Every time.

4. You already know about our Markie Mark thing, but I'll tell you again. If Mark Walberg is ever mentioned in conversation, one of us has to say "FEEL IT! FEEL IT!" like in the beginning of "Good Vibrations." You would be surprised at how often Mark Wahlberg seems to come up in our house.

5. When people say the words "Saturday Night" to me, I find it difficult not to go all Bay City Rollers and say "S A T-U-R, D-A-Y NIGHT!"

6. I have bamboo in my yard that grows like crazy. We are constantly pruning them back. When I do so, I sing "Me Ol' Bamboo" from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Mostly silently, but sometimes aloud.

7. Sometimes, when I am at work and in non-cussy mode, and I need have a cuss-worthy moment, I often say "Aw nuts!" Like Michelle Tanner. I say it without the lisp though. I have some pride.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Destiny Will Arrive

It was the very last breath of the 1970s. I was in Australia, visiting relatives. There are many things about this trip that were exciting for a teeny midwest girly like me, but there was one thing that was more heartstopping, more electrifying than anything else. Was it the fact that I got to see koalas, emus, and kangaroos in person? BORING. Was it the fact that I got to walk all the way across the Sydney Harbor Bridge and then visit the famous Sydney Opera House? SNOOZEFEST. There was one thing that blew all of that boolshizz out of the warm blue Pacific water.

Olivia Newton-John was from Australia. And she was blitzing the Australian media promoting XANADU.

I know that people my age have a fascination with the movie Grease. And believe me, I am not dissing it. I can sing the "brusha brusha brusha" jingle just as well as anyone else. I know every last syllable of that movie and if you are a pop culture child of my generation, you probably can too. And I also give props to ONJ for her "Let's Get Physical" years. Anyone who can rock the terry cloth sweatbands is ok by me. But in between the 70s era Grease and the oh-so-80s "Make a Move on Me," square in the crack between decades, was my favorite ONJ effort: Xanadu.

I am just going to say this. Xanadu has an Andy Gibb look-alike. And ELO music. And a duet with CLIFF RICHARD. And those awesome 70s barrettes with the ribbon hanging off the ends. And rollerskating. Lots and lots of rollerskating.

You'd think, that with my obvious love for the movie, that I would be all atwitter about the Broadway musical remake. Au contraire. In fact, I am annoyed with the musical. I saw a clip on the Today show, and I wanted to barf. The reason for the pukey feeling was that they were trying to camp it up. YOU CAN'T CAMP UP XANADU, PEOPLE. The campy, it must be organic. You know what I mean? It's like, they were trying to HIGHLIGHT the campy. Which makes me, as an audience member, feel like an idiot. Do they think that I don't KNOW that Xanadu is silly, far-fetched, over-dramatic, and largely nonsensical? Do they think I need this pointed out to me?

What can I say? I can be ok with "Time After Time" being remade. But this? I can't do. I have my standards.

Happy Friday.



I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Wave 'Em Like You Just Don't Care

Well, apparently I am the only one left on earth who cares about how old I am and who can answer the question "how old are you?" correctly. The only one! All ya'll out there are just like Nordic Boy and have no idea how old you are and you don't care, and I am amazed! Look at you, being all healthy! I was expecting...well, not that. Doesn't anyone think about mortality? The passage of time? You mean to tell me that I am the only one who thinks time is careening out of control, and that being 10 years old, or 15, or 25, feels like yesterday and it's ree-frickin-diculous that years are piling on years and hey, will someone step on the brakes because this whole time thing is WAY TOO FAST and birthdays just seem to highlight that fact?

Anyone? Anyone?

Oh well. I am so on my own with this one, I can see that. Still, you guys really blew my mind. All the comments and all basically saying the same thing.

You know what really gets me. Here I was trying to write a post with the clear subtext of Nordic Boy as weirdo and me as sane person and you guys went and ruined that whole premise. Man!

In other news, despite Nordic Boy's lack of knowledge about his own age, we had a damn fine birthday. Well, almost. It started off rocky, because we had both taken the day off to do FUN! BIRTHDAY! THINGS! but then he found out he had a meeting he couldn't miss in the morning. No matter. It would only last an hour and then we would meet up and start with the birthday activities. Except those bastards at his workplace kept him over the one hour time limit that was promised. And not just by a teensy bit. By over FIVE HOURS. That's right. A one hour meeting turned into a six hour meeting. With no lunch, even! So, he didn't get out of work until evening, which means that him getting the day off for his birthday boiled down to a day off wherein he was still at work.

I thought this might have made him a bit grumpy, so I pulled out the failsafe grumpy-combat behavior. When he got home and opened the door, I greeted him with a song and dance version of "'S Wonderful" that would have made Gene Kelly proud. And you know what he did? He joined right in, even throwing in the Georges What's-His-Name accent and everything. I don't care what anyone says, nothing is more cheerful than a badly sung but balls out show tune. Oh fine, if you want to see it done WELL, then you can click here. That's only if, you know, you want to see it IN TUNE. Boring.

Then, on account of him not having had any lunch, we had to hightail it out the door to get a nice birthday dinner kind of early. Ok, really early. At 5:30. Who says we aren't getting old when we are rocking the early bird special like that?

Thanks for all the well-wishes, guys. I know Nordic Boy appreciated it, and now feels quite validated that he doesn't know how old he is. You've shown me what's what, that's for sure. Knowing your age is like, SO yesterday. I see that now.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Aging Gracefully. Or Something.

My parents come from a land where age ain't nothing but a numba. Not even a numba, actually. People don't give a rat's ass about how old they are back in the homeland. I remember having conversations with aunts and uncles and cousins where I would ask them how old they were and they would shrug and say things like "uh, I don't know. Forty, maybe? Forty-five? I know I'm somewhere in my forties." As a child, a very American child who was used to birthday cake and presents and parties, I would bug out at this sort of answer. "But, when is your birthday?" I would ask. "I don't really remember. In the spring. I'll have to go look at my passport and I can tell you an exact date then. Now let's go eat a mango! They are falling from the sky!"

Ok so they didn't really say that stuff about the mangoes. I just put that in because eating mangoes that fall from the sky (or, um, mango trees) is one of the great pasttimes of the Motherland. (I almost typed Mothership there, instead of Motherland. But that's a totally different thing, to be discussed at another time).

The point being, how old one is is totally not at all important there. No one thinks about it. No one cares. No one is obsessed with seeming younger. Or older. They are too busy sitting in all that white sand and swimming in warm blue reefwaters and serious business like that. Isn't that age-free mentality hard to picture? Isn't it weird to even try to think like that?

Not for some people. Take, for instance, my dear Nordic Boy. As anyone who knows him well can attest, he is as far from Island native as you can get. Corn-fed midwest boy is what he is, all American, apple pie, blah blah, stars and stripes. But that guy? Cannot remember his age to save his life. I have known him many years now, and at any given moment, you can ask him how old he is, and HE WON'T KNOW. He will just blurt out some number, and then look at me as if to say "Is that right? It sounds ok, but is that right?" NO, it is not right. And not only is it not right, he is always aging himself. He always thinks he is older than what he really is. ALWAYS. And you want to know something? The only reason I really care about him knowing his age is that I am the same age and when he ages himself, he is dragging me right down with him and I DON'T LIKE IT.

I am not proud of this. Don't hate. Appreciate.

I know I should be thankful that he doesn't care about this crap. Perhaps it will rub off on me at some point in our lives. It's only fair, right? I mean, there are lots of ways in which we have taught each other valuable things. I have taught him how to eat/love super spicy food, and how to do a spot-on Indian "screw in the lightbulb, wipe the table" dance maneuver. (And if you are unclear on that particular dance move, you need to get yourself to an Indian party, pronto). The least he can do is teach me how to forget my age.

Today is the birthday. If you ask him how old he is turning, he may say 72. Just nod and smile and tell him he must soak in a Palmolive/Oil of Olay stew to maintain his youthful veneer. And I will do my best not to freak out.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Festool Fairy

Here is my discovery for the week...

watching someone be totally confused can be BARRELS OF FUN. It can make your whole day.

Here's what happened. And I am warning you that this, once again, may be the type of story that only I find funny, but Ima tell you anyway. Just pretend-laugh for me and I shall be satisfied.

Nordic Boy's birthday is coming up fast. And although he is generally happy with whatever birthday gifts may come his way, there is really, truly only one set of things on his wishlist. Items from a company called Festool. Tools, tool storage, all that stuff that I have no understanding of whatsoever. Suffice it to say for the sake of this story that this brand is not readily available at Home Depot, Lowe's, Ace, etc. It's German-made, fancy, ergonomic, environmentally friendly, hyper-efficient, blah blah blah. Nordic Boy has the catalog and he pores over it. Salivating. Almost crying with yearning. And when there is any workplace bonus money, or birthday money, or any extra money of any kind, he's buying Festool. And with the scarcity of anything that could be called "extra money," that's not very often.

Wednesday night, at around 9pm, Nordic Boy and I were chatting it up. Here's the fun part.

(Doorbell rings).

(Nordic Boy opens the door. There, on the front steps, is a woman, in her 40s or so, definitely of the soccer mommish persuasion. In her hand, she holds a piece of Festool merchandise. No packaging, no box. Just the merch itself.)

Soccer Mom: (holding out the merch and smiling) Here. This is for you.

You know that confused sound that Scooby Doo makes when he's not understanding something? AARRH?? If any sound would have come out of Nordic Boy at that moment, it would have been that. And from me too, for that matter. Who is this soccer mom fairy godmother, coming to our doorstep late in the evening, with this VERY SPECIFIC item that only Nordic Boy would want and just handing it over?

Nordic Boy: Um, what?

Soccer Mom: This. It's for you.

Nordic Boy: But---how?---who?---I don't---understand.

Soccer Mom: Are you Nordic Boy?

Nordic Boy: Well, yes. But, who are you?

Soccer Mom: Well, I'm coming from Mountlake Terrace (a suburb of Seattle) but my son goes to the high school down the street from here.

Nordic Boy: What? What are you talking about? Why---who...WHAT?

I wish I could convey the level of confusion. It was like Nordic Boy's head was going to explode. Sheezus it was FUNNY.

Soccer Mom: So I figured since I was going to be in the neighborhood I would just drop this off. Here.

(Nordic Boy takes the Festool product. He looks like he has seen Santa FOR REAL).

Nordic Boy: Thanks. B-but who ARE you?

You think this is confusing so far? Are you wondering who this Soccer Mom with the ability to grant wishes could possibly be? There couldn't be anything to add that would make this situation more confusing, could there?

Here's what she said next.

Soccer Mom: This is a gift for you from your daughter in California.

I wish that Nordic Boy would have been taking a drink of something. Because he would have done a SPECTACULAR spit-take if he had.

Nordic Boy: MY WHO??

Soccer Mom: Have a great night!

And she left.

After some information gathering, we discovered that the item had been ordered online from our dear friend Bio-Girl for Nordic Boy's birthday. The distributor for this area was (apparently, although this is not entirely clear) Soccer Mom, who obviously has great customer service inclinations (home delivery and friendly too!), but whose communication skills are clearly lacking. Bio-Girl assured us that she in no way indicated that she was posing as Nordic Boy's offspring and has no idea where Soccer Mom came up with that jive.

So all is well. Nordic Boy gets a birthday gift that he adores and is reassured that he hasn't sired a child in California that he had no idea about and who wants to express his neglect of her by buying him fancy presents, and everyone is happy. Except me. Because I was hoping Soccer Mom really was Santa and that she was coming for me next with that Lela Rose outfit I've been dreaming about. Dang.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

To the Beat of the Rhythm of the Night

Back in the day when I was a young lass, I was friends with sleep. Me and the Sandman, we would kick it. Hardcore. I could sleep any time. Anywhere. When I was a teenager, my friends and I would carouse about town doing teenage things (2am sundaes at McDonald's! whoo hooooo!) and then I would crash into sleep wherever I ended up. In the back seat of a car? No probs, holmes. On a friend's couch? Bring it! On the floor of a friend's living room, my blue mascara (oh no) crunched together, my white keds kicked off and my jaw all aslack? Totally. I would sleep. Just like that.

Somewhere, in my early early 20s, things changed. The Sandman broke up with me and sleeping was never quite the same again. I would spend hours, awake. Reading, watching tv, gnashing my teeth in frustration. At the time, it was the least of my problems. I was in the middle of a period in my life I like to call Puberty the Sequel, where everything that happened was dramatic and exhausting. So in addition to the lack of sleeping, I was doing a lot of Diane Keaton-style crying about stuff. You know that whole montage in Something's Gotta Give where Diane Keaton just walks around busting up crying over everything? That was me, around age 20. (And if you have never seen that montage, you have to so totally click on that link there. It is so freakin' funny.) So really, I didn't have time to sleep. I had a full day's worth of waterworks to get through and I was burning the midnight oil doing it.

After Puberty the Sequel ended, I went into a phase where I could sleep, but would wake up over anything. Traffic noises outside my window, a creak in the ceiling, the next door neighbors having sexual furniture-moving episodes that I could hear through my wall. (What is a sexual furniture-moving episode, you ask? It was what I chose to name the sounds that I was hearing, which could not be described any other way than to say that my neighbors were clearly knockin' boots and pushing their furniture around at the same time. I tell you, there is a fetish for everything). Just when I was getting over this hyper awareness of sound and sleeping through all the racket, I moved. And my new apartment? Was totally silent. I remember my first night in that apartment. I was wide awake most of the night, freaked out by all the nothing that was happening in my presence. No traffic, no neighbors, no nothing.

The Sandman was chased away once again, and came back slowly and cautiously and settled into my new silent room. And then? Wham! Nordic Boy got sick. Really, really sick. In and out of the hospital, almost kicking the bucket kind of sick. When that was going on, my sleeping habits grew even lighter than they ever had before. "Sleeping with one eye open" is what I believe it's called. I was atuned to everything about Nordic Boy-- I would wake up if his breathing pattern changed. I would wake up if he moved in the slightest. I was watching him for any changes and so conking out was out of the question. And during this time, the Sandman was fed up and just hightailed it out the door and never came back. To this day, I will wake up if Nordic Boy so much as sighs in his sleep. The fear of that period has never left, I suppose.

So for the past two days, Nordic Boy has had a very slight cold. You wouldn't even know he had a cold really, it's so slight. But for the past two nights, the congestion has made him snore. I am talking full on, buzz saw, cartoon style snoring. It's like a nasal nocturne all night long and it ain't soothing. So for me, the girl who usually is functioning on a few hours of sleep a night, and who wakes up when a mosquito farts, this has meant no sleep at all. At all.

The Sandman has screwed me over once again. Maybe some day I will sleep a full 8 hours again at some point in my life. Sleeping for real seems like part of my lost youth, gone forever just like Pixie Stix straws and DeBarge.

I'm tired, peeps. As usual. That's all.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

2007 Has Left the Building

Stealing a meme from Librarisaurus Rex. Stealing is fun. Go ahead, steal this from me, you'll see.

1. What did you do in 2007 that you'd never done before?
Commuted more than five miles away from where I live to get to work every day. I am now a card-carrying member of car culture. And it sucks. And I watched the Bachelor this year for the first time ever. And that sucked too. Wow, way to start off the list all cheery!

2. Did you keep your new years' resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
Honey please. I'm living in the now, dude.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
Yes! Babies were shooting out all over the place. Most notably, Neighbor J and B had a sparkly eyed girlie who is now locomoting herself around town via her patented rolling technique, and friends H and J had a little zen baby who looks at you with eyes that say "'whatsa haps?" And lots more babies. All destined to be more mature than I am in a year or two.

4. Did anyone close to you die?
No, although it was pretty damn close this year. Too close. That shit was the real deal.

5. What countries did you visit?
The good 'ol US of A had to be the only resting place for mine asseth this year. That's ok. Sometimes I think I have spent enough time on a plane in the first 25 years of my life to last me forever. Oh, but I did get to go see Frankenmuth. Which should totally be its own fake German nation.

6. What would you like to have in 2008 that you lacked in 2007?
Healthy, healthy loved ones. All of them! I don't want to hear ONE SNEEZE out of the lot of you! Because I have HAD IT. A robot vacuum cleaner would be nice too.

7. What dates from 2007 will remain etched upon your memory?
H and R being born, a Most Shocking Day at work (and I am not easily shocked but this one was a doozy which I wish I could tell you about except I would surely get dooced), the day my dad had a stroke, finding out that my sis-in-law has MS, finding out that Nordic Boy's mom has a combination of serious health ailments, the day when my brother went into the hospital (what a pattern this is, huh?), sitting in my parents' back yard with my mom, dad, and Nordic Boy when my dad got out of the hospital and me just soaking in the precious time that we had together, eating cupcakes in the middle of the night with Alli and Map, having an official Librarian Girl and Bio-Girl Day of Fun (much like Joey and Janice's Day of Fun, except, you know, we like each other), getting to see ex-roomie Palindrome for a day or two and playing with my nephew.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
Having a laugh each day, even when things were bad. (You know how the catchphase on Extras that Ricky Gervias always says is "Is she havin' a laugh?" Yeah, that's me. I'm having a laugh.)

9. What was your biggest failure?
I stopped categorizing things I do as failures a long time ago. That shit is toxic. Not doing that.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
No, I made it through another year in tact.

11. What was the best thing you bought?
A washer and dryer. Not an iPod, or a trip, or an exciting pair of shoes, but a washer and dryer. God I'm old.

12. Whose behavior merited celebration?
Did I tell you about the time I didn't whine about being cold? Ok, ok, spotlight off of me. I had a couple of friends who were just the most kick-ass support system ever when all the family health crises were going down. Most notably K and Bio-Girl. Nordic Boy and I were barely functioning for a while there and you two rocked the hizzy. And everyone else that helped us out too. So much kindness out there.

13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?
World events certainly can make my mood go over into the bad place.

14. Where did most of your money go?
Mortgage, mortgage, mortgage. Oh, and um, my mortgage.

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
Ok, I am starting to sound like a one-note Sally, but I was obviously excited when my Dad started to pull through. On a more superficial note, I was also excited by Lost and Battlestar Galactica (shut it, I know it's geeky), the final Harry Potter book (geek points going ever higher), finding a really great pair of jeans, and hosting Alli and Map in my town.

16. What song will always remind you of 2007?
Stronger by Kanye West (which I could totally spit out word for word for you which you would think I wouldn't be advertising but hey, whatevs). And What Ever Happened by the Strokes. Neither of these have anything at all to do with what actually happened in '07. I just heard these two songs a lot.

17. Compared to this time last year, are you:
a) happier or sadder? Happier, baby.
b) thinner or fatter? Who the hell is counting? Not me.
c) richer or poorer? About the same, I think. Maybe a tad richer.

18. What do you wish you'd done more of?
I haven't been arting as much as I would have liked during the year.

19. What do you wish you'd done less of?
Worrying.

20. How will you be spending Christmas?
I spent it with Nordic Boy and blood-sucking zombies and Will Smith.

21 is missing. Couldn't be bothered to stick around, apparently.

22. Did you fall in love in 2007?
Every damn day.

23. How many one-night stands?
365 in a row. What a hoochie!

24. What was your favorite TV program?
Battlestar Galactica.

25. Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?
What kind of jacked up question is this?? The yearly hatred question? I'd have to say that my hatred levels are all about the same as they were last year.

26. What was the best book you read?
Asking a librarian this question is like kicking him/her in the mouth. OUCH! I plead the fifth.

27. What was your greatest musical discovery?
I re-discovered Radio Department this year. I loved them and then sort of forgot about them. Now the love, it be renewed.

28. What did you want and get?
Unconditional love.

29. What did you want and not get?
A nice yard.

30. What was your favorite film of this year?
I didn't have one. Movies weren't really grabbing me this year. I liked the Queen with Helen Mirren in it.

31. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
Sick, weilding tissues, hacking up a lung, cancelling birthday plans, and mad as HELL. I felt like I was turning older than dirt.

32.What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
I missed out on my annual Oregon beach trip with my best pals this year. I wish we would have gone because the year just didn't seem right without it.

33. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2007?
Head to toe fabulous, of course. Same as every year.

34. What kept you sane?
Who says I was kept sane? Clearly, meme-question-writer, you don't know me.

35. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
Who did I "fancy?" Oh, I don't know. Jonathan Rhys Myers is a cutie.

36. What political issue stirred you the most?
Iraq, of course. The situation in Myanmar. Now Pakistan.

37. Who did you miss?
Too many people to name, sadly. This meme is starting to bum me out.

38. Who was the best new person you met?
Well, the two new babies in my life are right up there. And when you ask "best NEW person," they are definitely that. New people, that is.

39. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2007:
Dancing around and singing nonsense songs can always cheer you up in a pinch.

40. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year:
"And you were not a dot dot dot
waiting for me to complete you
and it was like I just forgot
to measure everything that I do"

Final Thoughts:
2007 was a kick in the crotch and walk in the park all at the same time. I smiled a lot and worried a lot, and I tried to grow up and I felt about a hundred years old too. 2007 was just more of my life and that life is pretty damn good. I can't wait for more. Bring it!



I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Mild Weather in Seattle My Ass

What do you do if you:

a) have a fear and hatred of cold weather the likes of which is so out of control that all of your friends and family tell you that you need psychological treatment because you whine so goddamn much about it; and

b) have the day off although you just had one on account of it being Jesus' birthday; and

c) don't have your gloves, hat and scarf with you; and

d) are wearing shoes that can not in any way be described as "weatherproof" or "practical"; and

e) are witnessing icy rain pelt down in a sideways fashion?

You decide, as you're driving back from the store, that you need to go to the plant nursery, of course. The outdoor plant nursery. Just for the pure joy of being completely underdressed for December in Seattle and to see just how wet one can get while running around trying to find a good deal on some plants. And to remember with nostalgia what it was like to not be able to feel your hands and then to feel them painfully thaw out just as you did as a child growing up in Michigan. And to watch a droplet of moisture actually freeze up on the end of your beloved's nose as he tries to pick out a lovely evergreen shrub before it gets too dark. And to experience what a huge nursery is like when there is not one other person there. Even the people who work there are huddled inside. Buncha wusses.

You do this because you have a coupon for this nursery that expires on December 29. And the savings are too great to pass up. And even as you curse your parents for making you so pathologically frugal, you run around the nursery just the same, milking the coupon for all it's worth, even though the experience is making you seriously consider peeing in your pants just to feel a few seconds of warmth in your nether regions which you fear may never have feeling again.

At the end of it all, you have some new winter plants, at a STEAL of a price, and a compliment that you never thought you would hear.
Nordic Boy: (on the way home) Wow. You didn't even whine once. That WHOLE TIME.

At the close of 2007, this is the biggest statement of progress one could make about me. I'm so proud.


Even Nordic Boy was cold. And he's NORDIC.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Zombie Christmas

I have only posted 7 times this month. After the post-a-day binge of November, I have gone on some kind of crazy posting-fast for I'm not sure what reason. So although I am not much of a New Year's Resolution kind of lady, I am going to give myself until the first of the year to get my shit together and post more come 2008.

I hope you all had some days off of work this week. As far as I am concerned, that is the best part about this time of year. Well, that and the cookies. I was going to tell you all about my existential feelings about the Christmas holiday but then I realized that the liklihood that you all would give a flying figgy pudding about that is pretty slim.

So instead of doing that, I'll tell you what I did on Christmas.

1. Nordic Boy and I are not big Christmas celebrators. In order to explain this further I would have to go into that existential Christmas feelings thing I was talking about before, so don't ask. We don't give each other presents or anything like that, usually. This year, we decided we would exchange a couple of things. Small things, no wrapping required. I got a pop culture crossword book (score!) and a pair of earrings from my favorite handmade store. He got a whole mess of socks and some new pens, the type of which I know he likes to use on his blueprints for work. Nordic Boy loves socks. And pens. We were both genuinely overjoyed with our gifts. They were the kind of gifts that only we would have gotten for each other. What a coupla geeks.

2. We stayed in our pajamas and read books on the couch while sharing a blanket until lunch time.

3. Nordic Boy made us his famed grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch and we watched the snow fall outside of our window.

4. At 1pm, while still in our pajamas, one of us said "let's go to a movie!" We got ready in five minutes, jumped in our car, and went to the movie theater to see what was playing. We ended up with tickets to "I am Legend" which started at 1:30.

5. Saw Will Smith battling zombies on crack using fire bombs, automatic weapons, and hand-to-hand combat. Happy birthday, Jesus!

6. Got home and made a big dinner and ate and talked.

7. And talked, and talked.

8. And talked some more.

Here's to the close of another year. I had the perfect day and I hope you all have one too, whatever that may look like.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Just A Little Patience

If I had to describe Nordic Boy with a list of adjectives, one of the top things I would say about him is that he is patient. I think this is part of what makes him so good at designing and building stuff. He takes his time to think it through, and he never gets frustrated with the process. As obstacles or problems arise, he just deals with them as they come, and he doesn't have that impulse that so many people have (ahem, cough cough, ME) to hurry up and be done with something. He does things wholly for the process, not rushing toward the result. Other qualities that I think of as quintessentially him (thoroughness, thoughtfulness, craftsmanship) are secondary- I don't think he would have these other things if he wasn't the poster child for patience.

Hey, remember that Guns N Roses song? Patience? Am I remembering it wrong, or is there a part to that song where Axel Rose just sort of lets out this long note where he's not really saying anything? Sort of an aaaahh-eeeeeh-aahhhh-eeeeeeh-aaaaah sound? Am I totally hallucinating that?

Anywho. Nordic Boy and I had this conversation last night, and after it was over, I laughed until I wanted to die, it hurt so bad. And I am walking around today, and it is STILL FUNNY. I keep cracking myself up over it. It may be one of those stories where you had to be there, or you have to really know Nordic Boy and me in person to really get how gut-busting funny it is, but what the heck. I'm telling you anyway.

Nordic Boy was watching "Ask This Old House" last night, and I was doing a crossword. I happened to look up, and there weren't any familiar faces on the screen. No Norm, no Kevin, no Tom, no Roger. It was some random guy I had never seen before, doing the project. I was about to ask who they were, but then the scene changed and there was Norm and Kevin and the whole familiar gang again.

Me: Who was that guy?
Nordic Boy: That was the electrician.
Me: (thinking that he wasn't understanding that I was referring to the guy who was on the screen a second ago, and not the guy who was on the screen now) But who was that other guy?
Nordic Boy: The electrician. He's not on here as regularly.
Me: (Still thinking he wasn't getting who I was talking about). No, not this guy. The guy before. Who was that guy?
Nordic Boy: He was the electrician. Not on every time. You probably just didn't recognize him.
Me: The other one. The one BEFORE. Who was he?
Nordic Boy: He was the electrician.
Me: The one in the BLUE SHIRT. Who was he?
Nordic Boy: He was the electrician.
Me: The one with the blue shirt?
Nordic Boy: Yep. He was the electrician.
Me: Not Roger (on the screen now). The one from before. The one with the DARK blue shirt.
Nordic Boy: He was the electrician.

I am not even kidding you guys. This entire conversation, Nordic Boy knew exactly who I was referring to, and he answered my question. And I kept, like a frickin' moron, re-asking it. Thinking he wasn't with me. Clarifying my question for him. Re-clarifying it. Oh, he was with me alright. He was with me from the first five seconds of the conversation. And yet. His voice never wavered. He never sounded the least bit exasperated by my vitriolic badgering. He never went to the place of "OH MY GOD YOU GODDAMN LUNATIC. I KNOW WHO YOU MEAN. HE'S THE MOTHERSUCKING ELECTRICIAN NOW STOP ASKING ME." He answered it each time, calmly, lovingly. No problem.

This went on for a few more rounds. He never made me feel like an ass, although clearly, well. Yeah.

When I finally caught up to this conversation I had been having, where he had said to me about twenty gajillion times that "he is the electrician," I realized how insane this was. And how patient he is. And his level of patience was just so FUNNY. How long would he have kept working with me, his slow-witted lover? How many times would he have sublimely informed me of the dark blue shirted electrician? 20? 30? I'm almost sad that I caught on, because now we'll never know.

I laughed about that all night last night. And today. As I washed my face and he brushed his teeth I would bring it back up. "So what you're saying is, that guy was the electrician?" and that would start me off laughing all over again.

Patience. It's awesome. Aaaaahhhheeeeeeaaaaaahhheeeeeeeahhhhh.

Who was that guy?

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

"Recappy Chappies With Snappy Serapes"

The year is winding down and so all you are going to see from all sides is Attack of the Year's Recaps. There will be countdowns aplenty and people summing up the year and pontificating about the best songs, the worst shows, the most fascinating people, the most intriguing artisanal cheeses, the top-rated beard groomers, and the must-have nun-habits of 2007. And there will be lots of bloggers tagging other bloggers with year-end recap memes, and although I tecnnically have not yet been tagged, I am anticipating that I will so I am going to declare myself tagged. I should have thought of this technique a long time ago. This way, when I wasn't picked for the dodgeball team in middle school, I coulda just said "eff you, effers. I pick myself for your team. Deal with that."

Two things about that little imaginary anecdote there.

1. I used to get picked pretty quickly for dodgeball. Not first, but somewhere in the front of the middle. So I didn't have that whole picked-last trauma that everyone else seems to have. I have never understood that mathematically- how can SO MANY people have picked-last trauma? If everyone in the world was getting picked last, then who the hell was getting picked first and second and third?

2. I never would have said "eff you, effers" in middle school. I would have said something way more cussy. I had a rotten mouth back in the day. Sorry Mom.

Then, after I had tagged myself for Recapping Fun, I started to think about my year. And I started to type. And you know what? The really Big Events of my 2007...kind of sucked. I mean, I started to look at it and I realized how Eeyore-like it all sounded. First of all, my beloved Dad got sick. Really super serious scary sick. Second of all, my BFF lived far away and this was the first time in years that I hardly ever saw her, which totally felt weird. Third, another (former) BFF of mine, after a couple of years of The Chop Chop Salad between us, finally bowed out of my life for good and it truly broke my heart in a way that was in the back of my mind for much of my year...

Jeez, Wheezy. What kind of jacked up list is that? Because I hadn't thought my year was so bad until I actually started writing this list out. In fact, I had been under the delusion that the year had been ok. Good, even. Because in my head, on a day to day basis, I think about things a certain way that is actually quite sunny. For example, when my dad was sick, I was really upset, yes, but I was also really full of love for him, and I spent a ton of time thinking about how lucky I am to have had a dad like I do, and how many people I know that don't have such great dads. So in the midst of feeling sad about what was happening, I was also feeling at peace about it, in a weird way. I'm not trying to minimize the worry that I felt. I was scared shitless, believe me. But to sum up the whole event by putting it on a list as "my dad almost died in '07" just doesn't feel like a fair assessment of what happened and how it affected my life.

So I'm going to take myself right back off the Recapping Train. At least in the way that I have seen it done, which makes you have to reduce your life into the really big deal events. My life is more than the really big deal events. It's all the little things that add up to my year.

Things like:

Freaking out the Gap ladies.

Rating men and MEN.

Talking in my sleep for the first time ever.

Running around with a horde of librarians.

Going green by subtracting some green.

Becoming an auntie.

Keeping Nordic Boy alive.

Talking on the phone a lot. And always about very important matters of state.

Living in Operaland.

Showing you a 9th grade note.

Showing me some love.

Getting beat up for beauty.

Being cold. I talked about being cold a lot. A really lot.

These are the things that made up my life in 2007. I can't reduce it more than that. Life is, to me, by and large, silly. Day to day weirdo stuff. I'm trying really hard not to use the phrase "fabric of my life" since that will just make everyone think about cotton. But you get what I'm saying right? Life is made of the small things. The unrecappable.

What are the small moments that happened to you in '07? Comment or write about them on your blog.

Look at that. I totally just picked you for my dodgeball team.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

The Secret of Our Success

In the car, radio on, flippin' zee channels. Nordic Boy and I, totally silent.

"Oh Yeah" by Yello comes on.

Me: Ferris Bueller!
Nordic Boy: The Secret of My Success!
Me: Starring Michael J. Fox!
Nordic Boy: Planes, Trains and Automobiles!
Me: Oh my god! You are on a roll!
Nordic Boy: Teen Wolf!
Me: Really? This song was in Teen Wolf?
Nordic Boy: And K-9!
Me: Oh my god. You didn't just say K-NINE.
Nordic Boy: This song is in everything. From the 80s.
Me: And you remembered like, all of them.

Satisfied silence for the rest of the ride.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Believe the Hype

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Taco Seasoning

You have so been checking back here, day after day, just WAITING for me to finish the Taco story, haven't you? You know you have.

Please. Just let me have my delusions.

I'm going to start Part Deux with a word about Taco's friend, Dave. They were best friends, and in best friend world, it was clear who was who. Taco was the Hot One. Dave was the Funny One. They sat next to each other in choir, and so as I tried to worm my way into Taco's good graces, I also got to know Dave. And shit, you guys. Dave cracked my ass UP. And he was so nice. In retrospect, he is so OBVIOUSLY the one I should have been macking on. But no. I only had eyes for the Tacola.

Anyway. There were days where our choir teacher would make all of us get up and mix up where we sat. The point of it was that he wanted us to be able to sing our part of the harmony, even if we were sitting next to someone who was singing a different part of the harmony right in our ear. One day, when we mixed it up like this, I happened to be sitting next to Dave, in the third row. Taco was way up in the front row. And Taco kept looking over his shoulder at Dave and me, and the two of them kept making these faces at each other. And then Taco started to mouth these words to Dave, right in front of me: "I'm going to ask her! I'm going to ask her." After which Dave and he would look at me significantly. Dave's face was bright red at the mortification of me seeing this exchange. But I didn't care.

Taco was going to ask me something!! I swear to you sparks must have flown out of my panties.

The day passed, and no asking of any kind was happening. Rats! That's ok though. I was willing to wait.

Oh, and I forgot a slight detail. Taco had a girlfriend. The lead soprano in the choir. They had been dating for over a year, which was, in high school terms, like being an old married couple. But this holiday season, there had been trouble in tenor-soprano heaven. They had fought and were in Ross and Rachel land ("on a break.") So see, technically, Taco was free. And now that he was free, he wanted to ASK ME A QUESTION.

That night, our choir was going out as a group to bring food to some needy families in our town. We loaded up our bus with all kinds of presents and food and rode around town dropping the stuff off. And that night, Taco (with Dave in tow most of the time) would not leave me alone. He never quite sat next to me, but he was sitting behind me, or in the seat in front of me. There was more significant looking. Dave cracked jokes in the background, and we all laughed, the three of us. Merry, merry times. I was giddy with excitement.

After the bus ride, we all went over to a friend's house for hot chocolate. I remember it vividly. I was sitting on a couch while Holiday Inn with Fred Astaire and Bing Crosby played on tv in front of me. And who should happen along, but Taco. He plopped down in between me and my friend Donna who was sitting next to me, and turned his head toward her and started to chat it up. And I sat there, with my eyes on the screen, watching Fred Astaire and his crazy Firecracker dance, and thought about the fact that Taco's leg was touching my leg. It was too good to be true. Finally, he stopped talking to Donna and started watching the movie with me. There were people all around, flopped down on the floor and on either side of us. The place was packed. And as we sat there, not talking, he put his hand next to my hand. The backs of our hands were now touching. We're talking skin on skin, people. All we would have had to do was turn our hands over, and we would have been holding hands. But I didn't do it. And neither did he. We just sat there and watched that movie, knuckle to knuckle, with Fred Astaire tapping the shit out of that movie in front of us.

The following week, Dave called me up on the phone. In typical buddy fashion, we talked and joked and laughed, and I didn't have the bawls to ask him about Taco.

Him: What are you doing right now? You hungry?
Me: Totally. You?
Him: Yeah. Let's go get something to eat.

Awesome. Time for me to grill the best friend about the knuckle-make-out that had gone on and what it all meant. Dave was so easy to talk to, and I wished I could be as relaxed around him as I was around Taco.

When we got to the local food court (which was, by the way, a brand new concept at the time in my town) and sat down, Dave totally changed. There was no more joking, there was no more easy manner. He got all nervous and serious.

Do you all see where this is going? Do you see what I am about to say? How the hell am I always telling you guys stories where I come out looking like an ass?

I was, totally unbeknownst to me, ON A DATE with Dave. He had asked me out, picked me up at my house, and brought me to an eating establishment for a textbook date. And I had no friggin' idea that it was happening. Because he was just DAVE. Jokester. Friend-guy. No smouldering eyes. No acid-washed clad ass.

I sat there and remained oblivious to this date the entire time. I did not catch up. And you guys, it gets worse. In my state of Taco-smog that I was sitting in, I started asking Dave about it. Does Taco mention me? What did he say after the Holiday Inn night? Do you think he's going to ask me out?

Looking back on this whole shipwreck, I still feel awful. Because I have to realize that this was probably the story of Dave's life, having Taco as a best friend. The girls, they must have all gone for Taco, and he must have just had to accept it, all the while knowing that he was the better dude. Smarter, funnier, nicer. Aw Dave. I was an ass. I know better now.

After that date was over, Dave never talked to me much after that. And I did end up having more escapades with Taco in the weeks before he finally got back together with his girlfriend. And after he got back together with his girlfriend and forgot about me, he started man-whoring it up all over school behind her back and I never could look at him quite the same again.

The lesson? Andie should have gone for Duckie. Angela Chase should have been with Brian Crackow. And I am stupid enough to go on dates without knowing I am there. For all I know, I am on a date right now. I should probably go check.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Yummy Taco

Well look at that. I go all the way through November, posting like a, um, crazy posting lady, and then December hits and whammo! I drop off the face of the earth. Did you miss me? Huh, huh, did ya?

My lack of posting has nothing whatsoever to do with the end of NaBloPoMo (that word never stops sounding dirty, does it?). I have only one thing on my mind these days, and that is weather and traffic. I guess that's two things. Whatever. The point is. I think of nothing and do nothing that is unrelated to traffic and weather these days and really, who wants to read about traffic and weather? I mean, isn't weather what one talks about when there's nothing left to say? It's like, the banter that you say to people who you don't have anything in common with. It's right up there with how about those Mets or did you hear about Britney or TGIF. And I don't want to do filler-talk with you guys.

So, instead, I will hearken back and tell you a little story about a boy named Taco. It's a holiday story. Ready?

When I was in 10th grade, I auditioned for varsity choir. The choir in my high school was supposed to be a Really Big Deal and making it in at all, much less as a lowly 10th grader, was nothing to sneeze at. And if you were a star in this choir (which I never was), that was better than being a star on the football team, or the class president, or whatever other bullshit high school popularity thing you may have up your sleeve. It's only now that I see how weird and unusual this is. What kind of high school deifies the kid who can sing a Mozart mass the best? Isn't that kind of strange?

So I made it in to this weird little culty club, and there was this tenor that sat in the row behind me. I called him Taco. I called him Taco because the word sounded punny when paired with his last name, and also because then I could make all sorts of lewd taco-related jokes with my friends about him (taco meat, taco meat between the shell, sour cream...high school humor rawks). Taco was a senior. Not only was he a senior, but he was the best singer in the choir. He was that guy. He was my Jake Ryan. I was mad about him. Cuckoo for cocoa puffs insane.

I can't tell you, even to this day, why I was so in love with him. I was not one to go gaga over boys like that. I dated them, thought this one or that one was cute, but I wasn't a groupie type. I thought girls who tripped all over themselves over a boy were stoopid. But the power of Taco was too much for me. I can honestly say that I have never in my life, before him nor after him, ever, obsessed so acutely over a dude like I did over him. All I can attribute this to was that perhaps my pubescent hormones just kicked in and he happened to be the target? I don't know.

I befriended Taco. He sat behind me in choir every day, and we would talk. I still remember the conversations we would have. There was nothing to them. At all. For instance, we had a whole running conversation about the colloquialism "you can like it or you can lump it." We thought this was hysterically funny and would say it to each other about any situation. Deep, right? And I would go home, every night, and write in my journal every word that he ever spoke to me. Every word. Not only that, I would write down what he was wearing, every single day. I still have this strange catalog of Taco happenings. "He was wearing his acid washed jeans today and boy did his ass look NICE." Ladies and gentlemen, this may have been the first thing the future librarian ever catalogued. Taco's outfits. What's the LCSH for that?

Although I never got my hands on Taco for real, there were moments that we shared that were so full of messed up teen sexual tension of the Welcome to the Dollhouse variety that I feel like we almost had a relationship, in a way. I had thrilling moments with Taco. For instance (and I can't believe I am about to tell you about this one as it makes me look slightly pervy but who wasn't slightly pervy when they were 15?), the number 69 was a big number for us in high school, as I am sure it is for everyone in high school. We used that number for everything, because we thought it was SO FRICKIN' HILARIOUS. Examples...

Teen #1: Dude, when do you have to go home?
Teen #2: Six or nine o' clock. Either one.
Haw haw haw haw haaaaaaaw!

Or

Teen #1: God that test was hard. I know I failed it.
Teen #2: I bet you got about 69 percent on it.
Haw haw haw haaaaaaw!

You see what I'm saying? It was 69 everything. Extra funny points if you could slip in saying sixty-nine to an adult with a straight face without them realizing what you were doing.

I was not above such tomfoolery. I said the magic number as much as the next person. Except the difference for me was, I didn't know why it was so funny. I had no idea what 69 meant. Isn't that sweet and innocent? I want to pat my 15-year-old head like a little fuzzy puppy for that. I knew it was something dirty, but I didn't exactly know the details. I thought it was something slightly sexual, but had no idea what it was for reals.

So you know what I did? I tried to flirt with Taco by confessing to him that I didn't know what 69 was. And I asked him if he would please explain it to me.

That day in choir, we all stood up to sing. And when I sat back down after the song was over, there was something on my chair. It was a note! From TACO. Oh my word. We were acquaintances, not friends who wrote each other notes! He was taking the acquaintanceship to the next level. What did it say?

The note didn't SAY anything. It just had the numbers 6 and 9 drawn out next to each other, and then, next to that there was a...drawing. Of two people. Two people who were doing the sixing and the nining. To each other.

Taco. Drew me. A diagram.

I crumpled up the note and freaked the fuck out. THAT is what 6 and 9 is? Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod. I was mortified beyond mortified. How could I ever talk to Taco again? I thought I was going to die. Not metaphorically die. Literally melt into the floor and croak.

But you know what else? Besides the imminent kick-the-bucket-ness? The note gave me a thrill. Taco and I had shared a moment. A freaky deaky, jacked up, non-sex-but-sexish moment.

I know what you're thinking right about now. You're wondering what the hell I meant when I said at the beginning of this story that it was a "holiday story." What kind of weirdo holiday am I talking about, is what you're thinking. This is not a Hallmark Channel Original type story. This is bordering on the Skinamax channel. Hold on, though, I haven't gotten to the holiday part yet. In fact, I think I may have to hold off on that part of the story, because this post is getting way too long and I have to go and you know, live my life and stuff. So I will finish telling you about Taco and the holiday part of our flirtation next time. Wow, I don't think I have ever done a two-parter blog post before. Look at me, being all wordy!

Until next time then, my friends. Taco, Part II. Sorry to give you only part of the story and run. How much is left, you ask?

About 69 percent.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl