For Steve

There has been lots of bad news in my world this past couple of weeks. One of the things that has happened recently is that my childhood friend Steve passed away this week. It's weird when stuff like this happens- I always think, do I blog about it? Do I not blog about it? The purpose of my blog is to put something out into the world that makes me laugh and maybe will make you laugh too. There's enough crap we all go through on a daily basis, is what I'm thinking, and so why not carve out a nice little internet space where I talk about only the goofy? Really, that's what my blog should be called, instead of The Pop Culture Librarian. It should be called Only the Goofy. And usually, no matter what my day looks like, I can think of some little conversation, some moment, some thought I had that day, that was pure silliness. And then I write about it. Granted, my life is pretty dang lovely and finding those moments is easy peasy, mostly. But every once in a while, I am thrown. And this week, with all that's going on, I'm a little thrown.

So I am going to write about Steve. Because I'm thinking about him. And besides, our friendship was full of only the goofy.

When I was a kid, I didn't really have a clique. That is not to say that I was an outsider, either. Rather, I was a kid who was part of pretty much every group, but also not fully part of any group. I don't know why. When I was in middle school and high school, one of the groups I was friends with was this group of 5 boys. They all lived in my neighborhood, and they all were friends with each other their whole lives, and for some reason, they let me hang out with them too. I had many afternoons after school hanging out with this group, the only girl in a gaggle of dudes. One of them was Steve. I had known Steve pretty much my whole life, or at the very least since kindergarten. I have a memory of him in a boy scout uniform, sitting in the seat in front of me on the school bus in elementary school. There's a part of me that always sort of thinks of him as a teeny kid in a boy scout uniform.

When we were in fifth grade, Steve and I were sitting in the cafeteria together and for some reason, he was telling me about his ancestry. Because 5th graders are all about the genealogy, or some shit like that? I don't know, but that's what we were talking about. He told me that he was English and French, and for some reason it sort of blew my 5th grade mind to think that my friend Steve was French. It seemed very cosmopolitan to me. So I said, "wow, you're French?" and he said, in total seriousness, "Si!" We sat there for a second and blinked at each other, and then I said, "Shouldn't that be 'oui'"? And that made him laugh so hard that he sprayed pieces of chewed up bologna sandwich across the table. From that day forward, it was one of those jokes that never got old. As we grew up, went to middle school, then high school, all I would have to do is ask Steve any question that had an affirmative answer, and he would grin at me and say "Si!" and we would laugh until we cried. I know it's not really that funny unless you're in 5th grade, but that was the thing. There was a part of Steve and I and how we were around each other that never got past the 5th grade.

Well, that's not entirely true. This group of dudes that I used to hang out with? When we were in middle school, they were a group of dirty, nasty, trashtalking boys. Which at that age is totally the thing to be, I suppose. And because I was the girl that hung out with them and that they sort of considered a girl, but didn't really, they used to talk all kinds of shit in front of me. Some of it helpful to my very curious 14-year-old self, some of it not. One of the things that used to get talked about was the subject of boners. Especially calling each other out when one of them got one at an inappropriate time. This was a favorite topic in the summers, when lots of swimsuits were worn. "Dude, you totally had a BONER when Jennifer went up on the diving board!" one of them would say. "I DID NOT!" the other person would retort, with a face so red that it was pretty much a guarantee that he DID TOO. After being around this for a while, my shyness around the subject of hard ons totally dissipated. I started just asking them questions about how the mechanics really worked, and they totally told me. "So like, it can just happen any time?"..."Does it hurt?"..."What if you have to pee and you have one?" and so on. It's all thanks to Steve and his friends that I was completely educated on boy-puberty without ever having to, you know, actually touch a penis or anything. I'm sure that if my parents knew the amount of talking about boners that I was doing with this group of boys, that they would have gone spontaneously gray. But it was innocent, and funny, and they treated me with a whole lot of respect, especially for 14-year-old boys. Not to knock 14-year-old boys, but you know what I'm saying.

Steve was also the first boy that I ever remember who told me I was beautiful. And it wasn't even a ploy to get in my knickers or anything. It was in 9th grade, and we were sitting in the backstage area of the middle school auditorium. I had a crush on one of Steve's friends, who wasn't giving me the time of day. And Steve said to me: "I don't think it's that he doesn't like you back. I just don't think that he knows how to react to a beautiful girl who has a crush on him, that's all." Just like that. Matter of fact. Sweet as can be, that Steve.

And before this gets too mushy and you think Steve was not really a true teen boy, I also remember the time that we were on a choir retreat and someone had the brilliant idea that Steve should chug a Vernor's ginger ale as fast as he could. Or maybe it was even multiple cans of Vernors. And maybe it was Steve's idea in the first place, I don't know. All I know is that Stevie boy did the deed. And he followed it up by opening his mouth and geyser-vomiting Vernor's in the most convincing Linda Blair style I have ever seen. And he seemed really proud of that later, like he had totally accomplished something, with both the chugging and the spectacular aftermath.

I went through this period of time, when I was in college, where I kind of withdrew from everything related to my childhood. When I would go back to my hometown for breaks, I pretty much only saw a few high school friends and avoided everyone else. I felt really different than my friends then (I wasn't), and I felt like our paths and interests didn't cross at all any more (they totally did). I went to a party at a high school friend's house reluctantly one New Year, and felt estranged from everyone there the entire time. I remember people kept telling me that I seemed different, and I secretly loved hearing that because that's totally what I was going for. During this party, I was sitting on a couch, and Steve came over to sit next to me. We chatted for a bit, and I was being really quiet, only giving short responses, and kind of being a dick, to be honest. Finally, for some reason, I had to blurt out something about how different I felt, how this party was so lame, dude, and that I just didn't get these people any more. Steve just shrugged his shoulders (did I mention that Steve was a big shrugger? He shrugged in response to a lot of things) and said something like "Eh, you seem the same to me." And for some reason, I didn't mind hearing that from him.

Anyhow, that was my friend Steve. He's one of those types of people in life that you always think you're going to go have a beer with some day, even if you've been out of touch for a while. So it sucks that I know that won't happen now. Just...sucks.

If you're wondering what I'm thinking about these days, is it likely that I'm thinking about Steve?

Si.

It sounds even better if you say "alky-hall."

Friday listy loo, Friday listy la....

1. Nordic Boy and I witnessed a drunken conversation this week where a man kept saying, in response to his friend's drunken behavior: "I don't know why she was acting that way! I think it's just because she was doin' the alcohol! She was just doin' the alcohol!" This has quickly become the phrase of the week. You can use it in many situations. If you see someone trip, you can say "what'sa matter with you? Have you been doin' the alcohol?" Or if you want to meet your friends for a beer, you can say "would you ladies like to join me in doin' the alcohol?" I advise you all to adopt this phrase, for me, please.

2. This phrase also makes me think of the song "Doin' the Pigeon," which was sung by Bert from Sesame Street on a disco album from my youth. Oh my god, did I just make that up? Because that don't sound right, but I am positive that I have heard this song. Hold on...

Oh, youtube, how I love thee.

I had that song in disco version on a little album I owned as a child called "Sesame Street Fever." Jellus?

3. Seattle has gone back to gloomy gray skies, and people are all skippety doo dah about it. I live in a weird place, you guys.

4. I have some time off coming up in September, and I was going to use it to go visit my folks again in Michigan. But I forgot to tell them that was my plan and so they went and made some other plans without me, so now I am not going anywhere. DANG. I really, really, really want to take a trip somewhere, or have someone come visit me. I don't think anyone is coming to visit me (hint, hint, friends who are reading this), and now I don't know if I have time to plan a trip to see them. PHOOEY.

5. Are the Jonas Brothers like, 12 years old? They seem 12. For a long time now.

6. John Hughes died, and I am stating right now that I cannot go through another retrospective this year, ok? I am done with dying famous people and clip shows and commentaries about them. Until 2010. I need a break.

7. Have a great weekend. Beware your behavior if you are doin' the alcohol.

There were so many to choose from...

Are you friends with any of your ex-boy-or-girlfriends? I am, with two. I've been friends with them for years and they are still funny, still great people, but I don't have any idea why I ever dated them. Two more wrong-for-me people I cannot imagine. And I am sure they feel the same way about me. Ah youth. Isn't it all about dating the wrong people? I am so glad that we are still friends though. Because now I can have conversations like the following that crack me up.

(when talking about a work situation)
Ex: You really weren't mad about that?
Me: Why would I be mad about it? That's not something to get mad about.
Ex: What would a situation be that would really make you lose your temper?
Me: I lose my temper sometimes.
Ex: But, like SCREAM at someone. Have you ever screamed at someone?
Me: Um, yeah. I screamed at you once.
Ex: You did? I don't remember that. Why did you scream at me?
Me: Because you were being a dick to me.
(pause)
Ex: Yeah, but which time?

Then he realized what he had just said and we busted a nut laughing.

Crap Umbrella, Ella, Ella

There are times in life when emotional bombs start going off. You know what I mean, right? Like, one awful thing happens, and then it's followed by another, and another, and it's like the crap gods are taking aim right at you and are trying to kill you with awfulness. (Crap gods? I'm not religious, but that's weird even for me). My Year of Crap Gods was 1994. Screw you, 1994. You were such a bastard to me. I was way too young to deal with 1994, but that's the thing about the crap gods, they don't really care how old you are or if you are ready to withstand the crap hurling. They just pick you and it's your turn to be the target.

There are other times in life when the emotional bombs are not being thrown at you, but rather near you. It's like your loved ones, collectively, are having their turn and you just see it happening everywhere you look and it sucks because you want to be the crap umbrella but you can't.

Ok, that's enough of the crap/gods/bombs/umbrella metaphor. This is going downhill fast.

So let's cut the crap (har har) and just say that I've got a lot of people in my life right now who are having a bad time. Like, a weirdly high number of people. And it royally sucks for them, and I feel bad about all of it.

So today I am going to be all corny and make a list of things that make me happy. Just because.

1. Seattle's weirdly summery summer. Usually Seattle's summer starts in July, weatherwise. But this year it started in what, May? Early June? Something crazy like that. Remember when I said that I was hoping that skirt-weather days would hit 10 in a row? I don't think I have worn pants for three months. (Please don't take that last sentence out of context, ok?)

2. The fact that my mom and dad just call Nordic Boy sometimes, to chat with him. It makes me happy how close they are and that they love each other because they just do and they would anyway, and not just because they have me in common.

3. Tim's Cascade Style Wasabi-flavored potato chips. I have no idea what "cascade style" means, and I don't care. These chips are dreamy.

4. Dried cherries in my salad. I want to sing that one John Denver style, a la Sunshine on My Shoulders. "Cherries, in my salad, make me happeeeeee."

5. Thank you notes from library patrons.

6. Reading a book on the part of my couch that I reserve just for reading books. It's the coziest corner. My own personal "Cozy Center," as my friend Jen would say. Do you have a Cozy Center in your house? I highly recommend having one.

7. Walking in my door after work. Nothing better than that.

8. Crispy new sheets on the bed.

9. Cursing. I really love the cursing and you will not clean up my dirty mouth no how.

10. Yael Naim's version of "Toxic" by Britney Spears. I am standing by this statement and I don't care what you think about it.

11. Alvin Ailey's "Winter in Lisbon."

12. Getting up at 4am, opening all my windows, and then crawling back into bed.

13. Hearing people's life story in conversation. I love hearing people's life stories, and wish I could sit down with each and every person I know and hear their complete autobiography. I sometimes wish that my job was to film people's oral histories. Although I don't like the term oral history, as it makes me think of the dentist.

14. Yesterday as I was driving home, there was a jeep in front of me with the top down. There was a guy and girl in the front, and a guy and a girl in the back. The girl in the backseat had a summery purple tank top on with crisscross straps in the back. She also had a ponytail. And I don't know what groove they had going on in their car, or if the music was playing just in her head, but she was doing some serious car dancing in her seat. Shoulder-shimmying, ponytail waving, head bobbing. And when she would turn her head as she car danced, I could see the side of her big, toothy smile. That whole thing right there? Made me happy.

It's actually very appropo to compare me to Chilly Willy, on several levels

Do you have friends that you have known since childhood? Do these friends sometimes make up facts about you? Most of my friends that I have known since childhood have very good, very specific memories that we have shared. However, I have a particular friend from my youth that has so many memories about me that he's made up out of the clear blue sky, that I almost wonder if the line between knowing someone so well and not knowing them BUT AT ALL is blurrier than we all think. Like, you know so many facts about them that your brain just has to throw some random bullshizz in there just to mix it up. I was at Delium's house this weekend, and he all of a sudden proclaimed that I had never in my life enjoyed pancakes. Which, clearly, is an insane thing to say to me. My mom made me pancakes pretty much every Sunday morning when I was a kid. I liked pancakes with maple syrup so much that my mother feared for my life. She would tell me a (made up, I am sure) story about how there was once a little kid who drank so much maple syrup that the sugar made his heart race so fast that his ticker gave out and he up and DIED. My dear momma, who has never begrudged me eating a thing in my life, and who lives to stuff me full of food at every opportunity! Even SHE was afeared of my love of pancakes, enough to try and scare me out of eating them. (It never worked). I loved them so much that my brothers used to tease me that I was like Chilly Willy, in that one cartoon where he the bear asks him "more butter? more syrup?" and he chirps "mm-hmm!" every time. Still, Delium claims that when we were teenagers he would make pancakes and that I never wanted any and was all "ew, gross, pancakes," about them. He argued with me on this. I still don't think he believes me that I have always loved pancakes.

What is the point of that story? Fook if I know.

But this does get me thinking about things that my parents taught me to be scared of. Or tried to teach me to be scared of, anyway. Not things that most parents try to teach their kids to be scared of, like picking up hitchhikers or something like that. Weird things. Like maple syrup. Or escalators. "Tie your shoes when you go on an escalator or those things will swallow you ALIVE." Now that my dear Nordic Boy is a building maven (what's a male maven? Mavener? Mavenot?) and deals with things like escalators and elevators and steel rebar and plaster and the like all the livelong day, he has informed me that my mother was right to be scaring me about the escalators. But I never paid her no mind. I think her credibility went down because of the syrup thing.

What weird things did your parents want you to be afraid of?

Marketing Shark

Ok, here's a weird one.

As I mentioned before, and as you all are aware of if you blog, we bloggers get many emails from companies and organizations asking us to mention them on our blog for marketing purposes, sometimes with a free prize as incentive. I am not so big on doing that, but maybe that's because no company that I really actually liked has ever asked me. Do you hear me, Anthropologie? How about you, Lola Pop shoe store? I'll even take you, Trophy Cupcakes.

But no. I always seem to get asked by a place that I really have no interest in promoting. The other day, I got an email from a cable network, asking me to promote a series they are doing on shark attacks. I have no idea why I would do that. Really, I'm asking. Why would I do that? Normally, I would delete the email before even reading the whole thing, but for some reason I skimmed this one. And then I got to this line.

"We’ve been building incredible excitement for this annual event with a breakthrough online marketing campaign that’s been generating great buzz. Many bloggers received their own personalized shark story in a custom bottle which contained the artifacts of an imaginary shark attack."

What...the hell...does THAT mean?

So many questions. They are sending bloggers their own personalized shark story? Like, personalized how? A shark story where they insert my name as the victim of a shark attack? Why would I want that? "The shark tore at Librarian Girl's leg until it ripped off of her body..." I mean, yikes. Or maybe it's personalized like I am the shark? And the victim is a person of my choice? That's better, but still. "Librarian Girl stalked her prey with steely resolve. Sean Hannity paddled along on his surfboard, never suspecting that his face was about to be a distant memory..."

They put the personalized shark story, whatever that is, into a custom bottle. A custom bottle? How exactly is it custom, I wonder?

But then, my favorite part. The custom bottle, which, at one time or another, in the past, contained an artifact of an imaginary shark attack.

AN ARTIFACT.

Let us ruminate on what such an artifact might be. What sort of artifact would result from an imaginary shark attack? An imaginary shark tooth? An imaginary spattering of blood? An imaginary shark turd? An imaginary hospital bill?

But it doesn't matter what that artifact is, because that statement is written in past tense. You are not getting the artifact. You are getting a bottle which ONCE HELD that artifact. So- do they tell you what that artifact was? And how do you know it was really once there?

It can't really be there, though, can it? Because it is from an imaginary event. So wouldn't the artifact, too, be imaginary?

Wait, I just read it again, and it says artifacts. Plural. Not just one thing that once lived in that custom bottle. Two things. Perhaps more. Things that they removed, and replaced with a copy of your own personalized shark story. Because if you had a choice between artifacts of something imaginary and a personalized shark story, then you would choose the shark story, right? I mean, duh. And if you didn't choose that, and you decided you really wanted the artifacts, too frickin' bad. They have removed them.

I almost want to advertise this show just so I can get my hands on what this could be.

Girl don't play the fool, now

My outdoor thermostat reads 104 degrees in my city today. I fear all of my friends will just be puddles of water by the end of the day, like Frosty the Snowman was at the end of that Christmas special. (And how messed up was that cartoon, by the way? Merry Christmas kids! Your friend will die when the season is over. Ho ho ho!) I will be fine though. There is a reason that my friends used to sing "Cold Hearted Snake" to me in high school. And it wasn't because I was a loverboy at play.

Our house, can I just brag to you please, is so pleasant, temperature-wise. All that energy-saving, insulating, eco housing mumbo jumbo that Nordic Boy is always spouting off about? OMG, it TOTES WORKS, you guys. It is a frickin' inferno outside, but in our house, it is easy breezy beautiful, no AC required. It's a lovely thing.

So yesterday, I had a meeting across town. My job often requires that I be pretty mobile- it is not unusual for me to have to be in two, maybe three different locations within the course of my day. Nordic Boy's job is the same way. This requires us to drive a lot more than either of us cares to. I am not a big fan of driving. I would much rather walk, or bike, or ride public transportation. Driving somewhere is at the bottom of my list of preferences (although I do love me a road trip). But because I have to get places in a timely manner, I have to drive. Yesterday morning, as I was getting ready to drive across town, I thought to myself "what if my car crapped out? Wouldn't that be a kick in the balls?" I drove to my meeting, and then afterward, I got in my car, and it refused to start. Dudes, I totally did that with MY MIND, I just know it. I thought about my car crapping out, and then it did. It was like The Secret! Oprah was right! Although, I think the point of The Secret is to think about something good happening and then that happens to you. Which is bullshit because I think about winning the lottery almost daily and that shit has not come to pass. So I guess my forte is to to do The Secret in reverse. Just my luck.

In other news, I have rediscovered popsicles. I hadn't had a popsicle since I was a wee lass, and I bought some the other day, and oh my god, popsicles kind of rock. Why are there not popsicle boutiques? We've got the trendy cupcake stores, and the upscale doughnuts, and hand dipped ice cream, and gelato, and now custard. We need popsicle stands! I demand popsicle stands! (I get very bossy when it comes to popsicles).

That's about it. Oh hey, did I ever show this to you? It's a table top sculpture that I saw at a flea market. Aren't you shocked that I didn't buy this?


My favorite part is the guy coming out of the bathroom zipping up his fly.

Can't Nobody Stop the Juice

Random Mondayness

1. This week, the week after the Hallowed and Angelic Vacation of '09, has been sort of crap in terms of working. The downside of going on vacation is that things pile up while you've been gone. And although I know I will catch up, at this point I feel like my skull is being crushed by the weight of my to-do lists.

2. Sorry to bring up my stupid dance show favorite again, but last week on SYTYCD, they inexplicably brought Katie Holmes on the show to do a song and dance. Why? Why was Katie Holmes all of a sudden on the show? Can Katie Holmes dance? No, she can't, it turns out. She perhaps thinks she can dance, so I guess that goes with the title of the show. She did this number where she totally lip synced and marched around for a few minutes with jazz hands and a few poses thrown in. Why, on a show whose whole purpose is to illustrate artistry and skill, would you bring on Katie Holmes to make a mockery of the whole thing? THIS HEARTILY IRRITATED ME. And also, I think I need to stop taking this show so seriously, what do you think?

3. It is up into the 90s this week. I am pretty sure I am the only person in all of Seattle that is happy about this.

4. I went to see the Harry Potter movie. Does anyone else laugh in a very immature manner whenever they do the quidditch scenes, as Nordic Boy and I do? If you don't know what could be so funny about quidditch, then you are far too mature and I am far too embarrassed by us to explain it to you.

5. I have been looking for a sideboard for a long while now. (Sideboard? Credenza? Cabinet? Whatever the hell it's called. Something within which one puts crap inside). I really have wanted a Matthew Hilton Cross sideboard. I look at photos of it and I want to lie across it and hug it in rapture. However, this may shock you but I don't have $3,000 to drop on buying a piece of furniture such as that one. So then I started trolling vintage furniture stores in the hopes of finding something similar. I've looked for over a year now. Still, too much dough, even for something that I could refinish myself (meaning, in the parlance of my house, that Nordic Boy would refinish it. Just in case you don't speak my language). Finally, I found something I could live with from West Elm. It was $800. Yesterday? We went to Ikea. And found something that I could live with for $150. I got the Ikea one. That sound you are hearing? To quote Death Cab: this is the sound of settling. Pah paaah, pah paaah. Still, it's pretty, right? Sort of? (And please don't look up the Matthew Hilton one before answering this question or your answer might be all askew).


6. I ate two most awesome things this weekend. One was this.

Porcini mushroom tarlets.

The other was this.

Pancakes from a spray can.

I am hard pressed to choose which of these was more awesome.

Tears of a Tori

There is all kinds of crap saved up on the Tivo since we have been gone for two weeks. Now is the time to catch up on things that will make my brain rot. Last night, I watched Tori and Dean: Home Sweet Hollywood. Ok, so I watched three episodes, if you must know. When someone watches tv in my house, the other person in the house has to be aware of it, even if they are doing something else, because our house just ain't that big. So Nordic Boy is half-watching this shite whether he likes it or not.

Here's how it went.

(Sad music, sad Dean face, tears from Tori)
Nordic Boy: What's wrong? Are they breaking up?
Me: No.
Him: Their kids ok?
Me: Yeah. Everything's fine.
Him: So what's the problem?
Me: See, Dean has motorcycles. Tori doesn't like his motorcycles. So Dean has to give up his motorcycles. He's really sad about it.
Him: Wow. I'm surprised he can function.

Later...
(Tense music, Tori in tears, Dean looks worried)
Nordic Boy: What's happening this time?
Me: Tori is throwing a party for her kid. The party planner and her friends messed up the ice sculptures, and now there is mud in her backyard.
Nordic Boy: And?
Me: That's all.
Nordic Boy: She's crying?
Me: Yes.
Nordic Boy: Oh.

Still later, and I turn around to see that Nordic Boy has put his book down and is full on watching. I don't say anything about this.
(Silent watching, silent watching, silent watching)
Nordic Boy: You know what I think their problem is?
Me: What?
Him: I just don't think they have the BALLS to be rich.
Me: Really?
Him: They just don't seem to be able to handle themselves. They just can't take it. It's too much pressure for them.
Me: You could do better, I suppose?
Him: Are you kidding? We would rock being rich!
(silence)
Him: Although a melted ice sculpture IS pretty sad.
Me: Tragic, really.
Him: Hand me the tissues.

Being sarcastic? About Tori and Dean? Do we have hearts of stone?

Newman!

The other day, Pop Quiz Kid blogged about our blog friend meet-up. In this post, she referred to Nordic Boy and I as "the Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward of the internet."

Call me easily flattered, but this compliment put me in a good mood for at least 48 hours straight. Ok, maybe the buzz is still going. That is such a kind thing to say. And fook yeah I am going to eat that shit up, no question. What I am about to say will prolly make you think I am a horrible person, but I am not one to feel embarrassed by a compliment. I just think they are nice, and I don't get them very often, which I don't think is unusual, because people aren't usually of the awesomeness caliber that Pop Quiz Kid is. So if you want to say something nice about me, I WILL TAKE THAT. I won't duck my head or feel weird about it. I will say thanks and skip to my lou. Or is that loo? I would rather it be skipping to my lou. I imagine myself skipping toward Mr. Lou Grant from the Mary Tyler Moore Show. Much better than skipping to my loo, which is just a fancy word for the crapper. Although skipping to Mr. Grant is sort of creepy, I suppose. Why would you skip to him?

ANYWAY.

I don't go around tooting my own horn about a compliment I have received (except, uh, right now, to the interwebs), but I had to tell Nordic Boy about that one, as the compliment was to him too.

Me: Pop Quiz Kid said that we were like Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward.
Him: Because we make spaghetti sauce for charity?
Me: We don't make spaghetti sauce for charity.
Him: So you're saying the comparison makes no sense.
Me: No. I'm saying: wasn't that a kind thing to say?
Him: So... we're old? Because, they were famous for being together for a long time. Until they were old.
Me: No. We are, you know... Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward-esque. Power coupley.
Him: (super skeptical face)
Me: Or something.
Him: A couple, yes. But a power couple? We don't even power WALK.
Me: Ok, but you have nice blue eyes. Although I sort of want to be Paul Newman. You can be Joanne Woodward.
Him: Why don't you want to be Joanne Woodward? What's wrong with being Joanne?
Me: Nothing. I just want to be the race car driving hearthrob.
Him: But you don't even like driving. And I usually make the spaghetti sauce.
Me: Will you stop it about the spaghetti sauce?
Him: Whatever. I am happy with being Joanne. You can be Paul.
Me: Thanks.
Him: So, when I see you, can I say "Newman!" like Seinfeld does?
Me: No! I don't want to be that Newman.
Him: Fine.
Me: You think Paul and Joanne had conversations like this?
Him: Obviously.

Here Comes a Regular

BioGirl has a thing about being a "regular" at a local business. You know, like Norm in Cheers? A place where everyone knows your name and yells a hearty hello at you when you enter the room? TV is big on pushing the concept of being a regular somewhere. Lorelei and Rory had Luke's, Fleishman had The Brick, Richie Cunningham had Al's (or Arnold's, as the case may be), Brandon and Brenda had The Peach Pit, and Rog, Dwayne and Rerun had that place where Shirley worked. What was that place's name? Whatever. You get the picture.

I have been a regular at various places and at various times in my life, and there are good things about it, and there are not so good things about it. The good things are obvious- it's a nice feeling to be recognized as an individual human being in a city that can make you feel anonymous. But there is a bad side too, at least for me. Remember that episode of Sex and the City where Miranda calls the same Chinese restaurant for take-out constantly, and is chagrined that the take out lady knows her order so well? Like, the take out lady knows something sort of intimate about her (eating alone AGAIN, are you?) when Miranda sort of wants to be anonymous? I can feel like that sometimes. I used to go to this Indian restaurant whenever Nordic Boy went out of town on business. And the people there knew us, sort of, and when he was gone a lot, they would sort of look at me sadly. That deadbeat partner of hers has left her alone again, out doing god knows what all. But I just wanted my samosas, without the pity party. Don't cry for me, Argentina. Or Calcutta. Or whatever. Just don't cry for me.

Anyway. There is no better poster child for being a regular than our very own Nordic Boy. I don't know what it is, but he is a consummate regular. Restaurant people love him, remember him, treat him like family. To be perfectly honest it is straight up weird. Here's one instance. There is a Subway sandwich location near our house (and really, is that not a universal urban statement? Don't we all have a Subway near our houses? We were in Chicago last week and we literally counted a Subway on every block within a 15 block radius of our hotel. It's like we are all, collectively, Sarah Palin, and the Subway sandwich franchise is all, collectively, Russia). And this one time, he went there, but before he could walk in the door, he got a phone call. So he answered the phone outside the door, which was ok by him because there was a ginormous line of people waiting anyway. After he was done with the call, he walked in to the Subway and got at the end of the line. "No, no!" the Subway staff said. "Come up to the front of the line! We have already made your sandwich!" They had not only remembered him, but remembered his favorite sandwich, saw him standing outside the door on the phone, and made the dang thing ahead of time so that he wouldn't have to wait. I mean, WUT. That's nuts.

As you know, we have been gone from our homestead for two weeks. We arrived home from our travels to no food in the house. Our first meal back in Seattle? Our favorite Chinese takeout joint. This is what happened when we walked in the door. There was one worker standing in the vestibule.

Worker #1: (in a very "NORM!"-like way...) HEY!!! You're back! We missed you! Where have you been?
Nordic Boy: We were on vacation.
Worker #1: Vacations are great aren't they? So good to see you!
(Enter Worker #2)
Worker #2: HEY!! He's back!
Worker #1: He's back! He was on vacation!
Worker #1 and #2, together: HEY!!! He's back!
Worker #2: How was it? Nice to have you back!
(Enter Worker #3)
Worker #3: HEYYY! Look who's here!
Worker #1: He's back!
Worker #2: He went on vacation!
Worker #3: You look rested. Let's get your order started!

It was like this GRAND WELCOME. And thank you very much for not pointing out that I was total and complete chopped liver in that little scene there. I just don't merit the "NORM!" behavior, I guess.

The next meal, and we still hadn't gone grocery shopping. So on to our favorite burrito place. Nordic Boy called the order in. I could hear the excitment over the phone.

Nordic Boy: I'd like to order take-out, please.
Burrito Lady: SENOR NORDIC!
Nordic Boy: Hi there!
Burrito Lady: Where have you been?
Nordic Boy: We've been on vacation.

Etc, etc, etc. And yes, at this place, the workers do actually call out his name when he walks in the door. SENOR NORDIC! they say. How much more Norm-ish can you get than that??

BioGirl is, I shall presume to say, envious of this type of regularosity. She has told me that she covets regular status at a local coffee shop or restaurant. So yesterday, I asked Nordic Boy why he thought he was so good at being a regular. What pointers do you have, oh regular Yoda? He gave me the following, and I thought I would pass it on to you, in case you, like BioGirl, would like to cultivate this in your life.

1. Pick a place that you would like to become a regular and when you go there, (this part is very important), always order the same thing. Always.
This is Nordic Boy's way of making me feel better that no one yells "SENORITA LIBRARIAN!" when I walk in. It's because I always change my order. I am not Cheese Quesadilla Lady. I mix it up too much. That takes the regularity out of being a regular.

2. If you can, go to this place of business at a regular time.
Make every Sunday night sushi night. Or go get a coffee at the same cafe every morning at exactly 8:45 am. If the people who run the business can tell time by your appearance, then you've got a good chance of becoming a regular.

3. Thank the person by name if they have a name tag. This will make them remember you.
This one strikes me as particularly ballsy. Nordic Boy is constantly saying people's names and telling them his. When he calls random customer service type people (the bank, the rental car place, the whatever) and the customer service agent answers the phone and says "This is Amelia, how can I help you?" He always starts the call by saying, "Hi Amelia. This is Nordic Boy. I need to check on..." And he always ends by saying "Thanks, Amelia." He manages to do this and sound sincere, which I think is key. If you try it and it sounds like a cheezy dickwad, then maybe you should skip this one.

4. Do all of this consistently for a long time.
Stick with that cafe or hot dog stand for weeks and weeks and months and months. To be a regular, you have to go there, you know, regularly.

Being a tag-along to Nordic Boy's regular status is pretty nice, I have to say. We get good service at these places, and it is nice to be greeted with a smile and a little conversation.

I would also like some credit for writing this whole blog post about being a regular and not making any sort of Correctol or Metamucil type jokes. Because me not taking it there? Irregular.

Other kids had ripped-out pages of Tiger Beat on their bedroom walls.

Not me, future librarian.

You should totally meet your blog friends

I think I'm going to have to quote Inigo Montoya on this one.

"Let me explain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up."

1. I am on the last leg of the Midwest Extravaganza of '09 and it has been the raddest trip ever. Fuck Paris, Rome, Cancun. This shit is phun.
2. I had delicious Blue Moon ice cream that was made by students in the University of Wisconsin agriculture program. I think I might just take up arms to defend the sanctity of that ice cream. If there ever turns out to be an ice cream war. I also ate some delicious green bean concoction at Kabul's Afghani restaurant in Madison. If you are a fan of eating, you should go there.
3. Lest you think my whole trip centered around food, there were other memorable moments to be had. Most notable for me was meeting blog friends for the first time, and oh the cherry was popped in a most satisfying manner. (Too much? I think that was maybe too much).
4. First on deck, there was Leah, her hubster Justin, and Annie. Leah and Annie have read this here blog, and Justin I'm sure was there for the vittles. Never mind that he didn't know me, and never mind that I was in a complete daze from being on a plane all day. Everyone pretended that I was bright-eyed and gregarious, which was mighty neighborly of them. And everyone there was about twenty-three kinds of awesome. They really were. I wished I could have a second friend-date, especially when I was, you know, not brain-fried. They were just kind, funny, genuine people. Yay blog friend inaugural!
5. Next up, the ladies behind the blogs The Astounding Adventures of the Pop Quiz Kid and The Life of a Lovechild. If I weren't phone-blogging I would totally link to them but I can't be bothered to figure that shit out so you'll just have to look over in the sidebar there. Anyhoo. These two ladies also rocked my socks. Hilarious, first of all. And once again I am fairly certain that if we lived near each other we would be kicking it on the regular, as the kids like to say. If those kids lived in 1992, that is. As far as blog friends go, they also knocked it out of the park.
6. Lastly, it was Berg with Fries and the Maiden Metallurgist. Two finer bloggers are not to be found, yes? How could the blog awesomeness measure up to any in-person awesomeness? It can't, right? Wrong-o, buster. They were all of their fabulousness, plus more. I sort of wish I had a horrifying, embarrassing blog friend date story to tell you, but what can I say? My blog taste, it is perfection.
7. I also saw many a pal that I know from outside of blogland, including my college roommate and my childhood doppleganger. They are also The Shit.
8. Basically this whole blog is about how my friends are way cool. Certainly way cooler than I am. I am a coat-tail rider and I am unashamed.
9. Now I am typing this blog on my phone while I lie in a hammock in my parents' backyard after being stuffed with an absurd amount of homemade cinammon rolls.

I love vacation. And blog friends who materialize into real friends. And vacation. And cinammon rolls. And hammocks. And vacation.

Photos for two weeks

So I was totally right (and I love it when that happens) that blogging from my phone is a total drag. So the next couple of weeks are going to be heavy on the photos and light on the blah blah.

Before I shut up though, GET THIS. Graham from the tv show "Lost" was totally on our plane yesterday! Not some dude who looked like Graham. The actual Graham. Or I guess it's the actor who plays Graham, if you want to be technical. he was up in First Class, and he kept getting up to mess with his bags and looking back into Coach. how creepy is that?? A fucking Other was on my plane! Actually, to be honest I think he kept standing up and looking around because he, like, wanted to call attention to himself or something. People were totally recognizing him but no one went up to him. The lady sitting next to me whispered "Is it me or is that an Other?" and that's all that was said about it.

Anyhow, so much for the more-pics-less-talky thing.

MC Biskizzy

So busy around here. Must list.

1. I'm about to go on a little tripsie and I'm wondering what to do about the blog. I'm thinking of just blogging from my phone, but I've never done that before. Is it a pain in the ass? It sounds like a pain in the ass. So votes, please. Phone blogging, yes or no?

2. Wow, I almost put myself into a coma with list item #1. I am so fascinating, you guys.

3. Speaking of my phone, I was talking to Nordic Boy on the phone the other day and the traffic noise on the street where I was standing was really, really loud. And the street where he was was very, very loud. Our conversation went like this.
Me: We have to get something from the store for dinner tonight.
Him: Ok. You want (traffic noise) to go get it after work?
Me: No, I want you to come with me!
Him: I said do you want (traffic noise) to go get it?
Me: No!!! I want us to go together!!

This went on for three rounds. All along, he was saying "do you want me to come with you to go get it?" And I kept screaming at him that no, I wanted him to come with me. Ah, life in the big city. It makes me even more lovable.

4. I want to move to the land of So You Think You Can Dance. Really. The awesomeness is too much to handle. It sort of blows my mind that there is ART on tv, and on everloving FOX on top of it. I mean, what's next? ABC plays "The Skin of Our Teeth" after Grey's Anatomy? I watch the show and I picture John and Bertha America watching it on their couch and they have never seen live arty dance before in their lives and they are all the sudden watching this?????

Yes, they are.

Or this????

An American In Paris mixed with Cat on a Hot Tin Roof

How can you even ARGUE with that, is all I'm saying. Not that you are arguing with that. And if you are, then you are just clearly not my people and we never need to speak of this again.

5. Speaking of tv, why is the Fashion Show on Bravo so lame? Lame, lame, lame. Sorry Isaac. Like your Target stuff.

6. I had a total oldster "Get Off My Lawn" moment yesterday. Some fratty boys were walking down my street, and one of them was carrying a watermelon (this sounds like the beginning of a joke, doesn't it?). In the midst of their disgusting frat roughhousing with each other, they dropped the watermelon. Do they clean it up? Hardly. Do they leave it on the sidewalk and keep stepping? Not that either. No, they decided to take the pieces of shattered watermelon and throw it at each other. Which, ok, fine. Whatever. But they did it with my parked car between them. And the pieces of watermelon hit my car, like a billion times. It seriously looks like someone puked watermelon all over my car right now. What the hell, dudes? Maybe I should just be grateful that it isn't actual puke on my car, you know, considering the source.

7. I overheard someone in the library call another person a "noodle" in irritation. I kind of love that person.

My little girl heart still loves Michael, it's true

When Michael Jackson died last week, it was sort of a weird day. I was at the reference desk and so many people came up to me and told me about it. "Did you hear that Michael Jackson died?" everyone was saying to each other. EVERYONE. I have worked in public service for a while now and I never was at work during a national event that made people talk to each other so much. There was the last presidential election, in a way, but that breaking news didn't happen when I was at work. That was more a morning-after type thing.

So ok fine, what I am leading up to is a list of Michael Jackson memories, some of which I may have mentioned in other blog posts, so sue me. Here goes.

1. As a kid, my friend and I would tape record ourselves singing to songs on the radio. One of our favorites was "Wanna Be Startin' Something." In it, we sang, with full confidence in our lyric-listening abilities, the following: "Too high to get over (yeah, yeah), to low to get under (yeah, yeah), you're stuck in the middle, and the penis finger."

2. This same friend and I once did an elaborate tape recorded audio play to the song "Thriller." We had scripts, and whenever MJ was not singing, we said our lines. The play had something to do with us getting lured into a haunted house. The big finale and special effect was at the very end, when Vincent Price does his long, diabolical laugh, we wanted it to sound like we were being chased away whilst screaming. The only way we could do this was to leave the recorder on and scream bloody murder while running out of her bedroom and down the hallway of her house, thus creating the fading scream effect. We did many takes of this special effect. Bless her mom for not telling us to shut the hell up, as mine would have most certainly done.

3. My first childhood boyfriend had a red MJ Beat It jacket with all the zippers, a jeri curl, and could moonwalk and do the worm, and this is precisely why I liked him.

4. I can moonwalk like a mothershanker and you would be amazed. I can even do the style of moonwalk where you turn around in the midst of the moonwalk. I believe the word you are looking for here is: gifted.

5. My friend Mike and Delium once made up an MJ-esque dance in college, and called it "The Shamones" in his honor.

6. Michael Jackson is the only celebrity crush I ever had in my life. I have never loved a male celebrity again. Not Kirk Cameron then, not George Clooney now.

7. My friend Michelle had a neighborhood party on the day that the Thriller video was first played on MTV. There was ice cream and all us little girls screamed in ecstacy when it came on the screen. Which is what happens when you were a little girl in the 80s and there was ice cream and Michael Jackson at the same time.

8. I remember when Elvis died, and some adults I knew were kind of sad about it and I totally didn't get it. Wasn't Elvis just that bloated joke with the white jumpsuits? That's all I ever experienced of him. But now I get it. There are just those generational things. And if you were just the right age in 1982, then you're sad about MJ. If you're a little too old or a little too young, then yeah, he does seem like a joke. So, yeah. Sorry about that, Elvis.

9. Do I need to mention my button collection again? Ok fine. I had this button collection of MJ buttons, most of which I made myself with a homemade-button machine thing. Not only did I have maybe 50 of these mamma jammas, but there was a short period where I wore them. All of them. At the same time. Just covering my shirt from chin to waist in a sort of Michael Jackson chain mail breast plate. And here you thought that my being fashion-forward was a thing I developed in adulthood.

10. Annie are you ok? Annie are you ok? Are you ok Annie?

Go Ahead, Sing the Whole Song That Way, It's Even More Funny

My MJ button collection from when I was in elementary school. I actually had about 50 of these bad boys.

I'm sorry, but I'm going to be writing a blog post about Michael Jackson. I know, I know, everyone else will be too. But I'm the Pop Culture Librarian. It's kind of required for me.

But, I don't have time to write a real post about the place of Michael Jackson in my elementary school heart. There wasn't much I loved more when I was a child than Michael. There is a part of my childhood self that is sort of (I know, I'm being corny) devastated about him, and has been for a long time because of the wacky dude he turned out to be and now the devastation has a nice neat bow on it to end the whole crap story. I could wax nostalgic about it. But I have so much shit to do today that it's 7am and I am already feeling like I am behind on my day.

So instead of all that, I am going to tell you what made me laugh, and laugh, and laugh yesterday about Jacko. I know, inappropriate and insensitive. Dying is no laughing matter. But don't I always laugh at inappropriate times? I think I have thoroughly documented this by now.

My friend Toby wrote this on his Facebook wall after the news came out yesterday:
"And The Whole World Has To Answer Right Now Just To Tell You Once Again, Who's Dead."

Is it just me or is that the funniest thing you have ever sung to yourself in your head? I am still sort of giggling about this this morning.

I am a horrible, horrible person, yes. But come on! It's funny!

Librarian Girl

Robo-home

Oh my friends. My dream has come true.

We got a robot vacuum cleaner.

We spent much of Sunday evening watching it work, as if it was a very riveting episode of Double Trouble, starring the Segal twins. It was magnificent in much the same way. I think I have become one of those scary people that want a robot labor force to do everything for me from here on out. If it can vacuum my floor, why can't it fold my laundry and make my bed and apply my mascara too? Oh Roomba, you are the gateway robot.

Oh and other stuff happened this weekend too. Like for one thing, we went and saw my friends play at the Fremont Fair. Play in a band, I guess I should clarify. Otherwise you might think they were engaged in a pinochle tourney or something. I really wish that word was spelled "peeknuckle." I would think better of the game if it were spelled that way. The way it's really spelled makes me think I should say "pin-notch-lay." Doesn't it look like that? Back when I was in middle school and I discovered the glory that is Dave Gahan's voice, I went through a period where I called the band Depeche Mode "Dah-Peachy Mode." Dah-Peachy. And I'm sorry but I still like that name better than the real name.

What was I saying? Oh yes, my weekend.

So we went to see my friends' rock it. The set sounded really good, and was enhanced by a dude in a bear plushy outfit dancing in front of the stage, which is always a nice touch. I missed this year's annual naked bike riding parade at the fair, which to be honest, was kind of ok with me.

Also, Nordic Boy finished his water re-routing drainage yard project. There was drilling, and man-sized hole digging, and pipe installation, and mixing and setting of cement. All things of which I know little to nothing. But it was exciting nonetheless and I am told water will now drain as it should, goddamit.

We also attended two friends' joint 30th birthday party, which started out at a local pizza joint. There was pizza leftover, and then we all wanted to trek over to a bar across the neighborhood, and so Rambo valiantly offered to carry the leftover pizza to the second location. So we walked for many blocks, and he looked like this the entire time, which cracked me up for some reason. I'm not sure why.


Carrying pizza Big-Boy style late at night for blocks and blocks is somehow funny to me.

I also caught up with my friend D, who probably shouldn't be hanging out with me because there is much laughing and he still has tender stitches from his appendix outage last week. So when he laughs really hard, he holds his hand over his sore appendix hole. And I say "ha ha! I've got you in STITCHES!" each time. Which we both think is funny, which is one of the reasons we're friends.

I think I'm going to watch my robot do my floors now.

And it IS overdue. Long overdue.

I was going to post about my weekend, but you know what? Imaginary pop culture is more fun. I have lots of imaginary pop culture in my life. To begin with, I have four, count 'em, four, imaginary bands. One is called "Fully Operational Mothership," and is a pyschedelic funk band. I started this band after I heard an NPR interview with George Clinton where he responded to the question: "What does funk mean to you?" with the unbelievabley awesome answer "Funk, to me, is a fully operational mothership." In my fake band, I play the synth, Dr. Teeth style. BioGirl plays the triangle, and Nordic Boy is the singer. This is one of those funk bands that has like a hundred people in it, so if you want to be in it, pick an instrument and you're more than welcome.

My second imaginary band is called Unagi. It is a late-70/early 80s style rock band, kind of like Loverboy or Boston. I am the lead singer, and my name is Pussy Willow. BioGirl, I believe, plays the drums and is named Stellarai Foxx. Nordic Boy is on guitar and gives us a bluesy tinge. His name is Petey Wheat. My friend Jen was on keyboards and Neighbor J was on bass (I think- this band was formed a few years ago and it's all getting sort of hazy). Neighbor B was our pyrotechnics guy, and we even had an evil manager (an ex of BioGirl's) who never showed up to any of our imaginary gigs. His name was BB Mox.

My third imaginary band was a spin off from Unagi. Neighbor J and I decided we needed to explore some roots music, and we created Dawson and Clyde. The back story on that is too much to even get into.

Lastly, BioGirl, Nordic Boy, Borgsmith and I have BLACK ICE! You have to capitalize it and add the exclamation point every time you mention BLACK ICE! It is also a rock band, but more of an indie band than Unagi is. We haven't decided on anything about BLACK ICE! other than that we have a song called Hot Dish and that we play at a club called the Snow Tractor. So that's a work in progress.

This weekend, I branched out from imaginary bands and got into imaginary tv shows. Ladies and gents, I give to you:

Overdue, starring Alexis Bledel.

Teens and Tim and Library Goodness

As all bloggers know, there are a lot of junky solicitations that we get asking us to mention this or that on our blogs. I know that you appreciate that although I do many annoying things here, I do not all of a sudden start to wax poetic about the latest schick lady razor or whatever. I don't read any blogs that actually do that sort of thing, do you? If no one is doing it, then why do companies and organizations keep asking?

Anyhoo. I'm going to break from my no-promoting policy (oh, yes, I'm pretending that I have policies) because I got an email asking me to mention something that I am actually excited to mention and I think you guys may think its pretty awesome too.

Behold, the New York Public Library's Anti-Prom teen design project. The theme was Vam-Prom.

I know. The mere words "anti-prom" and "vam-prom" are enough to warrant awesomeness, are they not?

The library selected 6 aspiring fashion designer high school students, who you shall see in the clips below in all their adorability. The library then brought the teens into the library (us librarians, always luring teens into the library) to show them all of the design-related collections. What have I been trying to tell you people all these years I have been blogging? Fashion and libraryland- they belong together! Now will you believe me?

Then the teens did some sketches based on their research and they got to show them to someone who might know a little about fashion sketches. Oh, who could they show them to? Who indeed? How about, oh I don't know. Tim Gunn? BOO-YAH, suckers. The fashionista teens got to schmooze their work with Tim effing Gunn! How inspiring is that??

Uncle Tim provided each teen with individual advice, support, and his goodness and light. He also answered questions for them. He is dreamy.

The teens' designs will be shown at the 5th Annual Anti-Prom (theme, oh how I love a prom theme- "Vam-Prom.") The Anti-Prom is organized by the NYPL as an alternative safe space for all teens who may not feel welcome at official school proms or dances because of their sexual orientation, the way they dress, or any other reason.

That last sentence I wrote is the reason I can get all choked up about library stuff. What a softie I am.

The 2009 Anti-Prom will be guest hosted by Tim Gunn and Austin Scarlett from Project Runway. Have I used the term "awesome" too many times in this post? Come on. One more time.

Awesome.

Click here to see Episodes 1 and 2 of NYPL's Vam-Prom.

Must Pay More Attention

You'd think he would learn, but no. It has become Nordic Boy's mission in life to make me laugh while I am brushing my teeth. The lastest? What he has termed "Brush Dancing." This means that he dances to the rhythm that is created when I am brushing my teeth. This mostly consists of a very weird shuffle, sort of like the MC Hammer shuffle. And when I stop the brush-action to laugh, he freezes. And when I continue brushing, he starts. Why would he do this, after the toothpaste-money-shot of '09? Hasn't he learned anything? I do notice that he now makes me laugh from far away. So I guess he has learned something. Next thing you know he will be doing his schtick with a plastic sheet in front of him, like the people who get front row seats to a Gallagher show.

So I was thinking about the fact that I am a very loud drinker (yes, I have not yet let that one go) and I have begun to really doubt my own powers of observation. This is based on two facts. One, the loud drinking, which I think I should have been aware of. If I am gulping like a frat boy doing a chugger, then I should have noticed this. And two, there is the unsolved case of the boy with uneven legs. Did I ever tell you about that one? I have been blogging for kind of a long time, so sometimes I worry I am repeating myself. Just pretend you haven't heard this one before.

I dated this guy when I was 18. He was a dude in his early 20s, in a band, who I mainly dated just to make my friends jealous (and it really did freak their freak), and who I never could quite believe was actually dating me, as our leagues were totally different, and who used to tool me around on the back of his motorcycle among other teen-swoonworthy things. It was just about the coolest thing I had ever pulled off up until that point. As my friend Alli put it: "the Cool-o-meter blew up!" (Alli has a knack for describing that whole time in my life. She also was so impressed by that relationship that she coined the term "Champion Cherry Popper" to describe him, but that's a whole other story).

Years later, I was talking to Alli's husband, who is older than us and was a contemporary of Band Boy. I think they went to high school together. And when the subject of Band Boy came up, Alli's husband says the following: "Oh yeah. I remember him. You guys all had a crush on him? That's weird. I always just thought of him as the kid that had one leg shorter than the other."

At which point I did the biggest Scooby-Doo impression of my whole life.

"ARRRRH????"

What did he MEAN, one leg shorter than the other? That dude was physically perfect, maybe not to me now, but in a teen swoonworthy sort of way. I demanded to know what the heck Alli's hubby was talking about.

"You know, his legs. One was shorter than the other. He used to have to wear a special shoe on one foot to even them out."

NAH-UH! He has got to be joking me. I dated that guy for a whole year. A whole entire 365 days. I saw him with his shoes off. I saw him plenty. I never saw no leg-lengthening shoe device anywhere. Trust me, I was looking at that guy. All I ever wanted to do was look at that guy. I looked at him and looked at him. In the way that only a teen girl can look at a dude that she is severely crushing on, with all of those hormones thundering through my veins. I was very aware of that guy's body. And you are telling me that that whole time, he was wearing one shoe that was a Pee Wee Herman shoe and I didn't ever notice????

To this day, this galls me. I am sitting here typing and shaking my head in complete denial.

This had to be something that Alli's husband is misremembering, right? Or maybe this was something that Band Boy had in high school when Alli's hubs knew him, but he grew out of it by the time I knew him. Or he got it corrected. Or something.

But there's always that thought in the back of my mind that no, there is no explanantion. Other than I just missed it. That my hormones were so on fire that I missed. that. totally.

If someone points out to me that Nordic Boy has brown eyes or some shit like that, I swear to you I will lose it.

Gulping Maw

Ugh, I have total Computer Face right now. I have spent pretty much my entire day in front of a computer screen, which I know is not that uncommon for a lot of people, but usually I get some face time with actual humans mixed in so when I just have smoochy time with my screen all day it's like I feel all in a daze. So what shall I do to remedy this? Blog a little bit and then watch a movie or something, probably.

My friend D got his appendix out last week, and totally didn't tell anyone he was going into the hospital overnight. I scolded him verily for this, but then felt kind of bad about the scolding. But really, shouldn't you tell someone you are going in to the hospital for surgery, just so that someone knows where you are and can check on you and make sure all is ok and stuff? It seems like you wouldn't want to just be all secretive about that, right? Or am I just being weird? I'm weird so often that I can't gauge it for myself any more.

Speaking of me being weird, I was informed last night that I am a Very Loud Drinker. Like, when I am drinking a glass of water, apparently my gulping sounds are akin to a giant glugging drain. How have I gone this far in my life and no one has told me this about myself? I am mortified that I haven't quieted the sounds of my own glugging, but how could I when I didn't know? I have this friend Jenny who once told me that she had this fear that she was cross-eyed, but that no one had ever told her. I tried to point out that she would have noticed her eye-position in taking a look at a photo of herself, and I also assured her that she wasn't cross-eyed, and then I made fun of her for about five years after that for telling me that story. Now look at me- making fun of her while all the while my drinking noises could drown out a barge horn.

So far I have told you that I scolded my one friend who just got out of the hospital and that I made fun of another one for confessing a fear to me. Compassionate much? I sound like an asshole today. An ear-shattering, gulping asshole.

I just said "gulping asshole." Nice one.

I think that Computer Face might have turned me into a mean 14 year old boy or something. I don't know.

Nordic Boy and I have been trying to plan this big trip back to the Midwest in July. We are going to see his folks, and my folks, and friends in three states. It's kind of complicated but totally worth it because it's going to be SO MUCH FUN. We have been planning it for like, a year. So then last week, this big thing came up at Nordic Boy's work and there was this four or five day stretch where we thought that he might not be able to go on the everloving trip! And I was devastated. DEVASTATED. (Missing a vacation = First World Problem, I know). There were tears, and I am not a big crier, so when the waterworks start going in my house Nordic Boy almost doesn't know who I am. It was probably only the loud drinking sounds that helped him to recognize me. So anyway, yesterday his job-people told him that oops, did we say that you might have to miss your vacation? We didn't mean to say that. Our bad. Which, YAY, I'm totally happy about and did a literal dance of joy when I found this out, but DANG those effers for making me cry. A pox on their houses, is what I say.

What was that? Did you say something? I couldn't hear you, since I was taking a drink.

Parks and Recreation

I really want to once again talk about how the weather has been so frickin' nice. But I won't. Just know that I want to.

The weekend was another one for the history books. Well, I guess that would imply that I went into a battle or got inaugurated as the first Indian-Pacific-Islander-American president (now there's a goal for you) or received some blankets infected with small pox or something like that, so maybe it wasn't for the history books. Although the weekend was just as pleasant as could be, in history books you see a lot of awfulness or glory or pride or fury. Not a lot said about events that were pleasant. Oh well.

So what exactly was so pleasant about it? I don't know. I just tooled around and had a grand old time of it, that's all. It was sort of a weekend of parks. BioGirl and I went to Magnuson Park and walked the loop. Then Nordic Boy and I went to Discovery Park and saw a whole family of bald eagles having an in-flight fight with a pack of crows, which was crazy intense. We then went to Madrona Park and walked along Lake Washington for a good couple of hours. We also went to Cal Anderson park to attend a birthday picnic, which was loveliness. There was even a guy in a red velvet suit with a purple dunce cap on at that last one, simultaneously walking, hula-hooping, and playing the clarinet around the park. If you don't think that is fantastic, you just might be a little dead inside.

Nordic Boy also dug a big hole in our front yard because he is doing some crazy engineering shit where he's re-routing the water drainage through our yard. So as if the ugliness that is our yard is not enough, now we have this big hole in the middle of it, with pipe in there and other beauteousness. It hurts my eyes, you guys. It's so ridinkadonk.

You want to hear something crazy? Nordic Boy is totally magic! He does this thing where he takes a piece of metal, kind of the shape of the Ikea hex wrench thing, and he finds water running underground! He walks around with it, and it will turn toward the water flow. Then you dig where it points, and there you go. Water. It's like a watery Ouija board, dudes! He's like a friggin' diviner and shit! The first time he did that I thought it was a total crock of caca, but I have seen him to do it a bunch of times now and it is FER-REAKY. Perhaps this is not at all weird to you outdoorsy people out there who have to regularly scavenge for berries and find water with your Ikea toolkit, but for me? It totally weirds me out. This is reason #487 that if I stick with that guy, I am guaranteed to survive when the zombies take over the world and we are living in a Mad Max dystopia.

That's all I got.

Slowbusters

We are now on DAY FIFTEEN of dress/skirt/no sweater weather. Double digits! Could we make it to one month? I don't even care if it rains, as long as the temperature stays up like this! I think we can make it to one month. Sure we can! Who's with me? Come on, we're half way there! (I don't usually resort to quoting the big-hair bard, Bon Jovi, but I can't argue with it in this instance).

The sun continues to shine here in rainy Seattle, and I am in heaven about it. Most everyone in Seattle is of vampire-extraction and so the complaining about the sun is just flying free everywhere I go. I feel like a member of a secret underground movement of sun-lovers. I have two friends that love the heat as much as I do, and when we talk to each other it is in covert glee. Ha ha, isn't this great? we whisper to each other. Then we shut up when the haters converge. I am thinking I need to leaflet my neighborhood or something- there have to be more people like me out there somewhere.

In other summery news, let's talk about plants. Remember when I told you about our plan to have an enviromentally friendly yard? The kind with no grass? We have now put that plan into action, and I am so excited about it. We put in this groundcover that will look pretty much like grass, only without the waste created by having to water the bastard. We just plant these little patches of the groundcover, and then eventually, they spread and meet up with each other, hence creating a lawn. Just not a lawn made of grass. Genius! We do have to water the plants occasionally right now as they are just babies, but eventually, no watering, plus the prettiness. The only problem I am having with this whole planty plan is that for right now it is super ugly and it's going to be that way for a little while because in case you didn't know this: PLANTS GROW SLOW. Like, lugubriously slow. Sllllllllow. The nursery guy assured me that once they were planted and given some time, they would grow like "gangbusters." He actually used the term "gangbusters." (And I see that the Maiden has now also used that term in reference to plants so perhaps this is a gardening term that I didn't know about?). So far, it has been two months, which in plant-time, apparently, is like two minutes. There has been no gangbusting thus far. None at all. And I am tired of waiting for the gangbusters, my friends. Because in the meantime my yard is polka dotted.



This is apropos of nothing, but they keep selling Obama cookies at the Whole Foods bakery. And I don't know why they freak me out, but they just don't look right to me. I don't know, you be the judge.



Librarian Girl

Kenny Rogers versus Blair Warner

Dang, and here I thought I was going to have a week where I blogged every day and then Wednesday came along and jacked it all up. Stupid Wednesday.

And you guys, Wednesday was stupid. We woke up this morning and this is how it went.

Me: I am so excited!
Nordic Boy: Why?
Me: Because it's NOT YESTERDAY!

That's how bad yesterday was. I'm just all aflutter because it has been flushed down the crapper.

Today is much better though, even though when I first became conscious this morning, I was skerred out of my pjs. I sort of woke up at around 5am. I rolled over and kissed Nordic Boy on the face, and right as I planted it, this scary, loud alarm went off (not the alarm clock, something louder and much more aggressive) and a robot woman's voice said, very loudly: "CAUTION! CAUTION!"

This is not what you want to hear when you kiss your loved ones in the dead of morning.

We both woke up, and looked at each other and said "What the hell was that?" almost simultaneously. We sat up in bed and listened again. Silence. Had we both had the same dream, at the same moment?

Turns out that our smoke alarm? It talks. No shit. And the battery is low. And apparently when the battery is low, a robot lady yells "CAUTION! CAUTION!" And if you happen to kiss right at that exact moment, you just may think that your smooch caused some sort of robot police action in your home.

In other news, I am trying to settle something for myself. I have always felt a strong kinship with the chorus of the lyrics from "The Gambler" and I have often said that if my life philosophy had a theme song, it would be from good old Kenny Rogers. Yes, I have. I HAVE TOO said that. How are you going to argue with knowing when to hold 'em and knowing when to fold 'em? It is really one of the best pieces of 20th century philosophy there is to be had and I challenge you to convince me that it's not.

Lately, though, I feel like my loyalty to living my life Gambler style has gotten some competition. What could possibly compete with never countin' your money when you're sitting at the table? I'll tell you what. The Facts of Life theme song. I don't know why, but I hummed it to myself the other day, and since then, I cannot stop thinking about it. You take the good, you take the bad, you take them both and there you have the facts of life. Well goddammit that is the truth, isn't it? I mean, is that some Taoist shit or what? Really. When the world never seems to be living up to your dreams, suddenly you're finding out the facts of life are all about you. You you you. Amen, sister. A plea for self awareness and personal responsibility. Oh yes. Alan Thicke is a fricking GENIUS for writing that, am I right?

So now I am torn. Am I a Gambler girl or a Facts of Life lady? Both of them, they speak to my soul and I feel the need to choose where I stand. Are you feeling me?

I think the robot lady needs to yell "CAUTION! CAUTION!" right about now.

Librarian Girl

Dear Aveda Store

Dear Aveda Store,

First of all I want to start out on a positive note and tell you that I like your products. Nice shampoo, nice dippity-doo (I like to call all gels and sprays and pomades "dippity doo" because it just sounds funny to me so even though I know that dippity doo is an actual hair product of which I have never dipped nor dooded, I am going to call your stuff that too so no offense intended), and nice conditioners. I have never used any of your make up or non-hair-related stuff but I am sure all of that is aces as well. I also enjoy that you use natural ingredients and recycle stuff and I applaud that you are Cradle to Cradle certified and all like that. Stuff of that nature is important to a hippy treehugger like myself, so even though it's more expensive I am willing to shill it out every so often, so thanks for doing that. I have found some of your advertising in the past a bit disgusting (in an "Eating the Other" sort of way) but granted I spring from Third Worlders who are sensitive to such things what with all the crap that occurs when exoticization happens but we'll gloss over that for now because I'm not writing to deconstruct your ads or anything. Just, kudos on the hair products.

But Aveda, I have to tell you that you are chipping away at my enthusiasm to shop at your store. Why? Because your behavior SCARES ME.

I want to say here that I don't blame the people who work in the store. They are just doing what they are told and it's not their fault that they are paid to be scary beauty product pushers. That's why I am addressing this post to you, The Store. Whatever big Corporate Giant Head that makes the rules for the store- I am talking to you. You seriously need to relax.

I go in to your store maybe four to five times a year. I am a repeat customer. I know what I am getting, and if I want to branch out, I will let you know. But when I come to your store, you act like you don't want me to leave, ever. It's very Hotel California style. It's like you are a creepy, clingy date and you are going to freak out if I don't stay and be your shampoo loverlady or something.

When I went into your store this weekend, there were two women in front of me in the cash register line. Among the three of us, here are all of the enticements that you offered for each of us to stay in the store and live there and have your shampoo babies. Each of us was trying to buy one item. That's all. But here's what we got.

Would you like to sign up for our frequent buyer program?
Would you like a cup of tea?
How about some water?
Would you like gift wrap?
Would you like some conditioner to go with this shampoo?
Would you like a custom fragrance made for you today? It will only take 10 minutes.
Do you have time to sit and have a complimentary hand massage?
Would you like me to spray some mint oil into the gift box so that there is a fresh smell when your friend opens the gift?
Would you like a complimentary makeover? We just got some new colors in this week.
Would you like a free pump for your shampoo bottle?
Would you like a free sample?
Would you like to enter to win a free men's gift set for Father's Day?
Would you like to sign up for our birthday club?

OH MY GOD. Aveda! I have to go, honey. I really think you need to get some hobbies or something. I am just not ready to take our relationship to this level. I know that you are trying to foster this atmosphere, where people come to you and just, like, hang out all day or something. Drinking tea and getting massages and having everything gift wrapped and having makeovers. And really, I see how that is a pleasant way to spend a day. But if I am doing that, I hate to break your heart, but I am not doing that in the Aveda store. It's just not going to happen that way. And by the looks of how the other customers act with you, it's not working on them either.

So just stop it, ok? Because I really don't want to never see you again, but it's heading that way. You need to just chill. Please. You're annoying me and now you have made me say the words "just chill." Please, this has to stop.

Librarian Girl

Weekend Brain Dump

I am so in love with weekends it's getting kind of serious.

On Friday night, I came home and was feeling a bit of stress. I am usually not one for cracking under stress (not because I am so evolved, mind you, but more because I am too lazy to maintain stress. Laziness will save you from a lot of grief in life, trust me) so Nordic Boy and I ditched our plans and spent the evening on our porch, sipping smoothies and talking the sun down. It was one of those nights that was only four or five hours, but felt like a whole day and made me picture us together when we're old. Because if you can't shoot the shit on the porch with someone for that many hours straight, then really are you going to make it together when you're 80? Isn't that why Bartles and James stayed together so long? And Statler and Waldorf? Why am I modeling my relationship after curmudgeonly old men? I don't know.

On Saturday we helped our friend haul some stuff to the dump for recycling. Who knew that taking long pieces of two by fours and throwing them, javelin-like, into the back of a dump truck was so fun? Especially when you can make a "yaaaaah!" grunting sound while you're doing it, like Bruce Jenner? (That's Wheaties box Bruce Jenner, not Kardashian Bruce Jenner). The only thing that marred the fun of that day was when my friend tried to tell me that the band Toto was musical-twins with the band Tears for Fears. Can anyone out there back me up when I say that my friend has a broken set of ear holes? Can we take a vote or something? If more of you out there say that Toto and Tears for Fears are one and the same, I suppose I will have to live with it, but come on you guys. Back me up. Because that whole conversation made me aghast.

After the dump (and really, can one really use the word "dump" without thinking about poop? or is that just me?), we went out with our friend (after changing out of our stinky dump outfits) for thai food, and then Nordic Boy and I went erranding and then to a park along Lake Washington for a nice long walk. While there, we saw many, many children being scolded. It was like a scoldfest everywhere we went. "STOP IT!" "COME HERE!" "SIT DOWN!" "BE QUIET!" "EAT THIS!" "I AM COUNTING TO THREE." I know there is a lot of boundary-setting and directives in parenting- I am not an ignoramus or anything. But that day it just seemed like that's all we heard everywhere we went. And when something is yelled out like that, all bossy-like, it's hard not to obey, even when you're a thirty-something librarian. I was trying to enjoy my walk but I kept wanting to STOP THAT and COME HERE every few minutes. It was jarring.

After the walk, we met up with BioGirl for dinner, and then went out for ice cream after that. I stuffed myself more than I have stuffed myself in a very long time. I almost felt like my gut was going to bust or something. It was way too much food. So what did we do, right after eating way more than anyone really should? We went back to our house and jumped all around for a couple hours on the DDR. Because nothing says friendship like jumping up and down until you just may barf.

Sunday, we had a day of doing grownup stuff. We paid bills, and watered plants, and did grocery shopping, and cleaned our house, and other such. Then, in the afternoon, we attended a picnic that was held in honor of little old me. See, I am leaving one library location to work in another (just one neighborhood away) and my current co-workers threw me a bon voyage shindig. It was so nice, you guys. I don't know what it is about me but I never expect anyone other than Nordic Boy or BioGirl to do a goddamn thing for me, and so when someone does, I sort of can get weirdly emotional about it. Why I don't think people would ever really be thoughtful and nice toward me is way too much for me to get into without my having to pay you therapist fees or something, but suffice it to say that this was really lovely. Nice people are just so nice.

Then after the party, we went over to another friends' house for a visit and then went home and fell into bed.

How many more days until another weekend?

Librarian Girl

Dreamy Dentals

I found him! I found The One!

I'm talking about my dentist.

I am so effing picky about my health care providers, people. SO PICKY. Aside from someone who is competent, I need someone who will listen and respond to all of my questions. And it is guaranteed that I will have a ton of questions. If you are wearing a white coat and are a practicing health care provider (so you Clinique ladies do not count), don't even try to get away from me before I am done with my list of questions because that makes it a sure thing that I will never come back and see you again. So don't cut me off, don't act rushed, don't seem annoyed. I'm sorry if I want to know what the hell you are doing to me, really, I apologize. But my question-list-lust must be sated. There's just no getting around it.

So if I get a health care person that is up to par on that (is that the phrase? up to par? I don't get golf), I will be loyal to them. But if I get that level of quality, and then on top of that, the person is super nice and friendly and has people skills and stuff? I AM YOURS FOR LIFE.

This may sound kind of over the top. But I feel like I can say that because this magical combination hardly ever happens. And I was brought up with high expectations. My dad was a doctor. And the level of service that he provided, compared to the chuckleheads that I usually see these days, makes him seem like Dr. Hiram Baker in terms of how much he cared about his patients. He knew them all, and their families, and he always called them to tell them their results personally, instead of having the lab people do it, and during the holidays to this day, his house is bursting with cookies, and cards, and homemade peanut brittle, and pointsettia flowers, all from former patients that still remember my dad fondly even though he's been retired for a long ass time.

So compared to that, I don't think that having a non-annoyed face when I ask a question and a friendly demeanor is too much to ask.

This attitude I have means that I discard a lot of doctors and dentists. A lot. It's like bad boyfriends, bad friends, bad jobs- it's not that I never had them, I just can never keep them around. If you aren't being good to me, you have got to go. No hard feelings, but I am out of here. And like bad boyfriends, and friends, and jobs, after you have seen a lot of them, you keep hope alive that it could be different, but your optimism starts to fade. So when you do find a good one, it's like a freaking miracle.

As the hygenist was going to start her teethscaping, she told me that, as usual, it might inflame my gums a bit. She says, "I have a gel that I can rub on there first, that numbs the gums a little bit so it's not quite as sensitive. Would you like some of that, or no?"

Who would say no to this question? Why would you NOT want your gums to miss out on the scrapey-scrapey? Is this controversial, like getting an epidural for childbirth or something? Is there a no-numbing dental movement out there that I don't know about? I would like to go on record to say that when it comes to someone prodding my mouth with sharp objects, I would ALWAYS LIKE THE NUMBING. Can you just put that in my chart there? Because really, you never have to ask me that again.

Also, they totally couldn't read my blood pressure, you guys! They tried like six times. It was like I didn't have a heart beat or something. It looked like it was reading something, and then it just would stop. The lady actually said "it's weird. It's like you're NOT THERE."

Deep, right? It's like I'm not even REAL. Spooky.

I was actually kind of excited about the prospect of my being not there, or a vampire or something, but then they brought out another blood pressure thingy and it worked.

They also were playing The Clash in the exam room. How awesome is that?

I love my new dentist.

Librarian Girl

I now pronounce you Stone Cold and Killer Kowalski

Dudes, it is SO NICE here. I realize that talking about the weather is mundane, but I can't help it. I am henceforth going to be counting the days in a row that I am wearing a skirt or dress, because the higher that number goes, the happier I will be. We are currently on DAY THREE. I am hoping this may go into the double digits.

So, remember how, in April, I had that dream about Josh and the Maiden Metallurgist? Well, now it turns out that the Maiden has returned the dream-favor and had a dream about me and Nordic Boy. Which ups the friendship to just about every non-in-person venue one could think of. Blog friends, Facebook friends, Twitter friends, email friends, and now dream friends. What's next? I'm sure if we lived in the future, we would be holodeck friends. Or maybe we could send each other smoke signals, but I think we live too far away for that. Or maybe we could be ESP friends? Like the Ghost Whisperer, but instead of talking to ghosts, we could send each other mind signals or something?

Or maybe we just need to meet up in person, because all of the other friendship venues are kind of exhausted. I am going to be in Chicago next month, so it just might happen.

In other news, Nordic Boy and I have never made any vows to each other. However, as of yesterday, we have decided, that should we ever feel the need to make vows to each other, that we have the perfect way of expressing those vows. It came about like this:

Him: I'm going to love you for a long time, you know.
Me: Why the challenging tone? Are you challenging me?
Him: Totally. I'm going to love you until... until... one of us just keels over from it.
Me: What, and dies?
Him: And DIES.
Me: What, so it's like a DEATH MATCH?
Him: TOTAL DEATH MATCH!
Me: AARRRRGGGG!
Him: RAAAWWRRRR!
(flexing of muscles, Hulk Hogan style, and baring of teeth at each other).

That almost makes me sad that we never had a wedding. Because I would LOVE to say those words and act like that in an official capacity. I mean, wouldn't you love to go to a wedding where someone pulled some shit like that?

Also, once again, I am feeling like I am telling you a story that is only funny to me. Oh well, that's just how I do.

Librarian Girl

Mazama-lama-ding-dong

You guys I totally went to the woods this weekend. Like there were mountains all around me, like right next to me, right there!, and trees, and quiet, and there might have been actual stars visible in the sky, which for a city dweller is muy exciting, although to be perfectly honest I didn't really see any. But still, it was the bonafide country. Outside the front door, it looked like this.



And outside my bedroom window, it looked like this.


True, we were in a nicely decked out house in the middle of all this nature, so let's not get crazy and think I was being all rustic or anything, but still. The place was so frickin' naturey it was bananas.


We drove three hours northeast of Seattle to get to this mythical place. There was a neighboring town about 20 miles away, so we weren't too far away from other people (and when I say other people, I must point out that nary a brown folk was to be found ANYWHERE, which can sometimes unsettle me, but this time it was ok. I tried to think of it like I was a unicorn or something, which isn't hard to do when people stare at you in the grocery store, because wouldn't you stare at a unicorn if you saw it in a grocery store?) Listen I know the unicorn thing is malarkey but I was trying to enjoy my weekend ok, so let me do whatever I need to do in my own mind to make that happen.

One more thing about the grocery store and town that was near to us. They love the old-timey saloon font there. All the signs, they are in the old-timey saloon font. It was so consistent that I wondered if it was like a town ordinance or something. Is that possible? To have font ordinances?

Anyway. I have discovered something new about myself and that is that I may have developed a teensy fear of heights. I have never had a fear of heights before that I can remember, but lately, if I am in a high building and look out the window, or on a mountain pass highway and look over the edge of the precipice, I feel sort of weird. And not my normal, everyday weird.

For instance, on the drive there, we stopped at this place where you could walk across a bridge for a nice lookout point over a gorge. The looking out over the gorge was fine, but the bridge itself was a grated bridge, where if you look down at your feet, you see the however-many-foot drop underneath you. That made me feel downright nervous. Granted, I think 90% of my nervousness was the fact that I had my iPhone with me and the thought started to go through my mind that I was going to drop it and it would fall through the grate and that would be the end of all happiness in my world. So maybe it's less a fear of heights and more a fear of iPhone-dropophobia.

Anyway, it was lots of prettiness. So much so that it moved me into singing the Grizzly Adams theme song into the echo of the mountainside. In its entirety. You know the song, right? "Deep inside the forest is a door into another land..." Sing it with me!


Yeah, Nordic Boy and Biogirl didn't join in either. But they let me sing the whole thing which is part of why I love them. Anyone that can stand my shit like that is worth a million bucks.

One more thing about the woods. The house we were staying in? Had no blinds, no curtains, no nothing. Which, I guess you don't need that when you don't have neighbors or people outside that can see in. You can change your skivvies in your bedroom in front of a window and no one but some peeping deer will see you. But to me? That just ain't right. I squirrelled myself away into the bathroom every time I had to change clothes. Which maybe just proves I am a bondafide city mouse, I don't know.

So for almost three days we hiked (and sort of got lost, but whatever, we made it back without having to decide which one of us was going to be dinner for the other two), we read, we sat in the sun, we talked, we grilled. BioGirl had a private love affair with her iPod which was a romantic thing to witness indeed, Nordic Boy grilled corn on the cob in his patented "char-broiled" manner (which to me, is just burned, but he defends the technique), and I soaked up the sun and heat to my heart's content.

The best thing for me about going on trips is that no matter how much fun I have, I have even more fun coming home. Who cares if that sounds Pollyanna-ish. That's how unicorns talk, you know.

Librarian Girl