Consumables #5

This week's standouts!

The Up series
This has nothing to do with Pixar or balloon aviation. This is the Up documentary series, which is a big hoopty deal in documentary land. The first one is shot in 1964, when all of the subjects are 7 years old. They are interviewed about their lives. Then every 7 years after that, the filmmakers find the kids again and interview them about their lives all over again. So you see the same kids at 7, then 14, then 21, all the way up to middle age. I had never seen the last one, so I went ahead and rewatched them all. That's just how I do.

Grammy Awards
Now that P!nk went and sang a ballad while flipping herself around on a sheet and dunking herself in water and spinning like a sprinkler, no one ever has an excuse to lip sync, like, ever ever again.

Ugly Betty
Cancelled! Dang.

Detroit Metal City series
A strange manga series about a mild-mannered singer-songwriter in Tokyo who also fronts a death metal band incognito and who has all sorts of moral conflicts about it. I picked it up because I thought it was going to be a comic about Detroit. Go figure.

Nouvelle Vague
French bossa nova cover versions of Depeche Mode, Talking Heads, Joy Division, etc.? Hells yes, please.

Ain't Nothin' But a Groundhog

When I was in 11th grade, I was dating this dude. Well, dating. I don't know- that's a strong word. We didn't really date in high school. Either you were hanging out with a boy for a while and kissing (and perhaps other things), or you were Boyfriend and Girlfriend. When I was in high school, the couples that were bonafide couples seemed like they were friggin' married. Seldom did my friends or I venture into Boyfriend and Girlfriend land (or Boyfriend and Boyfriend land, as the case may be). Even if we were seeing/dating/getting physical with boys, I can't recall any of my friends calling anyone they were seeing a Boyfriend. That was sort of beyond us.

Anyway. I was "seeing" this dude in high school, which for a while mainly consisted of lots of flirtatious phone calls, and note writing, and conversations in gym class. And one day, after school, we kissed. And people? I had kissed boys before, but there was some sort of weird lining-up-of-the-planets in my hormones or something that day, because that kiss knocked me out. Heck, it was a kiss that was so good it nearly knocked me UP, if that were possible. It was like up until that point I was making out with boys in a "this is kind of nice" sort of way, and then this kiss was my first inaugural AAH-OOH-GAH kiss, where the Barry White music started to play in my mind and it was ON. So although it wasn't my first kiss, it sort of was. It was the first time that kissing seemed super delicious and sexual to me.

And that happened on Groundhog Day.

For the next few years, every time Groundhog Day would roll around, I thought about that. What a weird, weird way to commemorate a day about rodents, right? After a few years, I sort of forgot about it. Yesterday BioGirl and I were talking about Groundhog Day, and it made me re-remember my romantic Groundhog Day in 11th grade when that cute boy and I made out like we had struck gold in the Yukon. I've never been a big Valentine's celebrator, but maybe that's because my February heart belongs to Groundhog Day.

So, Happy Groundhog Day, everyone. It's a great day to suck face, take it from me.

Pillow Talk

Lately, our bed frame has been squeaking (keep it clean, everyone, keep it clean).

It squeaks on Nordic Boy's side. A lot. A whole friggin' lot. Even if he turns over at night, it's all SQUEEEEEEEK. And I am all SHUT UP BED. And then the bed is all YOU SHUT UP. SQUEEEEEEK.

It has started to drive me crazy.

The other night, I told Nordic Boy, who can sleep through a cymbal-player's convention, that he needed to fix the dang squeak. (And it is only now, as I am typing this, that I realize just how much I take for granted that Nordic Boy can and will fix whatever I deem fixworthy, and who never ever says to me, as he probably should, FIX IT YOSELF, ARE YOUR ARMS BROKE?).

Anyway. So before we went to bed, he pulled the mattress off for a preliminary look. He did some of his magic, and the squeak went from alarmingly squeaky to timid. Now it is barely a squeak at all.

Since it was after midnight and Nordic Boy hasn't been feeling so well, we called it good enough for now, and we went to bed. As we drifted off to sleep, this is what we said.

Me: It's almost gone. But not quite.
Him: Yeah, I'll fix it tomorrow.
Me: You think it'll be an easy fix?
Him: Yeah. I just have to oil up the nuts.
Me: (snort, giggle)
Him: Oh geez.

Consumables #4

Here is what I ated with my brains and eyeballs this week.

Born into Brothels
Because when you are sniffly and teary-eyed from having a cold, you want to make your face leak even more, right?

Valentino: The Last Emperor
I have a completely irrational love for Valentino couture from the 60s. I just want to eat those effing dresses. Or hump them. Or something.

A Wink and a Smile
This was a documentary about the Seattle burlesque scene. Although I appreciate burlesque in theory, it seemed weird to me that they kept talking about how burlesque is all about women reclaiming their sexuality, and one way this happens is that all different types of bodies are welcome and celebrated, but then all of the performers that were shown were skinny minnies with perfect boobs. I don't know. To the folks who made A Wink and a Smile? I give you back a wink and a skeptical face.

The King of Kong
The drama of geeky gamers! The high stakes competition! The heartbreak! The underdog to root for! Who knew?

Also, I was in my head a lot this week. And while there, this song was playing a bunch.

Worky worky, Turkey Lurkey

I have this perspective, and I am glad I have it, but sometimes, I think it gets me into trouble. And it is this. No matter how hard I am working? I never really think that I am working that hard. I think this is what happens to people when they are brought up by people who have had to work really, really hard, in a real sense. No First World middle class crybaby status inbred into them and so it is just not tolerated in my family. Like, ever. Not even a little bit. And Nordic Boy and his family are the same, which just compounds the whole thing. But every once in a while, I have some days where I look around and I think Self? You are working like your hair is on fire. Ok, fine, yes, you have shoes on your feet and a house and running water and you get vacation time if you want it and you never have to worry about eating and your heat is not going to get shut off for want of bill-paying. And those are things that seem real to you, because you know people who don't have these things and you were brought up to never forget it. So I really do think, 99% of the time, that no matter how hard I am working or how busy I feel, that really? I need to just get over it and not cry into my Pampers. My picture of myself is one where I don't think of myself as a hard ass in any way, shape, or form, but on this subject? I am sort of a hard ass.

This is all just a preface to say that I realized yesterday that I actually work sort of hard. Well, I mean, in perspective. Compared to many people I am now associated with, I work super ridonk hard. Compared to most of the world, I am a big sissypants.

The extra laughable thing about what I am saying right now is that I am only saying any of it as an apology for not blogging much this week. Oh yes. That's right. I work so friggin' hard that I don't have TIME TO BLOG MY USUAL NONSENSE.

Someone needs to slap me immediately for typing that last sentence there. Seriously. It's just gross.

In other news, I was sick over the weekend, which caused me to do dumb things like watch an entire season of The L Word in one sitting. Which, in turn, got the theme song into my head for the rest of the week. And I think that that show just might have the worst, most annoying theme song in the history of theme songs. Including Saved By the Bell.

The other thing about being sick is that now that I am better, I still have residual sniffligiousness, and so I am the asshole in meetings that is honking their schnoz every two seconds and who carries a wad of tissues in both claws at all times.

The third thing that is of note that happened to me yesterday, was that I was at a meeting with a bunch of Very Important People (well at least they would think so if you polled them on their own Importantcy Factor) and there was a jug of orange juice in the snack area. I went over to get a bit of the OJ and picked up the bottle, which had the cap on it, and shook the everloving crap out of it. Only, the person who had partaken of the OJ before me didn't screw the cap on. They just lightly put the cap on top of the jug in a clear attempt to instigate some buffoonery at the VIP meeting. Result? OJ TORNADO! I sprayed the entire table with OJ, and myself, and the food that was set out. I don't know how so much OJ came out of one bottle. Plus, it turns out that the sweater I was wearing was made, apparently, out of the same exact material that they make Always With Wings or Depend Undergarments, because the immediate absorbency of the OJ into my torso region was impressive. I had to go into the bathroom, take off my sweater, and wring out OJ into the sink. Can you tell that I am sort of proud of this whole thing? You would be correct.

That is all, friends. I must return to my toil. Woe unto me.

Consumables #3

The Enchantress of Florence, by Salman Rushdie
This is one of those bastards that takes like 100 pages to really get you into it (which is almost a third of the way through), then it gets cooking. Which is annoying, Sal Bass.














Golden Globes:
Sophia Loren can really rock those rich old lady glasses, can't she?






Disco: Spinning the Story
A non-depressing movie about the 70s! I didn't know they made those!










Weeks and weeks ago, Hopscotch, who is a pregnant lady herself, posted a link to that Garfunkel and Oates song on her blog. For some reason, that song did not really stick in my head at the time. Also, this week I heard "Business Time" by Flight of the Conchords on the radio. For some reason, these two songs have created a weird remix in my mind, so that every time I am in need of a song to sing to myself, I mix up "Effin' son of a gun..." with "It's business. Business time." How am I doing this??

"Where wolf?"... "There wolf!"

It's story time, lil chilluns. Gather round. Do you want to hear about the worst pick up line I have ever heard? Psh. Of course you do.

Many years ago, back in the olden days before electricity was invented, I was a dancer, and I was living in Chicago and doing some choreography for a small dance company there. The dance studio we used was affiliated with one of the thirty-six crajillion universities in that fair city. While there, I would sometimes wait for my studio time in a student lounge type area, with my book, a gigantic dance bag (it's required that dancers have bags that are at least two times their body weight at all times), and an exceedingly aggressive do-not-talk-to-me-please crease in my brow.

One day, a young fellow happened by and sat in the same area. He asked me what I was reading, because apparently he was deficient in brow literacy. And for all my brow bravado, I really am ok with talking to just about anyone (hello, future librarian), so I answered him. His name was Drew.

Drew started, from then onward, to show up pretty regularly to say hi to me. He was your typical art geek college dude, and was cute except for an unfortunate need to wear a red beret at times. Despite the cuteness and the opportunity to be with someone who I could sing "Raspberry Beret" to, I was completely not in-like with Drew. He just didn't do it for me, plus I was already seeing someone at the time. But if he wanted to stop and say hi to me from time to time after braving my no-talking face, that was fine by me.

After a few days of short conversations, our friendship took a bit of a turn. Here's how it went.

Him: Have you ever read Dracula?
Me: Yeah.
Him: Are you more of a vampire person or a werewolf person?
Me: Um...how do you mean?
Him: You know that vampires and werewolves are enemies, right? Like, mythologically speaking?

An aside: Most of that conversation is, admittedly, reconstructed from my memory. However, the one thing that I am positive I am quoting verbatim is the phrase "mythologically speaking." It was as soon as he said those words that I knew that this conversation was not something I needed to be involved in. If you want me to sort of want to check out of a conversation I am having with you, say the words "mythologically speaking" to me in a Very Serious Voice, and I will pretty much be on my way.

Me: Oh. Ok. I guess I sort of knew that.
Him: So, which one?
Me: Which one what?
Him: Which do you prefer, vampires or werewolves?
Me: I'm not sure. I guess I've never really thought about it.
Him: Well, if you like vampires, it's kind of cool, um, at least to me, but ah, I have lots of ancestry that goes back to Transylvania.
Me: Oh. Yeah. Ok.
Him: I mean, not that that means I have any vampire genes in me or anything. Not everyone from Transylvania was a vampire. That's just a sort of misconception about the place. But still. It makes me feel somewhat of a kinship to vampires.

ARE YOU GUYS HEARING THIS?

Me: Ok. Yeah, I see what you're saying. So, you're a vampire person.
Him: Well, I guess so. But other people I have asked this question to have disagreed, especially girls. So I'm wondering what you think. Am I more vampire or werewolf?

DANGER! DANGER!

Me: I don't really know you well enough to say. But I guess if I had to choose which was cooler, I guess I would say vampires. Better fashion sense. Ha ha.
Him: Yeah. I suppose so. But, like I said, most people assume I am more of a werewolf person. Especially girls.

DON'T ASK HIM WHY! DON'T ASK HIM WHY! FOR THE LOVE OF LISA BOOF MARCONI!

Me: Why?
Him: I don't know. I guess I'm just more...animalistic.
Me: Oh. (Oh noh).
Him: I have that side to me, you know?
Me: Ok.
Him: And the other thing is, well, I'm pretty hairy.
Me: ......
Him: In fact, I have a really hairy back. Really, really hairy. (Leaning in, seductively)...Wanna see it?

Ladies, I implore you. Have you ever heard such a thing in your life? Do you think he planned to say that? Like, in advance? Had he used this before? Had it ever worked?

I wish I could remember how I got myself out of this situation. Rest assured that I somehow said SHITS NO in answer to his question (although I think I said it nicely), and that I extricated myself from the conversation. Drew continued to stop by to say hello to me in the following weeks, and there were more weirdo conversations that we had, which I won't get into now because they don't top the vampire/werewolf thing.

So all I have to say about this, really, is directed to all those Twilight fans out there. I had a chance to be with a vampire/werewolf HYBRID, ladies.

Jellus?

Nordic Birthday Boy

This week is already completely getting away from me. So, I'm afraid I must list.

1. Last week was Nordic Boy's birthday. In his honor, my mother gave up her scrupmtious carrot cake recipe, since carrot cake is Nordic Boy's favorite cake ever. This recipe comes from a family friend's grandmother, Mrs. C. Other than her carrot cake making skills, which are considerable, Mrs. C was also my lunch lady when I was in elementary school. This is confusing to me, as I simultaneously associate Mrs C. with delectable goodies (moistest carrot cake I have ever tasted), and those awful rectangle school pizzas with the meat kibble on top.

2. I made the carrot cake, and it was 70% as good as the original. I will work on it and I'm sure it will get better with practice. I bet I could make a mean kibble pizza though.

3. We went to see a play. Electra, perhaps you have heard of it? You know, the one where the mom kills the dad and then the two kids conspire to butcher the mom and stepdad? What, you don't celebrate your birthdays with lots of fake gore, knives, an axe, and screaming bloody murder?

4. We went to see Avatar. James Cameron, you need to just put the pen down. Please. The writing, it was way, way worse than I could have imagined in my wildest dreams. "Unobtainium"? FOR REAL? (Ha ha, look who's talking about bad writing? I can be so ironical). Also, that shit was racist. The end.

5. We ate a lot of lovely food, at a lot of lovely restaurants, with a lot of lovely people.

6. We put up insulation film on our bedroom windows. I think this was probably the highlight of the whole weekend for him, to be perfectly honest.

7. We took every spare moment we had and spent it beating up hordes of people via the Wii Swordplay game.

It was all super delightful. There is nothing that will get someone on my good side more than treating Nordic Boy with love. He's just so unassuming that when people treat him special, it sort of chokes me up. I love seeing that other people love him even a fraction of the amount that I do.

Is that corny? If so, I invite you to deal with it.

Consumables #2

This week I took in:



The Uncommon Reader. The Queen of England becomes obsessed with reading, to the chagrin of her entire court. It's funnier than it sounds.







Because, you know, these movies obviously go together.
















Electra, by the Seattle Shakespeare Company.
Dude, these people would make great Jerry Springer fodder. Also? I had front row seats and almost got spritzed with fake blood. It was like a KISS concert. Only, you know, not.


November Was White, December Was Grey
(And also in the grey/white family? January, and February. And most likely March and April).

Commentos! The Freshmaker!

You know that post I wrote yesterday about My-kell Boo-bleh? Here's the comment I got in response to it.

"Interesting article you got here. It would be great to read more about this topic. Thnx for posting that material."

Oh really? It would be great to read more about how Nordic Boy didn't know Michael Buble was real? Sorry, but there really isn't anything more to say about that. And would you really call anything I write here an "article?" Of course you would. This is fine, investigative journalism here, people. Oh, and also? Stupid ROBOT AUTOMATED COMMENTING MACHINE THING.

I wonder how many places that got posted? On how many blogs?

"I got fired today."
"Interesting article you got here. It would be great to read more about this topic. Thnx for posting that material."

"I have the flu and blew out a steaming snotball the size of a golf ball."
"Interesting article you got here. It would be great to read more about this topic. Thnx for posting that material."

"OMG I saw Robert Pattinson at the Dunkin' Doughnuts and as he leaned over the counter to choose his doughnut I walked behind him swiped the dandruff off his coat! And snorted it!"
"Interesting article you got here. It would be great to read more about this topic. Thnx for posting that material."

Today is De-Lurking Day. So come on out of the woodwork and say howdy, if you're so inclined. And ok fine, robots can de-lurk too.

Beauty and the Buble

Watching tv...

Me: Oh. Change the channel. We don't want to watch this. It's Michael Buble.
Him: IT IS???
Me: Yeah. What's the big deal?
Him: That. Right there. Is Michael Buble.
Me: Yes.
Him: Michael Buble...you mean...that's a real person?
Me: Yes! You didn't know that?
Him: I can't keep up with all your imaginary characters. I thought Michael Buble was an imaginary character!
Me: You did???
Him: I mean, come on. The name. And when you had mentioned him before, you always say it in a weird voice. Like the candelabra guy from Beauty and the Beast.
Me: Lumiere?
Him: Yeah, you know. (Lumiere voice): My-kell Boo-bleh. Haw haw haw.
Me: Sorry. It just comes out that way.
Him: But there he is. Real person. Wow.

School of Rock

My weekend seemed like it was weeks long. And yet I was still grumpy when it was over. What an ingrate.

On Saturday night, BioGirl, Nordic Boy and I went to see a rock show put on by the students at Seattle's School of Rock. If your town has a School of Rock (and many towns do, I have discovered), you need to get yourself to one of their shows as soon as possible. It was AWESOME. While there, we saw the following:

1. Kids just, um, rocking out. These kids were good. Hella good. I have heard many a band in my day (did I just say "in my day"? Why I believe I did), full of adults who call themselves professional musicians but, compared to these kids, sucked dingus.

2. A little 8-year-old girl with Princess Leia hair, belting out "Why You'd Want to Live Here" by Death Cab in a most delightful way, and then double-belting out "Outshined" by Soundgarden. Woo she was good.

3. Eric Corson from The Long Winters came out and sang a song with the kids. How cool is that for them?

4. A bunch of adults who came in with an all-too-familiar (to me, having been a librarian for teens) condescension for the kids ("won't this be a CUTE show...") get schooled on rocking out. They had to be taken seriously for playing like that. I loved it.

5. For all the respect they earned and got, some of them also got a healthy (and awesome) dose of embarrassment-inducing behavior from parents. One in particular. There was this lady who was standing right in front of us, and whenever there was a pause between songs, and the crowd stopped clapping and hooting and hollering for a second, she would wait for just that moment of quiet to scream out her daughter's name in the most mom-like manner. "Megan!!!!" she would yell. "I love you!" And then she would flap both of her hands over her head in the biggest wave you have ever seen, as if she were not only waving hello but also fanning the entire stage like a human air conditioner. She did this the entire show, and waved ever harder in confusion over the fact that Megan didn't seem to hear her ear-splitting love. Megan was not making eye contact, can you believe it? But still, Megan's mom was determined and never gave up. Her yells became a song in and of themselves. On the way home, BioGirl and I broke out with a good old chorus of "Megan!!!! I love you!!!!" much like a tune we couldn't get out of our heads. And Nordic Boy ignored us, so maybe that is just the affect that that song has on people.

Consumables

Here's a bit of what I consumed this week:










The Help, by Kathryn Stockett



















No One's Gonna Love You, by Band of Horses
Is it just me or could I take that song title the wrong way?











The Ballet Shoes, starring Emma Watson and a bunch of other Harry Potter people
Emma Watson is turning into a looker, and she acts with her eyebrows like crazy.







San Francisco Ballet's Nutcracker
Sorry, Pacific Northwest Ballet, but San Fran kicks your hiney all up and down the west coast.



















il Trovatore, by Giuseppe Verdi
I heard this while eating chips. Which led to the most dramatic chip-eating I have ever done.



Little Pink Mack, by Kay Adams

Food Freaks

Let's talk about eating weird stuff, shall we?

Do you eat weird stuff? I am not so much talking about exotic foods like crickets sprinkled over your salad or shark's balls or what have you. I am just talking about something that you like, or maybe a combination of food that you invented, and anyone else that looks at it might think what in the hootenanny is that all about?, but you love it and no one can stop you from loving it.

Take, for instance, my dad. My dad is known for mixing foods in a most original way. One of his favorites is the spaghetti and salad sandwich. If we had spaghetti for dinner with a nice side salad, you bet your lady lumps that the very next day he is going to take two pieces of bread and put a scoop of spaghetti between them, along with a scoop of salad. Viola! A sandwich! No matter that the spaghetti and salad sort of drips out the sides uncontrollably. He loves it.

Nordic Boy does this thing where he heats up Boca Italian Sausage. Let me stop the story right there and say that I am not a picky enough eater to say that I think that Boca Italian Sausage is gross. I rarely think foods are gross; rather I just feel a mild preference away from certain things. One of the things I have a mild preference away from is spicy hot dogs of any variety. I know, I'm from the Midwest so this is sort of sacrilegious, but it's just not something I would get excited about eating. Pair this with the part of me that wants to get Nordic Boy's goat, and you will find that I consistently try to taunt Nordic Boy about his Italian Sausage (that sounds dirty) by calling it dog food. Totally unfair since a real meat sausage/hot dog could be said to share some ingredients with dog food, but a Boca Sausage? The dog food name-calling is sort of nonsensical, unless you have a soy-eating dog, which perhaps you do. Anyway. Nordic Boy is an expert at Not Paying Me No Mind when I taunt, so I don't know why I persist, but I do. He is just easygoing enough to have adopted the taunt for his own self, which is totally disheartening when you are trying to taunt someone. He will just up and say, before I can, "I'm going to have dog food for dinner!" which really takes the taunting wind out of my sails. Dang him.

That was a tangent and a HALF, you guys.

ANYHOO. He takes the Boca Sausage, heats it up, chops it up, mixes it with fettuccine noodles (no garlic, no butter, nothing on them noodles), mixes some peas in there too and then douses the whole thing with Chipotle Tabasco sauce and eats it. And I find that weird. It's weird, right?

More than finding it weird, however, I find it makes me green with envy. I don't know what it is, but when people have quirky things about themselves, I want to have the quirky too. I feel left out of the quirky! Not that I don't have many of my own quirks. Believe you me I do. However, when I don't, (like when I couldn't find a word that I couldn't pronounce, or when I found out that I didn't talk to myself when alone but everyone else did), it kind of makes me crazy. Which I suppose is a quirk in and of itself.

Last night, I made Nordic Boy sit there and try to help me come up with what my crazy food combo is. What is it? Where is it? What has he seen me eat that would make someone else cringe? I want a crazy food combo love affair!

I couldn't think of one. He admitted he had never seen me covet anything weird either.

I am so disappointed in this, I don't even know why. It's just so...vanilla.

The only thing I can think of is that when I was a little kid and we would go back to Fiji to visit family, my cousins there thought it was the weirdest thing on planet earth that I would spoon out a spoonful of peanut butter and just eat it off the spoon. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING" they would yell at me. It was like I was eating mayonnaise straight from the jar or something like that.

That, in terms of weird food loves, just doesn't cut it in America. Eating peanut butter off a spoon is just a red white and blue sort of thing to do, even if it is cuckoo for cocoa puffs in Fiji.

Tell me, what food combo do you love that other people give you grief for?

My Own Creation Myth

Me: You know who that one guy in the last Matrix movie reminds me of?
Him: What guy?
Me: That guy. The computer one.
Him: Um, they're all the computer one.
Me: The one that reminds me of, you know, Chicken Sanders.
Him: Who's Chicken Sanders?
Me: You know.
Him: Stop saying "you know." I don't know. Who is Chicken Sanders?
Me: The Kentucky Fried Chicken guy.
Him: You mean Colonel Sanders.
Me: Oh. Yeah. His name might as well be Chicken Sanders.
Him: So, Colonel Sanders reminds you of who, now?
Me: The Matrix guy. The Sigmund Freud looking one.
Him: So, someone who looks like Sigmund Freud, and who also looks like Colonel Sanders. You mean The Architect?
Me: I don't know his name. He just looks like the Chicken Guy. And Sigmund Freud. I wonder if that was on purpose.
Him: You mean the creator of the Matrix program that we are all living in is really Sigmund Freud?
Me: Nope, worse. Our reality is created by Chicken Sanders!
Him: Scary.

I'm gonna bust a recap on your ass

I totally skipped doing my annual new year meme thingamabob, didn't I? I tried to do it, but it just wasn't hitting me right this year. (And what the hell kind of phrase is that? "Hitting me right"? That just doesn't sound good, when you really think about it).

Instead, I'll just do a brain dump of what things strike me about the year of aught nine. Ready? Ok.

2009 was the year that:

1. ...was just all kinds of seasonal. Usually, Seattle is not known for seasonalitism. Rather, we are known for two kinds of sky: either grey or blue. And it's mostly grey that wins. But this year! Seasons! We started out with a jackload of snow and then an outburst of spring, which was followed by a glawrious summer wherein I wore skirts and bare legs to my heart's content for weeks and weeks and weeks on end and rediscovered the joy that is popsicles. This was followed by a particularly pretty fall and now we are back to the grey days of yore.

2. ...our house got prettier. Ever since we bought our house, we have been in home improvement land, which is not only a land that Nordic Boy has a passport to live in, but he is also the Prime Minister of. We bought a place that needed a lot of work. A lotta, lotta work, actually. The past two years have been years where we do home improvements that are sexy to Nordic Boy, but not to me. Insulation! New roof! Water drainage! New electrical! New pipes! All things that are totally necessary, to be sure, but not if you are me and you have a decidedly shallow side that needs placating. This year, we got to do some of the stuff that we both love, not just stuff that he loves. What does that mean? That means making things pretty. Oh how I love to make things pretty. And the centerpiece of this prettyfication? OUR NEW COUCH! Besides being pretty, I am a big fan of getting my cozy on, and this couch has revolutionized the cozy. It has the perfect ergonomics for reading (sitting or horizontal), chatting with pals, watching a movie, making out, and the napping on this couch should just be illegal, it is so delicious. Plus it is so, so pretty.

3. ...we got our new dual flush toilet so that when we do a crapsie, we can have flushing OPTIONS. Because there are so many choices in life, why not with flushing?

4. ...Alli spent literally an entire day looking for a plane ticket to come and visit me and Map's husband surprised her with a plane ticket to join in. The effort Alli and Map put in for little old me made me feel loved and thankful for my awesome friends.

5. ...a friend passed away in the saddest way I can think of. I still can't quite wrap my mind around it completely.

6. ...I spent a fun few days at Alli and Chris' house where they drove us around the entirety of Chicago with no questions asked and made Nordic Boy and me laugh until our guts ached. I love those two.

7. ...I met blog friends for the first time and they were all more awesome than I could have hoped for. I mean, really, I was just hoping that they didn't smell bad or want to kill me or anything like that, and then they went and showed me up by being way cooler than I could have wished for.

8. ...my friend Hopscotch got knocked up and made me squeal with the excitement of it while I was at work. And I am not even a squealy type girl. But for her? Squeeeee!

9. ...I went to see lots of plays and ballets and dance shows. Thank you, job, for allowing me the cashola to do that.

10. ...I sang karaoke and scared my friends with my, um, enthusiasm.

11. ...we inaugurated a Vulcan fly-swatter as President of the You Nighted States.

12. ... I met the newly-born H and J's baby girl who is just a cutey and a half.

13. ... I shopped once again for a winter coat and rain appropriate shoes. FAIL.

14. ... I saw my BFF take a shit sandwich and turn it into a cherry pie. It's amazing to watch someone just be happier, and funnier, and more awesome by the minute. And she did that. And I got to see it.

15. ...I leapt into the 21st century via owning an iPhone. And eating pancakes out of a spray can.

Overall, I think that 2009 sucked for a lot of people. For me, it was a pretty good year. I had some work pressure, and some extended-family-type pressure, and some other various pressures, but I managed to not sweat it too much. I mean, I did sweat it some, but just the appropriate amount of sweatage. I then got back to more important things like doing silly dances and making up crazy songs, hanging out with my homies who always treat me with kindness, and hugging on my loverman until his eyes bug out. Priorities, dontcha know.

Happy New Year, everyone. I hope your 2009 didn't hurt too much and that 2010 kisses you right on the mouth.

It'll cost you

The other day, I went to the store to get a 2010 daily planner (yes, I still use a paper daily planner and I am aware that it is not still 1982) and a small calendar for the fridge. For some reason, I picked out both of these items without looking at the price. I figured the big calendar to be about $15 and the small one to be about $5. Based on what, you ask? My many years of practice watching the Price is Right, of course. Der.

The nice saleslady rung up my items, and this is how it went.
Her: That will be $42, please.
Me: WHAT?
Her: $42.
Me: DID YOU JUST SAY FORTEE TOO DOLLARZ?
Her: (stepping back from the screaming customer) Yes. Um, each of these is about $20 each.
Me: THEY WERE? WOW, THAT IS A LOT FOR A COUPLA CALENDARS.

Nordic Boy stood there, shocked. And then I collected myself and bought the damn calendars anyway and we ducked our heads and walked out. Because really, people. Who does that? Maybe that was too much for some calendars, yes, but did I need to bring the drama like that? And yell so that the whole store could hear me? Was I raised in a barn?

Later that day we stopped at Office Depot. And you know what happened? This.

Cashier: That comes to 21 dollars.
Me: (in a complete panic) TWO TWENTY ONE? IT COSTS TWO TWENTY ONE?
Cashier: No. I said it comes to twenty one. It costs 21 dollars.
Me: Oh. Sorry. Ha ha.
Cashier: (not laughing).

The moral of this story for me. Me = classy.
Moral of this story for you. Don't try and tell me how much things cost. It causes a Pavlovian effect whereby I will most assuredly scream at you.

If we took a holiday, took some time to celebrate

I've just had five whole days off of work! And here's what I did with it.

1. Became much more well-acquainted with my jimjams than I had been heretofore. We got along famously.

2. Got a gorgeous new necklace from my sweet Nordic Boy, among other sundries. That dude has good taste.

3. Gave Nordic Boy his presents, among them a food scale, which was the surprise hit of the day. Nordic Boy could not WAIT to start weighing shit. Listen, everyone needs a hobby, right?

4. Got a sweet ass lamp from my parents. I LOVE IT. Plus, now I can actually sit on my couch at night and read, which is sort of essential.


(Please do not hold my crappy iPhone photography against my new lamp. Trust me, it is pretty in person).

5. Went to see a nutty, over-the-top light display at the Bellevue Botanical Gardens. That place was GAUDY. In the best way.


6. Finally sent out my holiday cards. Yesterday. The upside of being a heathen with no investment in the holidays is that I can send out my cards any damn time I please.

7. Spent a day with my brother, sister-in-law, and super awesome nephew, who is scientifically proven to be the funniest, smartest, cutest, most adorable kid ever made. Four out of five dentists agree.

8. Also got some quality dog time with my nephew's lab, Mokee, who is also scientifically proven to be the best dog ever constructed. By the time I was done playing with him my sinuses were so clogged I wanted to pop my eyeballs out, but it was so totally worth it.

9. Learned from my nephew all about legos, and Star Wars, and Bionicles. These three things are, according to my nephew, the only things that ever need to be discussed, ever, at any time.

10. Saw "Sherlock Holmes." I think Robert Downey Jr. needs to make a movie wherein he just reads the phone book for three hours. I am convinced I would find this riveting, just because of his Robert Downey Jr.-ness.

11. Saw "The Road," on Christmas Eve. There were three other people in the theater. What, people don't want to see post-apocalyptic people-eating bands of nomads on the eve of the birth of the lord?

12. Watched "The Great Escape" on dvd. I forgot that that movie is like eight hours long. Nordic Boy and I started to yell "ESCAPE, ALREADY!" about half way through.

13. Played Wii until it kind of got ridiculous. Our current favorite activities? Samurai sword fighting and the bowling game where you have to knock down 100 pins each frame. Both are really dumb games. I don't know if you can even call them games. And yet, we can't stop, to the piont where my arms are completely sore.

14. Got turned away from seeing "Avatar." Twice! Stupid sold-out movie.

15. Had dinner with our friend Delium, who never fails to make me laugh in a milk-out-of-the-nose sort of way.

16. Wrapped the whole thing up by waking up at 6am this morning to see Nordic Boy off to Portland, where he is working for the next two nights. I managed to restrain myself from grabbing him around the leg and trying to prevent his departure and making a spectacle of myself in front of the neighbors. But just barely.

Hope you all had a restful, fun week full of just as much love as I did. Also, that you talked to someone about legos at some point. If you haven't, you really must get on that.

Tossing Those (Christmas) Cookies

Jeezy Creezy, you guys, where the hell have I been?

I've been in Crazytown, that's where.

Work is an absolute nuthouse right now, and so was home too- Nordic Boy went and got an effed up sickness that scared the holy hell out of me (he's fine now), and so what I have concluded is that for the holiday spirit I was not having, December decided to give me a nice firm kick in the crotch just to seal the deal between us. Message received, December. This does not make me like you more.

So yeah. I don't have a lot of mirth and cheer to tell you about, because I have been too busy working like a dog and then cleaning up lots of the puke of my beloved. We never did the whole "in sickness and in health" vow, not that we wouldn't, but we have just always walked the walk with each other without having the need to talk that talk. Anyhow, that whole in sickness and in health thing? That shit is the real deal when it comes to love. When you don't find another human being's puke any more disgusting than you would find your own, that is saying something. And I am queasy about other people's germs and bodily fluids and stuff. But Nordic Boy's? Doesn't even phase me at all. So although "in sickness and in health" sounds pretty sanitized, in terms of verbage, it really means something. They really should change that line though, to make it more real. Something like "if you puke on me I won't be mad." Something along those lines.

Ha ha ha. I cracked myself up. "If you puke on me I won't be mad." I am totally saying that if I ever want to do vows. And if I don't, I think I should send that one in to Hallmark to be made into a valentine.

Sorry, everyone. You probably didn't want to hear this much about puking, did you?

Subject change!

I have no idea why this clip makes me so happy, but it does. I think this sort of epitomizes how I feel about Christmas, in that I don't know how to do it, but I'm trying to follow along and do my best.



Hope your holiday is puke-free, all!

Awww, SNAPPED!

Do you know that there is a show on Lifetime called "SNAPPED!"? And although I have never seen it, from the commercials I gather that it is an entire show where they reenact the moment in some poor woman's life when she, well, snaps. I assume, because this is a Lifetime show, that the snapping involves her going crazy in some way after being pushed too far.

I scoff at the concept of Snapped! but you know what? Everyone has their line. And for me, it was this weekend.

Me: I am excited to go to the play tomorrow night!
BioGirl: Me too. It'll be the official start to the holiday season!
Me: Um, what? You have been talking about nothing other than Christmas since Thanksgiving! How can this be the start? I will tell you how. It CAN'T.
BioGirl: (giggling) Well, it sort of is.
Me: No, it's not. You put up your tree. And your decorations. We went shopping for holiday sweaters. You have done Christmas shopping. You are doing Christmas crafts. You have designed your Christmas cards and started making them. You have been playing Christmas music. You have put up Christmas decorations in your office. Those are all seasonal things. You can only have one kick off for Christmas. Maybe two. But I think you have had about ten now. And that's not fair. That's too many kick-offs. You can only have a limited amount of kick-offs!
BioGirl: Until next year?
Me: Until next year.

I want you to note that during this entire conversation, she was laughing. And I was laughing. Only hers was in a normal person way and mine was in an I have lost it in a Lifetime SNAPPED sort of way. And all because, apparently, I have a pre-set number of Christmas Kick-offs that I am allowing people. Because that's not weird.

In other BioGirl news, guess what, ya'll? She has a blog! She's had it for a while, but only recently has she wanted to keep up with it more often. You should totes go read it. In fact, do me a solid and go over there right now and leave her a comment and say howdy. Let's freak her freak with a blogland welcome wagon hello. A blog-commenting kick-off, if you will.

Berried Alive, by the incomparable BioGirl

While you are at it, go over and check out Neighbor J's etsy shop. If you are stumped for holiday presents, it's the place to shop. If you go there, I will let you count it as an extra holiday kick-off. But just this once.

TraditiSHON! Tradishon!

I love weekends so much, it's sickening. Me and weekends are like those couples that make out in public, with full tongue and gropage. I know this. But, like those couples, I don't stop. I must grope my weekends no matter who is there! I can't help it! GET A ROOM, ME AND WEEKENDS!

I know that metaphor really doesn't make sense. I am too swept away by my weekend to care, however.

I was still feeling under the weather on Friday night, just a smidge, so I opted out of going to a dance party at my friend A's house. This was painful to me as there is nothing I love more than cutting a rug with wild abandon, but I did the responsible thing and stayed at home so as not to cough my germy cough all over the dance floor. Nordic Boy, after working another 14-hour day (that dude works so much more than I do and complains so much less, which is something I am working on, the complaining less, not the working more) came home and we watched a bunch of bad tv and fell asleep by ten. This makes me sound old and moldy, but I LOVED IT.

On Saturday my friend Sarah came over and she brought me homemade chocolate brittle, which, come on, you gotta love a girl like that. We drank tea and talked the day away until the sun went down (which ok fine is only until 4pm these days) and can I just tell you if you don't know Sarah, you totally should? She is just the cat's knees or the bee's pajamas or whatever the saying is.

That night BioGirl, Nordic Boy, and I put on our fancy knickers and went out to eat at Cafe Lago, which has the lightest lasagna you have ever had in your life. It's like lasagna-flavored air, which maybe doesn't sound like a good thing, but it is.

Then we went to see a live production of White Christmas. The show was good, although the cast members were clearly singers and actors (excellent ones) but not dancers. The dancing was fine for what it was, don't get me wrong. I just have a case of hyper-picky-itis when it comes to dance sometimes. What warms my heart is that after all these years with me, Nordic Boy is as perceptive a dance watcher as I could ever hope for. After the show was over, he noted "did you notice that the lead dude only turned to the right, never to the left?" And I said "OMG YES I DID NOTICE," while thinking in my head goddamit I love this man.

The other thing about the show was that although it wasn't as bad as the last time I went to this particular theater, there were still a few people that did not clap at the end of the show but just up and left during the curtain call as if they were at a movie during the credits and not watching real live performers who can see your indifference to their dedication. I don't usually have much of a temper about things, but this makes me so mad I want to Chuck Norris someone. FIFTH AVENUE THEATER PATRONS YOU ARE REQUIRED TO CLAP OR AT THE VERY LEAST SIT DOWN UNTIL THEY HAVE DONE THEIR CURTAIN CALL NO ARGUMENTS THE END. Don't make me come over there, effers.

Sunday was a day for the history books. I love days like I had on Sunday. I slept well, and woke up when my body said so instead of my mothersucking alarm clock, and then Nordic Boy and I just hung out for the whole day. The day seemed like it went on for eleventy jilliion hours and I never wanted it to end. We watched movies, we baked peanut butter brownies (and we ate apple pie while making the peanut butter brownies which is a style of multi-taking that I can really get behind), we talked a blue streak, we laughed at stuff that probably wasn't even that funny, we ventured out to the grocery store and hardware store, we played a heated game on the Wii with trash talk that would scandalize your momma, and we just soaked it all up.

This made me realize that for all my non-traditional holidayness, and the fact that we don't put up a tree or lights, and that some years we exchange a little gift but others we don't, that we actually have managed to come up with a holiday tradition that is all our own and that we do without fail each and every year, right around Christmas/Hannukah/etc time. We set aside entire days where we do nothing but look at each others' ugly mugs for the whole entire day. We don't talk to anyone else on the phone, we don't go to anyone's house, we don't check any email. We just act all together-ish, just like this Sunday. We have already planned at least one more day like this before the end of the year.

Look at that. I do have a holiday tradition that is meaningful to me after all and I never even realized it. Who knew?

Sicko

I'm sick, people. WAAAHHHHH.

I am usually a pretty good sickie, if I do say so myself. But this time is frustrating. Because I sort of feel ok as I sit and watch Hallmark Original Movies in a long, unending loop. Just a sore throat, really. But then I get up to put in a load of laundry or try and vacuum and I feel like I have just run a few miles and I either need to take a nap or faint or something. So, I just have to sit. And sit. And sit some more. It's now Day Two and I am bored out of my everloving gourd.

Did you guys hear that Kirkus Reviews is closing down? My library colleagues and I are all abuzz about it, because even though Kirkus reviewers are haughty and crotchety and scary to authors, we use them a lot. I wrote a short story in an anthology once, and the crowning achievement of the whole experience was that the Kirkus review for the book called the entire book the equivalent of maggoty goat turds, but singled my story out as being less maggot-filled than the rest. From Kirkus, that was like a four-star review.

Does anyone think it's kind of cheating when mascara commercials show models who are obviously wearing fake eyelashes? Are fake eyelashes so ubiquitous that they are just a given? I think it's cheaty advertising.

One thing that I can get going on today is my holiday cards. I always feel a little chagrined about my holiday cards, to tell the truth, and I have decided to stop that shit this year. The story is that I really do cards mainly for my relatives overseas, who have not seen me for years (and some of whom have not seen Nordic Boy ever). Because of this, my cards are always photo cards. I choose a photo or set of photos of us from throughout the year and make a card out of them and that way my family can see how we grow and change each year. For instance, this year, my cards have a photo from each season, so I can tell my relatives about the snowstorm in January and the Chicago trip in July, etc. Most of my relatives do not have computers, let alone Facebook or email addresses for me to send photos of us, so the holiday card is kind of important to me for that reason. So in past years, I used to order up those holiday cards for family, and then get another non-photo set for friends and family in the States. That got to be too much of a hassle and so for the past few years I have done just the photo cards.

Here's the thing. I don't know if you are aware, but there are some people who think it's weird that people such as us send out photo cards. It's like, looked upon as megalomanical in a Tyra Banks self-referential sort of way, or something. The first year I did this, someone said thanks for the card, and that they found it interesting that we sent out photos of ourselves. They said it in a non-assholey way, but it made me think. And when some other people said similar things, it made me think some more. And you know what I think it is? I think that the only way that (some, not all) people really want to see photos of you in that context is (a) if you have children and the photos are of them, or you with them, or (b) if you just got married and your photo is of you at your wedding or honeymoon or something, or (c) if you have done something worthy of photo-documentation, such as finishing a marathon, or buying a house, or graduating from grad school or something, or (d) if it's of you doing a brag-worthy hobby, like you traveling to Paris or you climbing a mountain or you underwater basketweaving. But you, just living your regular life, with regular happiness and contentedness? BORING. And also borderline Tyra narcissism.

So in the past couple of years, I have found myself making an excuse for the card, whenever anyone received one and thanked me for it, even to those people who weren't even making the "that's so interesting that you did that" sort of comments. "Oh, yeah, you're welcome. I only get those photocards for my overseas relatives, you see, and I know you probably don't need photos of us since you see us every week and everything, but you know, it's just that, um, it's for my relatives, and so, you know..." Which makes me look like a weirdo to the majority of people who weren't even thinking anything bad about the cards, which is a bonus.

Anyhow, this year, I have decided to officially stop feeling weird about the cards. I don't have kids, I don't do underwater basketweaving, I don't run marathons, and I didn't go on a honeymoon. What I did do this year was spend a lot of time with Nordic Boy, and we clocked in another year of being happy, and smiling a lot, and probably looking a bit older than the year before, and that's all the pictures show us doing. If that is boring, then people can be bored. If that makes us Tyra, then oh well. I'm good with that.

Well, maybe not good with being Tyra, exactly. But you know what I mean.

"And so I'm offering this simple phrase..."

Nordic Boy: Brrr. It sure is nippley out there today.
Me: Nippy.
Nordic Boy: What?
Me: It's nippy out there, not nippley.
Nordic Boy: Same thing.
Me: No, it's not. Nippy does not refer to nipples. It refers to nipping. Which is like biting.
Nordic Boy: I thought it was nipping. Like, you know, nipping.
Me: No, it's nipping, like a dog nips at your ankles. Or Jack Frost nipping at your nose.
Nordic Boy: Oh. So Jack Frost is not nippling at your nose?
Me: What, like nipple on nose action?
Nordic Boy: It would be such a better song if that were the case.
Me: (groucho impersonation) And don't even get me started on the chestnuts. Is it hot in here or are my chestnuts roasting?
Nordic Boy: Ew.
Me: Listen, you started this whole thing. Don't complain now.

What if I have to talk about the Buttock Zeitgeist?

Words and phrases that I just can't use, either at all or at the very least without rolling my eyes, giggling, or being loaded with sarcasm:

TIA (for "thanks in advance")
return on investment (or even worse, just saying "R.O.I.")
just a heads up
bailiwick
poo-poo (as in, "he poo-poo'ed that idea")
outside the box
win-win
kudos
massaging the data
staycation
webinar
vista
Twihard
buttock (weirdly, this is only true of the singular. I can say "buttocks" just fine).
zeitgeist
panties

What words bug you?

My Professional Opinion

Are you shocked at how little I talk about books? I am the Pop Culture Librarian, after all. LIBRARIAN. It's right in the title!

Come to think of it, are you shocked that I don't talk about Pop Culture either?

It's like this whole blog is a LIE. A LIE, I tell you!

I don't know why I am trying to whip you all into a mob-style fury directed at me. I just felt enraged, on your behalf, as readers. And also? I realize that using the terms "shocked" and "enraged" is so completely out of proportion to the importance of anything related to this blog, but you know me. I like to ham it up.

Anyway, a couple of people asked me about my mention of A Prairie Tale, by Melissa Gilbert. In response, I give you my goodreads review of it. That's right, I am recycling content from goodreads to blogland. Once again, I am setting the bar as low as low can go.



If you're going to write a celebrity tell-all, this is how it's done, people. The ingredients: a starlet who is born into a show business family and can tell anecdotes about meeting the likes of Groucho Marx and Ann-Margret before turning 10. Also, anecdotes about an affair with Danny Sugerman and Billy Idol doesn't hurt. Throw in a long-term tumultuous relationship with Rob Lowe? Yes, please. Sprinkle with vignettes where one of the guys from the John Hughes Brat Pack makes out with Liza Minnelli (I won't spoil it by telling you who) and a tryst between John Cusack and another 80s star is revealed, and then top it off by a description of a post-9/11 visit from Karl Rove to talk about how the entertainment industry can fight terrorism, and you have WON ME OVER. Nice one, Half Pint.

Thanks, Thanksgiving

As I have noted, I am not a holiday person overall. But a days-off person? I am most definitely a days-off person. Give me a day off and I will celebrate just about anything. Let's make next Monday National Pablo Cruise Day and stay home in honor of it. Who's with me?

You don't know who Pablo Cruise is, do you? Sigh. Youth today. Luckily, you have me here to educate you on these most important matters of state.



On the first day of day-off-ness, Nordic Boy and I did a very strenuous day of sitting on our keisters. It went for hours and hours and it was only interrupted by Nordic Boy making us a bruncheon of grilled cheese and tator tots. Have I ever told you about Nordic Boy's god-given talent for making grilled cheese sandwiches? They are the absolute best thing ever. If he didn't have all of his other fine qualities, I think I might still be with him just based on the cheese grilling prowess. It's that good.

Anyhoo, in the evening we got ourselves together and went over to Delium's house for a proper Thanksgiving dinner with a bunch of friends. We contributed a mushroom stuffing type deal to the mix, which we were worried might not turn out ok since it was the first time we tried making it and it was from Martha Stewart and had some crazy mushroom varieties that are not carried at our local co-op from which we shop so we just mixed up some regular old mushrooms and Martha does not take kindly to doing things in a regular old way sometimes. We decided going in that if it sucked, we were going to blame Martha, whereas if it was awesome, we were going to take full credit. Unfair to Martha? Perhaps. But that's ok since she has her humptillion dollars to console herself with.

For the rest of the weekend, I did the following:
1. I went into work for a half day or so which was TORTURE because Nordic Boy was off and I am so not used to leaving the house when he is still there, all pajamafied and cozy. Dang him.

2. Had a whole Thanksgiving dinner gorge-fest all over again with BioGirl and her mom, who is visiting from San Diego and who was all excited that she actually got some use out of her winter coat. Weird Californians.

3. Watched a bunch of movies including Tyson (so not worth the hype), and Volume 1 of the 1960s version of Zatoichi films (nice) and The Great Escape (even better) and Gladiator (eh, it was on tv and we got sucked in) and about 20 minutes of Batman Returns on tv (ouch, Tim Burton, what the heck were you doing?), and The Wrestler (yo, Mickey Rourke is BUSTED UP, you guys), among others.

4. Replaced a bunch of pipes in our laundry room and under our kitchen sink. Now, instead of old decrepit pipes, we have new shiny ones. Hey, it's exciting to us.

5. Read, in its entirety, Prairie Tale by Melissa Gilbert, for which I was truly thankful. I'm not kidding.

Best Thanksgiving Prayer Ever

Happy T-Day, all!

I Want To Go To There

This is the world I want to live in. For real.

Drawn to Each Other

A little while ago, Josh said that he discovered that his lovely bride makes sketches of her outfits on her desk calendar at work and asked if anyone else does that.

It freaked my freak, because dudes! I DO THAT.

Not all the time, not consistently, and it's in my day planner as opposed to my desk calendar. But still. I have an OUTFIT SKETCHING DOPPLEGANGER!

How weirdo is that????



(I have blocked out my day planner meetings and such to protect the names of the persons I work with and the shit I may or may not write about my workplace therein).

Admittedly, her sketches are cuter than mine. Now that I really look at these sketches I see that I have made myself into some sort of faceless rastafarian with no hands. Which is weird.

"If You Want to Destroy My Sweater"*

Lots of things happened over the weekend, some of it good, some of it bad, and some of it ugly.

The Good
Friday night, some of my ladies came over for crafting night. Hopscotch, Biogirl, and other fine and dandy girlfriends came over with knitting, crochet, and embroidery needles aplenty and we got our old lady sewing circle on and shot the shit with wine and brownies and cookies galore. Some of us actually made progress on our crafting projects, while others of us (me and Biogirl) made progress on the food and drinks. So there was something for everyone.


The Bad
Saturday was all shot to hell with illness-related events which no one wants to hear about as it is quite gross so I shall skip right over that except to say that someone near and dear to me spent most of the day near the terlet and I had to be there to care for that person who shall remain nameless but come on, I think you know who I'm talking about. Nordic Boy renamed Saturday our Inconvenient Truth. And yes, our personal truth was very, very inconvenient.

The Ugly
As you might recall, I don't usually get it up for the holidays. Holidays are fine with me in that I love days off from work and spending time with my loved ones, but in terms of decorating and doing traditional things, I just don't feel the need to go there. Biogirl is a staunch celebrater of the holidays, and I have told her that I would be more than happy to de-Grinch-ify myself to the best of my ability so that we can celebrate these things together. On Sunday? Not only did I feel Christmas in my heart, I grabbed it by the balls.

First, we drove out out to the burbs and went to the mall. The crazy, crowded, Christmas-themed mall. Dudes, I don't know what it is since I haven't been in a mall during holiday shopping frenzy season (and yes I know it's early so I probably didn't even experience the half of it) for many years, but that atmosphere can put me in a deep, deep glaze. The music, the decor, the crowds, the hundreds of unhappy people. OY. It's NUTS. However! I was there to get into The Holidays. And get into them I did. How? By finding the brightest, the bedazzledest, the boxiest, most unflattering holiday novelty sweater that I could find.

WHICH I DID.

And Biogirl went there with me. And we bought them, and we love them. Christmas spirit I still might not have, but with this purchase, I think I deserve an A for effort. Right?

Come on, right???


*See what I did there? It's that Weezer song! I am so clever, you really should be in awe of it.

If You Like It Then You Shoulda Put A Frame On It

First of all, I have to clear something up. That icky "she's just 16 years old" song that I was singing yesterday? That is not, apparently, an Eddie Money song. It's some one-hit wonder dude named Benny Mardones. Look at me, besmirching Eddie Money's name like that. I take it back, Eddie!

Ok, now that I have cleansed myself of soiling the good name of a man who only wants us to have Two Tickets to Paradise, I can move on.

Last night, I spent two hours in my car. I know there are many who commute this every day but most of my car rides are 10 minutes or less, or else I am riding the bus or walking or what have you. So after two hours in my car last night, I wanted to cut someone, for real.

First of all, I had to go to this art store to get something framed. Can someone please explain to me why getting something framed is so bleeding expensive? I am willing to be schooled on this. In fact, I really want to be schooled on it, because I need it to make some sense to me. Four pieces of wood around a picture plus a clear covering over the top and this is many many dollars? Really? So far in my life I have actually avoided ever getting anything framed, because Nordic Boy usually will just get the glass cut at the hardward store hisself and make a frame easy peasy for me. But lately he is super busy what with re-plumbing our laundry room and hightailing it to Portland every week so I thought I would go ahead and just go to a frame store. I did my homework by asking around and looking on Yelp! and so forth, so I am confident I did not go to a place that was outrageous (and although it was not exactly near my house-hence part 1 of the Driving Extravaganza- I went to a place that was highly recommended everywhere I looked just in the hopes that I would not be punctured with a new a-hole along with my frame job). But still. Three prints of less than one-square-foot each and it cost me one whole Benjamin. A WHOLE BENJAMIN. A Benjamin and a Jackson, actually. Plus they told me it was going to take them until after Thanksgiving to have it ready. What the WHAT??? Is there some sort of framing craftsmanship that I don't understand? Because I just can't accept this. Well, I can't accept it in theory, because I forked the money over. Which made me feel like a royal chump. With crown and scepter.

Phooey.

At any rate, I got back in my car and started the drive back to my neighborhood to go to the grocery store to get some dinner. While in the car, Nordic Boy called from Portlandia and me being the hands-free cell-phone user that I am, talked to him on speaker while my phone sat snugly on my lap. Then I forgot all about it being there, and when I got to the grocery store I got out of the car and heard a sickening thud. OH MY DEAR IPHONE I HAVE GONE AND KILLED YOU.

Normally, I might have waited to fix my phone, but the thing is, when Nordic Boy is in Portland he calls me, like, a lot. A lot a lot. And if he can't get a hold of me, he pretty much thinks I am dead. The reason for this is not because he is maudlin, but because I have drilled into him after many years together that one of us could die at any moment, especially when we are apart. It's a cheery thing to be around, I assure you, and I know you are so jealous of Nordic Boy right now to have landed a catch such as yours truly. So after the grocery store I drove my phone to the Apple Store (drive drive drive) as if I was on fire and because everyone else in Seattle lives at the Apple Store too they told me that they could not fit me in to see a Genius (and can I just ask you what kind of an establishment is that that deems themselves, individually and collectively, GENIUS? Who are they, Wile E. Coyote or something?) that night. It was then about 7pm, and to think that Nordic Boy would be trying to call me from 7pm until the next day? Not acceptable. So I might have prostrated myself at the feet of the goddamn Geniuses and begged them to help me. Just a little. And they did. So ok, they can be Geniuses, fine.

Then I had to drive to the dry cleaners to pick something up, and then had to go to the co-op. And then my butt grew right into my car seat and I became a Transformer and rampaged through my fair city. BLAH.

In non-grumpy news, my friend Hopscotch is having a baby boy who we have fortunately/unfortunately started to call TimJim. Also, my friend Maddie wrote for The Colbert Report a couple of days ago, which made Nordic Boy and I act as though we had something to do with it, which, you know, we totally did, if by that you mean that we watched and squealed and clapped at the screen and looked at each other with smug faces.

This post is so grand, I think you should frame it.

Why You Should Be Thankful That You Don't Live With Me

I don't know what is going on when I fall asleep each night, but each morning for the past few days I have woken up with the most godawful soft rock oldies hits in my head each morning. And I have sort of loved it.

A few days ago, as I got ready in the morning, I sang to myself:
Some guys have all the luck...some guys have all the pain...some guys get all the breaks...some guys do nothin' but complain...

Nordic Boy: Wow, really? Rod Stewart at 6:30 am?
Me: You knowing what that song is makes me love you all the harder, my friend.

The next morning.
Me: Ya mo beeee there, (up and ovah)...ya mo be there, (up and ovah yah)
Nordic Boy: Why are you singing that?
Me: Why indeed.

The next morning:
Me: You can do ma-gic! You can have anything! That you desire! MA-GIC! And you know you're the one who can put out the fire! Youknowdarnwell, whenyoucastyourspell, youwillgetyourway, whenyou HYP-NO-TIZE, withyoureyes! aheartofstone will turn to clay!
Nordic Boy: Why is this happening to me?

This morning:
Me: She's! Just! Sixteen years old! Leave her alone! They said....
Nordic Boy: NOT THE EDDIE MONEY PEDOPHILE SONG.
Me: If I could fly! I'll pick you up! And take you into the night! And show you a love! Like you've NEEEEVER SEEEN! NEEEVER SEEEEN!
Nordic Boy: I knew there was a line somewhere. And you, sweetheart, have crossed it.

Trips to Portland and Suburbia

Last week, I took a vacation day and went to Portland with Nordic Boy. We arrived late, late on Wednesday evening (ok fine it was 11pm but that is way late for us), singing Journey songs at the top of our lungs the entire way there. It's a good thing we did that because it was most depressing for us to realize that when you drive to Portland at night, you can't get a good look at the Hamiliton Corner billboard, which for those of you that are unaware is a giant billboard along the I-5corridor with a big drawing of Uncle Sam on it and an everchanging string of right-wing batshit crazy written in big block letters, usually having to do with the Mexicans wanting to take jobs away from us including Obama (who is really Mexican, or Kenyan, or just, you know, brown) who is also interested in taking away all the guns that the folks in Real America use in order to defend their homes from the rabid Commie librarians who want to turn all of our children gay by reading them picture books about the two male penguin parents. Is it wrong that I sort of love that billboard? Maybe love is the wrong word. I just look forward to reading what it has to say every time I drive to and from Portland. But at night there are no lights for it so we missed out on the crazy. Rats.

While in Portland, I met an old friend for lunch. He's a friend of mine from high school who I literally have not seen since 12th grade but through the magic of the Faceplace we are all the sudden friends again. I must cop to a small amount of trepidation for this meeting because you never know what a person who knew you in middle school might remember about you that you have totally blocked out about yourself (hey, remember that time you pooped your drawers in Algebra class??). The friendship also has the misfortune of his knowing me starting in 7th grade, when he moved to Flint. 7th grade, can I just tell you, was not my finest hour. It was, actually, my worst hour. I know many of you feel that way about middle school, so I won't get much sympathy. But for me, 7th grade was the year that I pulled a total Angela Chase and dropped my childhood friends for the cool crowd. Dudes, it was GROSS. Luckily I snapped out of that shit by 8th grade but of all the years to make a first impression in my life? Seventh grade would be last on my list.

Luckily, my friend either did not remember this about me or was gracious enough to not mention it, and we had a lovely lunch. I am always amazed at how many cool people I seem to meet everywhere. Aren't cool people supposed to be, like, rare? In my world, they seem to just come out of the woodwork everywhere I go. Perhaps you are thinking that that is because everyone is just cooler than me, so I have a skewed perspective or something, and to that I say an unequivocal WHO ASKED YOU.

Speaking of cool people, Nordic Boy and I then had dinner with the ever-lovely @metaleah that night. She was in town for a museum conference (a librarian crashing the museum world! like a secret agent or something!) and so we went and picked her up from her hotel (in Nordic Boy's company car which this week was a gigantic white pimping Pontiac that was just begging to be donked) and went out on the town. Once again, cool person, in my immediate vicinity. I must have a magnet in my brain or something.

We got back to Seattle in time for a lovely weekend, which included a field trip out to the burbs with BioGirl for a day of getting ridonkulously lost in mall-land. This is not unusual for me (people who plan suburbs, do you not believe in grids? Or numbered streets that actually go in number order? Or sidewalks?) but BioGirl is my go-to guide whenever I need to burb it up. She's like a burb sherpa or something. However, this time, she seemed just as lost as me. Which takes some doing, let me tell you.

Yesterday Neighbor J came over for the day and we just sort of ran our mouths for the entire day. Sometimes I think that if there was such a thing as a conversation contest, Neighbor J and I would be like, the Tiger Woods of that sport. When we lived in the same building as each other, we would talk on the phone for 3 or 4 hours a day. We both had to invest in a headset phone just so we could stay verbally attached while we went about our day.

Finally, last night I watched The Way We Get By. Don't let me stop you from watching it because I thought it was great, but let me tell you it was depressing. It really crushed the everloving hairy Jebus out of me and made me go to the bad place where I just wanted to hug Nordic Boy by the neck and weep about him not dying and leaving me all old and alone with my cats and the headboard of our bed. Never mind that I don't have cats and that you don't know what the headboard reference is unless you have seen the movie. Just watch it, but be warned that you might feel like shit afterward. Wow, how is that for a recommendation? Nice one, LG.

At any rate, to combat the depressing, we then watched Beach Girls and the Monster. Which might qualify for the weirdest double feature ever.

Hope you all are having a loverly Monday!

I'm a Pecker, You're a Pecker

Do you have jokes that have been with you for years and years- so long that you don't even remember what they mean but they can still bust you in two laughing about them?

When I was in high school, my friend Michael and I thought that words that sounded like "penis" but weren't penis-related were funny. As most teens (and some adults, um, you know, like me) do. Like pianist. When we would warm up in choir class we would shout out "where's my pianist? I do believe I have lost my pianist!" and fall over laughing. Another one was peony. We would say things such as "I picked a peony last night and boy did it smell good!" We would slur these words as much as possible so as to make them sound like "peen-ist" and "peenie." Because we were raised to act a fool like that.

Related to this was the fact that Michael used to spend his summers in Georgia, and while there he had a job at the local McDonalds. He would tell us stories about a regular customer, an older gentleman who would drive up to the drive-through daily to get his Dr. Pepper. Only the old coot never said Dr. Pepper. He called it Dr. Pecker. Which, come on, comedy gold.

The combination of the Dr. Pecker thing and the pianist/peony thing somehow- I can't for the life of me remember how or why- resulted in the phrase "I'll have a Dr. Pecker and a small peenie, please!" said in the thickest southern accent one can muster. And we said it CONSTANTLY. I can't think of what type of situation would call for this type of tomfoolery, but we made it work. Heaven forbid you ask us any sort of question about what we would like, or what we would have, or what our preference was on any matter. You would be met with this phrase.

This resulted in the very strange conversation that I had with Nordic Boy this weekend. It happened in a restaurant and I hope to HIGH HEAVEN someone was eavesdropping on us.

Nordic Boy: You know Amy? She got one of those dogs. What are they called? Those small ones?
Me: I don't know. A poodle?
Nordic Boy: No. Fluffier than that. Um. A Peony?
Me: That's a flower, not a dog.
Nordic Boy: Are you sure? Those fluffy dogs? They aren't called a Peony?
Me: You mean a Pekingese?
Nordic Boy: That's it!
Me: A peony...as a dog...that's funny.
Nordic Boy: Well, I was close.
Me: (yelling) I'LL HAVE A DR. PECKER AND A SMALL PEENIE PLEASE!!
Nordic Boy: Wow. Did you just have stroke?
Me: In a sense.

I'm Kind of a Big Deal

I have discovered something today, and it is this. I think I might be an a-hole. And you know what else? If you're my friend, it turns out you might be one too.

Happy Wednesday!

I was reading this post at the Maiden Metallurgist today, where she talks about how oftentimes women take the self-deprecation a bit too far. Like, those "I'm so fat" comments that women say, and so forth. She told all her trusty readers that if they do that, then to stop that shit, and I heartily agree. It was a truly inspiring post and says a lot about why I think she's pretty dang awesome.

However, it also showed me that I am an a-hole.

Why? Let me demonstrate: because she ended the post by asking readers to list, in the comments, three great things about themselves. And many people did, but said it was hard. I didn't list, but not because it was hard. I didn't list because I thought to myself "ONLY THREE? That is way too little, for I am delightful in scads of ways. Scads!"

A-hole. Me. I know.

Granted, I didn't always feel this way. I wrote about it a couple of years ago in one of my favorite posts about when I told some old ladies I went to rodeo clown school, this process that I've been in, especially in my 30s, to own being proud of myself. And it's working out pretty darn good. Practice really does win the day. When I get a compliment, it's super easy for me (now) to say "thanks." And I give myself a break pretty much as a rule. And I can't remember the last time I said "I hate my hair!' or the like. Not because I am better than anyone else. But just because I practiced it, intentionally, for a long time. And then it just started to come natural and I now don't have to think about it nearly as much.

And you know what? If that makes me an asshole, that's cool. I am ok with that. Because the stress I used to put myself through in my 20s? FUCK THAT.

So, instead of a list of why I am awesome, I am going to make a list of some of the reasons why I am able to even think that I could be the slightest bit awesome. Thank Jeebus for the following:

1. My mom, who raised me with good body image and always made me feel smart and pretty and good about my sexuality (yay girly parts!), and who taught me that I never needed to apologize for having a big assertive mouth (you're welcome, America!).
2. My closest friends, who don't put themselves down (which, as I stated above, might make them a-holes too). Since they don't put themselves down, I don't put myself down. Because when someone says "OMG my boobs are so ugly!" what other response is there except to say "your boobs? You haven't seen ugly until you've seen these knockers!" The more I thought about this one the more amazed I am at these friends. Thanks BioGirl, Neighbor J, Hopscotch, Sarah, Alli, Map, Cousin R, etc. You guys are my role models, for shizzle.
3. My Women Studies degree. Oh yes, one of my degrees is in Feminazism. And they beat the shit out of you if you put yourself down or disparage your uterus or what have you. Ok, not really. But kind of.
4. Nordic Boy, who has for many years loved everything about me, including the changing size of my ass and my ever-increasing Granny-liciousness.
5. And me. That's right, me. I deserve some of this credit too, because I, did I mention, am awesome. And maybe an a-hole. Holla!

Doc Octopus on a Plane!

Well there goes another Halloween down the crapper, and there are smashed up gourd innards on the street to prove it.

So: costumes. Let me explain mine to you. First of all, Nordic Boy, Neighbor J, Biogirl and I all think that screaming out "SNAKES ON A PLANE!" is a gutbuster. Hence, we made our Halloween costumes along those lines. BioGirl was an airplane passenger with a snake wrapped around her. Clearly, when you see her you should yell "Snakes on a plane!!!" right? That is totally the thing to yell, right? Or you can also stare at her and say "What exactly are you supposed to be again?" Either one of those responses were heartily accepted.

To confuse things even more, Nordic Boy dressed as an airline pilot and pinned a big photo of a cupcake to his shirt. And I had a flight attendant outfit on and a basket of snacks. Obviously, we were CAKES ON A PLANE and SNACKS ON A PLANE!

Yeah, don't feel bad that you don't get it. No one else did either. But when we thought these costumes up, we laughed our asses off, which is what matters in the grand scheme of things.

Our friends, however, rocked the costumes like you would not believe. People really get into this Halloween thing, did you realize that? I could go on and on about the costumery that I saw Saturday night because it blew my friggin' mind, but let me just tell you about my favorite costume- a kick-ass Dr. Octopus costume. It was SUBLIME. Check it!

COME ON.







R U SERIUS?

I know, my friends are way totally cooler than I am, I am highly aware.