Piercing Eyes

One day, Nordic Boy and I were driving around town, and we remembered that we had to stop at a grocery store to buy a loaf of bread.

Him: Where should we stop? What's around here?
Me: Let's just go to...Metropolis Mah-tar-tar...
Him: Whaat?
Me: Sorry, what did I just say?
Him: You said "Metropolis Matartar." In a freaky zombie voice.
Me: I DID?

What I had meant to say, what I had started to say, was "Metropolitan Market." A run-of-the-mill chain of grocery stores with a run-of-the-mill name. But as I started to say it, something just...happened. I looked out the window, got distracted by something, and then started to talk in a slow, creepy drawl. Met-ropp-oh-liss Mah-tarrrr-tarrrr...

Come on, kind of freaky right? It's like my brain took a little holiday and I went into demon possession mode or something. And also, what the hell is a matartar? What sort of bread-buying speaking in tongues just happened? I can't even remember saying it. I even had my doubts about whether I actually did say it. How could I have left my body for a moment like that and not know? That doesn't really happen to people right? Well, non-senile people anyway. I am skeptical that this really happened the way he said it did.

Ever since then, Nordic Boy has gleefully told all of our friends about me possibly having a small scale stroke wherein I said Metropolis Matartarrr in a scary voice while looking, glassy-eyed, out the car window, before snapping back into reality. All of my friends call it Metropolis Matartar now. I get teased every time a Metropolitan Market is seen. Biogirl has just adopted the phrase into her regular vocabulary without a hint of derision. "I'm going to The Matartar after work today- you need anything?" she'll say.

Even though I am skeptical, I just sort of have to eat that one, I guess. I can't exactly prove it didn't happen.

Then, this week:

Biogirl and I were eating dinner at one of our favorite places. And we were talking about the relative merits of each of the Thomas Crown Affair movies. You know, as you do. We were in 100% solidarity that Steve McQueen wins over Pierce Brosnan. No contest, really.

Biogirl: Yeah, Pierce Brosnan. I just, I'm not feeling him.
Me: Yeah.
Biogirl: I mean, so much of the storyline is about how the female lead is so enamored with him, you know? And Pierce Brosnan just doesn't merit that sort of feeling. Pierce Brosnan is, to me, not attractive. Not in that way. Pierce Brosnan is more attractive to the older ladies maybe. But for me, no thank you Pierce Brosnan!
Me: So, no Pierce for you, eh?
Her: Pierce? Who's Pierce? Hawkeye Pierce?

DUDES. Not only was the topic of conversation directly preceding my statement ALL ABOUT PIERCE BROSNAN, but did she or did she not just say the words "Pierce Brosnan" like, a million times just a second ago? But yet, there she is, looking at me in UTTER CONFUSION as to why I have said the word "Pierce" in her presence.

Me: Pierce BROSNAN. Who you were just talking about.
Her: Oh totally. Right.

And that's when I saw that someone's brain CAN totally shut off. Because when she looked at me and said "Hawkeye Pierce?", she had weird zombie eyes. Like there was NOTHING THERE. And then, as soon as I prompted her, she snapped right back to herself.

This has made me accept the Matartar story. When some people leave their body, they talk nonsense words. When other people leave their body, they talk about Alan Alda. One of the two.

We'll always be bosom buddies

It's BioGirl's birthday week, and this post is a gift from me to her, because I know how much she will enjoy it on many, many levels. Angela? Bea? A song from Mame? It's too much awesomeness to bear, is it not?



HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

Lifelong Learning

Exhibit A:
Delium: It was like that episode of Scooby Doo. Where Scooby... Wait a minute. Scooby. Scooby DOO.
Me: What about him?
Delium: The name. It's referring to scatting. His name is a reference to scatting.
Me: You just got that?
Delium: I just got that!

Exhibit B:
Nordic Boy: You are such a good whistler. How do you do that? Right on key and everything!
Me: It's a gift.
Nordic Boy: Whistle something.
Me: (whistling 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.")
Nordic Boy: Really? Of every song in the world, you're whistling the ABC song?
Me: No, that was Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.
Nordic Boy: Yes, which is also the tune to the ABC song.
Me: DUDE. I have never noticed that!!

We take lifelong learning very seriously around here.

Bride of Truckie

Friday night Nordic Boy and I went over to meet our new friend, Baby Soggy-Awesome (and how much of a happy accident is it that my friends' bloggy names hyphenate in just that way?). He was too cute for words and had the biggest eyes I have ever seen for a three-day-old. Huge gorgeous peepers giving me the most adorable staredown, just really. And also, the cutest squeaky noises ever. Cute, cute, cute. Baby Mama and Baby Daddy were both doing great and surprisingly spry considering the new babyness of it all. The perfection running amok in that family, I tell you.

I really don't know how to segue from that topic into any other in my life because nothing else that happened over the weekend could really warrant being in the same post as Baby Soggy-Awesome. New baby! And um, I did a bunch of laundry too! Come on, it's kind of all downhill from here, let's face it.

Still, I shall soldier onward.

About a decade ago (woo-doggy does that time frame make me feel old) Nordic Boy and I bought our first ever brand new car. It was a Saturn. Why did we buy a Saturn, of all things? If you may recall, back in the ye olden days when they still made Saturns, one of the big selling points was that they had a no dicker sticker policy. The price of the car was the price of the car, no haggling expected or allowed. This was a big enough selling point for us in our youth, being the new-car-buying 'fraidy cats we were. The knowledge of no dickering (dirty) was enough to get our business.

We got along for a few years with our Saturn, who I lovingly named Conrad. I named our car Conrad for three reasons.

(A) I always thought it sexist that cars and boats and such were always feminized ("that Corvette, she's a beaut!"), so I had a policy whereby I always named inanimate objects male names, you know, just to even the score a little bit. I have eased up on this policy since I don't tend to name things as much anymore, but it rears its head when necessary, as when we installed our kitchen Lazy Susan, which I stubbornly refer to as Lazy Nigel).

(B) I was in school then and was writing lots of papers on Joseph Conrad, who I had a love/hate relationship with, and who was on my mind a lot.

(C) The Saturn was red, and was the first co-purchase Nordic Boy and I ever made together, and both of these facts had, I decided, vaguely Commie undertones. A communal car? And a red one at that? Definitely Commie. And therefore, Conrad sort of sounds like "comrade."

The inner workings of my mind, ladies and gentlemen. It's a wonder I can manage to dress myself each morning, it's true.

So Conrad has been with us for many years. Nordic Boy used him mostly, for work, and I was more of a bus rider. Then when I was done with all my consarned book learning and got my librarian gig, wherein I have to often be at multiple locations within the span of one work day (as does Nordic Boy), we graduated to being a two-car family with the introduction of our Prius.

The Saturn had started to wear down a bunch this year. I really wanted to replace it with a Smart Car. Nordic Boy really wanted a little truck. In fact, Nordic Boy sees little trucks around town and looks at them with a silent yearning as if his uterus is tugging at him. He has never said anything about this because I think he knows that my opinion of trucks is YICK. I find them big and burly and not pretty. And you know how I feel about the pretty. No matter that he actually has to use a truck for work and home stuff quite often and so we end up spending money on renting trucks. Trucks, I think, have made me make Nina Garcia faces.

Anyway, to make a long story short, I had started to think about my silent disdain for trucks, and matching that up with his silent yearning. And I came to the conclusion that I need to stop being a silent pain in the ass. Nordic Boy doesn't have many yearnings for things. But this time he does. So stop with the Nina Garcia stuff, me.

So, this weekend, we bought him a truck. And he is so friggin' happy about it that it makes me happy too. I actually love that truck now. Weird.

Note to self: whenever you can stop being a pain in the ass, then stop it. It'll just work out better that way. Ok then.

Oh, and PS, remember how when we were young and dewey, how we were so afeared of the car dealer that we based our entire decision on what to buy on the no dicker sticker thing? Well, times have changed. Nordic Boy used his non-assholey bossy voice at the dealer and got them to knock $2500 smackers off of the price, plus they bought our Saturn from us for over the Blue Book value. We are definitely grown ups now: BRING ON THE DICKER. BOOYAH.

Consumables #13

Lo, it was consumed, and it was good. Well, it was mostly good. Some of it was good.

Lost
Lost loves to kill off the ladies, has anyone noticed? What am I saying- of course someone has noticed. There are people out there that count the number of times each character has blinked on that show.

Ke$ha on SNL
Wow, we were so embarrassed for her when we watched this. Like, watching with one eye open and slumping down in our seats embarrassed.

Tina Fey on SNL
I still love you, Tina, but that rant against Whores Who Steal Husbands made me love you a little less. Because if one's husband is getting "stolen" I think the husband may have a little something to do with it, call me cuckoo. I thought you were smarter than that, my Tina.

The Bird and the Bee does Hall and Oates
Whenever I hear the song "Maneater," I think about my friend Alli in elementary school and how she went through a phase where she and her other friend chased a kid named Chad mercilessly around the playground every recess singing "Whoa-oh here she comes! Watch out boy, she'll chew you up!" How awesome is that?

All Balanchine show
We went to see this and I think it was my favorite thing I've seen PNB do. Barebones, stripped down goodness. It took me right back to my childhood in the best way.

Don Draper and Lorelei Gilmore
Re-watched an episode of The Gilmore Girls where Lorelei goes out on a date with ultra-boring rich guy, and it was Jon Hamm! It's things like this that make me inexplicably happy.

Bushido: The Cruel Code of the Samurai
Come on, with a cover like that, we just had to get it.

Glee
Although I am not a full-fledged Gleek because there are a few things that sort of get me giggly at the wrong places (the girl who plays Rachel? Oh my how she loves to twirl and hold her fist to her breast in earnestness while she sings. It's to the point now where, whenever she sings, I say "TWIRL, RACHEL, TWIRL! and she is always happy to oblige me), there are times when I just adore this show. Like this week? The Madonna tribute show? So much to love. Jane Lynch in the Vogue video remake was just awesome. Awesome awesome awesome. And PS, I love it when I see SYTYCD dancers in other things.

Double Dog Date

It's been a while since I have regaled you with my childhood idiocy, hasn't it? Let's remedy that.

When I was in 9th grade, there was this kid. Let's call him Dolph. Dolph was, if not the most popular boy in school overall, he was up there. Particularly with the ladies. He had a sort of David Duchovny thing going on, which is apparently what the girls wanted a piece of back then. He had scads of girls after his bony behind. I don't really know why.

I don't remember being particularly into Dolph, like, for real. This was still back in the day when I sort of liked boys just for the idea of liking them, rather than liking them because they were making me feel a flip in my stomach. Real true likage didn't happen until 10th grade when I went kooky for Taco. Taco made my panties melt off whenever I looked at him. Dolph? Not so much.

Still, I was friends with Dolph. He lived in my neighborhood, and rode my bus, and we had lots of classes together. Particularly, we had German class together. I took German that year because my sister was living in Germany at the time and I basically wanted to do and be everything that my sister did so achtung, fraulein. Let's learn some German. Our German teacher was a weasley little guy with perpetual pit stains who made us sing beer-drinking German songs, many of which I can still bust out to this very day.

Ich bin der doktor Eisenbart!
Zwilli willi wick boom boom!

The class was taught in a lecture hall style room, where the seats were really close together. Dolph and I sat next to each other every day, and because we were literally hip to hip, this was conducive to non-stop note-writing back and forth and whispered conversations all hour each day. Dolph and I got pretty dang cozy. And then the flirting began.

The nature of the flirting was strangely aggressive. It was like we were still young enough to almost be in the stage where if a boy liked you, he would pull on your ponytail and run away. Almost in that stage still, but not really. The flirting would take place via these challenging statements to each other, given back and forth with lots of immature attitude.

Him: You didn't do your homework?
Me: No. So what do you care?
Him: You just think you can get away with stuff because you're PRETTY.
Me: Shut up! You just think that you can say stuff like that because you're CUTE.
Him: You shut up!

What the hell is that all about? He's telling me I'm pretty, but in a tone dripping with disdain. And I am telling him to shut up about it. Just you shut up about me being pretty! GOD.

It's like Lauren Bacall and Bogey. Or Hayes and Addison. Except, you know, stupider than that.

Each day the challenges got a tad more heightened. And somewhere along the line, not only was the kid-style attitude enough, but dare-like language got thrown into the mix.

Me: All these girls like you, but you are just too chicken to do anything about it!Him: Nuh-uh!
Me: Yeah-huh! You are. You wouldn't even know what to do alone with a girl. You've never even kissed a girl, I bet!
Him: Yes I have!
Me: What-EVUR.
Him: If we were alone right now, I would SHOW YOU.
Me: BIG TALK.

And on it went like this. Day after day, week after week. Things would get thrown into the conversation slowly, incrementally. It was like the momentum of our conversations had a mind of its own. I certainly didn't know what the hell I was talking about, and I doubt he did either.

Pretty soon, it started to morph even more.

Me: Funny how you only say that you know what's up when we're in school.
Him: So what?
Me: So you can't prove anything while we're in the middle of class, can you?
Him: So fine, come over after school! I DARE YOU.
Me: Don't you dare me!
Him: I DOUBLE DOG DARE YOU!

First of all, we all know, as a society, that there are no stronger words in the English language than Double Dog Dare. Am I right? If only we could translate the import of that phrase into other languages, we could Double Dog Dare world peace into existence I am sure. Second of all, Dolph whipped out the Double Dog Dare before he could think it through. I am 100% positive about that, because the look of fear that crossed his face as soon as it came out of his mouth is a moment I will never forget. And I am also sure that I had a similar look on my face as well. But what could I do? My honor was at stake! I was raised to not refuse a Double Dog Dare. That was absolute kid code. So what did I say?

Me: FINE. I WILL. WHAT DAY?

At this point, Dolph tripped all over himself coming up with an excuse as to why it couldn't be that very day. And I was so relieved that he was putting it off. Not because he was repulsive. I wanted to kiss him, in that young, inexperienced way. Just out of curiosity more than anything else.

Him: Um, well not today. Next week. Next Monday. Yeah. Next Monday.
Me; Fine. Next Monday. Sucker.
Him: Shut up.

So we had a...date? Sort of? It felt kind of like a date. It also felt kind of like I imagine it feels when someone says that they want to meet you after school in the parking lot so you can beat the crap out of each other. Scary anticipation. Dread.

The days went by, and each day, the trash talk continued. We would pass each other in the hallway between classes.

Me: Three more days, fool!
Him: Bring it!
Me: As if you know what to do!
Him: You wait and see!
Me: I'm so SURE!
Him: Psh!

The witty repartee, right? I know.

There was a fad that year, where the vandalism of choice was to break hood ornaments off of fancy cars and run away with them. Classy. The day before the appointed make-out challenge day, Dolph came by my locker and gave me a Mercedes Benz hood ornament. It was only then that I realized OMG I HAVE TO GO THROUGH WITH A MAKEOUT SESSION WITH THIS BOY. Not just one kiss, most likely, which is what I had done in the past. But a SESSION. At his house. Where his parents would not be. We would be alone. For extended smooching. He had double dog dared me and now the hood ornament! This was 9th grade courtship, for serious!

This whole story is just so romantic, I know. Like there should be Sade playing in the background the whole time or something.

Monday morning rolled around, and I got up early. I put my curling iron into overdrive and wore my best outfit. I still remember to this day what that was: a light pink sweater, a brown pencil skirt made out of a sort of canvas-like material, and low pink heels. (Yes, I was the type of girl who already wore semi-heels to school when I was that age. SO WHAT). I felt dumb dressing up. Were we really going to go through with the Double Dog Date? I didn't think so, but damned if I was going to be the one to blink first.

I showed up for school a few minutes early. My friend Donna had journalism class for first hour, and I knew that Dolph did too. I made a pretense of going to visit Donna before the bell rang. I walked in that classroom and SHIT, people. He was dressed up too! A nice shirt and sweater, with nice non-jean pants.

Me: (said like Seinfeld to Newman) Hello, Dolph.
Him: (said like Newman to Seinfeld) Hello.

And then we went about our day. I was freaking out.

Because A: he was dressed up too and was not blinking! The session was imminent! Abort! Abort! But maybe not! I think I want to go through with it! Shit, I don't know!

And also because B: I was dressed up, yes, but I was a dressed up-ish kind of girl, so that wasn't suspicious. But HE WAS ALSO. Would everyone wonder why the two of us were dressed up? Would everyone know that some lip action was forthcoming between us?

I trembled my way through the first half of my day. And then, at lunch, Dolph came over to my table, sporting Seriousface.

Him: Can I talk to you?
Me: Sure.

He pulled me aside, and informed me that um, it turns out that, um, my mom will be home after school today after all, and um, so it doesn't look, like, um, it will work out today.

Me: I KNEW IT!
Him: What?
Me: BAWK BAWK BAWK! HA HA HA!!!!
Him: SHUT UP!

It was off, people, and I HAD WON! IN YOUR FACE! In the Double Dog Staredown, I had emerged victorious as the one with the most balls.

Except, did that mean that he didn't want to kiss me? Aw crap.

It turns out that it didn't mean that. The following week we met up at a football game and made out like banshees (do banshees make out? whatever) during half time. And that was kind of the end of that (until a relapse years later when we were seniors at a party).

So me. CLEARLY THE VICTOR.

However, I swore off taking Double Dog Dares after that. It's just too much power in one phrase.

Zwilli willi wick boom boom.

Oh Baby!

My dear friends Hopscotch and Rambo (aka The Soggy Librarian and Mr. Awesome) had their baby last night, y'all! I got the photos this morning and that kid is a doggone knockout, just like his parents.

When I got the news (which I was obsessively, and I mean OBSESSIVELY waiting for, checking email, texts, voicemail every five minutes) I was listening to the radio. I wish it had been a momentous song that I was listening to, just so I could tell Baby Hopscotch-Awesome when he is older about the beautiful strains of music I was immersed in when I first heard of his arrival into the world. But what was actually playing? Was this.

Sorry, Baby.

I switched the station though, and the first song that came up after that was this one, which made me think about my friends and get a little weepy. Happy birthday to my brand new friend and his happy parents!

Mamma Mia

Me: If we ever had a kid, what would we name it?
Him: Well, if it's a girl, how about Bruschetta?
Me: Ok, one, that is a food. And two, you didn't even hestitate.
Him: Bruschetta. I am sticking with Bruschetta.
Me: And then if we had a boy, we could name him Boboli.
Him: To me, this conversation shows why we belong together.
Me: Interesting. Because to me, this is a birth control commercial.

Consumables #12

Life
Still watching this. And you know what they should call this show? They should call it DUDE THAT IS FUCKED UP. Because that's what we say, over and over, when we watch it. And we watched it with friends this week, and they said it too. Nature, man. It's fucked up.

Project Runway
Team Seth Aaron. Just because.

America's Next Top Model
Remember how I said that I watched a hockey game and there wasn't one fight in the whole game? Well, the shit is going down on ANTM. Those girls are vicious. I'm scared of models.

Couples Retreat
I watched this on the plane on the way to Chicago. I am convinced that the only reason this movie exists is because Vince Vaughn wanted to work on a movie while on a nice tropical island so he just threw something together. There just can't be any other explanation. That said, I am not too proud to admit that the yoga instructor guy made me laugh, out loud.

Staying Alive
The sequel to Saturday Night Fever! Directed by Sylvester Stallone! Featuring terrible dance technique! And many rainbow unitards! And I had the novelization of this movie when I was a kid and I ate it up. I rewatched the movie this week, and oh, it hurts so good. Just look at this. LOOK AT IT, I SAY.



White Lines
I heard this song this morning and it totally brought me back to when I was a kid. "Rang dang diggity dang dee dang." Indeed, sir.

That Toddling Town

Nordic Boy and I hightailed it to Chicago!



It was just for a quick weekend to see one of my top five all-time favorite people on the planet: my childhood bff. Plus her hubby who isn't too shabby either. Let me state it as clearly as I possibly can. We love them to smithereens. They are awesome. More than awesome: they are the shits. (That doesn't sound right when you say it plural, does it?)

We had the kind of weekend that does my soul good, where we just bummed around, talked each others' ears off, and ate a lot of food. The highlights!

1. I sat through my very first hockey game ever. It was on tv, not in person. The childhood bff and her hubby are crazyfaced hockey consumers. The hockey love, it is all encompassing. If you would have told me that I would be interested in hockey, I would have told you to eat another magic shroom and ride off on your Liger. But when you're around people who love something that much, and you love them, the excitement is totally transferable. It was fun to watch. The fact that they fast forwarded through all of the commentating also helped. I actually like watching sports, but my hatred for commentating is so deep and wide that it turns me off of the whole dang thing. Also, there was not one fight in the whole hockey game. Isn't that what hockey is all about? I wanted to see a fight. We must've been watching the hippie playoffs or something.

2. My friend and I have conversations that sound like we are completely stoned, only we aren't. I don't know what that is all about or why we have this effect on each other, but we always have. When we were seniors in high school we watched Field of Dreams together and convinced ourselves FOR REAL that the movie was talking to us. Freaked ourselves right out, sitting on the floor of my parents' living room, holding onto each others' arms in fright because a baseball movie was speaking to us as if in tongues, so only we could understand. She and I, no weed necessary.

3. We explored some junk stores. Excuse me, not junk stores. ARCHITECTURAL SALVAGE stores. The kind of places where you can't really move around without sucking in your gut and walking sideways through the tiny spaces lest you get impaled by a rusty sconce. What is better than a place that sells interesting garbage? Not much.


4. We drove up to Madison, where we met up with The Pop Quiz Kid for a quick minute. We asked her where Wisconsinites get off describing their state as The Mitten State. Us Michiganders don't have a lot ok? We have to be the only Mitten State! No one else can Mitten! The Pop Quiz Kid taunted us with Wisconsin Mitten-ness, as we clearly so richly deserved. Our goat was got, for sure. Nicely played, PQK.

5. I was reminded of how friggin' huge Chicago is, and how long it takes to drive a couple of miles. That traffic is not a joke, y'all. I will never complain about Seattle traffic again. Well, maybe not until like, next month, at least.

6. I ate my annual serving of Superman ice cream. I think my guts were glowing with radioactivity for the rest of that day. Because really. This shouldn't be a food.


7. The weather was delightful. I got to smell that midwest cut grass smell and walk around without a coat on. Oh baby.

I'm back from my trip now and trying not to be cranky that my friend lives so far away. We grew up from birth to age 18 pretty much able to walk to each others' house at the drop of a hat (ok, so maybe we weren't walking that at birth, but by kindergarten for sure), and I still don't think I have accepted that I can't do that anymore. Sometimes visiting people helps you to not miss them so bad, but when I visit her it just makes me miss her more. That's why I'm already hatching a new scheme for us to see each other soon, this time in the Mitten State. The real Mitten State.

Roll With It

Most days, work is pretty cool. I like my job and I feel a lot of pride in what I do. It's intellectually stimulating, and it fulfills my do-gooder needs, and really, it's great. But yesterday? Yesterday was heinous. Yesterday I had to deal with glamorous things that boss ladies get to deal with such as public toilets that explode and library patrons that want to get in fights and various other things that don't feel intellectually stimulating nor do-gooding in any way.

So after my work day was done, all I could think of was to get home, take some ibuprofen, take a hot shower and get into my pjs. Which is just what I did. When I got done and was all towel-turbaned-wet-hair-on-the-couch-under-a-blankie jimjammed up, I realized that I was supposed to stop on the way home from work and pick up orange juice and toilet paper. The orange juice probably could wait, but we were down to 10 sheets of buttpaper which everyone knows is code red for household emergencies. But the blankie! And the jimjams!

I called Nordic Boy and left him a message, which was totally a baby whiny copout thing to do since he was already working late and fighting traffic. But he didn't pick up, and so I figured he was already on the road and it was too late to catch him. Phooey.

Next thing? I called Biogirl. Oh yes. I called my friend who doesn't even live with me and whose responsibility in doing my household chores for me is exactly to the tune of BUT NOT AT ALL and asked her if she would buy my toilet paper for me. And she said yes.

Her = Nobel Prize for friendship.
Me = Seriously. What the hell?

Soon after, Nordic Boy showed up. With a huge honking pack of toilet paper. Turns out he got the message. Not two minutes after that, Biogirl shows up, also with lots o' toilet paper.

All because I had spent the evening calling my loved ones and demanding toilet paper from them from my towel-turbaned throne. It was like Halloween, except instead of people getting things for showing up at my house, they brought me stuff. And instead of it being candy, it was tushie tissue. Ok, so it's not like Halloween at all.

Moral of the story? I am awesome. Also, if you have any toilet paper needs, I am your lady, because I am fully stocked.

Well, maybe not ANY toilet paper needs.

So meaty

Fair warning: this blog post might make you puke. Maybe you want to take your laptop near the toilet or something.

A few days ago, Nordic Boy and I celebrated the day we met. This is the only anniversary we celebrate. Not because there weren't other days that merit celebration. But just that compared to that day, it seems overkill. We have been together for a long time. And we have shared many, many experiences together. New cities we've moved to, family births and deaths, financial ups and downs, new jobs, old jobs, college, grad school, travel, illnesses, things that have been unbelievably joyous and things that have broken each of our hearts. If we started counting up the first date and the first kiss and the day we moved in and the day we went from dating to best friends to dating to best friends again and the day we first ate a burrito together blah blah blah, it starts to get a little ridiculous. So we just stick with the day we met because everything comes from that. It's like the birthday of us.

I hear that some people call this a meetiversary. Which just sounds like meaty-versary, and I find that thought so disgusting that I sort of love it.

In past years, we have tended to do something special on the meaty-versary. Go on a weekend trip, or go see a show, or go get a fancy meal or something. As the meaty-versary weekend approached this year, we kept talking about what we wanted to do, but not settling on anything. Finally, we figured out what we wanted to do.

We had a completely normal, fun, common weekend at home. Because what better thing to do with our meaty-versary (no I will NOT stop saying that) than celebrate our life? It's a pretty good one.

So here's a super exciting list of the things we did all weekend:
1. We lolled around in bed both mornings.
2. We went to the hardware store.
3. We made a simple dinner of enchiladas and greens.
4. We watched movies on the couch.
5. Nordic Boy measured up our laundry room and cut some boards for new laundry cabinets while I read a book.
6. We walked to the corner Thai restaurant and shared a mound of Pad Thai.
7. We went to the Apple store to play with an iPad.
8. We acted a bit mushy, it's true.
9. We got calls from parents wishing us a happy anniversary. I love them.
10. We danced around the house.
11. We bought a lottery ticket and didn't win a goddamn thing but talked for an hour about what we'd do if we did win.
12. We went on a walk even though we got rained on. I only complained about the cold for half of the walk, which was quite an improvement for me.

I never, never thought I would be living this life, not in a million years. But every day I just...want to. I never feel like I have to make it work. It just does. Because I love that guy to pieces. It's bonkers.

So I guess I sort of have won the lottery. Pretty cool.

Consumables #11

This week!

I read The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake, by Aimee Bender. I'm not usually a fan of novels about food, which this one sort of is, at least on the surface. However, this one totally got me. I liked it. You should read it. Trust me, I'm a professional.

Life, on the Discovery Channel
Nordic Boy and I are not big sports-watchers, so when I see people who are, and they yell at the screen, I wonder what the hell is wrong with them. But it turns out that nature shows are what makes Nordic Boy and I yell at the screen. "GRASSHOPPER WATCHIT! CHAMELEON TONGUE IS AFTER YOUR ASS! RUN RUN RUN!" If only they made big foam fingers for nature shows.

America's Next Top Model
FINE yes I still watch this. Last week Tyra was wearing a jumpsuit that, in the awesome words of my friend Hannah, "was like a full body bandaid." This week, another jumpsuit, of the grape variety a la Violet Beauregard. And if I ever use the word "dreckitude" in any way other than to mock Tyra and Andre and all the rest, you all have my permission to cut me out of your life.

Project Runway
At first, I was just SO HAPPY to see Nina and Michael back on the panel this season. And now, week in and week out, I am enraged by their choices. They keep letting shit slide that they never would have in the past. Every week. I don't know when the last time their decisions made any sense to me. But perhaps I just have lost faith ever since I read Nina Garcia's book wherein she said that every woman who has ever worn fishnets is pretty much a raging strumpet and that every woman must own a pair of old-fashioned driving shoes with rubber gussets on the soles. Rubber gussets. A MUST HAVE. Nina, you have totally lost me.

Up In the Air and Parenthood
What might this Academy Award nominated movie and this family tv melodrama have in common, you ask? They both have stars that give you exactly what you want out of them. I want George Clooney to be as George Clooney-ish as possible, and not since his portrayal of Booker on Roseanne does he give us the Full Clooney treatment as he does in this movie. And Parenthood gives us back Lauren Graham acting just as Lorelei Gilmore-ish as we could want. Up in the Air is a better product, but if I have to choose who I have more of a crush on, it's Lorelei. I mean, Lauren. No, actually, it's Lorelei.

The song of the week, for some reason, has been New York Minute, by the Eagles. Nordic Boy had to go and answer some question I had for him regarding how fast something was happening by saying "It's going to happen in a New York Minute." And then I had to reply (and by "had to," I literally HAD TO) by saying "Ooh-eeh-oooh!" And the sick thing is, Nordic Boy knows that if he says the words "New York Minute" that I have to respond this way. Hence, he has been saying it all week. I'm like a dog that hears another dog howl and I have to howl too. Only mine comes out in the form of an Eagles song. Which is a very unfortunate thing to have to admit about oneself.

Some people write poetry

Text from BioGirl: I am in the grocery store and they are playing Rick Astley in here and it's making me think of you!

Text to BioGirl: That's funny because I happened to see a Murder She Wrote mystery novel at work today and that made me think of you!

This is how you say that you miss someone in my language.

One two free

I meant to blog this past week, really I did. However, most of my week was taken up with going to a librarian conference in Portland (and Nordic Boy had to work in Portland too so we saw each other EVERY DAY OF THE WHOLE WEEK which is so luxurious I can't even tell you). While there I cavorted with my cohorts on a national level. (Whenever anyone uses the word "cohorts" I can't help but think they are saying "co-whores" so I give you full permission to think the same thoughts now). I could say many things about my week, but let's start with this.

My week in Portland: or, the week of FREE SHIT.

Free shit item #1.
Our hotel upgraded us to a fancy suite. Living room! Dining room! Bedroom! A shower as big as our entire bathroom at home! We had multiple tvs! It is really alarming to me how much this made my week. Next thing you know I will be one of those assholes who will only take baths in Evian or something.

Free shit item #2
Natalie Merchant did a free concert for the librarians. And according to the lady who introduced her, this was something that Ms. Merchant asked to do. She sought out the librarians. The last thing she did was sing at the TED conference. Ms. Merchant is wooing the geeks, hardcore. And it was free. Well, there's the registration cost of the entire conference, but besides that.

Free shit item #3
Aside from the various speakers, author talks, workshops, etc. there is a large exhibits area where hundreds of library vendors set up booths so that they can market their wares to librarians. Database vendors, architects, computer hardware and software, all of that sexy stuff. Also making a big showing, not surprisingly: publishers. The publishers bring with them stacks and stacks of free ARCs (Advanced Readers Copies, galleys, or if you want to be less of a dick you might just call them books that haven't been released yet). And they just hand those suckers out. And although I am a person that does not collect or hoard anything, including (and especially) books, I GO APESHIT for the free books. I came home with more books than I need to own. Because they were free. Since, you know, I don't work in a place where I ever get free books to read, no sir.

Free shit item #4
Portland trains. I went everywhere I needed to go in Portland on a train. For free. It's enough to make you sing a Sheena Easton song. As if you need a reason to do that, which I don't.

Free shit item #5
I was there for the free day at Portland Art Museum. Did I partake of this? Well, no. But still, I totally coulda.

All in all, it was a lovely week. I even gave a talk on a panel at the conference and of the hundreds of people listening (and let me tell you I had no idea when I signed up for that madness that it wouldn't be 20 people) not one person threw tomatoes at me. I call that success.

Lastly, Nordic Boy and I had one of the best dining experiences ever at a little family-owned italian restaurant that we found. It was like being in someone's house. If that house had just a few tables, and a man on a guitar singing italian songs, an old italian grandpa who seemed to know every customer and hugged everyone goodbye as they left, and a little boy who shyly handed us our dessert menus when the time came, and italian soccer playing on a tv in the corner, and food so good I wanted to punch someone in the face. Or something like that. You know what I mean. Plus they gave us our salad for free, which qualifies it for Free Shit Item #6, which I almost forgot about. It was just lovely. It was all Nordic Boy and I could do not to be disgusting and eat the same long strand of spaghetti from either end, ending in a smooch. Which I assure you we did not do. But if we had, it might just have been warranted. It is my new fave place to go in Portland.

Bye Portland, land of the free, home of the fave. Until next time.

Spin offs and pop locks

Busy as a motha-eff over here, so listing it shall have to be.

1. Got caught up on Lost episodes over the weekend. Nordic Boy has renamed the series "There's Too Many People in the Fucking Bushes." Which there totally are, right? I think there should be a drinking game where you drink every time someone pops out of the bushes.

2. Also for Lost watchers: don't you love it how the appearance of the smoke monster is always preceded by that maracas sound? So jaunty, that smoke monster.

3. Friends came over for dinner this weekend, and over dinner, we tried to think of tv shows that had the most number of spin-offs that we could think of, as a contest. Nordic Boy and I jointly won the day by coming up with Happy Days, Mork and Mindy, Joanie Loves Chachi, and Laverne and Shirley, which may seem like a no-brainer in hindsight but no one had come up with a quadruple until that point. The room erupted in "AW SNAP!" at our easy win, but then Delium got up and did a celebratory pop-lock in our honor. Because he knows how to show respect, that one.

4. After the contest was exhausted, we looked up lists of spin-offs on the Interwebs and discovered two intriguing titles. "Blansky's Beauties" (an undiscovered Happy Days spin-off) and "Richie Brockelman, Private Eye" (offa Rockford Files). How could shows with names like these have failed? To quote every single contest show sage on tv: America got it wrong, people.

5. Many of my friends are on Match.com, and they all seemed to talk to me about it this weekend, separately. What does it say that most of them talk about it much as you would talk about a visit to the dentist? Painful and tedious, but it just has to be done.

6. There's a restaurant in Seattle called Daniel's Broiler. Ever since St. Patrick's Day, every time we go past it, we sing "Oh Danny BROIL! The steaks, the steaks are cah-alling," to the tune of Danny Boy. We shall see how long this takes to get old to us. I am guessing on a shelf life of five years or so.

7. I get to go to Portland with Nordic Boy for the whole week, starting tomorrow. This is not entertaining to anyone but me. I am holding back a celebratory pop-lock even as I sit here.

Consumables #10

Young @ Heart
A doc that follows the rehearsal process and performance of the Young at Heart Chorus, a group of elderly sweet people who sing rock songs. My favorite parts were the trippy music videos. Also, the version they do of Schizophrenia by Sonic Youth is pretty awesome too.

This American Life
I was catching up on some episodes that I missed, and the recent one about the Ukrainian funeral made me laugh so hard that there were multiple audible snorts. The only problem with this was that I was listening to it in the privacy of my earbuds while I was walking through my crowded city. Nice.

America's Next Top Model
Andre Leon Talley? That's who you're going to add to the judges' panel? FOR REAL? Tyra, that is just way too transparent of an agenda, even for you. Putting someone that's nuttier than you are on the panel just so you can look like you have more sense. I see what's going on here.

Alice in Wonderland
Loved the sets. Loved the costumes. Loved all of the art direction. Devolving the story into an action/war sequence at the end, not so much. I get it, you have to Hollywood-it-up, but dang. And Johnny Depp trying to act all not-pretty? Ha ha, Johnny, we know you're a knockout no matter what you do.

It's No Fun Being An Illegal Alien
Biogirl bought a car this week (woo-hoo!) and I was there with her at the car dealership for moral support. And while there, they were playing a set of most inappropriate songs through their loudspeakers. First, it was "I Want Your Sex" by George Michael, which I found odd. Then it was "Illegal Alien" by Genesis. Wow. It was as if the used car dealership folks were like "How can we take an already oily atmosphere and dial the ick up just as much as we can?" With the song choices, I'm calling that done and done.

Welcome Mat

I think a lot about what love is.

(I wanna know what love is.... I KNOW YOU CAN SHOW ME....)

Please continue singing that song in your head as you read this post. Just do it- it would make me happy.

The people that I love the most, that are family to me, are the ones that I can count on. The ones who let me invite myself over to their house, and always make a space for me to butt right in. One of those people in my life is Allison. We can go for a little while without talking, but really? She lets me barge in whenever I want.

And I am jonesing for a little barging, because this last month has busted my bawls. So I bought a plane ticket to Chicago and told her I am coming over. I just told her. I need to see you, foo'. And like she always does, she said yes. Come over! Stay as long as you want! You are always welcome!

You are always welcome. I love it when people really mean that.

Who lets you butt in, makes the effort, makes a space in their life just for you and never puts you off? You should go hug them so hard that their eyeballs pop out a little. Because that's family.

Also? Chicago better not have snow when I get there or I will bust a cap on someone.

Suck it, Madge

So hey, guess what happened this weekend? A nice group of delivery people brought us a brand new dishwasher! Right to our doorstep!

(Well, we had ordered it and paid for it and such, so it wasn't exactly a surprise, but still, we did a pantomimed maypole style dance in our living room when the delivery truck pulled in just the same).

We were extra excited about the delivery because we have never had a dishwasher before. Well, Nordic Boy did once in an apartment back when we first knew each other. And I had one at my parents' house (or rather, as they no doubt would point out if they were reading this, THEY had one which I used). Nordic Boy did not grow up with a dishwasher present. Hence the disproportionate excitement over a dishwasher. I remember when I was a kid and I would stay home sick from school, I would always watch the Price is Right. And whenever Bob Barker would unveil the first Showcase in the Showcase Showdown and it contained something like a dishwasher or a fancy fridge or something, I would always scream out "PASS! You have to pass!" Because we all knew that the second Showcase was going to be a trip to Bora Bora or something. And when faced with the promise of a trip to Bora Bora, who would want something dull like a dishwasher?

This was long before I knew better. I'm not saying I wouldn't still pass so that I could have a chance to go to Bora Bora. But I would have to think about it. What an old fart I have become.

Nordic Boy got down on the floor and did some alchemy on the thing, whereby borg-style hoses were attached and water supply and drainage were encouraged, and other dishwasher midwifery was performed, and one hour later? Automated dishwashing. EASY PEASY.

I tell you we took a flying leap right up to the 1950s with that purchase. We feel downright UPDATED.

As soon as the dishwasher was installed, we loaded it up (because of course we didn't do dishes the day before just so that we would have a load ready) and started it. Then I put a load of laundry that had been washing into the dryer. Then our Roomba started up. Then we opened up our windows (oh spring, I love you) and conked out on the couch. It was as if we had to punctuate the fact that our housework was getting done in an automated fashion by sleeping through the whole thing. We are lazy! And we have things that will clean up after us! And we love it!

Now if only we could get a robot to cook our meals for us. Someone get that whole cylon thing started already.

Oooh. Ahhhh.

Let them eat cake

You ever have those moments where you can't think of a word?

I did. So I asked Nordic Boy if he could remember the word I was describing. He couldn't either. The mystery word was: rice cakes.

While we tried to come up with this very elusive word, we shouted out possibilities. As soon as we said them, we knew that wasn't it, so we kept trying. Here is our list of alternative terms for rice cakes.

Rice pies
Rice patties
Rice cookies
Rice pucks
Rice discs
Rice rounds
Rice biscuits
Rice crisps
Rice puffs
Rice crunches
Ricey Rice Things
Cardboard Hell Snacks
Styrofoam Rice Crap
Compacted Rice
Rice Saucers
Arid Extra Rice
Snap Crackle Dust
Mummified Rice
Rice Jerky

Consumables #9

This week my brain was invaded by

A Single Man
To be honest, I wanted to not like this movie. The whole Tom Ford hoopla has just gotten to be a bit much for me, (and by the way, wouldn't Tom Ford's voice make a great charming-but-deadly villain's voice in an animated movie? Am I right?) and I just thought that Tom Ford has been seducing the world via his movie full of pretty, pretty aesthetics, and hell if I will be seduced by pretty aesthetics.

And then I remembered who I am and that I will almost always be seduced by pretty aesthetics. Um, hi, haven't I ever met me before?

Also, Colin Firth is just to-die-for in this movie. No pun intended.

So fine, Tom Ford. You got me. I shake my fist at you in futility.

To Be and To Have
This was a sweet documentary about a small one-room school in rural France where a caring, dedicated teacher mentors a group of elementary school kids in just about the best educational environment one could imagine. Warm fuzzy scale: off the charts.

The Oscars
Could the Oscars be any more boring these days? There is so much advance notice on who will win everything that there is no suspense in the slightest. The biggest surprise of the night for me was spotting Kayla from So You Think You Can Dance during the dancey bits.

The Bachelor wedding
You guys, I watch more than my fair share of bad tv, believe me. And I don't really spend any time beating myself up about that. But anything to do with The Bachelor? I watch it, and I just HATE MYSELF. The icky factor just sticks to me like I have been dipped in something disgusting. And this week, I watched the wedding. I have no excuses for myself. Someone, please intervene.

The Marriage Ref
I am not really a fan of the "take my wife, please!" style of comedy, where the butt of the joke is the joke-teller's spouse. And this show sort of goes there, in a way. I end up feeling bad for the couples, rather than thinking that their fights are funny. Still, how can I resist wanting to see a panel of mismatched celebrities interacting? This week it was Ricky Gervais, Larry David, and Madonna, for Pete's sake. I'm going to want to watch that. Maybe.

Stuff in my life has been making me feel like this lately:
Again and Again by The Bird and The Bee

Wow, this wasn't a really great week for the consumables, was it? Only two things I really enjoyed. I have to step it up next week.

Petal Pushers

As I have noted repeatedly, ad nauseum, my yard, when we moved into this house, was a disaster. When we came to see the house with our real estate agent, we pulled up at the front sidewalk and could not see the house itself from the street. It looked like a city-scaled lot in a Jurassic rain forest. When we made our way to the front door and inside the house, we had to immediately turn all of the lights on because although it was the middle of the day, no sunlight was able to make it into the house because the flora in our yard was covering all of the windows. I shit you not, it was like our house was inside frickin' Jumanji.

Despite this, we loved the house and the neighborhood, and so we were those people that buys the eyesore house on the otherwise super cute street and started to rehab the shit out of it.

The first weekends we were there, we called up all of our homies to come over with their chainsaws, machetes, and weedwackers (that's right, I said machetes, effers) to try and unearth the house from under all the green. It was an epic battle that yielded over TWO HUNDRED yard waste bags full. We had to get a U-Haul truck with which to cart it all away. And when we started doing this, we were the neighborhood heroes. The neighbors came from up and down our street to say what a great job we were doing, and how they were so glad someone was saving this house, and la la unicorns and rainbows. We felt downright beloved.

Well, now it's been a few years since all of that acclaim, and our front yard looks halfway decent. It's got pretty flowers, and it frames the front of our house nicely, and we keep our walkway swept and purty. One of the lovely things we have going in our yard is a big camellia plant. And when spring arrives (which it sort of has here, kind of), it blooms. Here it is.



The camellia plant is right down by the sidewalk and borders our yard with our next door neighbor's. Our next door neighbor is Margie, a woman in her 80s who has lived in her house forever, and before I go on with this story I have to emphasize that Margie is the sweetest neighbor you'd ever want to have. Truly, we love Margie, and Margie loves us I am sure. However, that camellia plant? Drives sweet Margie frickin' bananas.

The problem with the camellia plant, apparently, is that it drops its petals like a brazen hussy.



And when it drops those petals and there is a breeze, some of those petals, god damn them, mosey over to the part of the sidewalk that is in front of Margie's house. This is a problem for Margie.

I first realized that this was a problem for her a couple of years ago when I came walking up my street and saw Margie on her sidewalk, picking up the petals, one by one, and walking them over to the strip of sidewalk in front of our house and placing those petals back on our side. Her back was turned to me as she did this, and when I called out "good afternoon, Margie!" to her, she had the sense to look embarrassed by this behavior. Still, those petals. They irk her, I know.

I should also point out that Margie's yard is spotless and professionally manicured. Not a branch out of place. So I know that Margie has high standards for yard management. And there is no place for fallen hot pink petals anywhere in her jurisdiction because she obviously finds them gauche. And we do our best to sweep up the petals, but really, there is only time on our docket to sweep our walkways maybe once a week. And these petals are on a 24/7 release plan. Sorry, Margie, but you might have to live with the petals.

Last week, she swept all the petals up off her sidewalk and placed them in a neat little pile at the bottom of our front steps, just waiting there for us when we got home from work. HINT HINT, young couple who lives next door to the Margster. CLEAN UP YOUR SHIT.

Have you ever been scolded, silently, via yard waste placement? I tell you, it is not ideal.

This weekend, we were out in our yard pruning some trees when Margie came over to Nordic Boy. They exchanged very nice pleasantries about the gorgeous weather and other neighborly talking points. Then, she sweetly asked Nordic Boy if, as long as he was pruning anyway, if he might consider cutting back the camellia plant, as it tends to pee petals all over her sidewalk. Nordic Boy said that he would be happy to do that, but that short of cutting off all of the flowers one by one or taking the plant out altogether, that there was bound to be some petal pee pee that got unleashed. Margie looked very downtrodden at this news. She actually hung her head a little bit. I sort of felt bad for her and for the fact that our camellia petals were clearly breaking her heart. Until I stopped myself and realized that THAT IS NUTSO.

Does this sound nutso to you too? I thought that Margie was clearly in the minority when it comes to judgment about camellia petals, but yesterday, something happened that made me think that perhaps Nordic Boy and I need to be more diligent about our sidewalk petal pollution.

Our street gets a fair amount of foot traffic and bike traffic, as well as car traffic. Yesterday, as we sat on our stoop after finishing the pruning, a woman walked by with her dog.

Her: Beautiful day, isn't it?
Nordic Boy: Yes, it is!
Her: Are you enjoying it?
Me: We certainly are! You?
Her: Yes! (looking at our camellia plant as she walks by) Ooh, I love this. So pretty!
Nordic Boy: Thanks!
Her: (looking down at the petals on the sidewalk). Oh, except for that.

And then she was on her way.

Really lady? You too?

So I need you to tell it to me straight. Because maybe we are too enamored with ourselves from taking Jumanji yard and turning it into regular yard, but I can't help but think "doesn't anyone in this neighborhood remember what this place looked like when we moved in? Because if there was a Nobel Prize for yard rehab, then we would WIN, and you guys should be GRATEFUL WE SAVED YOUR BLOCK AND RAISED YOUR PROPERTY VALUES." And now the petals are too much? How did this happen?

Tell me for reals. Don't hold back. Is Margie being weird about the petals? And did she send dog lady as a secret agent to reinforce the petal argument? Or are we being terrible, terrible neighbors by not cutting this plant down or sweeping up the petals on a daily basis?

Consumables #8

I am allergic to Tom Cruise. Always have been, even when I was a little kid. As a result, I have never seen a Tom Cruise movie. No Top Gun, no Rain Man, no Jerry Maguire. Nothing. The only exception to this is Eyes Wide Shut, and I saw that because my curiosity about what Stanley Kubrick was going to do outweighed my Tom Cruise allergy. Sad, right? Because that movie was so not worth breaking the Tom Cruise ban for.

This week, I saw my second Tom Cruise movie ever: Valkyrie. The reason? I am a sucker for a World War II movie. Give me a movie set in World War II and pass me the popcorn. I sat through all 900 hours of Band of Brothers, for Pete's sake.

Once again, the movie was not worth breaking the Tom Cruise ban. When will I learn?

To cleanse the palette, I watched The Train, which had many things that I love. World War II plus John Frankenheimer, plus Burt Lancaster. I love Burt Lancaster.

The Politician
I just skimmed this one and I only have three words to describe it. Smarmy, smarmy, smarmy.

Lost in the Meritocracy
Just ok, nothing to write home about.

With all the publicity for this movie everywhere, I can't get this song out of my head. The Dude abides, people.

Lastly, my friend sent me this via email with the subject line: "This made me think of you." I can't convey how much this friend of mine understands how my mind works.

Time, time, time, see what's become of me

I haven't heard from my friend Delium in a couple of weeks (other than when he sent me a link to jean-pajamas as a misguided attempt at defending his "leisure pants" days). He hasn't come over or called me for two weeks. To be fair, I haven't called him either. But (of course!) I have an excuse. My excuse is that, although Delium was my friend first, since we were baby teenagers, and we even dated in our early college years, slowly over time, Nordic Boy has stolen him away from me. That's right, I said it. Friendship theft! Right in my own home!

And before I go on, I don't think I have ever stated that my friend Delium is not really named Delium. Because, obviously that is not a name. The reason I call him Delium is that his real name is something like Richard Daly. That's not his actual name, and no I am not friends with the former mayor of Chicago (who I think is dead, right?) but it's something like that. And there was a period of time a few years ago where he got on some sort of junk mail mailing list with the most effed up misspelling of his name ever. The result was that for a few months, all of his junk mail was addressed to "Delium Ulrichter." How awesome is that? Instead of spurning this incident, I have embraced it and now call him Delium.

Anyway, back to the Friendship Theft. At first, Delium was most definitely my friend and just acquaintances with Nordic Boy. But as the years went by, I noticed a shift occuring. Not a subtle shift, either. Delium was totally falling in love with Nordic Boy, the more he got to know him. I, all of a sudden, was the side dish.

And can I just tell you, with no resentment in my tone whatsoever (ok maybe a little bit), that THIS ALWAYS HAPPENS TO ME? Nordic Boy is much less social than I am, and has fewer friends overall than I do, but dang. When someone puts in the time to get to know that guy? That is when I become liver of the chopped variety. People who take the time to get to know him, love him. No, let me rephrase. They looooooove him. Love, love, love. They become friends with him, and they also become fans of him. And Delium is no different. To this I say, yeah yeah, I know, Nordic Boy is awesome. WHATEVER. And also, humph.

The reason that I hadn't called Delium is because that dude doesn't call me no more. He only calls Nordic Boy. So now I have to hear news about my friend through him! The nerve. So I just wait for Nordic Boy to fill me in on what's new with Delium, or to make social plans for us with Delium. Hence, I don't call him as much anymore. Chopped liver does not know how to dial a phone, you know.

So Delium calls me yesterday to catch up and figure out when we can make a plan to hang out. We decide to meet up for dinner on Sunday. The question is: what time? See, Delium has a bit of an issue with time management. He is super busy, with back-to-back engagements, and no matter what time we say we will meet, he usually is late, or early, but not anywhere near the time that we agreed to. This is because he has a serious issue with interpreting what time really means. For example, if I say let's get together at 7pm to go get some ice cream, he hears that and might think "She doesn't want me to pick her up at 7pm, she wants me to leave my house at 7pm." Or perhaps "We'll probably have to wait in line for ice cream, so we better go early. I'll show up at 6:30." Meeting up at 7pm is not as simple as just saying we will meet up at 7pm. This is not news to him, by the way. I am not talking shit about my friend behind his back. He will be the first to tell you that he has a problem with understanding time. Hence, the following weird conversation that we had.

Him: What should we have?
Me: How about we go get a burrito?
Him: Ok. What time?
Me: Well--
Him: And I am talking about Food In Mouth Time.
Me: What?
Him: Food In Mouth Time. What time do you want the food to actually be in your mouth?
Me: That sounds weird. Food in Mouth Time? Really?
Him: Well, that way I know what to extrapolate. If I know what time you want to actually be eating, then I'll know what time to pick you up. Like, if you want to eat at 8, then I will come pick you up at 7:30.
Me: Can't we just say that we're meeting at 7:30? Or that you're picking me up at 7:30? Isn't that the same thing?
Him: Not to me. I need Food In Mouth Time.
Me: I just don't know if I can go with you on this Food In Mouth thing.
Him: Do you want me to be on time, or don't you?
Me: Fine. Food In Mouth: 7:30.
Him: Thank you.
Me: You're really weird.
Him: You wait, Food In Mouth Time will sweep the nation.
Me: Sure.
Him: Wait, Nordic Boy is coming too, right?
Me: Sigh.

Don't You Forget About Me

Hey, in all the bird-pooping hullabaloo that went on last week, I forgot to tell you that blog friend Annie from Madison came out to Seattle last week for a librarian shindig (or training, if you want to be technical) and she came to see me at my liberry and then we went out and had a nice meal and did I mention that blog friends are awesome? She was just as nice and funny and sweet as could be. And I managed to not make a fool out of myself by falling down or having a booger flap out of my nose or any of those other pesky things that could happen to me when I am in the flesh. So in terms of blog friends, I must now brag that I am holding strong at 100% awesome people.

Also in the 100% awesome camp: my weekend. The Spring Fakeout continues and I made it through an entire weekend without being a turd target for my local avian populations (or any other populations, just to be clear), so that's a positive start right there. That's one good thing about being crapped on: any other moment in your life you can congratulate yourself that you are not being crapped on currently. Like right now, as I type this? Not being pooped on. Score.

In other news, Nordic Boy and I went and ordered us up a new kitchen faucet this weekend. I don't know what it is about us, but whenever we need to buy anything for our house, and I mean ANYTHING, we always have to go through this rigmarole to special order it. We never, ever, pick out an item that is on the shelf, or in stock. We don't try to be difficult, but apparently we just are difficult by nature. (A companion band to Naughty By Nature, anyone? Nordic Boy and I headline as the emerging hip hop artists Difficult By Nature? To this I say: genius). Friday we went into the plumbing supply store and asked if they carry the faucet that we had picked out from the catalog. The manufacturer (Grohe) is one that this supplier advertises that they carry "the complete line of." They have a big display of every faucet you can think of. Except the one that we want. Of course. The salesperson goes on a long tangent trying to show us similar faucets. We, being the picky design bastards we are, don't want one LIKE the one we picked out. We want the one we picked out. He was annoyed with us, but he wrote our special order down and said that he would have to call around and see if he could get our part in from anyone in the state. In the whole state? Really? Yes, really. The guy says he will call us back later that afternoon. He takes our name, our number, and writes it all down.

He doesn't call back.

So we go in the next day and ask again. The person now helping us (a different guy) asks us who was helping us yesterday. We point out the person. And you know what that guy does? He looks us in the face and says he doesn't remember us.

Listen, I am not saying we are all that memorable. Like people who see us once have to remember. But he just saw us 24 hours ago, and argued with us about our faucet. It was a lengthy exchange. And now you don't remember us?

This is when Nordic Boy realizes that he can just order the dang thing hisself and we dropped and walked.

That'll teach you to not remember us. That is how Difficult By Nature rolls, holmes.

Speaking of gangster behavior (and please do not point out to me that internet ordering of Grohe fixtures cannot be found in the gangsta street code), somehow Nordic Boy and I have been ending our lights-out conversations at night with the following phrase: "Shut your face and go to sleep!" Somehow, this has become disproportionately funny to us. The lights go out, we talk a bit more, and then one of us will shout out "Shut your face and go to sleep!" and then we giggle a bit before drifting off to the see the sandman. Why, why is this funny? It is apropos of absolutely nothing, and I don't even know who started it. Still, I highly recommend it. It's so loving, is it not?

Consumables #7

The Faces of America series continued to make me cry like a fool.

Good Hair
Not any new information for me here, but it's worth seeing if you don't know about the subject.

Frost/Nixon
It sort of bugged me how they made David Frost seem like an unexperienced interviewer when he kind of wasn't when you watch the real deal. That's my only beef though. Also, I totally forgot about the Diane Sawyer connection to this whole thing. Remember how everyone thought she was Deep Throat for a while there?

The Examined Life
I saw it in the theater and then I rented it to watch over again. SO WHAT.

The Healthcare Summit
Made me want to tear my hair out, for reals.

I had a long conversation with my friend Sarah yesterday, about forgiveness. Pro: It was insightful. Con: It resulted in my having that Don Henley song in my head for the rest of the day. Why, Don, why did you have to do that?

To get it out, here's a little ditty from Animal Collective.

In which a bird says "Welcome to spring"

It seems like every year, Seattle has a Great Spring Fakeout right in the middle of February. All of a sudden, after weeks and weeks of drizzle, mist, fog, showers, and other gray spit from the sky, there always comes a day or two of bright blue skies, 60 degree temperatures, the whole kielbasa.

This past weekend was this year's Fakeout. My yard was busting out all over: crocuses, camelias, daffodils, morning glories- they all opened up their faces and smiled at the sun. It's a good thing too. The rain has started to get to us. Whenever we go out into the rain these days I can't stop myself from saying "What a world! What a world!" (And I must say, as an aside, that when Nordic Boy knows what that quote is from and responds appropriately with "Who would have thought a good little girl like you could destroy my beautiful wickedness?" it makes me love him all the more).

Never one to miss a good Spring Fakeout, Nordic Boy and I put on our grubby clothings and went outside to frolic in the yard. If, by frolic, you mean that we pulled weeds and raked dead leaves, that is. If you recall, in the past I have had a less than cheery disposition about my yard, mostly due to its overgrown, untamable nature when we bought our house. Think of it this way: our yard was the planty equivalent of a house on Hoarders. And who wants to try and clean up that sort of mess? It's overwhelming to say the least. Over the past few years, we have toned down our front yard from the mess of our predecessors and now it actually looks, well, maybe not great, but it looks fine. (Well, our front yard looks fine. The backyard is still a horror movie). And now that the front yard looks fine, the upkeep is actually pretty non-back-breaking. I am fond of things that are not back-breaking.

So yesterday, when it was fake spring, I was actually not-overwhelmed-with-a-touch-of-irate when Nordic Boy suggested we go out and clean up a bit. I was actually happy about it.

Nordic Boy started pulling some weeds on our rock wall slope, while I started raking up pine needles from under our gigantic cedar tree. This tree is easily 40 feet tall if it's an inch, and standing under it, raking up needles under filtered warm sunbeams? NICE.

Until a bird dropped a turd right onto my forehead.

I have never had a bird poop on me before. Have you? It is, perhaps not surprisingly, not pleasant. THANK JEEBUS it didn't drip down near my eye or I might have just had to scream bloody murder.

Oh, who am I kidding. Even though it didn't drip, I still screamed bloody murder. Or should I say poopy murder?

Nordic Boy came racing over because he probably thought that I had raked my leg off accidentally or something, the way I was carrying on. He wiped it off for me (because apparently I freeze into inaction when pooped on), checked the rest of my head and shoulders for other signs of birdie defecation (will we never stop finding new definitions of love?) and called it all clear. I then went into the house and scrubbed my face/forehead. Because dudes. POOPED ON.

My enthusiasm for working in my non-messy yard would not be deterred, however. I went back outside and continued my work, albeit far away from the scene of the crap. And not twenty minutes later? Um, pooped on AGAIN.

I swear to god this bird was being a dick to me. Like, on purpose.

Has this ever happened to any of you? Double stuff poopage within the span of a half hour?

Despite that, the afternoon was lovely, as was the whole weekend. Nordic Boy and I are making progress toward re-routing the water in our kitchen in preparation for a new dishwasher, I co-threw a baby shower for my dear friends Hopscotch and Rambo on Saturday night (and didn't make anyone play any games which was mainly due to the fact that my party-throwing cohost and I couldn't think of any non-excruciating ones, but then when there were no games people throughout the party kept giving me undying gratitude for it so I felt like a hero by default), and I walked around without a coat on for the entire weekend which makes me unreasonably happy.

So to recap: pros of the weekend were successful party-throwing, sunshine, and plumbing progress. Cons were getting shat on by a feathered friend, twice. On the face. I am choosing to still call this a great weekend.

Consumables #6

Faces of America
It's genealogy, and it's PBS, and to some this might be enough to want to stab one's eyes out but to me it's completely awesome. I talked about it with some friends of mine and I was sort of scared about how disconnected and uninterested they were about their history. How can people think it's ok to not grapple with this stuff, good and bad? What's that you say? Because they are not nerds? Oh shut up.

Oprah scaring us about John Wayne Gacey all over again
Sometimes when I come home at night and Nordic Boy is not home, I put the tv on for some background noise just while I get in my jammies, wash my face, and put my hair in a ponytail. Just for a few minutes. Oftentimes I go to what's on my Tivo Suggestions list for this. The other night, Tivo suggested that I watch Oprah. Oprah was talking about scary clown serial killer man. Which is so not what I want to hear when I am home by myself. Damn you Oprah.

Seamless
This is a documentary that is a sort of high stakes Project Runway, where fancy people like Anna Wintour create a fashion design contest in order to support young designers. When I saw it on the Netflix, I was oh so excited to watch it. I loaded it up and then let it sit in my queue all juicy-like, where it waited for days until I had the time for a viewing. When I finally started it, I realized that I had totally seen this before. Which is ok- I mean we all watch movies over again sometimes, right? But in this case, I thought I had something new to watch. This is what happens when I forget my Ginko-Geritol cocktail.

9 Songs
I had heard about the controversy surrounding this movie (unsimulated nasty business in a mainstream film!) but all I knew about it was that it had the nasty business and some live versions of songs in it. There had to be more in it than that, right? Turns out, not so much. There's humpification, interspersed with concert footage and literally that is all there is. Oh, and some brief scenes of the male lead tramping around on a glacier, because love is COLD, people. It's GLACIAL AND IMPENETRABLE LIKE THE ARCTIC. OOH SO DEEP MOVIE GOERS. Next you are going to tell me that love is a battlefield, like that is new news. To this I say: meh.

The Hurt Locker
Perhaps you have heard that the director of this is the ex-wife of the man who made Avatar? Have you? Have you heard it? Don't you want to hear it, over and over again, in a never ceasing loop? Don't you want all entertainment media outlets to talk about it incessantly? Because these two people! They made movies! And they used to be married! MARRIED, I SAY!

Lastly, Emo covers of Ratt are fun.

Orange you glad I didn't say knock knock?

The other day, after helping a kid at work find a book of knock-knock jokes, witnessing his glee, and then wondering to myself about the continued popularity of knock-knock jokes, I, being the cutting-edge sort of lady that I am (after all I am just now seriously contemplating getting rid of my paper daily planner in favor of Google Calendar because I live in the future where android chefs make Smores out of little pieces of motherboard) decided that knock-knock jokes were just a little too antiquated and I was just the person to update them.

Me: Don't you think knock-knock jokes should be updated?
Nordic Boy: Like how?
Me: I don't know. They seem so outdated. At the very least, you should be able to start them out with a doorbell instead of a knock.
Nordic Boy: That would make a difference how?
Me: I don't know. But it's more fun to start it out by saying "DING DONG" and then the other person saying "Who's there?" Rather than "knock knock."
Nordic Boy: But then technically I guess people have peepholes now, so they don't have to say "Who's there?" at all.
Me: Oh never mind.

Since we had this conversation, I have diligently tried to integrate the BRAND! NEW! knock-knock joke into our household conversation. When things get quiet around our house, I will try it out. "Ding dong!" I'll say. Without fail, Nordic Boy will keep on reading/cooking/fixing stuff/sudoku-ing. Nothing, no response. Granted, I am prone to babbling weird things in his presence (even though I do not ever babble weird things when I am alone, so psychoanalyze that one), so me shouting out "Ding Dong!" is not out of the realm of possible idiocy that I might say. And if he doesn't remember the Update the Knock Knock Joke Campaign, then why would he say anything in response to my outbursts? In polite society, someone shouting out "Ding Dong!" does not warrant a response. Clearly.

Finally, I was at the end of my ding dong rope.

Me: Ding dong!
Him: (silence)
Me: DING DONG!
Him: (silence)
Me: YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO SAY "WHO'S THERE." REMEMBER? IT'S DING DONG! THEN IT'S WHO'S THERE?
Him: Oops! I forgot! Sorry.
Me: (sigh)
Him: Maybe no one's home. Have you ever considered that?

Since then, no one has ever been home. Isn't that weird? Maybe they're on vacation.

Happy Presi-Tines Day

I had this totally exhausting phone conversation the other day that lasted for hours and was way too emotional (I AM TOO LAZY TO BE THAT EMOTIONAL FOR MANY HOURS), and since it happened, I think that I just might be all out of words. So if you know me in real life, and you talk to me or ask me a question, and my only response is to say BLAH BLOO BLEE BLAH* to you, just nod and smile.

So let's just see what sort of blog post I can manage to string together. Let's just hope there are words involved, and that they make a modicum of sense.

Ooh, good sign. I used the word "modicum."

But what to write about? I could tell you that I spent my President's Day on a walk. The whole day, pretty much. I walked out of my front door and I just picked a direction and I walked for hours and hours. I walked so much that I could barely get myself home. And goddammit, I didn't think about the Presidents once, not even for a moment.

I could tell you about how Nordic Boy and I have attempted to watch The Olympics but have discovered that watching The Olympics is like Sominex to us. Give us Bob Costas and a carefully edited sappy athlete bio, and we will be in dreamland faster than you can say giant slalom.

Or I could tell you that I know I forgot to do my weekly Consumables post last week, but that I watched My Brother's Keeper, and Letters from Iwo Jima, and Food, Inc. Because, you know, that's a cheerful trifecta.

Or I could tell you about how I spent Valentine's Day. There were no presents or cards or chocolates or whatever it is you're supposed to do on that day (well, except for the gigantic Hallmark number that was apparently dipped in a glitter bath that we got from my mom who is incapable of sending me cards without a glitter crust on them, god bless her). We spent much of the day in the hardware store (Nordic Boy's true love) and the only Valentiney thing that happened was that I broke out into a hardware-store-inspired serenade on the way home wherein I sang Peter Cetera ballads with a plumbing or insulation theme ("You're the meaning in my life! You're my IN-SOOL-AY-SHON! You bring heating to my life! You're my IN-SOOL-AY-SHON!")

I could write about the dinner I had with BioGirl and my other friend H on Friday night, and how I interrupted our funny conversation about scary movies (which is scarier? Serial killer movies or paranormal movies?) by starting to talk about actual mortality and how that is actually the thing that scares me the most. I mean, aren't we all just afraid of dying? Or our loved ones dying? Isn't that what's scary? I thought it was interesting. Turns out it was just creepy. And it made my friends look at me weird. And stopped the conversation dead for a second. Ha ha, get it? DEAD.

Or I could just say this:
BLAH BLOO BLEE BLAH.

Yeah, let's go with that one.

*This phrase patented by Life of a Lovechild, for which I am eternally grateful.

Give it away, give it away, give it away now

One of Nordic Boy's nicknames for me is "Get Rid of It." Librarian "Get Rid of It" Girl. That's because I, for some reason, constantly want to be giving things away. I think there might just be a small part of me that would not mind living in a house that had no furniture, no pictures on the walls, no books, no possessions whatsoever. Perhaps my true calling is to live as a cloistered nun (except for the pesky organized religion and that whole no sex thing). Or in a padded cell, more likely. I am not proud of it. As a matter of fact I am a bit weirded out by myself on this one.

So whenever there is a question about something being kept, or given away, I will most certainly vote to get rid of it. Nordic Boy and I got into a whole discussion last weekend because when he went grocery shopping, he decided to buy two of everything that was not produce, so that we would have an extra one on hand. When I saw the cupboard contents, I was all "TWO CANS OF PINTO BEANS? THAT'S NUTS! WHY WOULD WE EVER NEED TWO CANS? ARE WE HAVING A DINNER PARTY?"

Do you have those things that you know, even as you are saying them, that you are being totally weird and crazy, but yet you can't stop yourself? Yeah.

I have figured out, in my typical navel-gazing way, many of the reasons why I love to Get Rid of It. It is multi-layered and I shall save most of it for people who know me and love me already and have to listen to my nonsense unconditionally. However, I was thinking about one aspect of this that I thought might be of interest to you, as it will result in your being able to laugh at me, which is something that must be blogged about according to my blog bylaws.

I was brought up to be overly gracious about receiving gifts from people, no matter how weird and hideous the gift was. I was expected to not only be thankful for the gift, but to also use the gift. No immediate re-gifting allowed in my house. Not that that was an overt rule or anything. It was one of those unspoken things I learned. Not being thankful for a gift and not using a gift was just not done. So when I was a young adult in my late teens and early twenties, I started to realize, epiphinany-style, that I didn't have to keep and use crap that I didn't want. I learned that I did not need to be the Statue of Liberty of gift-receiving, and that I did not have to welcome the tired, poor, huddled masses of Precious Moments figurines and Santa Bears that people wanted to give me. Really, it was kind of a big realization. I could still be thankful for the gesture, but not have to keep the stuff.

This is where you are welcome to chime in with a collective "No Shit, Sherlock" if you feel the need.

Let's get to some examples, shall we? When I was in middle school, I loved classic movies just as much as I do now. My geriatric movie tastes started young. One summer, I had seen "Some Like It Hot" oh maybe three million times. That same summer, my best friend's mother thought it would be a nice gesture (it was), to get me a poster of Marilyn Monroe in a sexy dress. And although I loved Some Like It Hot, I really didn't need or want a big ass poster of Marilyn Monroe on my wall. No matter. I put it up. That same summer, my sister decided it would be funny? nice? a good idea? to buy me a lifesize cardboard cutout of Marilyn Monroe. I ask you. Why would anyone want a lifesize cardboard cutout of Marilyn Monroe? I know, some people want this. But I didn't. Still, I propped that sucker up right next to my bed and left it there.

You know something? Those dang presents are still in my childhood bedroom at my parents' house to this very day. Because YE SHALL NOT REBUKE PRESENTS LEST YOU BE SMOTED. Smoted? Smoten? Smotified?

This was par for the course for me (look at me, using the golf talk like an asshole) growing up. The other day, I was emailing with a friend of mine from high school, and she sent me a funny picture of the two of us in 9th grade, when we dressed up like "nerds" for Halloween. The picture of us is funny, it's true. But the thing that slapped me in the face about the photo? Well, you go ahead and take a look.



Dudes, that huge poster on my bedroom door? THE GIANT HEAD OF BRUCE WILLIS.

Listen, no offense to Bruce Willis. I know that he is a big star and that people buy and love posters of him. But I can say with unequivocal certainty that there was never a day in my life where I thought that I needed a Bruce Willis ANYTHING. I have never seen Die Hard in my life. In fact, I don't think I have ever seen a Bruce Willis movie. Wait- there was that gangster one with Matthew Perry. But other than that- nada. I did watch Moonlighting with my parents when I was a kid, so ok, there was that. But truly, Bruce cannot count me as one of his fans. And yet- there he is, on my door when I was 14 years old. And do I have to tell you why?

Someone gave me that poster as a present.

I swear to you, if someone had given me a photo of a bird turd, I would have framed it and put it up.

Now do you see where the rebellion comes from? Why I am so adamant about not having shit that I do not want? And let me just say this in as Life Coachy of a way as I possibly can: I am telling you that once you start down the path of accepting things into your life that you don't want there, once you start settling, that path can only lead to bad things. Like Bruce Willis wallpaper on your bedroom door.

And also, let's all pretend we didn't see that giant Swatch clock on my wall, shall we? That one I bought myself.

Ly's Donuts

Oh blog, wherefore do I neglictify thou so verily?

In my world lately:

I went to a party this weekend, and it was actually fun. Sometimes, I think that parties sort of sound fun in theory, but then it ends up being me standing around with a drink in my hand wondering what to say to all the people that seem to know each other so much better than I do. But this one rocked it. My friends Sarah and Craig, who are, when set up on an objective and precisely calibrated awesomeness scale, basically blow it up because they are so awesome, had a party for their 30th wedding anniversary. Sarah and Craig are the couple that I look at more than any other that I know and think: I hope that Nordic Boy and I are loving it up like they are when we are in that stage of our lives. They are just so good together, and they are so active and fun, and laugh a lot, and respect each other and help each other and support each others' independence, and they are always trying new things. It's such a beautiful thing to be around. Nordic Boy and I just adore them to smithereens.

I have nothing witty or silly or funny to say about that. They are just the tops, and that's that.

In other news, there is this donut shop in the University District here in Seattle. It's called "Ly's Donuts." The other day, Nordic Boy was referring to it and accidentally called it "Here Lies Donuts." I don't know what it was, but that just about busted my guts, I thought it was so funny. Like, I laughed so hard there were tears. Since then, we have come up with an entire marketing campaign for Here Lies Donuts, which has a cemetary theme. The sign will be a tombstone that reads "D.I.P."

That's for "Dip in Peace." Get it? Instead of Rest In Peace?

Whatever. It's funny to me.

Most of my other news is work related, and let's be honest, no one gives a shit about that.

So, to answer my initial question about why I neglect my blog? I think we all have an answer for that now, don't we?