Consumables #15

Quick and dirty consumables!

A Man Named Pearl

Delightful documentary about a guy in South Carolina who makes his whole yard a topiary kingdom. Sounds weird, but it isn't. It's touching.

Kings of the Earth, by Jon Clinch

When I got an advance copy of this, I had to read it. Remember that documentary I talked about a while back called My Brother's Keeper?  This is loosely based on that. Although the book goes in another direction from the doc, I sort of love both equally.

It's Complicated

I actually really liked this. Sue me.

Lost

I already told you I was late to the game in watching the last Lost. But now that I have done it, I am kind of sad that it's over, although there were things that annoyed the holy hell out of me. I got used to the annoyance. It was like a long term annoying friend. Bye, Lost.  Nordic Boy always contended that your full title should be "Lost: Where There Is Always Someone In the Fucking Bushes," and that is always how I shall remember you.

Happy Friday everyone!

Sing It, Nell Carter

As you might know by now, I am the queen of giving myself a break. I don't really go in for all that self-hate stuff and if that makes me a class A fuckwad, then so be it, I have long ago made my peace with that.


Well, if I am being honest, it's more accurate to say that I mostly give myself a break. I don't do the "I'm so fat" or "why can't I have hair like hers?" or what have you. I just don't. However, there is one way that, if I feel inadequate, I frickin' drive myself crazy.

It has to do with etiquette. I can be a sort of Emily Post on steroids.

Living life gracefully is important to me. With courtesy and kindness toward other people, amen. It's a part of what we used to call, when we were growing up, "home training." There was no worse insult in the world back then, than acting like an ass and then having someone say about you "clearly, he just hasn't had good home trainin'."  Please do not confuse home training with being house-trained. Totally different things. One has to do with shitting in the house. The other has to do with being a shitass in someone's house. There's a very clear distinction there.

Respectful courteousness is one of the things I love best about being a librarian, in fact. The ethics and expectations in this profession are that we treat everyone with respect. Everyone, consistently, no exceptions. I adore that and I find it really beautiful when done well. I am so proud to be a part of a profession that values this so highly.

(Before you all write me emails and comments about the mean librarian you had when you were little, or the mean librarian at your own local library, I didn't say that all librarians were generous, respectful people. There are librarian assholes, it is true. I am just saying that overall, the librarianfolk are supposed to be democratically respectful to all. Not every doctor has good bedside manner and there are teachers out there who seem to genuinely loathe children. Every profession has its expectations and every profession has its mofos).

So good etiquette. It's important to me. And there is nothing worse to me...NOTHING WORSE...than if I am in some sort of social situation and I unintentionally act like a dick and then only realize it later. Like, there was this one time, I was on a first friend date, and I was so tired, so exhausted, that I just couldn't act enthused about the first friend date with this extremely nice person. I didn't realize it at the time, because I was too tired to notice, but then the next day, when I realized how FRICKING LOW ENERGY I was, and how I didn't really ask very many questions or engage the way I should have? OY.

This happened over a year ago now, and I still feel bad about it, can you tell? I have a really hard time giving myself a break about stuff like that.

I even make myself feel bad about stuff that seems totally socially acceptable to everyone else but me. For instance, answering emails, voice mails, etc. I have this idea that when someone emails me or calls me or texts me or sends me a smoke signal, then I should respond within 24 hours. 48 hours TOPS. And I know this is not what other people seem to have collectively agreed upon, because other people are not doing that, and it's all ok. No one will die if an email (and I am talking a non-professional, non-worky email) goes unanswered for a little while, so what's the big deal? I DON'T KNOW. But there are times when I forget to email someone back for a few days longer than that, and when that happens, I feel horrible. I feel like I have dishonored their time by being lame for no good reason. I think about it for a long time and feel remorse. It's dumb. I mean, really. My email correspondence is not heart surgery. If someone emails me it is usually along the lines of "whazz uuuuup?" But if I don't email back in a timely way to say "whazz uuuuup back to you, suckaaaa!" then I feel terrible. All out of proportion terrible.

So last night, Biogirl and I went out to dinner at one of our favorite haunts. We had dinner, and then we sat at that table and gabbed our faces off for hours. I think we met there at 6:30. We didn't leave until almost 10pm. And it wasn't like we were ordering drinks that whole time or anything. We just had a regular dinner, and then monopolized the table without realizing where the time was going. So then, the check comes, and in the midst of our intense conversation, I went on autopilot and left a regular tip.

A REGULAR TIP. AFTER 3.5 HOURS.

I have had many friends who have waited tables. I know how important it is for tables to turn over so that waiters can make some cash on the tips. So what I should have done is realized that we had parked our hineys for a long time, and prevented that table from turning over, and didn't even really order anything more than just dinner, so LADY LEAVE A BIGGER TIP.

But I didn't. Totally not thinking. Until I got home and I realized it. And I couldn't stop thinking about it.

It's the next day and I'm still thinking about it. And there doesn't seem to be a break from me to me in sight.

Dear Me: GET A GRIP.

Imagination House

My parents are not what you would call fancy people. They are real, much in the same way that Jenny from the Block is. Except, you know, for real real. They are frugal, to say the least. They also just have a very simple way of living. They grow a lot of their own food, it would never enter their minds to have a fancy car even if they could have one, and they don't go in for deluxe vacations and such.


One thing that they do go all out for? Their house.

By that I don't mean that they spent a ton of moola on their house. I just mean that they put their all into it.

By the time my parents went from renting to owning a house, they were well on their way to 50 years old. And rather then just buy a house, they decided that they wanted to build, because they had a vision for what the design of this house should be. They didn't want a run-of-the-mill house. They wanted something artistic, something that expressed who they were and the lives that they dreamed for their kids, who had spent their lives up until that point living in sad apartment complexes and cookie cutter rental homes, and who (besides me, the baby born in the US), had had a kind of harrowing immigration experience so far.

My parents couldn't really afford an architectural firm fee for this artsy fartsy house of their dreams. Instead, they went to an architectural firm and asked if they had any entry level architects in the hizzy. They did. My parents took this young architect out to dinner and talked to him about their dream design. And totally inspired this dude. Inspired him enough so that he drafted up their house plans for them on the side, outside of his work for his firm. They became close friends in the process. He said that my folks totally spoke his language. It was a meeting of the minds, a happy partnership.

After the house was built (and how they accomplished that little miracle is a story in and of itself), my parents designed every room themselves. None of the rooms in our house growing up was ordinary. There was art everywhere, and unexpected palettes of color, and nothing looked like my friends' houses. The only thing that wasn't meticulously, thoughtfully designed by my parents? The kids' bedrooms. In those rooms, my parents let us have free reign. Express yourself, kiddies! And boy, did we. My brother had blood red wall to wall carpeting and a wallpaper mural. My sister had a crazy canopy bed that seemed 5 feet tall and walls and floors the color of Mylanta. I had a severe looking white bed, the frame of which was shaped like a cube (I was a big weirdo minimalist even before puberty). My parents, so simple in every other way, wanted us to live in spaces that we loved, and that we had a hand in creating.

I am so grateful that my parents instilled this love of design and creativity in me. They are the least extravagant people I know, and their house is not the largest or the fanciest that you'll ever see, but it feels like it is to me. The design of their house is open and airy, which makes it seem so much larger than its actual square footage, and the art is just everywhere, from the items on the walls to each piece of furniture to the structure itself. More than anything, that house symbolizes to me that they wanted our lives to be beautiful, right where we were, and that you don't have to go on a fancy trip or have a ton of money in order to make your life feel special. My parents' house feels like an oasis. It always did, even when I was a kid. Why have the need for a getaway when your own house is the place that feels the most getawayish?

I aspire to have this same kind of beauty in my own home. Small, expressive, true to who we are, special.

Here is a small sampling of photos taken at my folks' place. Thanks moms and pops for bringing me up in the middle of so much imagination.

Laundry Room Upgrade Part One

This weekend was tip tops!


First of all, I realized that for all the housey stuff that we do around here, I don't really share the joy, do I? Why not, since I love to see all y'all's housey and arty and other types of projects? I should really be reciprocating on that stuff, is what I just figured out. Listen, I never said I was the brightest bulb in the box. But I get it now. So from now on, I shall share. Ready? Ok.

Have I ever told you about our strange laundry room? Our laundry room is a totally unfinished eyesore, with strange mismatched built in cabinets that don't have shelves in them, and also a weird sideways door (with a doorknob and everything) that opens up to reveal a creepy twin bed compartment that looked like it was built for a jail cell or a dungeon. When we first moved in, that bed was the first thing to be ripped out, because hello, I don't need no Flowers in the Attic style vibe in my house freaking my shit out, no thanks. Since then, the dungeon bed was gone, but the rest was still ugly and very low on the functionality scale. I don't have a great photo of it, but here's one that I took the week we moved in.

That large open cubby on the right is part of where the vampire bed used to be.

Anyway, recently I was all "hey how about some for reals cabinets in there?" and Nordic Boy was all "shut up about the for reals cabinets we have bigger fish to fry" and I was all "make me shut up" and he was all "ok I will."

And this weekend, this is what happened.

KAPOW! Cabinets! And paint!

And then KA-SLAM! Shelves, and doors, and handles!

Ooh, look at the doors, people. BI-FOLD! Fold, you doors, fold!

We need to wire in some better lighting in that room, so the photos are kind of not great, but there you have it. Cabinetry galore. And see how I blamed the lighting for the bad photography? Did you catch that one?

Anyway, what you can't really see here, but is super delightfully awesome, is the sizing of the cabinets. Nordic Boy designed them so that each one has more depth than the one before. The first one is skinny, the second one steps up and is a little fatter, and the third one (which you actually can't see here) is fatter still, and the last one is huge. So it's a terraced sort of design, which maximizes the space and fits all of our shit perfectly. I love them more than is ladylike, really.

Other than that, we...

...hung out with Delium on Friday night (which included the three of us watching the new season premiere of So You Think You Can Dance, which HELLO BLOG FRIENDS not one of you told me that this was coming up. Sheesh, what is up with that?)

...played a harrowing game of 80s Pop Culture Trivial Pursuit with BioGirl and her gentleman friend where my undefeated status was crushed to itty bitty pieces by Nordic Boy and the four of us got the giggles when someone said "Bettino Craxi" and it sounded more like "Buttino Craxi" because that's the kind of classy joint we run around here

...went on a popcorn field trip with pals, which I could try and explain to you but I don't think I could even if I tried

...called my friend Chris to wish him a happy birthday, and actually considered warbling the Happy Birthday Song to him, but then chickened out because Chris is a bonafide for real opera singer and hearing my broke down version of Happy Birthday might just make him cut me as a friend

...finally, on Monday, had a Lost finale viewing party (listen, we were away when it was actually on) wherein Biogirl and I got to yell out LAPEEDUS many many times which I am sure enhanced everyone else's viewing pleasure.
 
Also, I spent a fair amount of time cheering on the cabinet-making. Which totally counts as contributing.

Vacation over and out

Vacation is over. Here's some photos to remind me that it actually existed.

The main drag in Flint. This view reminds me of being a teen and heading out to dance clubs with unfortunate names like The Copa, or The Hot Rock. Which then makes me think of wine coolers. Despite this, I like this view.

Alli took this photo of a Flint pimp car. You can't see the pimpliciousness, but trust me, it was happening. Alli had the sense not to try and take a photo of the actual pimps that emerged from this car, but let me just tell you that Flint has full on pimps of the old school variety. Gold-topped walking canes, full length fur coats, zooty hats with feathers on them. They always remind me of peacocks when I see them.

My favorite store when I was growing up was Value City, where sometimes you could buy clothes by the pound. And now? CLOSED. Broke my heart. Not as much as when the doughnut shop (called Dyn-O-Bite, for god's sake) closed, but almost.

Frankenmuth, the fake-German town, all bedecked in Disney-ish Bavarianism. I don't care much for Frankenmuth, but yet somehow I always end up there. This trip was no exception. I must have a deep seated need to see people in Technicolor lederhosen or something.

This 7-11 played a pivotal role in my teen years. That's right, I said PIVOTAL.

Factories, factories, everywhere, even if they aren't functioning.

My pops.

My moms and pops. SO CUTE.

A display on the streets of Frankenmuth. Oh yeah.

Lunch before leaving

Raita, Bhaji, Channa, Alloo Benghan, Tamatar, Poori.

(Spiced yogurt, sauteed spinach, chick pea curry, potato and eggplant curry, tomato chutney, fried bread).
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Last night of vacation.

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Croquet

I imagine that the person who invented croquet thought this to him/herself:
"If only I could make up some sort of game that would require one to look as doofy as humanly possible. Perhaps there should be squatting. Also a long mallet that you swing as if it was an out-of-control pendulum that has grown from your crotchal area that you can't help but swing with both hands. Really, it would be grand."

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Apple orchards = run like hell

This is where the neighborhood kids would congregate at dusk on summer nights to play Bloody Murder or Ghost in the Graveyard to scare the bejeezus out of each other. I was the littlest so every round I didn't piss myself from fear was a victory. Chances of me going into this place at night now that I'm grown? Not likely.

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De-frickin'-lish

Nothing hits the spot like braided food.

P.S. My parents just reupholstered those Saarinen Tulip chairs. Aren't they lovely?
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Hot and breezy, Weezy

This sums up my day today.

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Tilling on Sunday

This morning we got up and walked over to Alli's mom's house. I was trying to think how many times in my life I have made that trek via foot, bike, or car. The first 18 years of my life there were times that I made that trip multiple times a day. Who knew after over THIRTY YEARS I would still be walking my ass over there? Nutsorama. And also, who has active friendships for over thirty years? Dorothy Zbornak and Rose Nyland, that's who.

Alli came to my house yesterday and my mom fed her until I'm quite sure a gastric explosion was imminent. This morning her mom returned the favor. The combination of our two moms could bring down entire governments, I assure you. They should work for the Pentagon where they could break enemy combatants using nothing but the power of okra masala and spinach pie.

I was going to take a photo of the spread over there this morning, but I thought that might have been rude. So you'll just have to take my word for it. But just for future reference, would that have been rude?

And while we are on the subject of Alli, I just have to interject that I love that girl. For the official record.

When we got back we got our Ma and Pa Ingalls on and turned over the soil in my parents' veggie garden. Well, if you want to get technical, Ma would never till soil on a Sunday, but Pa was known to so I suppose we were double Pa-ing it. Except everyone kept their shirts on.

The parents' yard is just all sorts of gorgeousness. Ima go back out now and nap in the hammock. Ahhhh...

-





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My first library love

Many librarians have lovey memories of their first library. The only other professions I have had have been artistic, and I find arty types to have similar lovey feelings about childhood arty memories. I will never forget the first dance show I saw, or the first professional play. Do other professions have this? Do builders always remember some childhood structure that moved them? Do computer programmers get choked up about their first Commodore Vic-20?

Today I swung by the first library that I ever went to as a child, and in my mind it was a dilapidated mess of a joint. And sheeit was my memory right. Still, I loved that place.

-


The liquor store next door even has PIZZA, you guys. All the amenities, I tell you.

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Just One More

Ok, one last time. I know no one wants this week's blog posts to turn into Daily Pothole Photography. Well, no one but me. You don't understand the pavement devastation I am witnessing every few feet that I walk or drive though! But ok. I promise I won't do this again after today, but just one more, one last time. Because SRSLY.

Every 3 or 4 feet! Not even kidding! In the middle of every street, everywhere!

I am so turning into Crazy Pothole Lady. I know.

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Really? This is fundamental?

In elementary and middle school, we had the RIF (Reading is Fundamental!) program. Every once in a while, the RIF people would show up with a truckload of free books, and each of us got to pick something up, to keep forever and ever. And man, they had the goods in terms of preteen paperback cheesy goodness.

So, I just dug up a bunch of my RIF books at my parents' house, y'all! And I have decided to re-read one. But which one? That's where you come in. Please tell me which one to read, and dagnabbit I will. Kay?

The candidates!

1. The Secret Life of the Underwear Champ (wherein, judging from the cover, the Underwear Championships involve a baseball bat and are televised).
2. The Great Lakeside High Experiment. I think this is Eliza Doolittle-ish.
3. The Wrong Boy. Cover photo: angry cheerleader being arm-grabbed by burn-out wearing a denim tuxedo.
4. Phone Calls. Mulletted maiden makes phone calls! News at eleven!
5. But This Girl Is Different. Tagline: how trusting should she be? Cover art: Wayne Gretzy-lookalike in a basketball outfit standing with a high school girl in business casual who is carrying a clipboard, which is totally high school, just totally.
6. But In The Fall I'm Leaving. Cover: Dark haired Melissa Sue Anderson looking fucking PISSED.
7. Waiting Games. Sequel to the bestseller called Sooner or Later, which was made into a tv movie of the week, for Pete's sake.
8. Temporary Times, Temporary Places. Cover: girl looking lovingly up at a JC Penny's male model from the teen boy section circa 1982, wearing Sans-a-Belt slacks. Rowr.
9. Blissful Joy and the SATs: a Multiple Choice Romance. That is so Teri Garr on the cover.
10. Second Chance: Could She Leave the Past Behind? I don't know about that, but she definitely needs to leave that frilly blouse behind.
11. Fridays. All y'all on this cover look freaky. Zombie clique girls, stalker girl trailing behind, and two scary thugs in the back. Yikes.
12. The Trouble with Thirteen. This one is giving off a Square Pegs vibe, am i right?
13. The Great Boy Chase. Pastel triangle sweater vest girl uses cartography to chase boys! With bonus neckerchief!
14. Nothing's Fair in Fifth Grade. I'm sensing a rip-off of Judy Blume's "Blubber," but i could be wrong.

Which one, friends?
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Flint Farmer's Market

This shit is non-stop nostalgia for me, no lie.

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Napster

This trip is making me realize how frickin' tired we must be lately. Because we both can't stop sleeping. Cannot. At all. It's a snoozefest, literally.

And... one more time for the cheap seats.

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They pave paradise, but here, not so much

Dear Hometown,
There's a point at which a paved road ceases to be a paved road and we might just be better off reverting back to plain dirt streets. Just a thought. I'm just telling you this because I love you. And also because you're rattling the teeth right out of my head.

Love, Me

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Itsa Gouda

Homemade foccacia (however the hell you spell it) with tomato, olives, and Gouda.

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Zzzz

Why yes, I shall most certainly join you for a lawn chair nap. Carrot cake can be so exhausting, it's true.

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Let them eat cake

After lunch carrot cake, my carrot cake lover, and some crazy ass wallpaper. Three things I love.

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Oh hai.

Did I forget to mention that I done up and left to go see 
my parental units? Since they don't have a 'puter, Ima
just upload a buncha photomotography this week instead
to keep you up to speed with my happenings. Be forewarned:
since my mom is involved, there will likely be lots of 
food photos. And also bad formatting, upon which I shall
blame my phone.

Consumables #14

This week in pop culture me-ness!

The Passage, by Justin Cronin
I picked up an advance copy of this based on the marketing buzz that says that this is going to be the next! big! thing! in thriller/sci-fi books. It has movie written all over it. It has to do with the government injecting death row inmates with a virus that turns them into vampire-monsters. Ridley Scott already has the movie rights. And there will be sequels. So there you go, the next movie franchise. I'm thinking Dame Judi Dench as head vampire-monster, you know, to class it up a little.

Beiber Fever
Does anyone remember Margaret Cho's routine where she talks about how she rented a porno (stay with me here) and then forgot to return it before she went on a long vacation so that when she came back she had two weeks' worth of daily messages from an embarrassed video store clerk asking her to please return "Beaver Fever"? Well, I remember it. And anytime anyone says "Beiber Fever" I sort of think that's what they are saying.

ANTM, the Kimonos and Jumpsuits Cycle
I watched another whole season of Tyra. I don't think I would have made it through the whole thing this year but for the jumpsuits. I was tuning in to see the jumpsuit madness, and that's about it. "Oh Mylanta!"

Barnaby Jones
This used to be my dad's favorite show when I was a kid. I had almost forgotten that. Then I went to one of my favorite places-my local indie video store that magically owns everything-(seriously, I go there almost as much as I go to the grocery store), and they had Barnaby Jones dvds on display. And this made me remember it, and think about how excited my dad would be (maybe?) to see that they were on dvd, and before I knew it, I had screamed out, really loudly and with palpable excitement "OH MY GOD THEY HAVE BARNABY JONES HERE!" and maybe the whole store might have looked at me and appreciated my crazy. Just maybe.

"What a very special time for me..."
Nordic Boy and I were driving somewhere that was kind of far away (well, it was like 20 minutes away) and the car was quiet. "Sing me a song or something, it's too quiet," he says. And I did. The first one that came into my mind. And I sang it with gusto. From the very beginning to the very end. I didn't even know I knew all the words, but SHIT, I did. And I belted it. All a cappella and everything.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hYaJ-q348xo

That'll teach him to want a serenade.

Good. Yep.

I have been pretty busy lately, in a good way. I have had something social and fun to do pretty much every night for the past couple of weeks, and there is just a lot going on in my world these days.

Yet, for some reason, I don't seem to have anything to say about any of it. Instead, this is what I sound like.

Other Person: So what's new with you lately?
Me: Oh...you know. Same old.
Other Person: But you're good? What's been happening?
Me: Yeah. I'm good. Just, you know, living life. I'm...good. Yep, doing good.

What the hell? Dead-behind-the-eyes, party of one, please.

So this is how I am feeling bloggy-wise as well. So instead of me writing a whole post of "yep, I'm doing good. Real good. Did I mention that things are going well? Also, I am feeling fine. And life is good. Yessirree" I shall just give you something pretty to look at.

Dancing in the streets like they always did on Fame. Dang, I used to love Fame.

Why You Should Never Send Me In to Negotiate a Treaty

There was a five-year period when BioGirl went off to Stanferd to get her Doctor Doolittle Doctorate. During that period of time, I would go visit her in the Bay Area quite a lot, usually over a weekend. The first time I went to visit her, I was introduced to her gaggle of friends, many of whom were also of the scientist ilk. "They are AWESOME," she told me. And they were. "They are kind of disorganized," she also said. "Brace yourself."

We met up outside the lab where she worked, the time was something like 6pm, with the idea that we would figure out where to go get dinner. Everyone showed up. Dinner options were discussed. Time ticked by. No decision was made. Talking, talking, options, options. The sands of the hourglass trickling away. Hunger growing. An hour went by. A whole hour. Then more.

Finally, something happened. Someone said sushi (marine biologists, you know) and the Dinner Option Treaty looked like it might have a leg to stand on. But then? It all went terribly wrong once again. Someone started to talk about whose cars would be driven to the restaurant, and who would ride in which of the cars. This, once again, took for-flippin'-ever.

When the Carpooling Accord was finally settled, we all got in cars and drove to the restaurant. Following the Dinner Option Treaty negotiations and the Carpooling Accord came the No Reservation Group Seating Agreement. How many people did we have again? I forgot to count! Me too! And half of the group isn't here yet! How will we know how many people we have? Who has a cell phone? Sorry, hostess who is trying to seat us! Oh, ok, most of the group is here now, let's count. Wait, where's Joe, Steve, and Mike? Anyone seen Joe, Steve and Mike? They were just here. Did they leave? What? They are going to pick up more people? Which people? How many?

The No Reservation Group Seating Agreement almost broke me. But I persevered.

We finally got ourselves seated (after the Who Will Sit By Who Charter, followed by the Who is Going to Share a Plate with Who Deal), and ate.

At this point, I just want to say three things.
1. We started, may I remind you, at about 6pm.
2. By the time we actually ate dinner, it was 10pm. TEN. PEE EM. IN THE NIGHT. FOUR HOURS AFTER MEETING UP.
3. I was in the midst of the most highly educated group of mothereffers in the middle of a world class institute of braininess. These people were brimming with headmeats and they all have the papers to prove it.

This was all topped off by the Splitting of the Bill Pact which was seriously the part where I HAD TO GO HOME. RIGHT NOW. Rightnowrightnowrightnow. Uncle! I said Uncle! I give!

I had never, in my life, witnessed such a prolonged, sustained period of disorganization, where no one seemed to know what was going on. There was no sense of clarity, not a moment of cohesion. I had never seen such a display. Not even in college, where for a short time I lived in a suite of hippie kids who were chronically on The Chronic. It was amazing, what I witnessed.

And I continued to witness it, whenever I went to visit. And don't get me wrong, Biogirl's posse were all awesome people. I now consider them my friends as well. One on one, they rock my world. But the bigger the group? The more they get bogged down by the decisions they have to make. I don't know why. I never figured out why.

So this weekend, Biogirl invited a bunch of people to go out for a belated birthdayfest. Most of the people were sciencey work people. We got there early and cordoned off a bunch of tables in the pizza joint. And when everyone got there? They started to talk about the tables. How should we arrange the tables to optimize sociability, to be precise. And the discussion started, and kept going, and...going. I started to panic. Crap, oh crap. It was happening again! With an entirely different group of people! Am I not going to be able to eat dinner for another 4 hours? IS THAT WHAT IS HAPPENING AGAIN??

Thankfully, that didn't happen again. But it did turn out to be a longer-than-really-necessary discussion about table placement. It was maybe...twenty minutes. And what we ended up with? Was a pretty jacked up table geography, to be honest, whereby most of the party guests were literally locked into their spots. The only way to get out of there was to perhaps crawl underneath the tables.

I want to be clear here that in each situation? I kept my mouth SHUT. Because there is so much talking, so many ideas, so much confusion, that adding one more opinion into the mix just seems like more than I can bear. I just sort of wait, in total amazement, for it to be over. And maybe I pray, for Jesus to send me some food soon, just a little bit.

So perhaps I am not exactly helpful, is what I want to cop to.

I am left to contemplate what this group had in common with the California group. What is the common denominator? What causes a group dynamic to fall apart in such a way? What makes a group turn into The Keystone Kops of Project Management?

1. Brainy scientists have TOO MUCH BRAINS and so they get Absent-minded Professor-ish when faced with everyday social tasking.
2. BioGirl has a superpower whereby, the larger the number of people around her, the more they lose their minds due to her sheer fabulousness. Sort of like how people lose their shit around celebrities.

It's got to be one of the two. Brains or Biogirl's animal magnetism. Maybe both.

"Dirty Mother- (don't you say that)"

The word of the day yesterday? Mothereffer, and its relations.

I didn't sleep well, which caused me to sleep in. I woke up, looked at the clock and the first word of my day was: muthaheifer!

I had a bunch of errands to run in the morning, and they didn't get done.

I ran out of milk for my cereal, so no breakfast for me.

I went to work and worked my hiney off, got super hungry, and realized I had forgotten to pack my lunch and didn't have time to go out and get anything. Muthernutsack.

Worked until 8pm OMG starving starving starving.

Started to drive home and realized that for some reason, my car wouldn't accelerate past 25 miles an hour.

Car crapped out totally a few miles from the grocery store where they carry all the nice foodstuffs that I NEED RIGHT NOW.

Called Delium to come pick me up.

While waiting for him, I tried to call a tow truck place and my phone ran out of juice. MotherFRACKER.

Delium showed up and I tried the car again, which started and we drove it to my mechanic who is not far away.

Since it was after hours I had to put my key in the mechanic's drop box in the envelopes that they provide, along with a note. I licked the envelope to shut it and PAPER CUT MY FACE. MOTHERSUCKER.

Delium takes me to Whole Foods where I almost cry from happiness.

I get home and eat my only meal of the day. The time is somewhere after 10pm.

I plug my phone in to see that Nordic Boy, who is out of town, has called me about a hundred times and thinks that I am surely dead by now.

Biogirl asks me a dating question and I feel about nine thousand years old when she says "has that ever happened to you?" and my honest response is "probably, but I don't remember." GRANNYEFFER.

On the bright side:

My phone battery didn't die until after I had called my friend to come get me.

My friend is awesome and totally dropped what he was doing to come right away.

Not only that, he made me laugh when he showed up by singing me a heartfelt rendition of "That's What Friends Are For," which come on, I totally had to join in on. There is nothing that will break up life tension than a spontaneous duet.

My friends are the type who will duet with me.

I didn't have to get a tow truck after all, which would have added to the pain in the assness.

When you are that hungry, Whole Foods is sort of heaven.

Nordic Boy cares enough to call me a bunch. He also makes good sympathetic comments about face paper cuts and other such.

Biogirl, knowing that my work day the following day involves my having to drive to three different locations that are scheduled in such a way as to make it impractical for me to ride the bus without cancelling a bunch of things, brings me her car at 11pm and lets me borrow it for the day. Awesome.

I could have paper cut my tongue instead, I suppose.

Still, though. MotherFUKKER. Right?

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.