Thanks, Thanksgiving

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Best Thanksgiving Prayer Ever

Happy T-Day, all!

I Want To Go To There

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

Drawn to Each Other

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

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

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

How weirdo is that????



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

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

"If You Want to Destroy My Sweater"*

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

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


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

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

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

WHICH I DID.

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

Come on, right???


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

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

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

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

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

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

Phooey.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trips to Portland and Suburbia

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hope you all are having a loverly Monday!

I'm a Pecker, You're a Pecker

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm Kind of a Big Deal

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

Happy Wednesday!

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

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

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

A-hole. Me. I know.

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

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

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

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

Doc Octopus on a Plane!

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

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

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

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

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

COME ON.







R U SERIUS?

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

Scary Halloween Post. Well, sort of.

There is a park in northeast Seattle that is being refurbished. (Is that the right word for a park? Renovated? Redone? Whatever.) Part of the revitalization is that it will restore a bunch of wetlands and other natural features. A few weeks ago, BioGirl and I went to check it out. While there, we came across signs and displays that tell you what sorts of re-doing has been done. Among these, there is a section called the Leaky Berms. Funny name, no? It sort of sounds like an old skool comedian. Ladies and Gentleman! Opening act for Soupy Sales and Red Buttons will be: Leaky Berms! Turns out it just means that there are sections of the land that have rocks and permeable fabric to help deal with water drainage.

And by the way, between Nordic Boy re-routing water in our yard and now this, how many times can I blog about drainage? I think I might have to change my name to the Pop Drainage Librarian.

Also, as long as I am being tangential, RIP Soupy Sales. Did I ever tell you guys that I met Soupy Sales once? It was in the early 90s and Alli and I went to the video store in our hometown in the middle of the afternoon one day, and there he was, sitting at a table, selling a dvd set of his old show. We got a glossy with his autograph and I distinctly remember that we were the only ones in the store who paid him any mind. It was sad.

You thought you were going to get some sort of witty story about my meeting with Soupy Sales, didn't you? Turns out, it was sad. And boring. Sorry.

So anyway. Back to the leaky berms. On the park walking map, there was this.



Why? Why is there a giant burrito on the map to denote the Leaky Berms? Are we not brainy enough to understand the concept of a leaky berm? Can anyone explain to me why the leaky berm had to be "aka the burrito"? Really. I am asking.

It's sort of scary actually. GIANT BURRITO IN THE PARK, AND IT WILL LEAK ON YOU.

Speaking of things that are slightly spooky, does anyone else think that Nikolas from Project Runway is related in some way to Severus Snape?





Scary when you put it together like that, right?

Also, since we are on the subject of scary (and it is almost Halloween after all so I am totally being topical), bike messengers? You are going to give me a mothereffing heart attack one of these days. Darting in and out of traffic like that? YIKES. Granny's ticker can't take it. It's super scary. They should make a scary movie out of that shit. Ghosts and masked killers don't scare me a whit, but a montage of bike messengers? Bring on the smelling salts!

Oh, and one more scary thing: TYRA MADE HER MODELS GET IN BLACKFACE. Oh yes, she did. And she did this horrid thing where she made fake ethnicity mashups. Like one lady she had dressed up as a mashup between Indian and Native American. She painted that stick figure brown and then put a sari on her and a giant feather headdress. Because TYRA IS SO CLEVER. She did this other mashup where the model was supposed to be Botswanan and Polynesian, which means Blackface, some garb made out of grass and a big ass necklace. And she told the person to pose as if she could hear music, because Botswanans always hear music everywhere. BECAUSE THEY IS TRIBAL SEE? And then one of the models waxed poetic about having always dreamed what it would be like to be brown, and that doing this shoot made her feel so EXOTIC. It was one tiny heartbeat away from Tyra sticking bones through these girls' noses and telling them to do the ooga booga dance. I swear! I am not even making it up. It almost made me barf up some leaky berm burrito.

Color Them Badd

We were looking at some buildings the other day, as we are wont to do, and the conversation went like this.

Nordic Boy: What is with the color of that paneling there?
Me: Where?
Him: Over there. It's like...mauve. No, not mauve.
Me: That one? That's puce.
Him: Sort of. It's not exactly puce.
Me: You're right. What is it?
Him: It's pucey.
Me: Maybe the actor Gary Pucey lives there.
Him: Yeah, he's even crazier than the original. Gary Pucey!

From this conversation, we came up with other Crayola inspired famous people. Such as!

The indie film director Jim Chartreuse
The why-is-she-famous-again starlet Burnt Sienna Miller
The son of an English rocker Cerulean Lennon
The lead singer of Red Zepplin, Robert Eggplant
Comedic Aussie actress Fuschia DiRossi
Sitcom star Matthew Periwinkle
80s star Sepia Zadora

Pumpkin Party!

It's nearly Halloween and my holiday-indifferent brain is all in a twist because I need to come up with a costume to go to a Halloween party next week. The best idea that Nordic Boy and I have come up with is to go as Piss and Vinegar, but (a) that is probably only funny to us, and (b) gross and (c) hard to interpret into an actual costume.

Before I get to Halloween stuff, remember how I said that it had been a while since a dance show had knocked my socks off? Well I solved that problem by going to see the Hubbard Street Dance Company who were here on tour from Chicago this weekend. My socks were blown off as well as a few other articles of clothing, they were so good. So once again, Chicago, you beat the pants off Seattle in terms of dance shows I have seen from both of these two towns. Dang you, Chicago. Seattle still has...um, mountains and stuff, and if mountain climbing were my thing I would mos def be sassing you about that. So there.

Things here in Seattle have taken a very rainy turn, and I have had to accept the fact that I won't see the sun for another 6 months or so and that all my white cohorts are going to begin glowing a translucent if soggy alabaster. I thank all of you for your coat suggestions- alas none of them fit my admittedly picky-bastard standards. Don't fret though- it's quite apparent that if I have not succumbed to a raincoat for over ten years then my neuroses is way stronger than any of you can help me with, clearly, unless any of you happens to be a therapist. You are awful nice for trying though. (Me, hanging head in shame. A very wet head.)

So far, this post seems to be all about what sorts of things are below acceptable standards, doesn't it? Costume ideas, dance in Seattle, sun levels, and raincoat appreciation. Yeesh. Let's turn this party around, shall we?

How about I share the fact that this fall has been such a pretty one in my town? Sometimes, our falls can be really short- we can go from summer to winter in a week, or at least it feels that way. But this month has seemed long and positively autumnal. I have some random neighborhoody photos that I've snapped offa my phone to illustrate. Take a looksie?









To celebrate the autumnity of the surroundings, as well as the upcoming Halloween eve, my friends M and B had a pumpkin carving party at their house over the weekend. And you know what you do when you live in the city and don't have a pumpkin patch handy to supply such an endeavor? You go to the local underground parking pumpkin patch, that's what!


Don't you just smell the mulled cider in the air? No? Too choked up with exhaust? Oh whatever.

At any rate, we got our pumpkins (Nordic Boy picked out a small white one, and BioGirl picked out a whopper of an orange one) and headed over to the party. I forgot to take a photo of ours (ok, fine, it should just be called Nordic Boy's since I didn't even touch the thing the entire evening because in case you haven't heard by now I am HOLIDAY DEFICIENT) but rest assured he carved the cutest pumpkin ever- it had little beady eyes and a tongue sticking out of its mouth.

How about you look at someone else's awesome pumpkin artistry instead?



Then we cozied up with a bunch of our friends and watched the best Halloween double feature ever conceived. First off, we watched Frankenstein Meets the Space Monster.


Followed by Queen of Outer Space starring the effervescent Zsa Zsa Gabor who ran around in action scenes in chiffon and sparkles the entire time.



I highly, highly recommend both movies. Highly.

Thus was spent another gorgeous weekend. One might say that the entire thing was full of piss and vinegar. And pumpkins. Piss, vinegar and pumpkins.

Where the Soggy Things Are

We have so much catching up to do. Let's do it now, shall we? Let's shall.

You didn't miss much from me last week because I was working hard for the money (dah-dum, dah-dum), so hard for it honey. Not to say that I don't usually work really hard, but compared to last week? It made me think: let's face it, I don't usually work that hard.

But talking about work is likely to keel you over dead with boredom so I'm going to skip to the end (please say "skip to the end" in your head like Prince Humperdinck during the wedding scene in Princess Bride, thanks) and get to the weekend. Unless you want to hear about how I was so tired that I ate popcorn and Smart Puffs for dinner due to tiredness? No? Ok then.

The only thing I will say about last week is that I attended a week-long conference type thing in my city at a fancy hotel. Lunch was provided and people got awesomely fed every single day. It was gourmet deluxe, which is very unusual for conferences in my profession. It was great. Except for the four vegetarians in the group. They (ok, we) got a cold, bland portabella and spinach sandwich every day. For five days straight. No chips on the side, no condiments even. I am not a picky eater and pretty much have the attitude that since I am in the minority about meat ingestion I should expect to just eat whatever veggie thing I'm broughten, but dang. You shoulda seen the spread that everyone else was getting. And I would have settled for a goddamn grilled cheese to break up the monotony. Something. A slice of tomato?Anything? An onion ring? But nope. Cold, unmarinated dry ass mushroom sandwich. For a whole week.

Oh well. My life is so hard, boohoo.

Friday night I attended my workplace's union meeting, wherein we all stood on tables with signs like Norma Rae, except ours said things like "librarians are hot" and "read a book, suckers" instead of your normal Norma Rae captions. Ok, we didn't really do that, but you know me, if I could live my life in a long uninterrupted string of movie clips that would be kind of ok with me. The library budget, much like everyone else's budget, is in the crapper for 2010 and so the meeting was not a barrel of laughs, that's for damn sure. Afterward, my friend J and I had to go brave the rain and cheer ourselves up with some avocado sushi rolls. We closed the sushi joint down and then talked in the car for a couple of hours, which made my evening last into the next day, which for a grandma like yours truly is sort of spectacular.

This weekend the weather gushed down in the form of large and in-charge raindrops of a Midwest variety. Seattle may be known for its rain, but seldom does it just POUR down in bucketloads. Rather, it seems perfectly unrainy until you walk around in it and find yourself inexplicably soaking wet from the teeny tiny mist drops that have been hitting you all the while without your knowing. But this week it was full on raining cats and dogs with some ferrets thrown in for good measure.

So when you have stayed up late the night before, and had a hellish workweek the days before that, and you have a weekend coming up and it's stormy outside, what do you do? Stay in and watch Tudors DVDs? Snuggle in your bed and listen to the bluster outside? Build a cozy fire in your fireplace?

Um, no. You get up at 7am and go to the dump and get super duper wet, and smell super duper smelly. Obviously.

Granted, I didn't have to get up and go to the dump. Nordic Boy would have happily gotten his ass up and done it himself. Wouldn't have been the first time. But remember when I mentioned Project Get Hella Involved? I am committed. I am not going to wuss out now. So we went to the dump to recycle a bunch of broken up concrete from a walkway of our yard. And I was reminded that I don't own a raincoat. Or rain-appropriate shoes.

That's right- over ten years in Seattle, and no rain gear. Because why? Because rain gear is ug-effing-lee. If there was ever a debate in my mind about whether form or function wins the day in the Land of Librarian Girl, that right there should answer the question for you. If it's ugly, I can't go there. I just can't. I'm not proud of this.

After the dump, we went rain coat shopping for me. At REI. Let me just say this right now- I am not an REI, Patagonia, North Face sort of chickee. I find the design of these clothes abominable, especially for ladies. The everloving CUT of these coats, people. It is as if they are all made for Rosie the Maid from the Jetson's. Big and boxey. Yick. It gives me hives just thinking about it. Plus, they were playing that song in REI? The one that goes, real fast: I gotta a pocket gotta pocket fulla sunshine I gotta love and I know that it's awl mine oh. Oh-oh. I am usually pretty ok with bad music and indeed I love a lot of bad music (hi Jody Watley) but I cannot HANDLE THAT SONG. So add REI box coats with a pocket fulla sunshine and I almost had to throw a pocket fulla coniption fits.

Needless to say from that story that a raincoat for me was not found that day.

Then Nordic Boy had to go in to work for a while so I had a nice long private makeout session with my couch. Don't tell him that, ok?

Then we went out with a bucketload of friends to see Where the Wild Things Are. Remember how that book is all wild rumpusish and full of joy and wild abandon and gleeful spirit? Well this version of the story is full of dysfunction and drama and not a small amount of outright disturbing violence. There was a little kid sitting behind me at the movie theater and she kept saying, in a really small scared voice "Why is that happening, momma? Why are they so mad?" It's pretty much guaranteed that that kid will have a straight up nightmare for the next few weeks of her life. So thanks for that Dave Eggers.

I'm not saying that the movie was bad or anything. But for some reason it made the group of us go to a bar afterward and talk about how sucky and often scary being a kid was over our beers until the wee hours. So that's my review of that movie.

Ok, I gotta go to work now so you'll have to wait for the riveting tale of Sunday and how Nordic Boy and I installed rain water collection tanks in our garage. Trust me, it's exciting. And I am not even being sarcastic.

Two weeks ago now...

Bloggie can you hear me?

I just sang that in my head as if I was Barbra in Yentl. Because that's just how I do.

Well there you have it- I just talked about my birthday and then fell off the blog wagon for over a week like I was giving you the silent treatment or something. Rest assured that the only reason that I was being a blog asshole was that work kicked me in the nuts last week and it was all I could do to drag myself home each night, take an Advil, and go to bed.

But just in case you care about the birthday, it ended up being pretty lovely. Aside from the fact that I spent a lot of the day on my birthday crying an effing river. It wasn't that I had a terrible birthday or anything, but for some reason I became The Most Emotional Birthday Girl Ever for the day. People kept saying/doing lovely things for me on my birthday and I kept bursting into tears over each and every one of them. As my tear ducts are usually akin to the Mojave on even a pretty bad day, this was throwing me all off. By the time BioGirl came over to my house ready to fire up the Kiss Me Kate dvd that she had brought over (sah-weeet!), I had to tell her not to even look at me funny or else I might just have a Hallmark moment with her and reprise the eyeball squirts.

Since then, I have managed to keep my face from leaking and have returned to my decidedly un-sobby personality. Ahhhh.

Here are among the things that have not made me cry since then.

1. The aforementioned Kiss Me Kate. How I adore that movie. Even if you hate old musicals, and cheese, and Technicolor (which, oh my god, are you made of steel?), you should rent it and turn the sound off if you must and just bask in the crazy costumes. Your retinas might burn out from the brightness, but it'd be worth it.

2. A lovely birthday dinner out with my newly preggers pal, Hopscotch. During which she graciously listened to a strange monologue I did wherein I gave her the play-by-play description of every pair of bedroom slippers I have ever owned. I don't even know how it happened, but I started to run my mouth and Feetwarmers of My Life was the topic I chose. Also, we got to share an odd moment at the fancy restaurant we were in where the server told us that the reason our dinners were taking so long was because they were having trouble heating up the cheese at the correct rate. Which made half of my brain think: fan-seeeee, and the other half of my brain think: boolsheeeeet.

3. I had the day off of work that Friday, and not only did Nordic Boy skip the Portland business trip that week (woohoo, birthday week!), he took the day off on Friday too. So we saw each other every single day for a whole week (what luxury) plus we had a whole day of uninterrupted usness. Best birthday present ever.

4. I also got material birthday presents, which were also awesome. I am all for material birthday presents. Just to be clear.

5. My friend M. wanted to get rid of some plants in her yard (which is a very beauteous yard) so she donated them to our yard (which is not beauteous but rather more like a boil on the ass of our neighborhood). We transported them over and now are hoping that they make the transition ok. We speak to them every time we enter or leave our yard as if we are in a Lifetime Original Movie and they are Janine Turner in a coma. "You can do it! You have to believe you can live! Do you hear me? Don't you quit on me now!"

So that's what happened on my birthday week. Which was over a week ago now. Perhaps I will get my blog-ass in gear and catch you up on this past week this week and then we can be in real time again. Shall we make that a goal? Ok, let's make that a goal.

(By the way, just so you know, I suck at goals).

Hopscotch plus Rambo = Hambo?

Remember a couple of weeks ago, when I said that one of my top ten favoritest friends of all time is pregnant? She's made it public now, so I can tell you that it's Hopscotch! Go read her post about it and join me in a happy dance.

Starting off right

In my house when I was growing up, birthdays were a big deal. Need I remind you of this grandiose cake?



My very first memory is of me at my 2nd birthday party. That's right, two years old. I have a crazy accurate memory of almost everything about my childhood and it goes back that far. It's not a fully-formed memory or anything. Just sort of a hazy sensory flash of myself, at a table, and my dad taking out a little wooden toy dog from a box. The dog was wearing skis.

Of all things to remember. Leave it to me to have a weird first memory. A wooden dog with skis? Why the hell?

Anyway, I have an ever more vivid string of memories of each birthday after that, all the way through adulthood. The only birthday I don't remember is the one where I was, you know, born and stuff. And I don't remember anything about my first birthday. Which is kind of a shame because I hear it sort of rocked.

At the time, my parents lived in an apartment complex which has since been torn down. Recently arrived in this country, they had four little kids in a teeny cramped two bedroom apartment. The apartment complex was full of other immigrant families, many of them with kids. This place gave my parents a sense of community and all of the people that lived there became very close, very quickly. When my mom brought me home from the hospital, I was the only baby around and therefore sort of the darling of the bunch. I hear I got passed around constantly and my parents were never short on babysitters. When my first birthday rolled around, my parents threw me a bash. It was in the basement laundry room of the apartment building, and all the kids came. Of all ages.

It resulted in this photo, which is one of my all-time favorites. Come on, can it get any more awesome than this?



I don't know what I love the most. My sweet sister, holding me in the middle? My brother, next to her in a crooked yellow dress shirt? My other brother, standing like a ramrod with his tinted glasses and checkered pants in the back? The other kid next to my sister flashing the motherlovin' peace sign? The little kid in the front who looks like he's getting his brain squeezed between that dude's knees and enjoying every last second of it? There is something especially touching to me about the looks on my siblings faces. I know that their transition into this country was unbelievably hard on them, and seeing their sweet faces smiling in such a happy moment, surrounded by all of their new friends, sort of breaks my heart a little bit.

So I don't know what I love most about this photo. All of it, I guess. I just love all of it. What a way to inaugurate a lifetime of birthdays. I wish every birthday of mine could be as sweet, full of love, friends, family, and crazy outfits, just like that first one. It's a hard one to top.

Librarian Girl

It's What Month Again?

Highlights from the weekend...

1. Nordic Boy got us tickets to see a ballet Saturday night. It was fine, but just fine. How I long for a dance show that really knocks my socks off- it's been a while for me. There were too many problems with this one for my socks to go anywhere, but it was fun to get gussied up and traipse to the show. Don't get me wrong, there were good parts to the show. Just not sock-knockers.

2. I just said knockers.

3. I am in some sort of deep, deep denial that it is October. There are lots of Octobery things happening around me, and I am feeling constantly shocked about them. For one- my birthday. It is this week, and yet every time someone refers to it, I act as though it is far, far away. Weeks away, at least, instead of days. And then yesterday was BioGirl and my 11 year friendy-versary, and I totally spaced that too. She brought me a card and a funny gift and I was all WUT IS THAT. Nice one. Also, I have already gotten invites to two Halloween parties. And still, I don't get that it's October. My inner clock is all effed up.

4. I have decided that in order to combat the fall doldrums that I am susceptible to, I am going to get HELLA INVOLVED with the home improvement projects around here. Yes sir, you heard me right. This weekend, Nordic Boy was building shelves for the scrap lumber we have stacked in our garage. I know this is not weird for many people but to me I find it funny that we OWN LUMBER. Enough of it to need shelves for it. Who does that? But I kept such commentary to myself since having me help on projects is one thing without adding lumber punditry of a sarcastic nature on top of it.

5. Part of Project Get Hella Involved was accompanying Nordic Boy to the hardware store and not completely disengaging. Which I DID! Usually, when I go to the hardware store with him, he shops, while I follow him around the store with my iPhone, surfing the web and texting my friends like a surly teenager. But this time, I like, helped. And I am proud to say that I found the correct style of compression connectors that he needed. Hell if I know what they do, but I found them goddammit. Small victories, people. I have to start somewhere.

6. We got bracing up on the garage walls, and the shelves now need to be cut from some of his scrap lumber. Aside from a point where I got too bored for words and I went into the house to watch America's Next Top Model for a half hour break, I was Hella Involved the whole day. I call this a success.

7. As we were walking down the street the other day, we walked past a pile of human caca, right there on the sidewalk. As you do. It was, pardon me for saying so, a long tendril curled up on itself. After which we had the following conversation:

Me: Someone pooped out a pretzel.
Nordic Boy: Looked more like a heart to me.
Me: You are such a romantic.
Nordic Boy: So true, so true.

Roll With It

My mom is an amazing cook. I'm not just saying that because she's my mom and people tend to like what they grew up eating. She is a true gourmet. She makes everything, and I mean everything, from scratch, and her repertoire extends across ethnic boundaries. Guests have come to her house my whole life and have talked about foods that she has made for them years and years later. We didn't eat Ruffles potato chips in my house, we had homemade potato chips. I never had a store-bought baked good in my life unless I went to someone else's house. She makes her own bread, she makes her own yogurt, she makes her own ice cream (without an ice cream machine). She grinds all of her own spices and makes her own special spice blends. For years she did this by hand, not just with a mortar and pestle, but with a muthereffin' smoothed out ROCK, for pete's sake. Only in her retirement years has she deigned to get an electric spice grinder. She makes everything from deep dish pizza to paper thin crepes (which, with her accent, she pronounces "craps," as in "sweetie, would you like to eat a crap for breakfast?") to crispy baklava to any flavor of trifle to traditional fijian daruka cooked in coconut cream to the lightest potato latkes you have ever eaten in your life. We never had the same thing to eat two nights in a row, ever. Not even the same thing to eat for weeks on end.

Many of the things my mom makes, she sort of reinvents. I can't count the number of times when she will make something run of the mill or not really that exciting-sounding, and then the lucky eater takes a bite and says "oh my GOD. This is the best [...] I have ever had in my LIFE." Her carrot cake for example. I don't know what she puts in there but she has converted more people into carrot-cake love than is really healthy for them.

This brings me to the subject for today. My mom's cinammon rolls. Whoever has eaten them has become part of the Cult of Mom's Cinammon Rolls. They are addictive, and awesome, and I have never been able to find another cinnamon roll to compare. But the love of the cinammon roll can take over. It can get freaky.

My mom, because she is awesome, will often ask loved ones who are going to come to her house what their all-time favorite food is. Whatever they say, she will make for them. You have a request for pho? You got it. You have a hankering for cheesecake? Coming up. But over the years, the requests have dwindled. Down to one thing. EVERYONE WANTS THE CINNAMON ROLLS.

My dear mother has confessed to me that she fears she will not be able to keep up with the incessant demand for her cinnamon rolls.

Last year for his birthday, my nephew who lives on the east coast did not ask for a toy. He did not ask for a bike. He did not ask for money. He asked his dear Nana to send him some cinnamon rolls. Which she did. A big batch of about two dozen. And you know what he did? He called her up to tell her, in little-kid earnestness, the cinnamon roll countdown.

"Nana, we only have 12 rolls left. Only 12! Mom says I have to share them with the whole family. So we lose four every day!"

On the plus side, he is learning math this way. On the minus side, loss of cinnamon rolls are causing panic in the heart of a child.

My other nephew, who lives in Seattle, had yet to taste the cinnamon rolls, until this year. At the age of 6, he was initiated with a care package full of the sweet cinnamon stash. And you know what has happened since? He has asked about those cinammon rolls when he talks to my mom on the phone. Often. "So, Nana, you can send more cinammon rolls whenever you want, ok?"

I know that my mom loves that she can make something that her little sweeties love so much, but I know there is a small part of her that is galled. She can make ANYTHING. Her repertoire is endless! No one wants a lemon merengue pie? No one wants homemade fudge? No one wants hot chocolate with homemade marshmallows? No one wants anything else? YOU CAN HAVE ANYTHING ELSE.

Nope. Everyone wants the cinammon rolls.

Nordic Boy has been gone for most of the week, and has been gone a lot this past month, and it makes me grumpy. Last night I came home to an empty house, tired, cold, and cranky, with unexciting take-out in hand. On my doorstep was a package. I hauled it inside, opened it up, and this is what I found.

Gallon-sized ziploc bags! Like 10 of them! Full of mom's cinnamon rolls! Happy birthday to me!



I texted BioGirl to tell her what I got, and her immediate text back? An RSVP to hold one for her. Since she came to my mom's house last summer, she's on the junk too.

Here is my advice to you. If you ever were to meet my mom, and if she were to ever offer you a cinnamon roll? Walk away. Just walk away. If you don't you will never be the same.

Librarian Girl