Welcome Mat

I think a lot about what love is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Suck it, Madge

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oooh. Ahhhh.

Let them eat cake

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

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

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

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

Consumables #9

This week my brain was invaded by

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Petal Pushers

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

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

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

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



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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then she was on her way.

Really lady? You too?

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

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

Consumables #8

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don't You Forget About Me

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

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

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

He doesn't call back.

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

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

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

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

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

Consumables #7

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In which a bird says "Welcome to spring"

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

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

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

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

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

Until a bird dropped a turd right onto my forehead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Consumables #6

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

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

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

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

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

Lastly, Emo covers of Ratt are fun.

Orange you glad I didn't say knock knock?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Presi-Tines Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah, let's go with that one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

Someone gave me that poster as a present.

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

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

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

Ly's Donuts

Oh blog, wherefore do I neglictify thou so verily?

In my world lately:

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

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

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

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

Whatever. It's funny to me.

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

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

Consumables #5

This week's standouts!

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

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

Ugly Betty
Cancelled! Dang.

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

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

Ain't Nothin' But a Groundhog

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

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

And that happened on Groundhog Day.

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

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

Pillow Talk

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

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

It has started to drive me crazy.

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

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

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

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

Consumables #4

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

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

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

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

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

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

Worky worky, Turkey Lurkey

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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