There's something a little bit embarrassing about the salon where I get my hair did. Actually, there are several things that make the whole ordeal embarrassing. And they are.
1. It's totally pretentious and hyper-swank, but along with the swanky and the pretense, they can make you goh-geous. So every six weeks or so, I go there and lay my money down and enter the World That Is Sexy Hair. Today was just such a day.
The first thing is the decor. It's all black and red, like Jack and Meg White exploded all over the place. All of the stylists look like models. The lighting has soft edges, like there are gels over the lightbulbs, making everyone look a little more Pore-less. Because pores. Mustn't have those. Oh, look, there's a Marcia-Cross lookalike snipping the shit out of someone's 'do. That one in the station next to her looks like Justin Timberlake. Techno music permeates to such a degree that it seems as if everyone should be voguing in slo mo. And honestly, they kind of are. Even though I've had a long day at work, and it's not even dark out yet, I feel like I am walking into an afterhours club. I have to silently shake my head at all of this. Seriously, you guys? All day? With the voguing sans pores?
2. Second embarrassing thing. After you've put on a robe (because Madonna-forbid you would get your hair cut in your own clothes), you wait in the waiting area. And in this waiting area, all of the magazines are GIGANTIC. Like, a foot and a half by a foot and a half. They are almost newspaper size, with huge photos of Kate Moss looking like she is in desperate need of a buttermilk biscuit. So you try to flip through this magazine, that in all honesty, you can barely hold upright. And you try to look cool doing it. Embarrassing.
3. My stylist has these assistants that prep you for her. So one of them will come over to get you, and take you into the prep room, where he will wash your hair and put all sorts of mysterious sprays and gels into it. Now, sometimes, I get Young Gay Josh Hartnett. Young Josh is embarrassing because, well, he seems to get, well, overly excitable about my hair. Let me explain. People who do hair love me. I am like a blank canvas to them. I have long hair that is healthy, thick, and easy to maneuver. It has never been dyed, or permed, or tinted, or anything. It's what they all call "virgin hair." So I am used to a certain glazed hunger coming into the eyes of stylists when they get a hold of me. HOWEVER. Young Josh. He, um, loves my hair. I mean, he looooves it. So, when he's washing it, he TALKS to it. Rather lustily. "Oh my gaaaahd. Look at this haaaair. It's so strong. So shiny. Oh. Oh. GOD. Ohhhhh." All as he is lathering it up. I never know what to do in this situation. He does not talk to ME. It's all happening between him and my hair. I feel like I should excuse myself, before it goes too far. But what can I do? Embarrassing.
4. I like my stylist a lot. She is nice, funny, and she gives me the best hair I've ever had. This explains why I endure all this agita. So most of the time, once I am in her chair, I feel safe. But not always. This, friends, is because in this salon, the stylists are Arteests. And as arteests, they want to study the techniques of their genius colleagues so that they can maintain their own geniosity. So sometimes, as my stylist is cutting my hair, and the other stylists are in between clients, they will GATHER AROUND YOU in a circle. They stand there, and stare. They point and whisper. Sometimes they ask my stylist what sort of technique she's using, and I get treated to such lovliness as "I am turning the strands as I cut them because it's the only way I can get the pounds off of her heavy hair." Pounds? Heavy hair? Sigh. And they all nod and "ah yes" about my fat hair. Not phat hair. But fat hair.
So I endure an hour of embarrassment because the bottom line is that they all really know hair. They actually ARE artists. My hair always looks a bazillion times better than it did going in, so I grit my teeth and get it overwith. The things I do to make my locks more luscious. Please don't judge me. I know it's dumb. And I've been embarrassed enough.
Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl
Big Hairy Deal
Just Type Something
Hey peoples. I have abso-tootly nothing of coherence to write about today (as opposed to the barrel of coherent monkeys that I usually have to share) but I have committed myself to writing at least two posts a week (please no jokes about needing to commit myself, it's just too easy) and I am nothing if not Committment Ready (or whatever the opposite of Committment-phobic is) so you will be treated to some good old-fashioned diaherria-of-the-keyboard. As the cheerleaders like to yell: Ready, ok!
1. First of all, my birthday is coming up. Usually, I have been known to throw a party of some sort, all cake and candles and finery galore. The upside to this is that, well, it's a party, with all my peeps together in one glorious ball of gorgeousness. The downside of this is that a- I have to pick a date and time that may or may not work for all, and b- during the party I don't get to actually spend time with everyone. It's more like a friend-buffet, where I have to make room for all instead of actually catching up with each. So this year I decided that I would have actual dates with each and every one of my peeps for weeks around my birthday. The result is that my social calendar for the next few months looks a bit like Paris Hilton's, except for the fact that none of my sweet friends would ever, ever call someone a Firecrotch.
2. On Friday night, my neighbors to the back of us (who I have never met nor seen) had a rip-roaring hippie party in their back yard that started at 10pm and continued until 4am. FOUR. A. M. There was a drumming circle involved, people. I guess that technically I don't know for a fact that they were actually in a circle formation, but I have my suspicions. There was clapping, and singalong-ing, and folksy-ness abounding. Let me just remind you all that I live in the city, where yards are eensy little squares that butt up against each other in blocks. I snuggled up in bed and tried to sleep, and debated with myself about calling the po-po on them. I just couldn't bring myself to do that, because, well, hippies...they're so harmless. And they integrated a loud, buck wild cowbell into their drumming, which allowed Nordic Boy, Neighbor J and I to re-live the Christopher Walken/Will Farrell cowbell skit from SNL, so it was good times all around.
3. Does anyone else find that "Lips of an Angel" song the Funniest Thing Ever? Just asking.
4. Neighbor J crashed at my house on Saturday, and we stayed up until all hours of the night, laughing so much my throat and stomach still hurt today. Before I went to bed, I washed my face and brushed my teeth, but my MAC lipglass was a mighty powerful thing and some of it stayed on my lips as my head hit the pillow. The next morning, as Nordic Boy got out of bed, I did a double take. He had glitter ALL OVER his face. Apparently our nighttime smooching made him into Simon LeBon. I guess that means I have the Lips of an AAAYN-GEL.
It's not much, but that's all I've got, my lovelies.
Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl
Birthday Map
It's been a while since I have done a birthday shout-out people! And today is the day for a GOOD ONE. Happy birthday to my awesome friend Map!
Mappella, where to begin to talk about her? It's hard because I can't really remember a time when I didn't know her. Along with Alli, she is my oldest friend. The thing about Map is, she is FUN. Eff You Enn, fun. Not only that, when we were growing up, she had BAWLS. Gigantic cajones, people. We went to a large public school in a factory town, and let me tell you some of those teachers we had were mean, nasty wardens. Not a lot of nurturing. Lots of unnecessary corporal punishment going on. I remember my 9th grade math teacher actually throwing a kid out of his chair onto the floor. Rough stuff, right? Teachers were there to KEEP US IN OUR PLACE. And Map, well, she would not be put in her place. She defined her own place, on her terms. And that rocked all of us.
The thing about Map was that she was so friggin' SMART about her rebellions. She would mess with people in good humor, with a large dose of irony. Like, the other kids would do stupid things like smoke in the bathroom (snore) or sass back to teachers (boring) to get their point across. Map was much more creative. Like, we had a dress code in high school-- no shorts was a big one, for some reason. So, Map wouldn't wear shorts, but she WOULD come to school in her pajamas. Just march into first hour wearing her pajamas, with no hint of defiance on her pretty face. Who me? she would seem to say. Oh, yeah, I guess I AM wearing pajamas. Is there a problem?
In 11th grade, we had this US History class that was a total waste of time. It was basically a free hour, where we had no real assignments, no reading to do, and no lectures. Half the time I don't remember our teacher even being in the room. Yet, there was a strict policy that we could NOT be late. If we had something like 25 tardies, we automatically failed the class. You must be on time for this hour of nothingness! Butts in seats for...no reason! So, Map, Alli, and I started sporadically showing up late. Although Alli and I did this every once in a while, Map took being late to a high art form. In my high school journal, I have documented that she went to the absolute brink of failing-via-tardiness each and every marking period. The days that she wasn't late was only because she put her foot over the threshold of the classroom door AS THE BELL WAS RINGING. She never made a statement about this. She never sassed our teacher. She was perfectly pleasant about it every day. Just late. She also gave us (Alli and me) the brilliant idea of bringing in our breakfasts from McDonalds and just spreading them right out across our desks. Because hey, we weren't doing anything anyway, so we might as well have a hash brown or a shamrock shake or something. If she wasn't already a straight A student she should have been just for ideas like that.
Then there was the last week of school before we graduated. I'll never forget it. We were standing in the hallway and the principal of our school was standing there as well. Map went into a classroom and grabbed a pair of scissors. "Hey Mr. K" she said to the principal, just bright and sunshiney and balls out. "You know there's a tradition where graduating seniors get to keep a part of our principal's tie, right?" and she reached out and SNIPPED OFF A PIECE OF HIS SILK TIE. We all stopped and stared. Oh no she didn. She did NOT just cut off a piece of his tie. He looked surprised, but looked at her angelic-face-of-innocence and just laughed hesitantly. "Heh heh. No, I hadn't heard of that before. But there you go!" She then proceeded to pass the scissors around and we all snipped the shit out of that tie. He walked around the rest of the day with a little stub of a windsor knot, and I still have that friggin' piece of tie to THIS DAY.
So that's what I learned from Map. She was smart, she was fun, and she always, always had a sense of her own worth. She wouldn't be treated like crap and she never let the bastards bring her down. And she can still make me laugh until I cry.
Happy Birthday Map! You rock my socks.
Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl
Our Town
So Biology Girl and I have had many a night where we have stayed up way past the witching hour talking. When this happens, we come up with what I am choosing to describe as Mind Art. The material that we use to make this art is nothing but our genius little brains. One of the earliest installations that we have invented is what we like to call Our Town.
This in no way is meant to reference that Thornton Wilder play. The one that I had to read (as Emily) out loud in 10th grade opposite this kid named Jay, who had a disturbingly full, bushy mustache that I kept trying not to look at. The one that Rayanne read with Angela Chase. The one that made Mike Seaver want to be an actor. OUR Our Town has nothing to do with Thornton, and is apparently too artful for anyone else to understand.
So it all started one night, when one of us jokingly said to the other: "what in the Sam Hill was that all about?" This led us to think...who is Sam Hill and what in the Sam Hill is up with that expression? We shrugged and kept talking. Later in the conversation, one of us said something about tomfoolery. The other one of us said "who in the Sam Hill is Tom Foolery?" This, as you can imagine from reading this blog and seeing how sophisticated our humor can be, made us giggle for a good five minutes. Sam Hill! Tom Foolery! Hee hee ha ha!
From that day forward, we have added other fictional people. We have so many now, that we decided that these people were all residents of our fictional town. They even have personalities, and jobs. The population keeps growing. Jack Shit. Dot Matrix. The only rule seems to be that it has to be a common phrase or term that sounds like a name. Doesn't that sound simple?
One day we are sitting there with Nordic Boy, and we tell him about our town. "...Willy Nilly. Fanny Pack. Get it?"
To which he replied "that's pretty funny! Hey you guys. I got one. How about someone named M'Hand Stinky? Ha ha!"
Insert cricket sounds here, as Biology Girl and I did not laugh. Imagine confused faces from us both. I said to him, ever so lovingly: "M'Hand? What is M'Hand? That's not a name! And M'Hand Stinky. Well, that's not really a common phrase or term either. It's not a name, and it's not a phrase. It doesn't even really make any sense. What is M'Hand Stinky?"
Nordic Boy tried to defend his name as being funny. Just as funny as Charlie Horse. Or Dick Weed. Yes, it's funny. That's not the issue. It's just NOT A NAME. NOR A PHRASE.
Ah, well, we thought. That's just Nordic Boy not getting us. That's ok. He probably wasn't really paying attention to the explanation of our town. Who can blame him? When Biology Girl and I get talking, I bet lots of people just hear blahddy blah blah.
So then Biology Girl mentioned our town to the boy she was dating. "...Nick Knack, who is dating Patty Whack! Isn't that funny?"
To which this boy replied: "yeah! That IS funny. How about some siblings for Jack Shit? Maybe his brother's name should be No Shit!"
More cricket sounds. You see, No Shit is a common phrase, yes. But it's NOT A NAME. Why is this so hard?
This trend has continued. Whenever we mention our town to anyone, they just REFUSE TO GET IT. Why? What is so difficult? It's not the theory of relativity, people. It's just terms that sound like names. Then you make them into characters. Chuck Roast, the chef. Phil Harmonic, the symphony conductor. Russel Up, the cowhand. Get it? Someone, please. Anyone? Anyone?
We even have landmarks. My favorite is Mount Yin Yang. You see, people like to hike up the yin yang. Come ON! That's funny!
Oh I don't know. I have a feeling that if I was in room with all of you right now, and I asked who all was getting this, there would only be one hand raised. And it would be M'Hand.
Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl
Where's Your Head At?
So the other night I was in a card store with my SIL (sister in law), and she was looking for a couple of wedding cards. I haven't been in a card store for a while, because should a card be required, I make it with my own hot little mitts. That's right, I can get crafty. I'm not a Family Circle style crafter that has an affinity for the Ducks-With-Bonnets motif (who the hell thought that one up, I always wonder), but I can get arty-cardy.
So, we're in this card store, and I see that there is a card with a HEADLESS BRIDE on it. Yeah, like a bride with no head. "Look at that!" I said. "A headless bride!" When we took a closer look, we saw that what it was supposed to depict was the bridal dress, with no bride in it, just standing there, upright and ghostly. The sleeves didn't show any hands because where the hands would stick out was covered by the bouquet. And there are shoes peeking out from under the dress. So it really did look like a bride with no head. Ha ha. Funny.
But the thing is, we looked at that section of cards, and there were TONS of headless bride cards. It's, like, in fashion or something. Card after card of empty dresses and bouquets with no bride. "Look, there's another one, " SIL would say, "and another one. And ANOTHER one." And after a while, I started to get creeped out.
Now, I know what you're thinking. I tend to get creeped out by traditional bridality in general, so you think I'm just extending my non-bridal feelings to these perfectly acceptable cards. But that's not true. I mean, just THINK about this. A headless bride. Over and over again. This HAS to mean something, doesn't it? Like, the dress is so paramount, that it doesn't matter who/what the bride is. The accoutrements of Wedding Land are what matter, people, and don't you forget it. The bride's happy face? Forget it. The bride's corporeal being? Mere detail. Come on, isn't that kind of icky? Just a little?
I don't know. Maybe I AM just biased. I probably shouldn't have gotten so worked up about it. It's just a few cards, after all. I guess I just lost my head.
Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl
The Finger
I should have known something bad was about to go down. Something was just not right about the day. So the first warning I had was this. I had a day at the library where not one, not two, but SIX DIFFERENT creepy men trolled their ominous comments my way. Six. What can I say, I have a gift. I am a maggot magnet. One of them told me that I was the "best little librarian ever," and that he wasn't just saying that to "kiss up" to me. Kiss up? What kind of power do you think I have that you would think anyone would need to kiss up to me? I DO have the magic bypass key to the copy machine that will get you free copies, but that's about all the power I wield. Another one of them asked me if I thought Tom Cruise was cute. So that's not technically a come-on, but when followed up by "some people tell me I look like an older Tom Cruise," it's not a conversation I need to be a part of, people. Another one of them called me "schweetheart." Like Bogey, but so so incredibly not like Bogey.
Then, my mom took me shopping for a little pre-birthday birthday shopping. I admit it, this made me cheer up a little after the creepy crawly day I had. I am not above the idea of retail therapy. Buying some cute clothes goes a long way with me. Don't even try and shame me about that because it won't work. So, a-shopping we went. And I tried on, oh, maybe six or nine THOUSAND things. And none of them looked good. I am not even going to get into the whole skinny jeans and high waisted pants issue right now. Other than to say that this season's clothes look like dookie on a stick with ranch for dipping sauce. How else can you explain away shoes that look like this and cost fifteen HUNDRED dollars? Or this? Hi, I'm a Gladiator with Marc Jacobs shoes. What about this one? Seriously? Nanook of the north, with pompons?
Then, I went home and started pruning a tree of mine (because that's what I do now? apparently). I was using my little garden branch-saw that is cute and blue and very toothy, and oh my god I sliced my finger open. Right through my tough garden gloves. I hadn't injured myself like that for a long, long time, and I was aghast at how much gore I could produce. It was so...gross. The first thing I thought of was that Elmer Fudd line, when he says to Bugs: "Wet me see the cowor of your spurting bwood" and Bugs goes "My SPURTING BLOOD!?" Does anyone else remember that? Why do I remember this crap in such a savant-like manner? Hells if I know. My point is, that my incredulosity was Bugs-like at that moment. How could I be spurting blood? It wasn't QUITE like those old 60s Japanese tv shows-- oh what the hell are they called---Zatoichi. It wasn't quite like that, where the samurai stab each other and the blood shoots out like Old Faithful. But it was nasty. And so...not ladylike. It hurt like a mothershanker too. So now, even as I type this, it stings me. Ow. See how I commit to this blog? OW. The only upside to this is that it happened on the back of my middle finger, and so when I tell people about it, I show them the bandage and flip them the birdie simultaneously. "Yes, I did hurt my finger," (up goes the birdkins). I take pleasure in this. It's a free bird-flipping pass. For that I will endure the fact that I ginsued myself.
Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl
Once Handwritten, Twice Shy
I am a correspondent. Not like a Brit Hume Rita Cosby Nina Totenberg kind of correspondent. I don't rove the globe in a trench coat seeking answers to questions like what brand of fetishy boots does Condie Rice wear or how come Dick Cheney shot his homie in the face. I am a correspondent in the sense that I enjoy corresponding with people. I like emailing, and love IMing, and I write good old fashioned snail mail letters at least once a week.
So as part of my schtick here in Libraryland, sometimes I try to make community contacts a few different ways. Email works for some, but for others an email from me, the librarian they haven't yet met, is something that goes straight to the trash. To them, seeing my name pop up in their inbox in no different than a gem from Hortense Lipschitz with the subject line "pretty baby and nothing hardness?". (That's an actual spam that sits in my inbox right now. That Hortense. Always talking about people's nothing hardness.)
So to combat this, I do a few different things. Sometimes I do what I call a "drive by," where I stop in to the school/community center/organization unannounced with all sorts of library goodies to introduce or re-introduce myself to whoever may be in need of my librarianing services. Sometimes they have time to chat with me, which is great, and other times they don't, but in any case I always leave behind a packet of info and my business card. I figure maybe they will remember me if they've taken a gander at my fancy shoes or my winning ways.
Another thing I sometimes do is write a handwritten note to some contacts, along with sending them whatever information I am peddling that day. I really believe that a personal touch will be noticed, and although I am most likely deluding myself, it makes me feel more optimistic about getting these effers' attention. And I need to keep the faith, because sometimes my relationships with community contacts hearkens me back to the days of Bad Boyfriends for Librarian Girl. I chase them and call them, then wait by the phone, willing it to ring. Do you think he noticed me? Will he call? Only to be disappointed when a local teacher strolls into the library and I excitedly say "hello again," only to be met with a halfhearted "oh, hi. what was your name again?" I swear, all these teachers would have to do is go to third base with some other hoochie at Mike Maverdes' party and I will be convinced that I am in 11th grade again.
So today I sat at my desk and wrote out a few handwritten notes to some area teachers, inviting them and their students to a library program coming up next week. I put the notes in an envelope, along with my business card and a flier, and mailed them off in hopes that they would stir up an audience. "I hope to see you there! Sincerely, Librarian Girl." This was the way I ended each note. After writing this a dozen times, I sealed up all the envelopes. Then, I froze. HAD I written "Sincerely" on each of those notes? Because, you see, I write a lot of cards, notes and letters in my personal life, and I never write "sincerely." I usually write "love." Had I, in my ever-so-personalized-but-yet-absentminded way, accidentally signed my name the way I usually do? Had I said "hope to see you there! Love, Librarian Girl"? Oh good lord. Now that I have had this thought, I am 50% positive that I could have. So do I rip open all these envelopes and check? No, because that would be neurotic and wasteful. Because I didn't write that! I don't think. I pay better attention than that. Don't I? I went ahead and sent the notes, for better or worse, even though I know that the last thing you want to do with a Bad Boyrfriend/School Contact is to ever use the word LOVE with them. Right? And if any of you out there tell me that these contacts are Just Not That Into Me, I will pull a Dick Cheney. Seriously.
Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl
En Garde!
It's fencing time, people!
You may be tired of hearing about my ugly yard, but I am not through yet. Yes, I have only had a house for a couple of months, and you may think I am turning into one of those scary lawn-crazed people, but I swear to Jack Lemmon I'm not. Believe me, I know what a lawn-crazed person looks like. They are people who have pristine lawns, who cut and shape and prune everything to sparkling, trim edges. My neighbor, on the left side of me, is such a person. She's retired, and all she does all day long is sweep her front steps and walkway (at least twice a day), and work on her yard, which looks impossibly lovely. No fallen leaves on the ground, no blades of grass out of place, no flowers unbloomed. She tries to be nice to me, but the state of my yard is just too slovenly for her to completely wipe the disdain off of her face. As I slave away, trying to clean all the crap up, she comes over to say ever-so-helpful things like "you sure do have a lot of cleaning to do, DON'T you." Yes lady. I do. Thank you so much for pointing that out, and wrinkling up your nose at me while making such a pithy observation. I KNOW it's disgusting. I'm the one knee-deep in overgrown shrubbery, wrangling this god damn fern within an inch of its life. I'm the one looking at your yard next door in deep green envy. Some day I will have flowers. And green grass. And fluffy, healthy plants. Just not today, ok? Because I can't work that fast. I'm not the Jolly Green Giant. I have other things to do with my day other than tend to my yard. (I'm not really sure about that Jolly Green Giant reference. Did the Jolly Green Giant have anything to do with plants? Did he grow peas or something? Why was he green again? Didn't he have a toga made of leaves or some shit like that? The librarian in me should look this up, but I'm off duty. So just go with me.)
On the right side of my house, however, is the exact opposite of the Super-Clean-Yard Maven. The right side is trrrrashed. It's a rental house, filled up with college kids (ha ha, look at me calling college students "kids." Ok, grandma!). They are lovely people, who came over the first day and introduced themselves, gave me their phone number, and told me not to hesitate to call them if they ever got too loud. And they never have gotten too loud, which makes me really happy because I don't ever, ever want to turn into that "you rotten kids!" lady. I have a soft spot in my heart for them. They are all gothed out, bless their Robert Smith souls. Why do I start to feel all big sisterly when I see white powder and black eyeliner? I don't know. It just makes me want to bake them all muffins or something. Go ahead and psychoanalyze. I mean, when I first fired up my laptop when I moved in, my wireless connection bled into theirs, and a little message box popped up on my screen asking me if I wanted to join the wireless connection called "Necropolis of Angels." How friggin' cute is THAT? It's better than kittens.
So although I love these kiddies, I don't love looking out my windows into their yard. For all my yard's ugliness, theirs is Quasimodo hideous. They have a big, overstuffed, moldy couch in the backyard, with oodles of beer cans strewn about. The house itself is painted a barn red, and the picture window that faces my house showcases a large skull-and-crossbones flag. Not only that, but on one occasion, I looked out the window from my afternoon tea, and I saw...um...naked nudity. Nude nakedity. One of the kiddies didn't care to be-clothe themselves and walked around doing chores. Sweeping. Wiping off windowsills. Hi. Young one, you're nekkid. Stop that.
So, Nordic Boy built me a fence. He ordered lumber, started work on Friday, and worked on it over the weekend. Now, I am in love with my brand new fence. Look at how pretty.
Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl
Energize
After a gloriously relaxing vacation, one should feel refreshed and rejuvenated to go back to work, yes? That's how it's supposed to go?
I'm feeling tired, people. I just got back and I am tired. Maybe this is because I was meant to be independently wealthy, luncheoning with those Ladies Who Lunch and taking Creative Macrame classes to pass the time. Or maybe it's because the amount of work I had waiting for me on my desk and email inbox when I returned was wicked retahded. It's the beginning of the school year, where the hordes come swarming through the door once again, all making a beeline for the reference desk, where I sit and wait for them with a horrified, glassy-eyed look on my face. Ha ha. Just kidding. Sort of.
So, in this time of fair-to-middling energy that needs to be pumped up to high-energy, I start to think about the things about my job that would appeal to the ten year old in me, who always had energy. When I was ten, I would fight the idea of going to bed. Now? I am having a love affair with my bed. I am like Ronnie Cammererie from Moonstruck, talking to myself as Loretta. That's right, I'm Nick Cage AND Cher, all in one, having a grand old conversation with myself about my bed. "Everything seems like nothing to me now, 'cause I want you in my bed." These are the things I say to myself. This morning, as Nordic Boy heroically tried to get me to wake up, he resorted to doing his best Barbra imitation by crooning that Yentl song into my ear. "Sweetie can you hear me?" Damn him for always making me laugh when I want to sit in my Grumpster Dumpster.
So when I was ten, I loved stickers. (Follow me on this people, I know I am reaching, but I need to do this right now). My favorite store was Happyland (was it a chain? does anyone out there remember Happyland?) in the mall. It was a whole store of stickers. Rolls and rolls of stickers. I had a little sticker book and I would go to Happyland and fill up my book with crap. Contrary to most little girls of the 70s and 80s, unicorns and rainbows were not my milieu. I was more a hearts and stars and geometric shapes kind of girl. So now, as a librarian, I often get to work with stickers. I stick the spines of every new book in my collection with a sticker. The ten-year-old in me should be ecstatic that I have found a profession in which I am being paid to work with stickers for a few minutes each week. I mean, what's next? Building shelving out of legos? Making displays using Fashion Plates?
Another thing that I used to think was awesome as a ten year old was People Who Were Allowed to Push Buttons. As a child, I had no button-pushing power at all. Children are more often told "don't press that!" when around buttons, and the highlight of my life was getting in an elevator and being told I could press the appropriate button. Children have few button-pressing rights, or at least they did when I was growing up. So, when I would go to the grocery store and watch the cashier press the "total" button after scanning in our groceries, I was rabidly jealous. Look at that cash register, I would think to myself, all those BUTTONS. My fingers would ITCH to push them. And now, here I am, with an entire keyboard ALL TO MYSELF all day long. Pushing buttons. Right now. Look at that. Doing it now. And there again. And now. And again. The inner ten year old is in paroxysms of joy.
Now if only I could find a way to incorporate sucking down pixie sticks, getting my brother in trouble, and singing the "hanker for a hunk of cheese" song into my work day, it would be ideal working conditions. But for now, I'll take the buttons and stickers.
Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl
Chip Tip
Do you know someone who seems to be universally loved? Someone who, every time their name is mentioned, the chorus around the room erupts in comments like this: “she’s so great,” and “oh, I love her,” or “she’s the cat’s pajamas with extra chips.” I do, and it’s well deserved. This person IS the cat’s pajamas with extra chips. Then there are other people, who, although maybe not universally loved, are highly thought of amongst a chosen few. I know those types of people as well, as when I name drop them I hear The Love emanating from at least few people around me, without fail.
This got me to thinking-- do the Loved even know about the feelings of the Lovers? Is the Loved walking around in her life, thinking she is just a run-of-the-mill somebody, with no extra chips whatsoever? Perhaps the Loved is YOU. Can you have extra chips this WHOLE TIME and not even know that you have them? I think you definitely can. Check your pockets, immediately. I think it’s a sad, sorry shame if you have surprise chips. Why can we not tell the people who we think are great, how great we think they are? Why just talk about them behind their backs, like a drrrrty secret?
I can understand if you’re too shy to do that--because, let’s face it, it may be kind of awkward and stalkeresque to lean into your friends’ faces and say “you’re so great. You’re a fabulous, gorgeous piece of human, you are”--unless you’re friends with Arthur Fonzerelli, who is used to such adoration and loves it as much as Shirley Feeney loved Boo Boo Kitty. (Hey look at that, a pop culture reference WITHIN a pop culture reference. I’m like layers of a fucked up onion, I tell you). But if you ARE too shy, how about passing along the sentiments of another Lover to the Loved. Be a Messenger of Extra Chips. Just point out that the person is in possession of said chips, vis-a-vis a comment you heard from another. Like this: “hey, I ran into Charo yesterday. Your name came up and she was talking about how lovely you are.” (And, wow, how awesome would it be if CHARO thought you were lovely?) If we all did this a little more, people would become aware of their chips. And you may discover that you have some yourself. So go on, do it. But if Charo does that creepy Cuchi Cuchi thing when you talk to her, keep that part to yourself.
Kiss the rings, I’m out.
Librarian Girl
Never Say Goodbye
After ten glorious days of whooping it up, I woke up at the crack of ass to drive Biology Girl to the airport. As we pulled up to the terminal, a man and a woman stood on the sidewalk, embracing tearfully. I couldn't really tell what the relationship was, but it looked to me like a brother and sister. They stood with their arms around each other, chins resting woefully on each other's shoulders, tears running down their faces. "Oh," said Biology Girl as our car came to a stop, "a tearful goodbye." She turned to unhook her seatbelt, looked me in the eye, and reached for her door handle. "Let's show them how it's done."
You see, Biology Girl and I have gone through many goodbyes together. She lives two states away, but we visit six, seven times a year, and so we're constantly au revoiring ourselves silly. And let me tell you, it SUCKS. Completely. This is because I am in some serious friend-love with Biology Girl. I hate it when she leaves. I want to throw an inner tantrum every time it happens. But I don't. And neither does she. Even though she's one of those Sex in the City friends, the kind where you could hang out all day, every day, and never get sick of each other. Even though we have no problems crying in front of each other-- in fact, if there's any crying happening with either of us, the first thing we'll most likely do is call the other. Even though we tell each other all the most embarrassing truths about ourselves, including the time one of us accidentally left her underwear at work and the time the other one accidentally got her grad school professor to say "I love you" during a meeting. So when she moved down the coast four years ago, I thought I would die. Yes, I said DIE. Dramatic? Yes. But we have it like that.
So, the funny thing about this is, for all the emotion that goes into this relationship, you'd think we'd be one of those tearful-airport-goodbyes people. Au contraire. For some reason, when it comes to goodbyes, she and I are the most stoic mo'effers you'll ever care to meet. In every other part of our relationship, we let it all hang out. She was the first person I called when I found my high school journal so I could read the incredibly cringe-inducing passages aloud to her ("...he was wearing his tight blue jeans today...") and I was the first person she called when she experienced her first "relapse date" (when you re-date someone you thought you were done dating). But with good-byes, we turn into...I don't know...college football players, who downplay emotions into a "bye, dude" even though they just spent the afternoon hitting each other on the ass and intimately rolling around in the dirt. Not that Biology Girl and I have ever hit each other on the ass or rolled around in the dirt, but figuratively speaking, you get what I'm saying. We just give a quick hug, maybe a "seeyalaterbye" and she walks into the terminal and I get into my car. Done. No fuss no muss.
I don't know why we do this. Maybe it's because the goodbyes suck so bad, and we are so overwhelmed with emotion, that we don't want to start up with the waterworks or we'll just be boo-hooing for the rest of the day. Maybe we've said so many goodbyes to each other that they have just gotten easier. We know we'll see each other soon. There's no sense of wistfulness, like you have when you say goodbye to someone and you think you may not talk to them much any more. I know that Biology Girl will most likely call me on her cell phone before I even get back to my house. So I'm not sure why we do this.
So, as Biology Girl said, we did show all the tearful goodbyers on that terminal how it's done. A quick embrace. "See ya." "Yeah. See ya." "Call me later." "Yeah."
See ya.
Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl
Beach Trip 2006
No matter how well you know your loved ones, new things continually come up to surprise you. This past week spent at a beach house on the coast with my most cherished ones was no exception.
1. 100% cute and stylish Biology Girl, once a year on this trip, dons a red hat, grabs a book, and turns into a 70 year old grandpa.
2. This book, found in the rec room, garnered hours of hilarity when read aloud, and new vocabulary was gained by all. (I'd never heard of a "man root" nor "love milk" before. And maybe I was better off for the not-knowing).
3. When attempting Lil' John impersonations, Neighbor J and Biology Girl have never sounded more girly nor whitebread. Imagine a high, dainty, Andrews sisters vibrato version of Lil' John. "Hokaaaay. Hokaaaay."
4. My foosball crown was taken away from me by Neighbor B. Taken away! And he got called a "heffer" for doing so. Sorry Neighbor. I likes me my crown.
5. If the point of playing pool was to scratch, I would be the Master Billiarder of the Universe.
Flipped My Lid
All my life, I've found going to the eye doctor kind of creepy. It's the darkened room, the stranger all up in your face. It's weird. I don't know why the eye doctor is the one that specifically wigs me out, since any type of doctor is pretty much inside of one's dancing space. (Remember Johnny in Dirty Dancing? "This is my dance space. This is your dance space. I don't go into yours, you don't go into mine.") Doctors can't heed the sage words of Mr. Castle. They are supposed to get in your space. Dentists are all in your mouth and stuff, but yet, I'm comfortable with that. And other types of doctors, who tend to make you wear those buttless paper outfits (now THAT should be a Project Runway challenge: "make a better looking disposable paper hospital gown. Carry on!"), you'd think that would be the creepiest form of doctory going. But no. For me, it's the eye doctor. Maybe it's the lighting. Other doctors' offices keep the lighting harsh and bright, clinical to the max. Eye doctors, though. They get you with that mood lighting. The lights go down and you half expect a record player to pop out of the wall and a wet bar to flip out of the counter, like Rock Hudson's apartment in Pillow Talk. Or at least that's what you expect if you're me, and you think that life could turn into a Doris Day movie at any moment.
When I was growing up, I had this eye doctor who was perfectly nice, but he used to wear this head gear thing that had a light on it. Like a miner. So there I am, a little kid, sort of scared of strangers, and there's this guy who looks like he's half Borg or something, looming over me. The other thing I remember about him is that when he was up close to me, I could hear him breathing, and he always had a sort of whistling sound that came out of his nose. I almost expected a tumbleweed to drift out of there.
My other memorable eye doctor was one that Neighbor J and I went to, who we dubbed The Lid Flipper. He was a socially awkward man, who made stale jokes and never could pronounce my name right. The awfulness about him was that he would do this thing where he would check the inside of your eyelids. I have never, before or since, had any eye doctor do this. He would take this long Q-Tip, tell you to look down, and press the cotton end of the Q-tip onto your upper eyelid, and FLIP IT INSIDE OUT. Remember how there was always some weird little boy in elementary school who could flip their eyelids inside out? Well, this one grew up to be an eye doctor, and he's doing it to his patients. Lemme tell ya, it don't feel so good. It burns, actually. And of course, when you're at the doctor, you just try to go with whatever hellish thing they are putting you through, instead of yelling out "what the fuck are you doing flipping my eyelids inside out? You getting your jollies offa this, Lid Flipper?"
So, after a few sessions with the Lid Flipper and a change of health insurance, I found a new eye doctor. Just picked his name out of my insurance book (such a great thing, our health care system). Well, people, I hit the jackpot with this one. I now have, what I am sure is THE BEST EYE DOCTOR EVER. I love him. He's nice, he's funny, he makes such lovely, witty conversation. It's like you're hanging out with a friend, only-- oh yeah-- he's checking your eyes too. He's always so pally, asking me about the librarian business, so happy to see me, and we often talk lovingly of Chicago, where we both used to live. We have, like, these real conversations that are actually entertaining. So now, I look forward to going to my eye doctor.
Ok, you got me. I confess. In addition to all of the above, he's also, um, well, how shall I put this...he's hawt. Yes indeedy, I have me some eye candy for my eye doctor. Believe me, there is no impropriety involved, but...sigh...he's foxy. So, there I am, a life-long creeped-out-by-the-eye-doctor girlie, and, well, I'm not minding the dimmed lights quite so much. Sure, go ahead, be all up in my space. I suddenly don't have a problem with that. In fact, I sit there and think up funny things that I could say...
Him: Could you read the last line on this chart please?
Me: U R H-O-T.
Him: What?
Me: Oh. I mean... I M O-V-E-R-H-E-A-T-I-N-G.
Him: Oh no.
Me: Oops, sorry. Did I say that out loud?
Ok, so maybe going to the eye doctor is still creepy. Only now the tables have turned on the source of the creepyness.
Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl
Got Wood?
Stop being dirty, people. This post is not about THAT kind of wood.
You know, I shouldn't have started out with chastizing you like that. Aside from the fact that it's rude and assumes that you're out there snickering at some juvenile reference to wood, I am the last person to point fingers at anyone else for such a thing. For example, I was at a Very Professional Meeting a couple of months ago and one of my colleagues reviewed this book by Patricia Windsor called Nightwood, and I, being the Very Professional Librarian that I am, started to giggle. NIGHTWOOD. Ha ha hee hee haaaaa! I caught my friend M's eye across the room, and saw that she was giggling too, which was good because it made me feel like I wasn't the only one who is 13, but it was also bad because now we had SEEN each other laughing and there's nothing like being in a situation where it is inappropriate to laugh and catching the eye of someone else who is busting a gut too.
But come ON. NIGHTWOOD! Even after a couple of months. Still funny.
So the wood I am referring to is the wood in my yard. This wood is not relegated to a particular time of day. Not Nightwood, nor Morningwood. At my house, it's twenty-four hour wood. All wood, all the time! Haha hahaha ha! Ok, I'll stop now. Really. I can talk about wood without doing that. I can.
So, as I think I've mentioned before, my yard, when I got it, had not been taken care of for many, many years. It was an overgrown mess of the highest order. 
So, the first weekend I lived there, I (along with my trusty posse) cut a swathe through the brush, just so that we could get from the street to the front door and back again (which is only about 25 paces). That first weekend, we generated 35 yard waste bags (those big tall brown paper ones) worth of wood clippings, leaves, dead plants, and other woody ephemera. Thirty five! We hauled that away, and started again.
So in the past month, we have worked on the yard more, cutting it back, pruning, shaping. It's serious Scissorhands action around here. I feel like it is some epic battle-- me against nature, and I am swimming in futility. You! Will! Be! Tamed! While the trees look down on me and pee their pine needles all over my sorry head. And still I forge ahead, my own personal Manifest Destiny, where I push through, leaving destruction in my wake, until I reach the promised land of mow-able grass.
And, after a month, I am drowning in yard waste. As curbside pickup is expensive, we have been piling up yard waste bags in the garage and yard, to be taken to the yardwaste dump at the end of the week. So far, we have 74 bags. Seventy four. We also have branches to bundle and chopped up tree trunks. Wood. Miles and miles of wood.
My wood is bigger than yours.
Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl
Snuffleupagus
Here's the thing about Nordic Boy. In all the excitement of the new
house, moving, repairing, unpacking, and improving, he has
sped up to ten times his normal speed. What I mean by this is that,
despite appearances to the contrary, he can, especially when it comes to home improvement, spaz out. I say "despite appearances" because Nordic Boy is one cool customer. He's got that whole quiet,
mysterious, furrowed brow thing going on. Not everyone can pull off
the furrowed brow thing. A lot of times, it just makes dudes look
cute but vacant. Like Jordan Catalano, or Matt Dillon. Nordic Boy,
however, has the look of someone who is thinking about something deep and important. And he is. He comes up with brilliant observations. I'm telling you, blindingly brilliant. I'll prove it to you. He was the one that pointed out to me that James Cromwell's career has been bookended by being paired opposite two very different lemon-faced redheads. In Six Feet Under, it was his George to Frances Conroy's Ruth. But twenty-five years ago, it was his Harve Miller to Lucy Lee Flippin's Eliza Jane Wilder in Little House on the Prairie. Cromwell excels at romancing the prunefaces. Nordic Boy should win...well, SOMETHING for noticing this.
So, although he seems reserved, enigmatic and totally unflappable,
there are times when he completely revs it up a thousand and gets
somewhat hyper-active. He saves this sort of behavior for only his
closest friends and loved ones. "For your eyes onlyyyyy. Only for
youuuuu..." Remember Sheena Easton? And how she started out all
squeaky clean and then got mixed up with Prince and started singing
about her Sugar Walls and all like that? This has abso-toot-ly
nothing to do with what I am talking about. I just had to have a
Sheena moment.
Anyhoo. I refer to this phenomenon (I'm back to talking about Nordic
Boy, keep up, will you?) as the Snuffleupugus Syndrome. You know how Big Bird was the only one who could see Snuffy? Well, there are
certain non-calm, non-zen-like behaviors that only I (and a very few
chosen others) can see him do. The other people who know him would never believe it. He does things like make up a dance called The Bowling Ball, where he folds himself into a ball and rolls himself
across the floor. Yes, I know he's playing it fast and loose with the
term "dance," but that's what he calls it. The people outside of his
circle refuse to believe this could be possible, because he is known
for being the calmest, coolest, deepest, most zen-like mofo ever. But
it IS possible. And you guys better believe me, unlike Susan and
Gordon and Maria and Luis. Buncha blind a-holes who never saw Snuffy. Damn them all. (And I know that they all eventually saw Snuffy. But that was too flippin' late for me, after spending my entire childhood feeling so, so sorry about it. That's RIGHT. Feel sorry for me, people.)
So, in the past weeks, in the excitement of moving, Nordic Boy has
moved entire pieces of furniture and appliances out of the old place
and into the new, painted the entire house in one day (different
colors for different rooms, even-- see the pretty picture with the super cute color squares on the wall? Even Heidi Klum, looking out of the magic tv box is impressed),
So most days I get home from work an hour or two after him. I just
know when I get home he will have dinner cooking and some home project done within the span of that two hours. And as he works, his brow will be furrowed and his steely blue eyes will be penetrating.
Thinking up some fresh new James Cromwell trivia, keeping dinner warm, and doing home repairs. How much more dreamy can this guy get?
Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl
Lesson from Mom
Ok, so I wanted to write a post about my mom, as she is visiting and she rocks out. I started a list of things to post about her called "My Mom Taught Me That," but it became so long, so hefty in its mom-wisdom that I had to abandon it altogether, or ya'll would be reading this into next WEEK. So I will choose at random just one thing offa this list, and wax prose-etic about that. Ready? Here I go. Throwing metaphoric dart onto list tacked on metaphoric dartboard.
Here's the thing about my mom. She raised all her kiddies to be people who are free to express themselves. All this shit I'm always talking about living one's whole life like it's art? That's because of mom. That's totally a seed planted in all her babies' heads from before we all were a twinkle in her eye. Your aesthetic likes and dislikes are yours. You can live them, express your inner stuff on your outer landscape, don't hide what you feel, it's all valid. These are the messages I was given, and I am so grateful. For a child to be told that they, like everyone else, have an inner artist that just needs a voice- that's powerful stuff. It's freeing on so many levels, I can't even begin to tell you. It also makes for some crazy ass stories.
When my parents got a house, each of us got to control the design of our bedrooms. My brother chose a blood red shag carpet for his room, and a gigantic wallpaper mural of a waterfall to plaster his entire wall. Blood red, and wallpaper mural. You getting this? Fine, my mom said. You gotta be you. My sister chose a Shamrock Shake minty green color carpet with walls to match, with a white canopy bed with gold trim and purple grapes on the duvet cover. Seriously. Shamrock meets Purplesaurus. My mom says hells yeah. Own it, honey. This was not the attitude of an overly permissive mom, who just didn't want to say no to her kids. We didn't demand these things; she set them up this way. "These rooms are yours. You express yourself in them however you wish." This was a very conscious act. With it, she was saying to us- your ideas are valid. Experimentation is good. Being different from others is to be celebrated. I am your parent, and I will make sure you're safe, but your mind, your imagination, your art are always yours.
I remember that she always let me pick out my own clothes. I know there are many out there who think that outward appearance is overly emphasized in our culture, and I agree that it is, but only because the way in which it's emphasized is to stifle creativity, create conformity, and shove people into standards of appearance that have nothing to do with who they are on the inside. So my mom waged a little war on this type of thing by letting me pick out my own clothes and never telling me I looked like an ass. I figured it out. I grew up knowing the difference between looking like an ass and not looking like one just fine. She gave me the space to do that. This DID lead to some unfortunate outfits that are documented in the family photo album, however. For example, when I was aged 2, my favorite t-shirt was one that had a picture of Jimi Hendrix on the front that said "Are You Experienced?" in rainbow letters across the chest. I am seen sporting this shirt in countless photos, with a huge blue denim Gilligan-style hat on my head to complete the ensemble. Strange for a two-year old, perhaps, but I was rockin' it. There was the phase I went through in 5th grade where I would buy white keds and plain sweatshirts and paint the bejeezus out of them, sometimes with graffiti-style words, sometimes with cutesy hearts, and I would wear them everywhere, no matter the occasion. The thing that gets me most about this is that EVERYONE has crazy outfits that they wore or bad haircuts that they had when they were really little, but the difference is, most of ya'll can blame that stuff right on mom. "I can't believe my mom gave me that Dorothy Hamill haircut!" I hear my friends say. "Ohmigod those calico sundresses! My mom made me wear that!" I hear it all the time. I, people, have no one to blame but myself. My mom let me be who I was, and for all my cringey-ness now, it was a beautiful thing. I attribute this parenting tactic with many of the things that are truly a core part of the adult I am now. Namely, I will rock some fashions if I feel like I want to be rockin' them. I am not going to judge myself as too old to wear that, too skinny to wear that, too fat to wear that, too hip to wear that. I am effin' WEARING THAT, and I am not going to judge myself about it. Judging oneself is for SUCKAS, for real! ALSO! I am going to express it, even if, by some standards, it kinda sucks. I paint because it's fun, not because I think I'm great at it, and I write for the same reason (hence, the blogaliciousness). I'm going to do what I wanna do, in living color, as we used to say. Seriously. I'ma just do my thang, okaaaaay?
This is all because of mom, who let me wear purple eyeshadow to 7th grade choir, posted my "Jackson 5 Keeps Me Alive" poem right out on the fridge, and put the flowers I made out of pink toilet paper on her fancy vanity table. I've always got her voice in the back of my mind, and it's always saying the same thing: own it, because it's yours. Just yours.
Thanks, Mom.
Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl
Muzak Attack
So I took my parents to this Chinese restaurant that we go to every time they come to town. After ordering, we sat there chatting, and I noticed that there was muzak being piped into the restaurant. Not smooth jazz, Kenny G./Dave Koz music, but honest-to-goodness muzak. (An aside: did anyone see that episode of Run's House where Rev Run has Kenny G. piped in to his "zen room"? How much do I want a zen room? A whole hell of a lot, that's how much. Just so I could SAY that I have zen room. A whole ROOM dedicated to zenning. It's only purpose, to zen. I need me some of that). Is it me or does it seem like muzak has fallen out of favor these days? I know that some of you may argue that it was never really "in favor," but relatively speaking, I think muzak has been on a huge decline. When I was a kid, I recall the soft sounds of muzak being played when my mom would take me to Kmart, where I would buy Now and Laters and ride the penny-horse in the parking lot. It was played everywhere: elevators, offices, stores. Now, in place of muzak, it's all about Enya when you're getting your teeth cleaned, and Josh Groban when you're waiting for a pedicure. I was in my supermarket yesterday and they were playing Il Divo covering Toni Braxton. Unbreak My Heart, sung opera-style? Really? I know there's probably some research out there that shows that Opera-Soul-Fusion makes people want to buy more Folgers, but that just seems silly to me. I prefer muzak in these types of situations. They are boring tasks, they deserve boring music. Do I really need to be whipped into a Fabio fantasy (which is what Il Divo music makes me think of) while I squeeze tomatoes? That's kind of icky. I'll take muzak over that any day.
The great thing about muzak is that it seeps into your brain and makes you realize that you know all sorts of songs that you would never cop to nor ever even THINK about on your own. As I sat in that Chinese restaurant, I realized I was singing along silently to myself: "If ever I'm in your arms again, this time I'll love you much better..." That's right, people. Peabo Bryson came rushing back to me. I don't recall ever being into Peabo Bryson. I don't really even recall who Peabo Bryson is. Yet, there I was, knowing the words and going right along with the muzak as I ate my bean curd sheet roll. Next up, was this one: "Just once. Can we figure out what we keep doing wrong, why we never last for very long..." Oh yes. James Ingram. How do I know this stuff? I need to be studied in a lab for the brilliance that is my brain. And finally, I heard this one: "Words get in the way...there's so much I want to say..." MIAMI SOUND MACHINE. Don't you just get a thrill thinking the words "Miami Sound Machine"? I was so proud of myself. I know shitty 80s music like I know the alphabet! I haven't heard these songs in twenty years and yet they are RIGHT THERE, in stasis in my brain, ready to be reactivated at the drop of a hat. I feel like a savant. I wish that Name That Tune was still on tv so that I could go on there and kick some ass. I want Peabo to know that his music has apparently been absorbed into my bloodstream, never to leave until I depart this earthly realm.
They say we only use 10% of our brain's capacity. How much of this is to store information that only the power of muzak can unlock? Boggles the mind.
Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl
Falling for You
Today's birthday shout-out goes straight at my pal, Delium. I've known Delium for about sixteen years through thick and thin, and I call him Delium because there was a stretch of time where his junk mail was addressed to him with this curiously Latin-sounding derivative of his real name. "E Pluribus Unum, Delium!" we would all say to him, "Pleni Sun Coeli! Semper Fidelis!" When I met him, he had a stubby ponytail that made him look like Thomas Jefferson (gosh I'm so tired right now I almost wrote George Jefferson) in profile, and all of my friends would buzz around me telling me how dreeeeemy he was. We dated a bit (how could I resist the dreeeeeemy-ness?) and then settled in as friends, his Jerry Seinfeld to my Elaine Benis. One of the things that I remember most about Delium back in the day was that he had perfected these spectacular fake pratfalls that were so elaborate and real-looking, it was like Martha Graham and Chevy Chase had had a love child. (Come on people, sing it with me: LOVE CHILD! Never meant to be....love child! Born in poverty!!!! Love that song). Oops, I'm telling a story. Anyhoo. These falls would take like, a full sixty seconds, from the first sign of a trip to the arms-flailing, I-think-I-can-save-it-but-crap-no-I'm-going-down ending. The first time I saw one of these falls in action was in our undergrad computer lab. It was quiet, the only sounds the clicking of keyboards and the low murmurings of students conferring with each other. I was diligently working on some paper of which I am positive there are no vestiges left in my brain now, when Delium got up from his computer, which was next to mine, grabbed for his coat that was hanging on the back of his chair, and got the coat caught on the back of the chair. He pulled it sideways on its wheels so that it hit him hard on the side of his calf, causing him to lose his balance. One hand still gripping the coat-stuck-to-the-chair, the other arm doing a windmill-style whoa-whoa-whoa, he finally lost his balance completely and crashed sideways into his chair, taking it down and ending up in a big heap on the floor. Had he been dressed in a Mary Catherine Gallagher outfit, we would have seen his tightie whities for sure. He then calmly picked himself up, righted the chair, and with an embarrassed air and no eye contact with anyone, scurried from the room. And...scene. It was guerrilla performance art, breaking the boundaries of social quiet spaces. Or something. It was hilarious, is all I'm sayin'. He even pulled off one of these glorious falls in the middle of his college graduation, as he made his way across the stage to receive his degree. It was so real, the entire audience let out a gasp of concern for him. What can I say, I think it's funny.
These days, Delium doesn't do much falling (at least not on purpose), but he still makes me laugh, and he is a hell of a runner on our kickball team. He doesn't have the ponytail, and he doesn't look like Thomas Jefferson (or George Jefferson) any more, but he's still dreeeeeemy. Felicem diem natalem (happy birthday), Delium! Right good amicus, you are.
Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl
How About Original Recipe?
I have been going to the same little neighborhood post office for about six years now. It's a very 60s brick building with an asymmetrical roof; the sort of building that Mike Brady may have designed in his architecture business. I started going there before Becoming-A-Librarian-Girl was even conceived in my mind. Well, maybe it was conceived, but it was definitely a zygote back then. And now, in the weird way that things sometimes work out, this post office is right down the street from where I work, and less than a mile from where I now live. I love my post office, and I can't really tell you why. I think I would miss it if I started going to another one. Is it strange to expend emotion on one's post office? Perhaps. But maybe after hearing this, you might understand the love a little better.
A few years ago, Jenny and I stopped off at this post office for some official postal business. As is usual at this place, there was a long line. We waited patiently and the people working behind the counter worked as fast and efficiently as they could, keeping things cheerful despite the blue vests that they all had to wear, which only needed sleeves and a hat to complete the Mr. McFeely Speedy Delivery look. We finally got to the front of the line, with only one lady ahead of us, who was being helped by a kind-looking McFeely vester. This is what we witnessed.
Her: I would like a book of stamps please.
Him: (handing her the sample sheet) What style would you like?
Her: Just whatever, it doesn't matter.
Him: That will be $6.50 (or whatever the amount was back in the day).
Her: (handing over a twenty) There you go. I have been wanting to get rid of that twenty. It's so wrinkled. I got it out of the ATM and usually the money from there is more...crispy.
Him: Here's your change back.
Her: Oh. Could you find me a crispier five? That one is kind of wrinkled.
Him: (getting another five) How about that?
Her: Umm. Well, it's still not...crispy.
Him: (looking through his cash register) I'm sorry, I don't think that I have any new fives.
Her: It doesn't have to be new. I'm just looking for crispy.
Him: (fanning out the fives he has, ever so kindly) Are any of these, um, crispy enough?
Her: (forlornly) No. That's ok. Never mind.
And she goes on her merry way. Jenny and I have watched the entire exchange, wanting to laugh, but not making eye contact with each other so that we can both pretend that we have not noticed this, not heard one word of this conversation. We go up to the counter with blank faces.
Me: I just need to mail this, please.
Him: That'll be $3.50.
Me: (handing him the money)
Him: (sliding the money back to me) I'm sorry, this five isn't...crispy enough.
Me: Excuse me?
Him: It's not crispy enough.
Me: Sorry. It's the only one I have.
Him: (forlornly) Oh. O.K. Never mind.
Every time I go to this post office, I see this postal worker. In my mind, I call him Crispy Fives. In my book, he rocks. (And I do have a book).
Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl
Ain't Nothin' But a Number
I suppose it's inevitable that younger generations look at older ones and compare their (real or imagined) differences. You look at older people and you think "when I'M that old, I will not act like that old biddy!" or perhaps "when I'm her age, I hope I'm as cool as she is." It starts young. When I was a kid, I was sure that I would never, ever deprive any child of mine of a Hostess Ding Dong, I don't care what time dinner is. I also remember making a solemn pact with my 9th grade best friend that if we ever got to the point where we were wearing purple stretch stirrup pants, like, EVER, we were to remind each other of the pact and cease and desist immediately. On the other hand, I also remember studying my older sister like a pint-sized anthropologist, wanting to mimic her in every way possible, from her gliding, graceful walk to the way she poured ketchup all over her fries instead of just making a ketchup puddle for dipping.
I admit, this type of comparison is not a thing of the past for me. Maybe it's a universal thing that we all want mentors, people who are already standing in the place where we will be going, and can model for us the ways we want to do it when we get there, or at least model for us the ways that we DON'T want to do things. Case in point: this week.
I was sitting on the bus, and someone that I didn't know, but who knew someone that I know, came over and sat next to me. "Hey, I think we met at that one place at the time with the thing," she said. "Oh, yeah!" I replied. She seemed, and is, a perfectly lovely person and I was more than happy to pop the Ipod out of my ears and chat with her all the way home. Before I go on, I have to confess that I am someone who never, and I mean never, knows how old people are. I just can't tell, and my mind doesn't even go there. There are people that look like they are approximately my age who are 20, 30, 40, 50. The definitions of what a thirty-year-old is supposed to look like varies so much, as does a forty-year-old, etc. etc., that I don't try to assess. This results in people sometimes asking me about other people: "how old was she?" they ask. "Um, I don't know. Our age?" My definition of "our age" being 18-50.
So, Bus Lady and I, not knowing anything about each other, started to chat pleasantly about nothing in particular. I had no idea how old she was, and could have gone my whole life not knowing that fact about her, just fine. Except, the problem was, she kept REFERRING to it. IMPLYING it. Even ANNOUNCING it. In this sort of fashion:
Me: We just got done moving last month, and I'm glad I did before this hot weather kicked in.
Her: Did you buy a house?
Me: Yes. My first!
Her: (Kindly) Oh, your first house. I'm so old, I can barely remember my first house!
Or, like this.
Her: Cute shoes! Where did you get them?
Me: Shoefly. They are really comfortable. They feel like flats.
Her: I can only wear shoes like this (indicating some very cute hiking shoes). I'm too old for dainty and pretty.
Or, even this.
Me: Ow. I have something caught in my contact lens. Do you have a mirror in your bag?
Her: Sure. (Handing it over and saying jovially), wait until you're my age and you look in the mirror and hardly recognize yourself! Ha ha!
What the--? This was such a conversation stopper. And believe me, if I am in a chatty mood, not much can stop me. This kind of thing doesn't happen to me often, but I have seen it on more than just this occassion. What's with the fixation with age? Does our youth-obsessed culture dig its ugly heels this far into people's minds and hearts? I guess it does. It is so, so sad. And so puzzling. She has no idea how old I am. Believe me, it's hard to tell with anyone. Wasn't Gary Coleman, like, ten when he was playing an almost-toddler? Wasn't Luke Perry way past high school age when he was Dylan McKay? Granny Moses from the Beverly Hillbillies was the same age then as Susan Sarandon is now. So for all Bus Lady knows, I could be her contemporary. For all I know, she is.
As a librarian who works with teens, I certainly don't delude myself into ever thinking that I am their peer or that I could pretend to be. I'm not going to be one of those adults who's trying to do the Roger Rabbit at a teen program to show the kids I'm hip to the scene. (Which is sort of sad, because I do a mean Roger Rabbit). On the other hand, what good would it do me to constantly remind them how far away we are from one another generationally, to bring up, over and over again, how we will not, can not possibly understand each other because the chasm between our ages is so vast that it's futile to even try to talk to each other without pointing it out. I'm so different from you, we have no commonalities, and let's keep talking about how you are young and feisty and I am old and decrepit. Sound like fun?
So, once again, I (maybe full of futility, maybe not) am vowing to never be like this person who has gone before me. I will not become obsessed with age, whether it be obsession with my youth or obsession with my advancing years. I promise. And I will be permissive about Ding Dongs and shun stirrup pants. I am a woman of my word. An old, musty, moldy woman of my word.
Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl
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