Reading This Will Make You Look Good

You know I am a giggly girl by now, right? I think loads and loads of things are funny. Even things that don't seem funny, like Marlene Dietrich singing Where Have All the Flowers Gone. There is something about the way she sings it. It's like she is supremely pissed off, and also painfully bored with it all. It's funny. To me, anyway. If you know me really well, you know that I laugh a lot. If you don't know me personally, or if you only know me from work, this may surprise you. In fact, I hardly laugh at all at work. Really, hardly ever. I have also been told that my "resting face" is somewhat serious. Someone actually said that to me once. My resting face. I think what they meant is my face when I am neither actively smiling nor frowning. Just neutral. I was like, of course my resting face is serious. Who has a resting face that's smiley? Unless you're Carrot Top and your face is pulled back like you live in a wind tunnel, I think everyone has a serious neutral face, don't they?

Anyway, back to Marlene Dietrich. I know that the song is important, and historic, and political. I get it, I'm down, I appreciate that. But sometimes, it's in the delivery. How you say something can overshadow what you say, right? This point was driven home to me by Marlene and by two other things that I witnessed yesterday.

1. Last night I was talking on the phone to Biology Girl. She and I have epic conversations where we talk about very important topics like whether Dr. Pepper is a man or a woman doctor, and how many new inductees we have for our fictional town (Polly Graph just moved in recently, in case you're wondering). As we were talking, Bio Girl was cooking dinner. As she chopped her vegetables, she dropped the phone, almost fell down, caught herself and caught the phone, all in one fell swoop. All I heard was a slight bumping sound and a muffled "whoa!" and she was back, talking as if nothing had happened.

Me: Are you ok? What just happened?
Her: I started to slip and fall and drop the phone, but managed to stay standing and chopping, while I caught the phone in my other hand.
Me: Wow!
Her: I know! I am like a one-man Charlie Chaplin over here!

A one-man Charlie Chaplin. As opposed to a five-man Charlie Chaplin? How many people was Charlie Chaplin, exactly? Just one, right? So why would you compare yourself to someone else by saying you were a one-man them? I'll tell you why. Because it sounds more impressive that way. Go ahead and try it. The next time you: cook a great meal, say "hey! I'm a one-man Mario Batali!" or strike a papparazi-worthy pose, say "what can I say? I'm a one-woman Paris Hilton!" or forget where you left your keys, say "Lookee that! I'm a one-man Alberto Gonzales!" It inflates the awesomeness. It's great marketing.

2. I've been doing some research on plants and trees and stuff (see how knowledgable I am about it? I said plants and trees. Like trees aren't plants or something. And let's also point out how I included the all-important "stuff" in there too. Plants. Trees. Stuff. All things I obviously know lots and lots about). Come spring, I have to decide what to plant in my naked yard and so I have to think about that and wrap my mind around it. I was looking at this website, which is put out by an awesome organization called Plant Amnesty. They have lots of cool stuff on there about urban ecology and all kinds of stuff that I need to know but don't. Anyway, there's this section of the website that talks about the practice of "topping" trees. This is when people really prune the shit off the top of a tree, or even just cut off the top of the tree all together. It's fairly common I guess, and apparently it is not a healthy thing to be doing, according to Plant Amnesty and other arborist sites I've seen. On this site, they talk about all the things that are not good about tree topping, and all of it makes sense. It's not healthy for trees, it's dangerous. All practical, good advice that is clearly reasoned out. Then, the last reason that you shouldn't top a tree? "It makes you look bad." It totally says that! If you top a tree, you will LOOK BAD. Plant Amnesty is trying to shame you out of topping your trees! They follow this statement with "Topping makes you appear to be a cruel or foolish person." Oh man! Harsh! Really, is this the way that people are going to get other people to do the right thing? "You better recycle, or your neighbors will HATE YOU." "Hey, make a donation to the Red Cross or your house will be EGGED." "Pay off your credit cards or no one will SIT WITH YOU AT LUNCH." Wow. Plant Amnesty is like a one-woman Joan Rivers on the red carpet with that attitude.

Remember, it's all in how you say something. And also, if you don't pay your library fines, society will revile you. I'm just saying.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Weekly Two, Making a Point

Time for another Weekly Which I Totally Stoled From Chris!

Do you ever say "stoled"? Like, "I stoled it"? Is this a midwestern-ism? It's one of those phrases that just warms me to the core when I hear it. Like "hisself." Or "I coulda went" instead of "I could have gone." All of those speak to me on some subconscious childhood level that I am not even aware of. I must have heard these things in the womb or something. No Baby Einstein for me! Instead, my folks were hanging out with people who were all "He coulda went and stoled it hisself!" And there were probably cusswords thrown in. Because I have an irrational love of those too. I was also apparently brought up in a world where babbling incoherent thoughts to strangers was held in high esteem as well. Because hi. That's what I do.

Back to the Weeklies! Oh, but before I do that, one more thing. Speaking of Weeklies, there is a free alternative newspaper in my town called the Weekly. I bet your town has something like this. Alternative news in the front, "adult services" ads at the end? I like to think of these kinds of papers, with their serious fronts and seedy backs as the mullets of the news world. You know, business up front, party in the back? Anyhoo. The Weekly has an "I Saw U" section. It's a personal ad section where people write in if they saw some stranger somewhere that they want to send a message to. For instance, it could go something like this: "I was on the Edmonds Kingston ferry boat last Monday and saw you getting out of your car. You had a polka dot satchel and you smiled at me on the ferry stairs. Thought we had a moment. Go for a drink?" Something like that. Guess what, you guys? I got an I Saw U once, a few months ago! It cited the reference question I helped this person with, and the color shirt I was wearing, and the location. It was definitely me. I was:

1. Totally excited to be in the I Saw U section. Why? I don't know. But it was exciting to be all "hey! That's ME!"

2. Annoyed that the person didn't really know what an I Saw U is. It's for chance encounters. You see someone in passing, in a place where you can't track them down, and so your only recourse is to send out an I Saw U ad, like a message in a bottle, hoping the other person will chance upon it. It's not for sending a random message to someone who works at a specific place. I work at the library. Every day. I am always there. If you want to say hi to me, there I am. No I Saw U necessary. Stupid.

No one ever followed up on this I Saw U, so I guess I will never get a chance to tell him/her that I think they are kind of idiotic. That's good, since it's not exactly a good, romantic ending to an I Saw U.

Get on with the freakin' Weekly already! Goddammit, Librarian Girl!

Weekly TeeVee: Although I am loathe to admit that anything that has to do with Ashton Kutcher is something I am liking, the first episode of Beauty and the Geek cracked my shit up. Except the guy that they are touting as the male beauty? Ew. That guy is not good. Really, not good. Who cast that guy? He looks like someone who would smell like baby oil. If you have no idea what that means, I am really happy for you. Because no one should know what that means.

Weekly Music: I have been singing a lot of commercial jingles lately. Is that what they're called? Jingles? Like "I've got the fever for the flavor of a Pringles!" and "Monchichi Monchichi oh so soft and cud-del-lee" and "Please don't eat all the morsels!" As we were driving home the other night, we drove by an auto parts store. I busted out with "Schuck's has a plan for every small child, woman and man!" Pause. "You know, that commercial doesn't make any sense. Why would Schuck's have a plan for every small child, woman and man? And what about large children? No plan for them?" Nordic Boy, bless him, had the answer. "Because that's not how it goes. It's for every car, truck, wagon and van." Oh.

Weekly Worst Moment: I am a confident public speaker. I don't get nervous to talk in front of people, and I don't understand why this would be on the top of any sort of list of phobias. I don't need a script, I don't care what the topic is, I can come up with something to say off the top of my head. But folklore has it that people fear speaking in front of other people more than they fear death. Something tells me that has got to be an urban myth. Because speechmaking vs. kicking the bucket? That seems like a no-contest situation right there. I was at an outreach event at a local middle school the other day, merely in a coordinating role. I wasn't supposed to say anything, I was just there to support the people who were there to say something. Then, in the middle of the presentation, all of a sudden the people who were there to talk pointed at me, sitting on the floor in the back of the auditorium, and called upon me to say something very, very unexpected. All 200 8th grade heads turned around to look at me, and I had to scramble up from my stupid sitting position to say something that came out sounding a lot like this: "ah, yes. well, that is a great point you've made there. And I will now respond to that point, which was great, by the way, and in terms of points being made in this here auditorium, that one is one which I was hoping to comment upon, so I am so glad that you chose this moment to include me, because as points go, I would like to say the following about that wonderful point that you have brought into the forum here, and thanks so much for bouncing that point, in this forum, to my side of said forum, because I was hoping it would bounce in this general direction for me to catch and then bounce back although, due to the pointy nature of your point, it may not bounce so much as be thrown in a dart-like manner to the next person and so watch out because that pointy point may be dangerous!." Ok, so it wasn't that bad. It just felt like that. That seriously has never, ever happened to me. Now I see the correlation between public speaking and death.

Weekly Best Moment: After the above-mentioned moment, as I was gathering up my stuff to leave, a group of giggly 8th grade girls came over to me to tell me they loved my outfit. I am highly attuned to 8th grade sarcasm, and I am almost sure these girls meant it. The lesson here is that when I make an ass of myself, compliment me on something completely shallow and I will forget the bad moment ever happened. It also means that being accepted by 8th grade girls has just as much of a powerful effect as it did when I was actually in 8th grade. Which maybe needs to be filed under the Weekly Scariest Moment.

Weekly Picture: This is what the place looked like before the scene of my verbal downfall and fashion comeback. Remember when you had to sit in places like this? Eeek, right?


Middle School Auditorium of Doom

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Whine Seller

You know, for a personal blog, I think that I do a pretty good job of keeping the whining to a minimum. Don't I? Ok, so there was the post recently about my hairstylist opening up a can of whoop-ass on my head. I would say that was more enraged, and less whiny, but I'll give you that one. I can see how that would qualify in the whine department. And I am predisposed to whine a bit about how cold I am alla time. But hey, think about what it would mean to go through life feeling like you were in a meat locker 24 hours a day. It's surprising I don't complain about that a bit more, really. These are things that were partly whiny, but a 100% textbook Whine has yet to happen on this here spoutfest of mine. UNTIL TODAY!

You're so excited to keep reading. The anticipation is palpable.

Here's the deal. I am already a bit annoyed with myself, and I haven't even started to tell you yet. Just imagine how annoyed you're going to be! My gift to you, people.

You know how I feel about birthdays. They are, to me, a huge honking deal. There is nothing more loving to me than acknowledging someone's birthday. I love doing it. Love it. The idea that there is a designated day to shower someone you love with, well, LOVE, and treat them all special and stuff, and give them a big heaping pile of attention is just beautiful to me. Because people deserve attention, just for their sheer them-ness. Not because they fulfill a specific role or identity, not for doing something extra, just for existing. I mean, Mother's Day, Father's Day, Valentine's Day, wedding showers, baby showers-- they're all great, don't get me wrong, I am all for them and always participate in them with gusto. But those days are for honoring something specific about someone. Hey, thanks for doing all that Mom stuff- Happy Mother's Day! That's cool, and deserved. Hey, I think it's swell that you're legally in love with someone, happy wedding shower! (Is that what weddings mean? I don't really know. Sorry, that one has always confused me). But a birthday? The only qualification for this is that YOU WERE BORN. That's it. You were born and so you get to have a day! It's the perfect thing to showcase the fact that you are enough. Just you. How you are. Mom or not. Young or not. Partnered or not. You deserve a party and cake and presents and everyone smiling and hugging you and telling you you are fabulous. Just for BEING. I can't express to you how, on a Deep Philosophical Level, this speaks to me. I believe in birthdays. Like, it's part of my moral code. Or something. Whatever.

So, in a couple of weeks, it's my birthday. (Bet you were wondering when the whining was going to start. Wait no more. Release your bated breath!) And for the life of me, I could not decide what the hell I wanted to do for my day. Should I throw a party? Should I invite my pals to a show? Should I take trip? Get a tattoo? Go bowling? Go dancing? I could not decide. Still can't. The day creeps up, and I have no Big Plans for the Day of Me-ness. Why? What was holding up the party train?

You know what it is? I finally figured it out. People out there do not give a rat's ass about birthdays. They really don't. And the older I get, the more I am starting to feel like I am the sole cheerleader for birthdays, and this here cheerleader is getting kind of tired. Why be the only one cheering for something that no one really seems to care about? Why be the only one who shows up to the theater to see Ishtar? Maybe everyone else is right. Maybe weddings and babies and getting jobs and leaving jobs and graduating and all that stuff is when it's appropriate to have a party. Maybe people need all that stuff to get it up, and just being is not good enough for a trip to woot-ville.

I don't know. I'm losing the birthday faith, people. I just am. After all these years of carrying the torch forward, I may just have to put it down. I came to the screeching realization the other day that, aside from my mom, my dad, and my Nordic Boy, no one has ever planned anything for my birthday for me. It's always me, getting my own goddamn cake and throwing my own goddamn party and rallying the troops to celebrate me. Please, come on, let's celebrate me. Kind of pathetic, actually.

That's what I'm thinking. I told you it was whiny. Just give me a day or two. I'll be less stupid next post. (Notice I didn't say I wouldn't be stupid. Just LESS stupid. Less.)

Tell me, what was the best birthday present anyone ever got you?

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

My First Friend

People from my past tend to pop up in my life, as I told you about in this post. I used to think this happened to everyone. And it does, to some extent. A random high school friend will re-connect with you, an old co-worker will email you to say hi-- you've all had this happen, right? But like, how often? To me, it happens like clockwork. A few months go by, and my phone will ring, or my inbox will light up, and there will be someone I once knew, who's popping back in to say howdy. It happens to me all. the. time. Sometimes the re-connecting goes swimmingly, like my roomie from college who I was thrilled to hear from, and sometimes it's not so thrilling. But every few months, in my world, it's going to happen. I don't have enough hubris to think it won't happen, I just hope that whoever it is this time will be cool.

Today, I got an email from the very first friend I ever had in my life. She's a couple of years older than me, and our parents were friends when I was born. My mom tells me that when I was a newborn baby, M would sit by my crib and keep me company. So I have known her almost literally my entire childhood, minus maybe a few days at the beginning. As we grew up, M was responsible for introducing me to many delicious pop culture offerings, and I feel like my current love of all things pop may have had a kickstart from her. She and I were always convinced of our fabulousness and we donned many different personas to express it, for all the fabulosity was impossible to contain as just US. One thing I remember was that she had a book version of the movie "Grease," which had pictures of every single scene on glossy magazine-style paper, and every line of dialogue of the movie written in like a script. We would read that book together over and over, democratically switching off who got to be Sandy and who got to be Rizzo each time (now that's a true friend) and singing all the songs with gusto. I also remember that her older brother's room was in her basement (it was wood paneled and very Greg Brady) and we would go down there when he wasn't home and look at his posters of KISS on the wall and try to decide which one was the "cutest" (ie which one scared the bejeezus out of us the least). We also would put on records (Thriller, Synchronicity, and anything by David Bowie being our favorites) and sing the lyrics to each other and try to act out every line of every song in a crazy charades-like manner. I remember I almost peed my pants laughing as she acted out the line "packed like lemmings into shiny metal boxes" by making a mousy buck-toothed face (we didn't really know what lemmings were) and trying to fold herself into a square. We were also both completely obsessed with discussing kissing. What would it be like to kiss a boy? When would it happen to us? Do you keep your mouth open or closed? We conducted hours-long symposiums on this subject. We kissed our own hands so that we would be ready. We never talked about any ACTUAL boys. It was the act of kissing that fascinated us, not the potential recipients of the kissing. M was the very first person that I ever made up new lyrics to a pop song with. I remember it was a version of Robert Palmer's "Bad Case of Loving You" that involved lots of references to poop. M was the friend in my life who first had MTV. She was the one who would discuss with me whether or not Laverne and/or Shirley should ever date Lenny and Squiggy. She was the one who sat through "Rescue from Gilligan's Island" with me and agreed with me that although it made us feel a little guilty, we didn't WANT them to be rescued.

By the time I got to middle school, M had moved, and we totally lost touch. It's been so long I can hardly imagine that she is really, truly an adult. Someone who probably doesn't obsessively talk about kissing, someone who may not care to discuss whether the Bangles, the Go-Gos, or Bananarama is the best (although I still am interested in these things, so who knows?). This is the strange part about re-connecting with someone who only knew you at a particular time in your life. It reminds you of the person you were when you knew them so well. It's strange, but it's beautiful too. So M! Awesome to hear from you! And I still think the drummer from KISS is the least freaky.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Stolen Moments

Have you ever stolen something? I have. Here is a list of stuff that I've stolen.

1. We used to teepee people when I was in high school. The way I spelled that, it sounds like my teen friends and I were erecting traditional Plains Indian dwellings and then putting people in them. Not that kind of teepee. It's T.P. Which stands, to state the obvious, for toilet paper. We would get rolls of toilet paper and sneak into someone's yard at night and throw toilet paper all over the branches of their trees. Preferably right before it rained, as then the teepee would stick to the branches and be impossible to clean off properly. Trust me, back in the day this was hilarious. And, because we were kids of parents who didn't have money to burn, we wouldn't have enough money to actually buy packs of toilet paper. So instead, we would go to the local Dunkin' Donuts shop, use the public restrooms, and steal as much toilet paper as we could fit into our book bags. This was fun times on the streets of my youth.

2. Ok, this wasn't actually ME doing the stealing, but I did benefit from it so it counts. In the 9th grade, the boys that I knew got into this competition where they would rip the hood ornaments off of fancy cars. I will spare you my analysis of class wars that went on in my home town, but suffice it to say that the fancier the hood ornament, the better. My boyfriend at the time stole the hood ornament off of a Mercedes once and busted out the middle part and gave me the outer circle part and I wore it around my wrist like a bangle. Accessorizing with stolen goods. I was not always the classy broad that I am today, you know.

3. When I was in 11th grade, one night we decided to steal one of those orange and white things that block off the street. The kind with the round, flashing orange lights on the top of it. We stole it, and put it in Map 's trunk. And then, in our carousing, we forgot about it. A week later, I was at Map's house. We were standing in the front yard. Her dad was in the garage, and he opened up the trunk. All of a sudden, out of the corner of my eye, I saw flashes of orange. BLINK. BLINK. BLINK. The sucker was still blinking! Map's dad looked at the stolen merch, turned around and looked at us, clearly not pleased. Map looked right back at him and shrugged. "Whoops!" she said. Genius explanation, no? Whoops. Next time you break the law, try saying that.

That's about it. All the stealing I have done in my life. Not too bad, right? And all of it done between the ages of 14 and 18. Since then, I have kept my nose clean. Until today, that is.

I am stealing a blog idea from my blog friend, Chris, over at Rude Cactus. He's started doing what he calls The Weeklies. If you want to see his version, go check it out. Even if you don't, you should check him out. It's good reading, Weeklies or not. Anyway, I liked his first Weekly so much that I told him I might have to steal it. He said that was cool with him. Is it still stealing if you have permission?

Librarian Girl's Weekly #1 Which I Totally Stoled From Chris.

Weekly TeeVee: Have you guys been watching the new Tim Gunn show? Here are my thoughts in a nutshell. Tim has this little cabinet where he keeps various presents for the guest on the show. Every time he starts sidling over to this cabinet, you can bet the guest is getting a new purse, some new shoes, a diamond ring, SOMETHING. I call this, the Armoire of Surprise. I love this. I want one in my home. Also, the first week, Tim put the guest in the care of a make-up artist who spackled the poor thing to Kingdom Come. She put many, many layers of make-up on her. And then she gave her a makeup plan on paper to take home so she could re-create the look, and the paper was a tri-fold monstrosity the size of the Wall Street Journal. Tim also put this poor girl in a room with a "Lifestylist" who had over-gelled hair and a bad daddy-o outfit and the guy made this girl wear a trashbag dress, look in funhouse mirrors, and say stupid affirmations. As soon as the affirmations started, Nordic Boy started quoting the affirmations that Martin Blank had to say before trying to go murder someone in Grosse Point Blank. (Remember? "I am at home with the me, I am rooted in the me that is on this adventure." Like that, only there was no irony with the Tim Gunn lifestylist.) Despite the Lifestylist and the sheer volume of makeup, I still adore Tim Gunn and will continue to watch.

Weekly Music: Check this out. Bet you didn't think Lawrence Welk was smoking no fatties.

Weekly Worst Moment: When a hairstylist that I had just met smacked her bitch up. And the bitch was me. And then I paid her good money. I know I already told you about this. But I'm still bitter. God dammit.

Weekly Best Moment: Talking to my dad on his birthday yesterday. He's 78. Woot! My dad rocks out in so many ways I can't even tell you. But wait, I can. I did! Right here. Go read it. 78 years of living an interesting, compassionate, hilarious life deserves a little tribute, don't you think? Ok, so if you don't go read it, let me just say a little something right here. My dad is and was the most amazing, loving, unconditional dad in a world where, I've come to learn, dads are not always so great. I'm so, so grateful. Kisses, dad! Mwah!

Weekly Picture: I went into a restaurant the other day, and the floor was insane. I couldn't stop looking at it. The tables at the restaurant were spaced out so that there were long expanses of this tile to look at. Which made me spaced out. I had to take a photo of it, because I am pseudo-arty that way.



Designed by Lawrence Welk. Because I felt two tokes over the line when I looked at it.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Hair Assault, Incoming!

Oh my god. I have been mugged, people. At the hair salon. To be mugged is to be assaulted, usually with intent to rob, according to good old Merriam Webster. And I was definitely assaulted, and then I handed some money over, so the term "mugged" is for sure appropriate.

What the hell is going on these days with the stylists out there? This is the second stylist I have been to in a high-end-ish salon where the haircutter people are viciously attacking their clients. This lady tried to kill me. She wanted my scalp ripped off of my head. She really did. This happened to me yesterday and I can feel my head still tingling a little today with the brutality.

She looked normal enough. I was going to her, and not the woman I saw last time, because that woman was booked up and my hair could not wait. So I smiled and shook the new lady's hand, and she smiled right back at me and then put me in the Chair of Pain. She started out by washing my hair like it was a dingy prairie dress that needed beating against a rock. There was wringing. Hard wringing. Ow ow ow. I think she may have scrubbed my hair hard against a metal washboard. Ok, maybe not, but I can't really be sure since that is exactly what it felt like. I have to insert at this point that I am no delicate flower that can't handle hair pain. I grew up a dancer and am used to people tugging at my hair and pulling it back so that I have that instant facelift feeling. This was more than that. I tried to speak up: "um, a little less pressure please." But that's what you say to a masseuse, not a hair stylist. What do you say to a hair stylist to indicate that you would like the hair to stay in your head, please? My head should not be jerked around on its neck like that. This ain't no tug of war, lady.

After she beat the dirt out of my very naughty hair, she came around to the front of me and (without telling me what she was about to do) took one of my hands, pulled up the sleeve of the hoodie I was wearing, and started squeezing the living daylights out of my arm. My head was still leaned back in the sink at this point so I couldn't quite see. In the middle of this assault, she says "this is your complimentary massage. Just relax now." A massage? Is that what we're calling this? Because I can feel your nails, digging into me. Remember how Monica Gellar thought she gave great massages? This lady was Monica Gellar.

Then, she started to cut and style and blow dry my hair. My head was a big wad of pizza dough and she was kneading the shit out of me. She actually had to put one of her feet on the bottom of my chair, to counterbalance her attacks, or she might have pulled my ass right up off of the chair. She was putting that much effort into it. It was like Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd in that Barber of Seville cartoon. She was a heartbeat away from kicking her shoes off and standing up on my head like Bugs did.

"Your hair is so healthy. I think you are going to be my hair product model for the day!" she says all of a sudden. What? What is a hair product model?

A hair product model, people, is a person who has every single hair product ever created in their hair. Let me list for you all the things I had gooped on my hair by the end of the session. I know this because she gave me a little list of products to take home with me. I had: leave-in conditioner, a hair nourisher, a hair detoxifier, a hair volumizer, hair gel, a hair pomade, and hair spray. And, as she layered all of this crap into my hair, she kept explaining how I didn't need any of it. Figure that out. "Your hair is really shiny, so you don't really need this pomade. But hey, let's try and give it even more shine, shall we?" "You don't really have fly-aways, but if you did, this is what you use." What the hell, lady? First you beat me up, and now you're trying to kill me with fumes? Now I know why shampoo bottles say "rinse and repeat." Because that is exactly what I did when I got home. I lathered, rinsed, and then I repeated. Several times over.

Then, when she finally had my hair almost done, she ran a comb through it a few times, from the front of my hairline across to the back of my head. Except, she kept overshooting and starting the comb stroke near my eyebrow. Sure, go ahead. Rake your comb across my forehead. Get dangerously close to my eyeball. I am pretty much numb at this point anyway.

Needless to say, I am not going back to this dominatrix of follicles. But let me just say this. What disturbed me the most about this experience was not that she beat me within an inch of my life. What disturbs me is that I didn't say anything. I didn't know what to say. And I am a very self-possessed, assertive person. I am a person accustomed to knowing what is ok with me and what isn't, and I have no guilt, no shame, in telling you what those things are. Boundaries is my middle name. ("Librarian Boundaries Girl." Not kidding.) It is one of the things that I am the most proud of about myself. And yet, in this situation, I was waging a silent battle. I was pissed off, pulling my head back against her every time she pulled at me, but not a word came out of my mouth about it.

So I am saying this now. On the off chance that anyone out there reading this is a hair stylist. Please. Don't let clients' heads be your vehicle of getting your aggression out. Stop the madness. Or else one of these times, there will be a client uprising, and you don't want an army of pissed off ladies high on hair goop such as myself fighting back. It won't be pretty. And aren't you in the business of making us pretty?

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

We've Got the Music In Us

To people who don't know us well, Nordic Boy and I would most likely be described as quiet people. Definitely not shy people. Just quiet. Both in terms of quantity of words and in terms of volume. I'm not saying we are low-talkers or anything, but we just aren't the people at a party that everyone is gathered around because we won't shut the hell up. You know those people. The ones that command attention because, well, other people can hardly get a word in. We are SO not those people. In fact, those people usually kind of repel us, not because we don't like them, just because we can hear them from across the goddamn room so why go over and say hello?

Here's the secret about us though. In our house, on our own time, we are loud. We talk all kinds of gibberish to each other and to ourselves in what can only be called double diaherria of the mouth, and one of the ways that the gibberish comes out is in song. Within the walls of our house, we are living like we are in a Rodgers and Hammerstein production. Like, right now, this very minute? Nordic Boy is in the kitchen tossing a salad, and while he does it this is what he's belting:

One day! Love will find yoooo
Break those! Chains that bind yooo
One night! Will ree-mind you
How we touched and went our sep-rit ways!

The damn salad. Breaking his heart like that.

The other thing that often happens is that one of us will start a song, and the other one will join in, or finish it, or sing back-up. Again, just now, he thought he was done singing, but no. I had to continue.

If he! Evah hurts yooo
True love! Won't desert chooo
You know! Ah still love yooo
Though we touched and went our sep-rit ways!

Nordic Boy answers with a Steve Perry worthy OHHHHHHHHHH!

And then we stop. I am still typing in the living room, he is still salading in the kitchen. No need to discuss the outburst, just continue with the evening like nothing happened.

Sometimes, the songs we sing are made up. Often to the tune of another song, but with our own words plugged in. A few days ago, I bought a new pair of jeans.

Nordic Boy: Hey, are those jeans new?
Me: (To the tune of "I Touch Myself" by the DiVinyls, accompanied by a vampy walk around the house)
I love my jeans
I want you to love them
When they fall down
They're still so lo-ovely
I searched for them
They came to find me
Don't forget to zip
Oops they're button-fly-eee

What does he do with this display? Why, he replies.

Nordic Boy:
I don't want, any other pair!
When I think ab-owwt them
It's just not fair!

Listen. We're not lyricists. We just have a song in our heart that must fly free.

We are also big fans of singing in a pseudo-operatic style. Sometimes, we sing to each other in this way with no real tune. Just as if our conversation is coming out as an opera.

Nordic Boy: Helloooo, helloooo, how are yooooooo?
Me: Ahhhh am fiiiiiiine. A leeetle tiiiiired!
Nordic Boy: Figaro!
Me: Indeeeed! Figaaaaaroooooh!

We also like to sing pop songs in an opera-style. We have brought this to a fine art. There are only certain pop songs that translate well to opera. 70s rock often works well. R&B ballads tend to work too. Try it. It's fun. Just sing bad opera, and really over-enunciate everything.

"So give me that toot toot
Let me give you that beep beep
Running her hands through my 'fro
Bouncing on twenty fours..."

Take that, Il Divo. We had this idea long before you. We could have made millions with it. Except for the fact that we would never, ever take this behavior out into the public, for other non-us people to know about.

Except I kind of just did, didn't I? The cat's out of the bag now. Simon Cowell, come discover us.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Gimme Links

I just had to call this post that, because that motherhumping Britney Spears song will just not stay out of my head. Anything that happens turns into that song. Just say gimme, then follow it by singing whatever you want in that bullfrog croaky way that's in that song and you've got a recipe for madness. Really. Watch.

Gimme gimme LINKS, gimme LINKS, gimme gimme LINKS...

Or maybe you're not thinking about links. Maybe you're thinking about work. Yeah, I think about work a lot too.

Gimme gimme BOOKS, gimme BOOKS, gimme gimme BOOKS...

I could do this all day. However, I shall spare you, as you are more than capable of taking this and running with it, I'm sure.

Anyhow, thanks for all the people who said they link to me, and I am scurrying to catch up with putting all ya'll on my listy-poo over there in the sidebar. It may take a little while, so be rest assured I will get you on that list just as soon as I can.

I think that I am suffering from vacation-deprivation, people. I know, I just got back from San Francisco, but I really think that a measly weekend away just wasn't enough. The weekend already seems like it was EONS ago and other than going to see my dad when he was sick earlier this year, I have not taken one vacation day. Not one! That is just evil.

I think I realized that I need to have more of a vacation than I have allowed myself for a while when, on Saturday night, Nordic Boy asked me if I wanted to go out to dinner and a movie, and I said that I did but only if we left town to do so. So, we crossed some water, which is not hard to do living where we live, and we drove out to the suburbs. And not even a particularly picturesque suburb. Nope. We went out to the land of strip malls and no sidewalks just so that I could feel like I was AWAY. And when I start to see Olive Gardens and Black Angus Steakhouses, I am out of my element.

In other news, Nordic Boy and I have been busting a gut laughing each night before we drift off to sleep. Like, we'll be just on the verge of full sleepy time, and one of us will say something in that half-asleep state that has woken us both up with laughing. Like, last night? The lights were off, I was drifting to see the Sandman, and all of sudden, Nordic Boy sleepily sings me a little lullaby. The song? "Mama, don't let yer babies grow up to be cowboh-ehs..." And he sang it with as much twang as I have ever heard in my life. What the--? Where did that come from? The deep recesses of Nordic Boy's R.E.M. state, that's where. I woke myself up with a full belly laugh and that got him laughing and there we are. Woken up, cracking up.

Yeah, I know. It's not that funny. I need a vacation.


As we drove across the bridge to the 'burbs, we had a great view of Mount Rainier over the lake. Which you can't really see here because my camera phone sucks dookie.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Hope It's Not a Bore-ah, Nora

Here's what I know about Nora Ephron.

1. She wrote all three of The Meg Ryan Trifecta movies: When Harry Met Sally, Sleepless in Seattle, and You've Got Mail. I can go with the first one, the second two make me go into a sugar coma where my eyes roll back into my head and my hands and feet spasm uncomfortably.
2. She appeared on the Oprah show this one time when all these celebrity guests were all "getting older is getting better!" and "older women are like a fine wine!" and she was all "getting older sucks kibble, are you all kidding me?" It was like Gargamel was trying to fit in with the Smurfs. Somehow, the fact that the woman who came up with the line "don't you think daisies are the friendliest flower?" was actually cynical and sarcastic in real life thoroughly entertained me.
3. She writes lots of books and stuff. Me = Librarian, hence I gotta bring it back to the codices and shit like that alla time.
3. She wrote an essay called "Where I Live" that talks about New York City, and lots of blogger-types are taking the concept and making it their own.

So that's what I am going to do (steal the Where I Live concept). Yes, I am following a list with yet another list, all in one post. Sue me. Even though I haven't read Nora's essay (look at me all first name basis with the Meg-pusher) and I really don't know how much I am bastardizing the idea, I shall go forth hencewith. Sorry in advance, Nora.

I Live...

1. I live on the Planet Earth, which is apparently going to hell in a handbasket and has been doing so for some time. Oceans are messed up. The air is messed up. Animals are dying off whole species at a time. People like to kill each other up in a frenzy of disgustingness. I think about all of these things a lot. Despite this, I am generally in a good mood most of the time. This may mean that the greenhouse gases have gone to my brain. We may be going down, but I'm going down smiling. Yeah. I'm clearly delusional.

2. I live on a street where the neighbors know each other. They stop and say hi, they ask you how you're doing. Except, I have noticed a distinct difference in the way they chat with me and the way they chat with Nordic Boy. The difference is that they don't really chat with me at all. This has always been the case between the two of us- if given the chance people seem to automatically be drawn to Nordic Boy and I am totally chopped liver. Kids, dogs, people of all ages. This is really weird because, of the two of us, I am definitely the chattier. Nordic Boy can be downright monosyllabic at times. This kind of chaps my ass, can you tell?

3. I live on a piece of land that looks like ass. I keep telling myself that it will not always look this way and in fact my yard grows ever more charming by the week. When things do not look nice, they drive me batshit insane. I am not proud of this.

4. I live in a house that I can't believe I own, like with papers and escrow and everything. I feel so frickin' grown up when I think about it. And sort of rich too, even though that notion is more than a little laughable in the grand scheme of things. But having a house. Crikey. I still can't quite get my mind around it.

5. I live with a Boy who says things like this: (handing me a smoothie for breakfast) "Here's a smoothie for you-thie!" He makes me laugh. I'm an easy audience for this types of silliness, it's true.

6. I live within walking distance of great thai food, indian food, deli, a farmer's market, a food co-op, a library, a large body of water, a MAC store, an independent hardware store, pizza, bookstore, bakery, bike trail, and my neighborhood still manages to have tons of trees.

7. I live for a great night's sleep. Awww baby.

8. I live far away from lots of people I love. Somehow they don't feel far away.

9. I live with the fact that I will be never be warm more than 10% of the time and that I am apparently reptilian. Hiss, bitches! Hiss! My tongue be forked and my ass be rattling! I'm cold and I will BITE YOU.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

What about the paper in John's hair?

I know, I know. I only wrote one measly post last week. YOU guys, on the other hand, were writing your hearts out. I am up to my eyeballs in catching up with what you all are up to. You're shaming me with post-iness. I'll do better this week, I promise.

First off, someone asked for the one and only photo I have of my San Fran trip. So be it.



My Shoe Did Indeed Match with the Harrison Ford Decor

Now that we have THAT piece of bidness out of the way, let's move on to more pressing matters. I've got two things to talk about. Ready? Ok.

1. I am feeling like I need to have a place on this blog for some reciprocal link love. The more I am looking at all your blogs via clicking on links in my comments and such, the more I am seeing that you are giving me link love. And I need to be better about reciprocating. So here is my plan. If you have me linked to your blog, email me or comment and tell me. Give me your url and I will create a lovely list of all ya'all's blogs so clicking over to you from me will be easy as pie. Why is the saying easy as pie in existence? I have made pie and I know that there is nothing easy about it. Maybe the phrase is referring to the eating of pie? Because that part IS easy. Still, it's a confusing phrase. I think it should be more like "easy as
trying-to-make-pie-but-fucking-it-up-every-time." That would be more accurate. Who's with me?

2. It's once again time for me to share with you a gem from my much-archived childhood. I don't know what part of my little-kid brain decided to save notes, letters, random kid-ephemera, but jeez louise I am glad. I am not a collector of things, but in this case I am so happy that my love of giving stuff away or throwing it out did not prevail over the years. With that preface, I give you this next piece. I call it: "Drugs Are Scary, Pumpkin." I'm the author of the part in italics.

"No, I wouldn't want a pumpkin without a nose! HA HA! You mean Mike E. is like that! How awful. I would have never of thought. That is stupid and so are drugs Pumpkin. I'll never get involved in them. They will ruin your life totally! P.S. Don't loose your nose Pumpkin. --Scalloped Potatoe

I won't lose my nose S. Potatoe! I won't even have it loosened for your sake!! Yes- Mike E. is like that! I was surprised too! He used to tell me but he doesn't mention it anymore- maybe he quit! Hopefully because if he doesn't he'll ruin his life!! I would never get involved with drugs either! It's dumb. And let me tell you something else Scalloped Potatoe- If we ever took drugs you'd be a baked potatoe in no time and I'd be a pumpkin pie! Well, enuf of that! Did you put that paper in John's hair?


Yup I sure did! Cute HA! I have to go to this dinner tonight with my Dad so I can't go to the concert. I want to but I can't. I wish I could, It would be neat. Maybe someone will tape it and I'll be able to hear it all. Our Scrambled Egg isn't studying, Pumpkin. Maybe we should teach her a lesson. Let's write her a note from so called Damon! HA! HA!"



Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Pumpkin

My Nights With Han Solo

I went, I ate, I shopped, I walked. Sleeping, not so much.

San Francisco was great, ya'll. I so needed a vacation. I just needed to get the heck out of town. I had these grand plans to traipse about the city snapping photos of my adventures so I could have a show and tell extravaganza for you guys so I packed up my camera and proceeded to not take one single solitary photo. Oh, except one, where I took a photo to document the fact that my shoes matched the decor of my hotel room. Margaret Bourke-White, eat your heart out.

So I will spare you the photo of my swanky shoes in my hotel room. But, as long as we are on the subject of the hotel, get this. One of the quotes on the website of this hotel said "if the hotel was an actor, it would be Harrison Ford." I'm not kidding. It really said that. Can anyone please interpret that for me? Because the hotel was lovely, but I didn't once think that it reminded me of Harrison Ford. It reminded me more of, say...a very stylish Mr. Belvidere. See, this hotel staff escorted Biology Girl and me around like they were in love with us. Every time we got on an elevator, a valet was there to chat with us. Every time we entered or exited the lobby, there was someone to ask us if we needed anything. We walked into our room to find a valet fixing an ottoman in our room. There was a knock on our door one afternoon and it was another valet who kindly changed the batteries in our phone. They gave us directions, they found us reservations, they did it all. At first, I called it Great Customer Service. Then, I called it Is It Our Pheremones? After a while, I called it Leave Us the Hell Alone. At one point, between leaving our room, riding down the elevator, and exiting the lobby, we were saying this to various staff members who acknowledged us or told us to have a great day all the way out of the building: "Hi...thanks...thank you...hello...fine thanks...good...thank you...hi...hello...yes...thank you..." Seriously. From the moment we left the room to the moment we left the building. Maybe they want you to feel like a celebrity (Harrison Ford, of course) because by the end of it I wanted to say "no comment" or throw a can of baked beans at them like Hugh Grant.

Oh, and speaking of celebrities, we went to this restaurant and had a celebrity sighting. Well, a semi-celeb. Marisa from Top Chef Season Two. As we were leaving, she was sitting in the lobby, waiting for a table. I am positive it was her, because I stopped in my tracks and I stared at her. She noticed me doing it too. That's right. I'm frequenting places where there are semi-famous people sitting there, and I stop and stare at them from two feet away. I'm high class that way.

And another thing? The frenzy that was going on in the H & M store was nothing short of Beatlemania. The pushing, the shoving, the hordes of people. Are they blowing crack through the venting systems in there? I wanted to buy each and every one of the sales workers a giant cookie for the crap that they are going through on a daily basis. But I didn't. Because, you know I needed that money to go towards a purple skirt and a sweater dress.

Also, (and yes I know these paragraphs are disjointed all you friggin' editor-type-blog-readers out there) Bio-Girl and I were in a large department store, buying some unmentionables, and the sales lady referred to the bodice of a chemise that Bio-Girl was looking at as "the part where the breasts go." I think Victoria's Secret needs to adopt this as an ad campaign, don't you? New this fall, more things where your breasts go.

I also spent some time with my friend K, who fed me crepes, took me to SF MOMA, and escorted me to the airport like the gentleman he is. He even laughs at my dick jokes, which is especially gentlemanly of him.

At the end of all of this, I was to be on the plane and home by 9:30 pm. Thanks to the wonders of modern travel, I was home by 3am. I did a lot more than this on my trip, but United has fucked me up with sleep deprivation to the point where that is all I can remember. Bio-Girl, K, Harrison Ford hotel, H & M frenzy, Marisa from Top Chef, and bra humor. Thanks, United Airlines!

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Too Tired For Paragraphs

1. I'm not ignoring you. Really. My week is totally kicking my hiney right now. So much so, that I am saying the word "hiney." I am also listening to a phonograph while sitting here in my pinafore.

2. I am so tired right now that I am doing that thing where, instead of blinking, I am just periodically closing my eyes for a second or two, and hoping no one notices.

3. I am tired because, for the past two days, my eyes have been popping open at 5:30 am. Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey! I have no explanation as to why this is happening. I fear it is because I am getting to be one of those old people that barely sleeps at night, naps throughout the day, and eats dinner at 3 in the afternoon. If I start to complain about those rotten kids, please help me.

4. I heard someone say the other day that they were laughing so hard that they were afraid that they needed "Depends" because they were going to pee their pants. Depends! Isn't that funny? It's DEPEND. As in, you can depend on it. Not depends, as in: will it keep you dry? Maybe, it depends.

5. The fact that I took the energy to think through whether adult diapers should be correctly identified as Depend or Depends is being added to the mounting evidence that I am turning into a ripe old granny.

6. I said mounting! Hee! Ok, I'm back to juvenile behavior again. Whew.

7. I have been having so much funny, entertaining library moments this week, it's ridiculous. I can't tell you about any of them though, lest I get dooced. But trust me, it can be the funnest, funniest place to work, ever.

8. I swore that I was going to get through the final Harry Potter book before my San Francisco trip. So not going to happen. However, I have perfected the two ways that exist to say Harry Potter with an English accent. You can either say it like he's your best friend: "Harry Pottah!" or you can say it all evil style like Draco, like you're spitting it out: "Harry Pottah." Go ahead. Try it. You'll see exactly what I mean.

9. God I'm tired.

10. Neighbor J dug up some photo from a "behind the scenes" thing about the Little House on the Prairie tv show. How freaky is this?



What's Harriet doing to Laura??? I am never sleeping again.

I will write a post that makes some kind of half-baked sense soon. Really.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Loud and Proud

When I was 12 years old, I was awarded a scholarship to a fancy pants, world-renowned ballet school. This meant that I had to pack up my bags and leave home to live in a dorm with a bunch of girls who were much older than me. When you are 12 years old and you are thrown into the middle of a pack of extremely competetive 16 year old girls, it would seem difficult to make friends, yes? You'd think that they'd want to slap me upside the tutu, much in the same way that I always wanted supposedly "cute" Scrappy Doo to get his little head blown off. Yet, I remember fitting in quite well. Are you impressed with this story so far? Because I am. I look back at that and I think about how I had BALLS, marching into that situation with no parents and no friends and just taking it all in stride and successfully hanging out with all the big kids. Like a lot of things during that part of my life, I can't quite believe I pulled it off so well. Dancing up a storm, making friends, living on my own. I was a rockin' little kid. Except for one thing. I minimized the whole thing to the point where I almost kept it a secret.

Let me elaborate. The day that I was to leave for the school, my parents took me to the airport, helped me check in my bags, and walked me to the gate to deliver me to the flight attendant. The attendant knelt down and pinned a big white button on my coat. The button said "Unaccompanied Minor." Isn't that crazy? What kind of thing is that to put on a little girl? They may as well have given me a sign to carry that said "Pedophiles and kidnappers, this one's for you!" Do airlines still do this? I hope not. But I digress. I got on the plane and found my seat. All of the flight attendants, knowing that I was on my own, showered me with attention. I was swimming in peanuts and ginger ale, and I remember one of them excitedly telling me that she had just been on a flight where she had served Bryan Adams a beer in First Class. I think she thought that she was bonding with me about Bryan Adams so I tried to be enthusiastic about the story. There was a woman sitting next to me on the flight, and at one point she turned to me kindly and asked "so, where are you off to, all by yourself? Visiting relatives?" I looked at her. I looked up at the two flight attendants that were standing in the aisle next to me, hovering like two doting aunties. They were so nice, so lovely to me. And I looked at all of their sweet faces and I said, without blinking: "I am going to rodeo clown school." I'm not kidding. I totally said that.

Why? What would possess me to say such a thing? I thought that if I told them where I was really going, that I would be bragging. And I didn't want to be gross braggy girl. Nothing would be worse than being gross braggy girl. God forbid I would be proud of myself. And if I was proud of myself, for god's sake, I needed to keep that shit quiet. I was a very nice girl. And nice girls minimize their accomplishments. Right?

Never mind the fact that saying that I was going to rodeo clown school was clearly a ridiculous lie. I remember looking at the women's reactions, and seeing in their faces that they knew I was a big liar and maybe a little nutty in the noggin. That, somehow, was ok with me. Being a weirdo-liar was better than being a proud girl. Anything was better than telling them something that made me feel good about myself.

So as an adult, I have been on a mission to beat this tendency out of myself. I think it's total crap that I got the message, somewhere along the line, that you don't claim your successes, that you hide when you're happy, that you're a better person if you feel bad about yourself a lot. I don't know where this message came from. My parents are models of kick-ass power unconditional-love. Their hearts would have broken had they known I felt this way as a kid. But I learned it somewhere. It's in the air; it sneaks into your skin before you know it.

So now, I am a staunch advocate of self love. (Dirty!) I'm all about accepting myself, giving myself a goddamn break, knowing that hells yeah, I kind of rock out, balls out. Sometimes it's harder than other times. I admit that I still had a little bit of an embarrassed cringe when I typed the first sentence of this post, and that I tried to find a way of saying that I got a scholarship to a fancy school without actually SAYING that I got a scholarship to a fancy school. Until I realized that that was what I was doing and decided to just say what I meant and fuck it if it sounds...confident. I am a librarian who believes in not-shushing people. And hey, I'm people! So I need to not shush myself. Damn, it's hard though.

But I have, honestly, been waging a full-scale war on this boolcrap for some years now. It seems to be getting easier as I go along. You won't find me, EVER, as a RULE, participating in those girly conversations where the purpose is to take turns kicking ourselves in the jugular. You know the conversations I'm talking about. They go a little something like this: "I'm so fat!" or "I hate my hair!" or "why won't he CALL me?" And the longer I don't engage in this stuff, the more I don't believe in it any more. Actually, my hair is just fine thanks.

How often do you judge yourself? Think about it. Then do me a favor. QUIT IT. Try and go one day where you think that you're fabulous for the whole day. Then go another day. It won't always work, but eventually, you'll get to a place where you have more fabulous days than judgy days. And you'll have more compassion for other people too, which is a bonus.

All of this babble is merely a preface (goddammit that was a long preface) because I got tagged by Bohemian Girl with the Stuart Smalley meme. Here goes. I'm going to write out ten things that rock about me. And when I start to feel embarrassed and uncomfortable in doing this, or when I feel like I want to make a joke to minimize what I'm saying, I am going to say, loud and proud, FUCK MODESTY. I suggest you do the same.

1. I'm a good conversationalist. I listen and ask a lot of questions, and I have good stories to tell too.
2. In any social group, I can always tell right away who the person is in the room that feels left out, or uncomfortable, or shy. I do whatever I can to make that person feel welcome. At parties, I don't usually gravitate to the person who is the center of attention- my radar pulls me the opposite way.
3. I have good boundaries with people. I know what's healthy for me and what's not, and if you're not, I'm cutting you out. No apologies and no hard feelings.
4. I like that I laugh a really lot.
5. I'm a really good librarian. I rock it every day.
6. I pick the greatest friends. I think it's my best talent. The people around me are ridiculously amazing. And I don't half-ass friendship. If you're my peeps, then I'm all in for you.
7. I like that I live my life, on all levels, according to my values and my ethics. And that I know exactly what my values and ethics are.
8. I love my style. Clothes, home, all of it really expresses who I am. It's minimalist both in style and in the fact that I don't own a lot, but it seems like I do.
9. I like that I take really good care of myself. I eat right, I'm active, I sleep enough, I take time for myself, I'm kind to myself, all that stuff.
10. I have a great rack. I'm just saying.

Ok, so I had to make a sort of joke at the end. It was getting a little too much for me there. Still, I gave it my best shot. And you know what? My rack ain't half bad. Just kidding! No, I'm not. Yes, I am. Kind of. Not really. Damn it. This is hard.

I'm tagging all ya'll. Go love yourself.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

"You...are a Delight."

Well, once again you all have saved the day. I asked for questions, I got questions. You all are like James Lipton with his scary blue notecards. Because of you, I have been saved from the hell of writing another post about band-aids on the sidewalk. I wrote a post about a band-aid on the sidewalk. I mean, really. I apologize.

Here goes nothing:

Sphincter asked:
We have an adorable little page that works at our library. She's way too cool for small town living (she just turned 20.) She has a brother residing in Seattle. For as much as we would miss her, we are trying to convince her to get out of dodge and move there. Do you recommend Seattle? We're not friendly in NH to start with, so that part would not be an issue.

Despite my previous post about missing the Midwest so much that my eyelashes hurt, I do absolutely recommend Seattle. It is a rockin' town and I wouldn't still be here if I didn't think so. It's got groovy urban chic-ness, plus mountains and ocean, plus Kenny G lives here, so come ON. Ok, forget about the Kenny G. part. But it is a great city. And if you're a 20-year-old adorable-little-page type person, I'm sure making friends will not be a problem. Tell her to give it a whirl.

Scottsdale Princess asked:
LG:
I will ask you my standard questions.

1) How many licks to the center of a Tootsie Pop?
2) What is your power animal?

Scottsdale. These are your standard questions? Standard? Like, you ask a lot of people these questions? I find that totally fascinating. Much more fascinating than my answers, that's for sure. I mean, my standard questions are more like: how are you? or are you going to finish that doughnut? or I'm cold, are you cold? Your standard questions are so much better than that. Anyhoo. Licks to the center of a tootsie pop: I feel that Tootsie Pops are like a lovely fruit sucker with a turd in the center. So no licks for me. And my power animal? MY POWER ANIMAL? What language are we speaking right now, because I have no idea what that is. Ok, I just googled it and took a quiz. My power animal is a hummingbird. Shit, man. That ain't even sexy or nothing. I wanted it to be a cheetah or a wolf of some shit like that. Figures.

Sleepless in Dallas asked:
Why not marry Nordic boy?

I am going to be all mysterious with this one and say: I don't think I've ever said that I am not married to Nordic Boy. I also don't think I've ever said that I am. Oh my goodness look how coy the librarian is being. I'm not saying this to be coy. I'm just saying this to illustrate how little being married means to me. I truly could not care less about whether I'm married or not. It's good for some practicalities, like making sure your partner can share your benefits and all like that, and I totally get it if it's important to other people and that's cool. But to my life, it's totally irrelevant to my identity. I just loves that dude, that's all.

She also asked: Why don't more people have summer homes in Colorado where its perfect summer weather?

Is that true? Colorado has perfect summer weather? My knowledge of Colorado begins with the fact that John Denver sang about it and ends with the fact that Mork and Mindy lived there, so I am woefully underqualified to answer this question. Shazbat.

Bohemian Girl asked:
You forgot your friend's birthday! What can you make out of duct tape and batteries?

First of all, me forgetting a birthday is highly, highly unlikely. I am kind of obsessed with birthdays. I'll prove it: today is the birthday of one of my high school boyfriends. I remember it, even to this day. I can't explain what it is about birthdays. And second of all, the liklihood of me giving anyone a birthday present made out of duct tape and batteries- also very slim. I am the Make-A-Big-Deal-About-Birthdays Doyenne. However! In the interest of playing along, I could make a pretty rad wallet out of duct tape. Really, I could. It's right in this book. Then, I'd put the batteries in the wallet, you know, as a bonus to the present. Can I just say again that I would never do this? Because it pains me a little, just typing that.

chocolate milk girl asked:
I didn't get the impression that you grew up in Chicago. I don't remember why, but I got the distinct idea that it was closer to Detroit. Reveal!

Wow, you are good. Yes, it's true, I am not from Chicago. I did live there for a spell, but that was as an adult. I was raised outside of Detroit, in Flint, Michigan. If the next thing out of your mouth is "Isn't that where Michael Moore is from?" I will kick you. Not that I am anti-Michael Moore, actually I am not. It's just that's what EVERYONE SAYS. Next time you hear anything about Flint, Michigan, I want you to say the following: "isn't that where the pop culture librarian is from?" And if you can't bring yourself to say that, then say "Isn't that where Ready for the World is from?" Ok? Thanks.

ben asked:
What's the matter with you that you should miss Chicago in August?
Does Seattle have Potbelly's yet? Or is that still just a Chicago thing?

Oh Ben. Any question that starts out with "what's the matter with you..." is just too much to answer all at once. There are just TOO MANY things wrong with me to get into. And also, there is no Potbelly's in Seattle. And, I have never been to a Potbelly's, nor even heard of it, so I guess that proves that my ties to Chicago are officially old and decrepit.

katie k asked:
How did you and Nordic Boy become you and Nordic Boy?

Wow. This story has to be saved for another post. We've known each other since we were teenagers and getting us to the Going Steady stage was a long, twisty road that barely makes sense to the two of us, let alone explaining it to all of you in a short, pithy fashion. As to how we first met each other, let me just say that it involves deceit, intrigue, a jeep with a hole in the floor, phantom beer, power tools, and a dramatic sliver-in-finger injury. Not exactly a Meg Ryan movie, but it worked for us.

WDL asked about first day on the job:

Again, I'll have to save that one up for another post. To tide you over, it involved me running around acting like I knew what the hell I was doing. Soon after, I actually did know what I was doing. But that first day? FAKING IT.

Phyl asked:
How many times have you moved?

Moved cities? 9 or 10 times, I think. I am only counting times when I have actually packed up all my shit and taken it all with me. There were times when I temporarily moved to different dance schools to live when I was growing up, but that was more like I was just taking a few suitcases and then coming home after like 6 months or so, so that doesn't really feel like moving. If you're talking moving residences, like within each city, then shit- it's got to be like twenty times or so over the course of my life. Is that a lot? It sounds like a lot.

How many cars have you owned?
I have officially owned two cars. Is there anything interesting to say about cars? If there is, I don't know how to. So yeah. Two. One was red and the other was blue. Um. They had wheels and stuff.

Your Dream Dozen for a dinner party? (real, fictional, living or dead, doesn't matter.)
Ok, these kind of questions are total agony. I over analyze them. I think of all these cool people and inevitabley have too many, so then I systematically eliminate them based on a complicated rubric of made-up bullshittery. I will not play this evil game, not this time! I will just spit out the first dozen I think of.

Eddie Izzard (oh so witty for conversation)
Dostoevsky (probably a bit of a downer, but oh well)
Natalie Wood (I'd ask her about how she drowned and did Christopher Walken or that Hart to Hart guy REALLY have anything to do with it)
Cary Grant (just to hear him call me "darling")
Sitting Bull (because he's cool)
John Lennon (from circa 1972)
Gayatri Spivak (hell if we'll know what she's saying, but we can all act intellectual)
Tim Gunn (aw, Tim)
David Byrne (he's probably surprisingly dull)
Marjane Satrapi (she'll probably want to smoke at the table)
Margaret Cho (someone who swears as much as I do)
M.I.A. (she'll bring the tunes)

I'll have you know that I am having a very hard time not going back and editing that list. It's kind of paining me to just leave it as is. Phyl! You evil question asker!

If you were stuck on an island and only had four things and/or people of your own choosing what would/who they be?

Aw hell. Phyl you are KILLING ME with these questions. I don't know what my four things would be, but I'm telling you this right now. If I see any polar bears running around or a mysterious run of numbers starts to appear everywhere, I am freaking the fuck OUT.

Sauntering Soul asked:
Did you eat anything weird as a child? Crayons? Mud?

What? You think I was crazy paste-eater-girl, don't you? You totally do, Sauntering Soul, I can tell. I would be offended, but considering, well, ME, I guess I can't blame you. However. NO, I have never eaten mud, nor crayons. (and may I just say: CRAYONS? People eat crayons? I have never heard of this. I shudder to think what this would do in the Number Two department, if you know what I mean). I can't think of a time when I ingested something that I was not supposed to. I did go through a phase where I doused everything I ate with Tabasco sauce when I was younger. In fact, when I was a freshman in college I carried a bottle of it in my coat pocket. If you ever tasted the food at my dorm, you wouldn't fault me for this. Hey, I know it's not as interesting anecdote-wise as being a crayola-muncher, but it's all I've got.

What's the farthest you've ever gone on a dare?
I never needed dares to do stupid things as a youngster. I did them all on my own, no prompting necessary. For instance, I volunteered to be the snowball-throwing target for my brothers and his friends when I was in grade school. I stood up against our garage door, and let them pelt me with snowballs. Voluntarily. Who needs to waste a dare on someone when they're doing stupid shit like that?

What's the most awesome compliment you've ever received?

Someone once said to me that they didn't really believe that people were living happy, full lives until they met me and now they did believe in it. Just ignore the fact that this was obviously a depressed, Eeyore-like person that had issues that had nothing to do with me, and you're left with kind of a nice compliment.

What is one thing scientists should invent to make your life easier?
A teleporter. Definitely.

What is the one question you wouldn't want me to ask?
Any sort of "favorites" question. Favorite color, book, movie. I suck at favorites.

Samantha Jo Campen asked:
If you were a crayon, what color would you be and why?
Again with the crayons. Now that I know crayons are a food group, does this change my answer? Not really. I would be midnight blue. Both for the color and for the name of the color. I like them both.

If you were a Sesame Street character, who would you be and why?

On a day like today, when I am feeling kind of tired and out of ideas to blog about (until you guys rescued me with these questions), I would be that composer guy who tries to compose music but can never finish. Remember? He would start to sing, then end up saying "OH I'M NEVER GOING TO GET IT! NEVER! WHY? WHY? WHY?" and then he would pound his head down on the piano keys. On a better day, I would either be Super Grover (because although he is super he tends to crash into things) or The Amazing Mumford (because I would love to run around doing tricks and saying "A LA PEANUT BUTTER SANDWICHES!")

Oh my god. I'm spent. I think I'll go eat me some crayons or something.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Buy Me A Ticket to Chicago

Listen to me, and listen good. If you have not been watching So You Think You Can Dance, I feel so, so sorry for you. It is so good, it makes my eyes water. Last night? This ballroom dancer from Russia, Pasha is his name, did an emotional solo dance wherein a headless, armless mannequin was set in the middle of the stage, wearing a purple sequined evening gown, and Pasha danced all around the dress. He danced for the dress. He danced TO the dress. Oh, and the song he danced to? Total Eclipse of the Heart. I was in my house, by myself, yelling at Pasha. NO YOU DIDN'T! YOU DID NOT! PASHA, NOOOO! But he did. And it was wondrous. So horrifying, it was good. I don't like scary movies, really, because they usually don't scare me. But Pasha and the evening gown. Gah! Chills and thrills, people.

I've been feeling a little bit homesick lately. I know what you're thinking. I'm home already. Yes, that's true. But what I mean is that I am homesick for my first home. The Midwest. I love where I live now, I really do. But I'm a Midwesterner through and through, and sometimes, the west coast kind of bums me out. See, the west coast people, they are polite. And politeness is a great thing. Living here, you don't get honked at in your car until you want to kill someone, and you don't tend to yell at people out of your open car window, at least not on a daily basis. People use the crosswalks here and don't run out into the streets willy nilly. Why all of my examples of west coast politeness are all traffic-based at the moment, I am not sure, but stay with me here. I'm just prefacing what I am about to say with the fact that I like civility, I like politeness. It's not a bad thing. But you know what? Politeness has a bad side. A tiresome side. Especially when you're a Midwesterner like me. See, Midwesterners are all "hey what's up? How are you? Tell me about your life. Come on in. Sit down. Call me any time. Better yet, just come on over. Want something to eat? How's your mom?" And West Coasters are more "How are you?" "I'm doing well, thanks." There's like this distance between people. Stay back. Don't tell me how you REALLY are. I'm too busy right now. In fact, I am always too busy. Let's get out our day-planners so we can find a time to hang out that has a beginning time and and end time. Blah, blah, blah.

It's not everyone. It's just the culture of the place. It gets into my pores sometimes and drives me crazy. And bums me out. And that's what I'm feeling like these days. Cheery, no?

Don't worry, I'll get over it soon. In the meantime, I am having a deficit in blogging ideas. So, it's question time once again. Got any burning questions for Librarian Girl? Want to know something about her likes, dislikes, thoughts, dreams? Want to ask her why she breaks into referring to herself in the third person sometimes? Go for it. Email me, comment, send me a smoke signal. Ask me a question, please. Because you guys, really, I need fodder for the blogmill.

And by the way, that band-aid was still there today. In case you were wondering.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Coffee, Band-Aids, and Boredom

I have never learned to drink coffee. I think it has a taste akin to perhaps what a rat's ass would taste like. I know that in the grand scheme of things, not liking coffee is a good thing, because you know, that shit will kill you. Seriously. What was that Johns Hopkins study where they found that you were like 50% more likely to keel over from a heart attack if you drink coffee or something like that? Remember that? Yikes, right? So I know that staying coffee-free is not a bad thing. Still, I admit that I do feel, well, kind of left out when it comes to coffee. Maybe it's because I live in a coffee-crazed city, maybe it's because everyone I know drinks coffee, maybe it's because it smells so damn good. I don't know what it is.

During breaks at work, all of my co-workers trek over to all the nearby cafes to get their coffee fix. I don't need a coffee fix, but yet, I use my break time to trek over to a cafe too. Sometimes I buy a tea, sometimes I don't buy anything. But I walk my ass over there. Just because I am caving to peer pressure, I guess. It just seems like the thing to do. A few months ago, as I was strolling down the sidewalk, I looked down and noticed this.




That's a band-aid. A used band-aid, stuck to the sidewalk. Gross. I live in a pretty clean city. I mean, for a city. It's not like the water running down the gutters is crystal clear and ready for bottling or anything, but compared to most cities, mine is quite trash-free. So the band-aid sort of stands out when you're walking by it. I first noticed the band-aid a few months ago. MONTHS. And you know what? It's still there. I walk by the band-aid every damn day, over and over again. I'm sure as hell not going to be the one to pick it up, unless someone has a HazMat suit they want to lend me. But someone. Please. Pick it up! It's driving me crazy. Day after day with the band-aid! You'd think I have bigger things to worry about. Turns out, I don't.

In non-band-aid news (there's something you don't say every day), I give you my long distance conversation with Nordic Boy last night.

Me: Hey, what are you doing?
Nordic Boy: Just waiting for my last appointment to show up.
Me: Ok, well call me when you get back to the hotel tonight.
Nordic Boy: What are you doing?
Me: ...Actually, I'm not doing anything. Literally.
Nordic Boy: Not reading? Not watching tv?
Me: Nope. I was just sitting here. Thinking, I guess. But not really. Just spacing out.
Nordic Boy: In a good way?
Me: No, in a bored way.
Nordic Boy: Aw. That's not good. When I call you when I get back to the hotel, have something figured out by then ok?
Me: Are you giving me an assignment?
Nordic Boy: Well, yeah. You've got about an hour. I'm going to call you back, and you're going to be doing something, and you're not going to be bored.
Me: Are you life-coaching me right now? I feel like I'm being life-coached.
Nordic Boy: Go do something!

I never came up with anything that exciting. Maybe I should have gone and said hello to the band-aid. So reliable, it is. Always there for me.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Oatmeal Ultimatum

I would like to go on record here and say that I am not consistently stupid about any one subject. Ok, maybe hardware. I am consistently stupid about hardware and other Home Depot-ish things. I don't care how many nuts and screws I have seen in my life, all I will ever get from the phrase nuts and screws is a hearty chuckle because, you know, nuts. And screws. Funny! But other than that, I am not consistently stupid about any one subject. Rather, I am inconsistently stupid in a variety of subjects. I go through my days, being somewhat smart 99% of the time. But that last 1%. Wow. The lengths of dumb that are contained in that 1% is enough for hours of entertainment.

Every morning, I make myself a 1/2 cup of oatmeal. I am seldom hungry enough to eat a 1/2 cup of oatmeal, so I end up wasting some of it. Every day.

Nordic Boy: Why don't you just make yourself a quarter cup of oatmeal?
Me: I tried that. It's not enough.
Nordic Boy: Ok, how about a third of a cup?
Me: I don't know how. I wouldn't know how much water to put in.
Nordic Boy: So, a half cup needs how much water?
Me: One cup.
Nordic Boy: So for a third, you'd need?
Me: That's just it. It doesn't say on the box.
Nordic Boy: It's DOUBLE the water. Get it? Half a cup equals one cup water?
Me: ...(pause)... oooooh. So a third... just put in two thirds? ....ooooh. Right.

Yes, it is my job to give people information. I have a degree that says I am qualified that I paid good money for. On many other subjects I can know-it-all you under the table. Just not oatmeal prep. Shut up.

I went to see the Bourne Ultimatum last night. First of all, is it me or are there like 85 gajillion previews before a movie these days? I am all for previews, but dang, people. Anyway. Bourne Ultimatum. I quite liked it. I am not a big action film lover, but you know what? I get hordes of pleasure from watching people get things done in a quick, direct manner. Do you get what I'm saying? It's the same pleasure I get with my to-do list each day. BAM! Checking things off. POP! On to the next. CRACK! So frickin' productive. WHAM! And I'm done. Die, to-do list! DIE! Watching Matt Damon run around, knowing what he's doing, outsmarting people. It's like a know-it-all paradise with fistfights and car chases thrown in, really. If he had carried a to-do list around with him while eluding the CIA and crossed off tasks as he went along, I tell you, I would have been in hog heaven.

There was only one thing that marred the blood-soaked to-do list movie. Sitting in front of me, was a family. A woman, a man, and two little kids. And the kids. They were little. Like, maybe 7 and 9 years old. Listen, I am not saying that they shouldn't have been at this movie. The parents know their own kids and I have no judgment about that. It just made me squirm a little bit, having these little kids right in front of me while the killing spree was happening. It was like watching a sex scene with my mom in the room. I kept thinking about them, as the scenes were happening. What were they thinking? Was any of this too scary for them? Are they ok? It's ok if you want to close your eyes, kids! I do too, at certain moments! It's perfectly alright if this is too much for you! You know that when they are holding Matt Damon's head under water with a bag over his head, it's just acting, right? I just had overwhelming thoughts about media literacy throughout the entire movie and what sorts of things I would want those little kids to know, and hoping that they knew them. At least, that's what I was thinking about in between the moments of enjoying Matt Damon beating the shit out of someone. So I guess that proves that I really know nothing, so who am I to talk. I mean, sheesh- I don't even know how to make oatmeal.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

I won't! I won't shut up!

Ok, everyone in my life is hiding from me. Every person. Was it something I said? Did I talk about Scott Baio too much? Do I smell like something bad, like oh, I don't know, what's a bad smelling thing? Horsey sauce from Arby's? Do I smell like that? Please, someone. Tell me. Because me, the lady who usually has to intentionally schedule time in my week to be alone, is hearing nothing but crickets right now, in terms of socialness. I am less a social butterfly these days and more a social three-toed sloth. Sloths are solitary animals, right? So the opposite of a social butterfly would be a sloth, right? See, I am so discombobulated about my tumbleweed-in-a-ghost-town calendar that I can't even get my metaphors right. Sloths, horsey sauce. Bah. Do you ever have those times where you feel like you are the last person on earth? That's what I felt like last night. Where the hell is everyone? They're gone, busy, having loads of fun, I'm sure. And all without me.

So, what did I do with this evening of free time? I thought about doing a lot of things-- things I would normally do with a free night. Should I go shoe shopping? Should I work on a painting? Should I read? Should I go to a movie or rent one? Go for a walk, perhaps? No. I did none of these. Instead, I did a good long stretch of something very, very important. I sulked. Yes I did! Poor, friendless Librarian Girl. And I texted Biology Girl while she sat in a laundromat two states away. That Bio-Girl. Always willing to lend an ear, even when I am sulky and texting nonsensical gibberish to her. God bless her. And also damn her for living so far away. Bless and damn her. All at once. Oh, and I did one more thing. I watched tivo-d episodes of Greek. A word of advice. This is not the show to watch when you're feeling low, friends. Because the show? It's stupid. And the only reason one would watch it is to reinforce to themselves that they have no friends and no life. And yeah, I watched three episodes in a row.

In other, non-sulky news, you know what phrase I like to say a lot? "Shut up!" I say this phrase multiple times on any given day. Not in a shushy way, despite my librarian cred. More like a Little Richard sort of way. You tell me something surprising and you can expect a can of shut-up juice from me to you. So I'm talking to my mom on the phone yesterday. My mom's first language is English, but it's not American English. And even though 35 years in this country has taught her to understand a lot of American English and slang and such, there are times when she doesn't quite know what the correct response is. So, she'll try and roll with it, and I love it when she does.

Her: So then, he called your brother and told him what's going on!
Me: SHUT UP!
Her: No, I won't shut up. He called your brother!

or,

Her: ...and then your dad improved so much his physical therapy is only three times a week now!
Me: SHUT UP!
Her: I won't shut up. I won't!

Isn't that grand? "I won't shut up! I won't!" So sassy, my mom is.


Really, I say it a lot. Bio-Girl even made me a Christmas ornament to celebrate this fact. And what says "Happy Holidays" better than this? Nothing, that's what.

Chachi In Charge

The first thing I have to confess to you all is that I spent a fair amount of hours this weekend catching up with tivo'd episodes of that Scott Baio reality show. Stop judging me. I can feel it through the screen. I couldn't help it though. Chachi! Charles in Charge! Dr. Jack Stewart! Bob Loblaw! I needed to see it, I just did. Never mind that after seeing it I may have crabs just from looking at him. Never mind that I actually paused my tivo just to see all the different charms he had hanging off of his neck-chain. Never mind! I, like Joanie, love Chachi. Or maybe I don't love him, but at least I am oddly interested in the fact that he is 45 and single and needs a life coach named Dark Alley. Hey! I said STOP JUDGING.

So one of the things that Mr. Baio struggles with in his life (yes, I said struggles. He has pain, he has hurt. He also has a koi pond) is that everyone still calls him Chachi. Wherever he goes, it's all "Hey Chachi!" and "Oh my god, it's Chachi!" and "Wah wah wah!" and you can just FEEL how uncomfortable he is, as uncomfortable as Fonzie was with saying he was sorry. (Remember that? "I'm sssss--sssss..." Ah. Good times.) It's got to be weird having people come up to you all the time like that, especially when you're just sort of famous, instead of super famous. I mean, if you're Posh and/or Becks, you're not really among regular people ever, you know what I mean? It's not like Angelina Jolie is shopping for spaghetti sauce in Aisle 5 of the Safeway and a random person is going to come and be all "hey remember that time you kept making out with Billy Bob on the red carpet of the mtv awards?" and she has to try and be gracious. The super famous are kind of protected from that. But not Scott. He's only partially famous, so he actually does things like go to the grocery store and walk his own dog down a regular street and such, hence the random approaches from strangers. And really, what is he supposed to do with these encounters? Someone comes up to him as he walks through a restaurant and says "hey, aren't you Chachi?" and he sort of stops and says "um, yeah, I was." The other person then says "wow." What is the correct response to this? "Thanks"? "I know, wow. I'm the shit"? "Ok, bye"? What does Scott do? He looks uncomfortable, and keeps walking, that's what he does.

So, if Posh and Becks and Brangelina are 100% famous, then Scott Baio is like, what, 10% famous? What happens if you're like .0001% famous?

This is the part where I relate my life to Scott Baio's. Really, watch this. I'm going to do it!

So like I said a couple of posts ago, I am in denial that anyone is really reading this blog except for the people whose blogs I read and I think that they are reading mine out of nice, polite, reciprocity. I am starting to get over this assumption. Mainly because of instances like the following. I was sitting at the reference desk the other day, and a young woman came up to me, smiling and nice as could be.

Her: Are you the Pop Culture Librarian?
Me: ...WHAT?
Her: Do you have a blog? The Pop Culture Librarian?
Me: umm...I...uh... yeah? I do?
Her: Cool. Thought it was you.
Me: Oh...uh....yeah...um...

Ok, so this is not the same thing as getting "where's the FONZ?" yelled after you as you check your mail. I understand this. I am in no way putting myself on the same level as Scott Baio. (Oh my god. How depressing is that? I am not any where NEAR the LEVEL of Scott BAIO.) I'm just saying. When this happens, it's jarring. I feel wildly inarticulate. Then that makes me feel like a doofus. This is a much higher-resolution sort of inarticulate doofiness than I normally feel. I then think to myself: that nice woman. Asking me a simple question. And walking away with the impression that I may be mildly retarded. Wonderful. Next time, I'll just quote Chachi and see how that goes: "wah wah wah." That works, right?

Kiss the rings I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Moana Lisa

In Libraryland yesterday, I overheard a little kid argument. It ended with something like this:

Kid #1: Don't say that! Stop saying that!
Kid #2: I can say that if I want to! Don't you know this is AMERICA???

Oh say can you see? What a beautiful end to an argument that is? I took that phrase and put it right in my purse and took it home with me. I figure it applies to everything, not just speech. I tried to pick fights just so I could use it.

Me: Where's my glass of water?
Nordic Boy: Oh, sorry, I thought you were done with it. I dumped it and washed it already.
Me: Don't you touch my glass! This is AMERICA, buddy!
Nordic Boy: What?

A half hour later...

Nordic Boy: What time are we going out to dinner with H and J tomorrow night?
Me: Around 7.
Nordic Boy: Ok, I'll be home around 6.
Me: You better be! Don't you know this is AMERICA?
Nordic Boy: Oh jeez.

And then...

Me: Do you know what day next week you're going to Portland?
Nordic Boy: No, not yet.
Me: When will you know?
Nordic Boy: I'll know when I know! Don't you know this is AMERICA?
Me: HEY!

How quickly he turns on me.

In other news, whoa, there has been so much de-lurking going on via email and comments! Muy exciting. I have been traipsing all around the innernets looking at all ya'lls blogs, and loving it! In the process, my blog friend over at Moving Right Along has tagged me with the Moaning Meme. Dirty! Not really. It's the other kind of moaning, not the good kind. Too bad. Ok, here goes, my pretties.

5 people that will be annoyed that you tagged them

Why would I tag people who I think would be annoyed? If I really want to annoy you, I would find a much more sinister way of doing it than tagging you for a meme, like tying your shoelaces together or making you go on a date with Ryan Seacrest or something. And, if you were the type to be annoyed by being tagged for a meme, then really, you have too much time on your hands. Because memes are totally ignorable. You get tagged, you don't want to do it, you don't do it. Where does annoyance come into it? Does this make any sense to you at all? I am getting annoyed with this even as I type it. So maybe the answer to this question is I am annoyed at the way this question is annoying me.

4 things that should go into room 101 and be removed from the face of the earth

Disease, hunger, poverty, and ignorance. These are my answers and my name is Miss Washington. Now let's get to the evening gown competition and then you can give me my god damn tiara.

3 things people do that make you want to shake them violently

Is it me or is this meme getting kind of hostile? I'm kind of scared of it. Go to Anger Management class, you crazy meme! I don't usually want to shake people violently. Although it might be fun to put them in one of those exercise machines, you know, from the olden days, that they always had in cartoons? It was like a machine that had a big, human sized rubberband hooked to it. You would stand there, with part of the big rubberband around your ass, and you would lean back on it, and when you turned the machine on, it vibrated the rubberband and you like crazy. Let's talk about the three people I would want to put in one of those. Ok, first, ME. Because it looks fun. Second, umm...ok how about I get three turns?

2 things you find yourself moaning about

SO DIRTY! I apologize for saying that again. I just can't help it. Ok, I'm focusing. I moan if surroundings that are in my control (my house, my desk, my closet, myself) are messy or aesthetically unpleasing. I am not proud of this, but I accept it about myself. I also moan about the state of the world. Because a lot of it is jacked up, have you noticed this?

1 thing the above answers tell you about yourself

The word "moaning" makes me say the word "dirty!" This is not new news. It's just nicely illustrated here. I don't think I'll tag anyone (as they might, apparently, be annoyed), and I don't think I will ruminate more on what my anwers tell me about myself, as I fear it will lead to some sort of "it all means I'm crazy" conclusion. So I guess I'm not following the instructions to the letter, but don't you guys know that this is AMERICA?

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl