Pressure Cooked Chicken Legs

Peer pressure doesn't usually get to me. As a kid, I never drank when I didn't want to, or smoked a doob, or let any dude get to whatever base he was trying to get to unless I wanted him to get there. (And may I say, that whole baseball/sex analogy always confuses me. What are the bases? I can never remember. There are more than four steps to doing the deed, so how can it be condensed into three bases and a homerun? Sports analogies will always confound me no matter what. Why can't we come up with another set of criteria to chart sexual progress? Like, say, going to the movies. That's much more universal. "Standing in line." "Buying a ticket." "Eating your popcorn." "Finding a seat." See? So many more metaphoric possibilities. Ok, I am going to stop talking about s-e-x now or else my blog search traffic will be attracting all kinds of riff raff).

My one peer pressure story that I can think of right now happened to me in the 7th grade. This was the era of "boy-girl" parties. The archetype for this type of party is written about eloquently in that timeless ode to puberty, Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret. If you know that book, you know the exact type of party I am talking about. At this party, I played Spin the Bottle for the very first time. I didn't really want to play, as I was, even then, a picky effer and I didn't want to chance spinning the bottle and getting forced into kissing some troll. I wanted to choose my OWN troll, thank you very much. I remember there was talk of playing the game long before the party even got started, and the anticipation of it built up this tension in the party basement (why are these parties always in a basement?) and all I could think about was the impending spin. It is not too dramatic to say that I was filled with dread.

At some point in the party, the bottle was unveiled. It was a giant, empty two-liter coke bottle, which seemed totally unromantic to me. "Who's going to start us off?" yelled the bottlemonger. And somehow, someone (I wish I could remember who this bastard was) decided to yell out my name.

This is the part where I should have summoned forth my inner Mr. T and said "hells no. I ain't kissin' no random troll, fool!" But I didn't. That person saying that I would be the one to go first, I don't know, it had a strange power over me. A power akin to the Double Dog Dare. I couldn't refuse. I took the bottle. And spun it.

It landed on Ryan. Ryan of the bowl haircut and chicken legs. Ryan, who although he was my friend, he was also a person who I would never, ever, ne-zever, want to touch with a ten foot pole. But there it was. He looked at me, our eyes locked, and he seriously looked like he was about to have a heart attack from fear. Everyone whooped and cheered. It was horrible. We were swept up and shoved into a closet together. Ew ew ew. We very well could have stood there and not touched each other and no one would have ever known the difference. Unfortunately 7th grade brains don't figure this shit out. At least mine didn't. I felt like I had to consummate the bottle-point. I had entered into this stupid game and I was going to see. it. through. We stared at each other. Ryan didn't move. He was bugging out, big time. Petrified. I probably didn't look much better. Finally, I took a breath, grabbed him by the shoulders, and gave him a firm, loud smooch. On the cheek. It was all I could do, and believe me, that was more than enough. Upon finishing my mission, I turned abruptly and got the hell out of that closet. I don't remember anything else about the rest of that night. Did anyone else even continue the game? I don't think they did. They had hazed Ryan and me enough and so they were done with that.

That's my story of peer pressure. I guess in the grand scheme of things, it's not so bad. But now, here in the midst of my grown-up years, I am caving again. Last year, Josh signed up for National Blog Posting Month, or as it's now known, NaBloPoMo. Although I couldn't imagine writing a post a day for a whole month, I signed up too. Why did I do that? Josh didn't even ask me to. I just felt an implied peer pressure. The cool kids are doing it, so I have to do it too. So I did. And now, here we are again. Josh announces he's doing it again on his blog, and what do I do? Sign myself right up. Geez, Librarian Girl, if Josh jumped off a bridge, would you do it too?

So, starting tomorrow, I am posting every day for the whole month. And you know what? So are you. Come on! You know you want to! Do it with me. Be my partner in diaherria of the keyboard. Sign up here, and when you do, friend me.

Do it! Do it! Don't make me shove you in a closet with Chicken Legs Boy.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

High School Date-ical

There are many things I can tolerate in life. In fact, I am one of the more easy-going chicas you are likely to come across in your travels around this grand earth-ball of ours. A little dumb? That's ok with me. Feeling ornery? Alright. You like to sing Barry Manilow songs to the full moon in your underwear? Go for it. But if there's one thing I can't abide by, it's when someone is half ass.

What is the true definition of half ass? It's one of those indefinable things, isn't it? You know it when you see it though, right? It's when someone doesn't follow through. It bugs the holy hell out of me. Or it's when someone just kind of does something. I kind of like him, so I guess I will date him. That sort of thing. Or when one works in a service job with the public (oh, like perhaps in a library) and gives shoddy service. Half ass. Nordic Boy thinks I am a little bit obsessed with this idea and that's because I'm always naming it when I see it. And for some reason, I am seeing it a lot.

Him: Saw Roberta today. She said she would love to have us over sometime.
Me: She says that every time we see her. She's been saying that for a whole year.
Him: I know.
Me: Did she actually follow through? Suggest a time? Anything?
Him: No.
Me: God. What a half ass.

Once I have pronounced something "half ass," Nordic Boy knows that the conversation is over. It is, I think, the one thing for which I am judgy. I don't know why. I don't know where this comes from. Follow through, people. Don't do a lackluster job of things. Don't be tepid. In or out. Yes or no. That's what I respond to. Balls out. Hey- I guess the opposite of half ass would be balls out. How funny is that?

Anyway, Nordic Boy and I were invited to a costume party this weekend. In our busy-ness, we didn't have time to come up with a really good costume. And costumes were required at this party. So, at the last minute, we didn't go. Why? I could not bring myself to just go in a half-ass costume. I cannot be half ass! It will not happen! That underwear Barry Manilow singing thing? I would do that before knowingly being half ass about anything. I am not going to do something like put on my regular clothes, wear lots of eyeliner and dark shadow around my eyes, and go as "Heroin Addict Me" or some shit like that. Lame. And I'm not doing it. No way no how. It's all in or not at all as far as I am concerned.

So, on Saturday night, Nordic Boy and I found ourselves suddenly sans plans. What should we do? Nordic Boy came up with the perfect solution. "Let's go on a high school date." So that's what we did.

First, we went to dinner. The waiter must have known that we were on a high school date, because the first thing he did was card me. And yes, my evolved, womanly, mature self was happy that this happened. It could even be said that I "got my jollies" from it. (Did you all use the word "jollies" in this manner when you were in high school? I am not ashamed to say that I did.) And then, not only did he card me, he then noticed that my driver's license just expired about a week ago (I totally didn't know that) and kicked us out of the bar area of the restaurant! How much of a high school date event is THAT? I got kicked out of many a joint back in the day. Ah, memories.

When we were re-seated in the all-ages area, I ordered a soda. The waiter brought me my soda and it looked like this.


A heartbeat away from a Shirley Temple, is what I think this is.

After dinner, we went to a movie. The theater was full of actual teenagers, but we stuck to the plan. After the movie, we went to an arcade. Oh yes. We did.


Load up on the tokens, baby!

The feeling of being a teenager was marred a bit by the fact that we had to go up to the "oldies" section to find any games that we knew how to play. (Well, that's not entirely true. I know how to play DDR and Guitar Hero and stuff like that, but if you think I am going to play those games in front of crowds of actual teenagers, you are out of your everloving gourd). So up to the oldes section we went. I played a little bit of Ms. PacMan...


She can play and take a photo with her camera phone all at once!

Nordic Boy played a little Frogger, we both played a little bit of Skee-Ball, (where I won myself some nice jelly bracelets, thanks very much), and Nordic Boy found his favorite game of all time: Galaga. And he got on that thing (which he hasn't played in at least ten years) and friggin' rocked it. I was giggly teen girlfriend watching him go. It was awesome.


He's a maniac, maaaaniac!

Then, on the way home, this is what transpired:

Him: So, we should talk about something that teenagers talk about. If we're on a high school date and all.
Me: Ok, so like what?
Him: I don't know. Doogie Howser?
Me: Teens don't talk about Doogie Howser.
Him: But we're on a teenager date, like from when we were teenagers. We just got done playing Galaga, for Christ's sake. So we should talk about something that we would have talked about back when we were teenagers.
Me: And Doogie Howser is what you come up with for that?
Him: Yeah, I guess you're right.
Me: Although, man. I loved Doogie. I never could see what he liked so much about Wanda though.
Him: Who's Wanda?
Me: WHO'S WANDA? You're the one who brought this whole topic up, and you don't know who Wanda is?
Him: Actually, I never watched that show.
Me: Oh.
(Silence, silence).
Him: So, anyway. What I really want to know is: were you the type to put out in high school or what? Because the date is about to end and all, so. Just asking.
Me: Um, maybe I was, maybe I wasn't. Depends on your definitions.
Him: Depends? Either you did or you didn't. How can you say "kind of"?
Me: I don't know. It's not clear-cut.
Him: Half ass.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Held in High Esteem

I know what it looks like. It looks like I am just skating by with doing Weeklies all the goddamn time and not writing anything else. I know. But the only reason that happened was because I was late with the last Weekly and so that backed up into this week and now I am doing a Weekly for this week and all the Weekly-ness is happening back to back. That's just the way it is right now. Don't be mad. With all due respect to Lesley Gore, it's my bloggy and I'll do what I want to. And what I want is to keep up with the Weekly schedule. Aaa-ight?

Oh to hell with the Weekly schedule. I will do another Weekly next week. I have something else on my mind so I will talk about that. Keeping up with me? I am a whimful woman and I make no apologies. Sorry.

Oops, I guess that was an apology. Sorry!

Dammit. I can't stop doing that.

Ok, starting again. Here's what I am thinking about. High self esteem. I think I have it, and I am no longer sure that this is such a good thing. I say this not for the reasons that you may be thinking I mean (wow, how's that for sentence structure?). You may be thinking that high self esteem is merely a code phrase for "narcissistic assmunch." Not what I'm saying. I honestly, truly, wholeheartedly believe to the depths of my being that I am not a narcissistic assmunch. Then again, if one is an assmunch, maybe that's not the best position to judge, right? Do assmunches know they are assmunches? That's a true conundrum. Forget a tree falling in the forest with no one around to hear it. Assmunchery self awareness is something to ponder.

But really, I don't think I have a narcissus complex or anything. And, if it helps to make my case on this, no one in all my life has ever accused me of being self absorbed or snooty patooty or anything like that. So if you don't believe me, trust those around me. But good self esteem, I got that. And mostly, it's done me proud. I like myself, I don't feel bad about my body or my looks, I know enough to get away from dickwads who are mean to me in whatever form they come in (boyfriends, friends, bosses, family members), I gots good boundaries, I trust in my abilities, I am generally not full of doubt about things. I am a confident person. All good, right?

But now, I am full of doubt. About what? About the very thing that makes me usually not doubt things. My self esteem.

First of all, I read a lot of teen literature for work. And in this teen literature, there is often a depiction of teen reality wherein there are cliques. You all know the stereotypes. The jocks, the cheerleaders, the burnouts, the art geeks. And for the longest time, whenever I would read this stuff, I would think "gawd. How exaggerated. Teens are not like this. I was not like this as a teen. People I know were not like this. I was friends with all those people. Jocks, cheerleaders, art geeks, whatever. We weren't all at seperate tables in the cafeteria. We were mixing it up. What's with these books? It's just to make the narrative that much more dramatic and angsty for the teen reader. Yeah, that must be it." As much as I enjoy John Hughes movies, my teen world did not look like that to me. Why couldn't Andie and Blane date? Who cared? When I was in high school, I went to parties in trailer parks, and I went to parties in huge houses. I dated a guy in a gang once, and I smooched around with the school jock. What's the big deal?

Then, a couple weeks ago, my friends Alli and Map came to visit. We all went to high school together, and when we see each other, we talk about it. We talk about what we did, who we kissed, our friends, the people we despised, all of it. In detail that would probably scare most of you out there with its complexity. I remember things that no sane person should remember about their childhood. Details that would freak your freak. I remember songs we sang in choir and can still sing them all, I remember the bulletin boards that we made for Homecoming week and could draw you a picture, I remember who sat behind me in Geometry class. It all comes out during these times I spend with my two pals. But you know what I don't remember? I don't remember who didn't talk to me. I don't remember who left me off their party invite list. I don't remember which boy didn't flirt with me. Not. At. All.

I know all of these things happened. I know there were people who, in their opinion, I wasn't good enough for, or who thought I wasn't pretty enough to ask out. I know I was snubbed sometimes. There were probably even times when other kids said cutting things to me, insulted me, tried to make me feel like less of a person. I know this. All kids go through it. Granted, I was never truly bullied, which is a whole other level of being ostracized, but I am not talking about that. I am talking about regular old teen meanness. I know it happened to me. But I never noticed! What kind of person doesn't notice these things? A tree stump of a person? A tra la la Pollyanna?

Alli and Map, as we talked about high school, remembered these things, like normal people do. A certain name would come up, and one of them would say "Biff never gave me the time of day. He never once talked to me or acknowledged that I existed." And as they would say this, I would think to myself, slowly, because it never dawned on me before: "Hey wait. Biff never talked to me either. And come to think of it, he did talk to most of my other friends. I always thought that he just never got around to saying howdy. But wow. I guess he was snubbing me. I never noticed!"

I never noticed. I never noticed. I pride myself on being an extremely observant, smart person. How could I have never noticed that there were cliques in high school? How could I have never noticed the ones that I was in and the ones that I wasn't in? I find this truly bothersome. It makes me feel like what I am calling "good self esteem" is, in truth, just a cover for being completely dumb as a doorknob. Apparently, I have no clue as to what is going on around me. Would I be one of those people that, when the fascists come to take my neighbors away, I will skip around and think that they just went on vacation with their nice, armed, uniformed tour guides?

I am glad that I am a confident person. I am glad that, when someone doesn't talk to me, my first thought isn't that it's because I am not cool enough, or because they are a big meanie, even if either of those things might actually be true. But am I living in a land of delusion? (Which is bordered, by the way, by the Land of Confusion, which was founded in the 1980s by Phil Collins). I feel completely shocked at the amount of people that probably thought I was uncool in high school and I never even knew about it.

I feel like the inverse of Sally Field, all surprised and saying "You didn't like me! You really didn't like me!"

What kind of ass is it better to be? A dumbass or an assmunch? Seems I am the former, not the latter. Want to join my dumbass clique? We can sit together in the cafeteria and plan a class war against the assmunches. I have to re-live my teen years. I was apparently not paying much attention during mine.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

The Skipped Weekly

Oh no I di'n't!

I didn't do an installment of the Weeklies last week. Should I acknowledge that I didn't do it or just not mention it and go on as if I did and do one this week like everything is right on schedule? Guess that option is moot since I just said that. Can I just say that the word moot always, always reminds me of the skit on SNL a long, long time ago (maybe in the 80s) where Jessie Jackson keeps saying "the question is moot!" I have no recollection of what the skit was about, or why he kept saying it, or if it was even funny at all, but it's burned into my brain.

So now that you know that I missed the Weekly last week, what should I do? Call this Weekly # 4 and write about last week? Or call it Weekly #5 and skip this week? It just now occurs to me that you don't give a flying fig what I do with my Weekly. That's right, it just occurred to me just right then and not a moment before. Took me that long. I end up figuring things out, if you just give me long enough.

Weekly Version 4.5-- The Four-Point-Five-Peat

Weekly TeeVee: So, I watched the Bachelor. Had never seen it before, and so I decided it was time. All I have to say is ARE YOU KIDDING ME? Are. You. Friggin'. Kidding. MEEEEE. That's all I have to say about that. Also, I took Journeyman off the Tivo list. I wanted to give it a chance. I wanted it to be an updated, sleek, new millenium Quantum Leap, starring the B-list Daniel Craig. But I just couldn't eat the shit that was being served up. No one ever communicates in the show, EVER. Every scene goes like this:

Daniel Craig-ish: I have leaped back in time! I have so many questions about why this is happening!
Other character who has answers to why this is happening: Hey Daniel.
Daniel: Hey. What's up?
Other character: Nothing much.
Daniel: (banter, banter, meaningless banter)
Other character: (banter, banter)
Daniel: Oh! I am about to leap back! Too bad I never asked you any questions!
Other character: Obviously, you are a dumb ass.

So, I am leaping back to a time when I didn't watch Journeyman. And look at that! I gained an hour of my life back!

Weekly Music: I have recently (and temporarily) changed work locations. For the next couple months, I no longer have the luxury of my usual 5-minute commute. I have to actually get in my car and drive every day, for about a half hour. This is such a novelty to me I can't even tell you. There are many crappy things about commuting, which I won't get into right this minute. But, there is one awesome thing about commuting. Quality time with my iPod. I plug that baby in and the party is ON. You know how some schools these days have "sustained reading" periods for students? This is "sustained listening." It's lovely, really. So if you're driving in rush hour traffic through Seattle and you see a black-haired lady in her car, bouncing to the beat of "Don't Leave Me This Way" by Thelma Houston (shut up, like you don't have cheesy songs on your iPod) and singing her heart out, that would be me. "Awwwww BAY-BEH!"

Weekly Worst Moment:
Last week, I found out my mom, who has been sick for the past week or so, actually has pneumonia. I also found out that two other close family members aren't doing so well in the health department. There's not much in life that scares me. Talk to me about ghosts, monsters, serial killers, spiders, rats, heights, what have you, and I am fine. But serious health issues for loved ones? That scares me. Well, that and Walmart.

Weekly Best Moment:
Four things.
1. Serious Best Moment: Learning that my mom was on the mend.
2. Silly Best Moment: I was reading a newsletter from the city government that we got in the mail, and it referenced having a "Family Disaster Plan." I looked at Nordic Boy and said "Hey, do we have a Family Disaster Plan?" and he looked apologetic, shrugged his shoulders, and offered this up: "Sure. Run for the hills?"
3. Synchronicitous (yes that is too a word) Best Moment: My friends H and R came over to play 80s Trivial Pursuit the other night. I think they know more stupid pop culture stuff than me. I heart that.
4. Aww Shucks Best Moment: Well-wishers rock. I had a work change this week and the people who went out of their way to wish me well and say a kind word about it rock out, hard core.

Weekly Photo: I saw this dude across the street from me in the biggest pair of rainbow camo hammerpants walking down the street. I wanted to take a photo but I didn't have the bawls. So I took a photo of the street where he had just been. Can you see the hammerpants vapor trail?


I'm out,
Librarian Girl

You All Still There?

Jeez you guys. Where the heck have you been? I keep waiting and waiting, and you haven't shown up in like, DAYS.

See what I did there? I have been neglecting YOU, but yet I come in swinging. Accusing you. Making you feel all defensive. Good strategy, right? Deflect the guilt away from me. Except, because of my self-diagnosed condition of not being able to shut up, I have now ruined it by explaining all of that to you. Hmmm. Maybe you won't notice if I just go right back into attack mode. Yeah, that's what I'll do.

Shit, people. If you are not committed to this blog, then what is the point? There has to be ACTIVITY. Not days and days of silence. Silence will not make this blog relationship work. Don't apologize. Just don't let it happen again, ok?

Now that that is out of the way, I have a confession to make. I pulled a little bit of an April Fools on you during my last post. Never mind that it isn't April. I'm just tricky that way. See, that photo of me and Desmond Tutu? TOTALLY FAKE. I have never met Desmond. The only one who called me out on this photo was Josh. Damn you, Josh, for seeing through my wiley ways and not falling for the joke. Now I can't say "ha ha! Fooled everyone!" because I didn't, technically, fool everyone. Damn that Josh and his wax-detecting skills. That Desmond Tutu is a wax Desmond Tutu. When I was 15 years old (and thank you all so much for not pointing out the awkwardness of that particularly gawky stage in my life, although I know you were all thinking it. Don't even try and deny it), I went on a tour of England with a performing kids choir. (And by the way, as I type the words "performing kids choir" I visibly gag. Just a little). When in London, we went to the wax museum, where I took photos of me with notable wax. Desmond, Marilyn Monroe, the royal family, Charlie Chaplin, Marlon Brando, James Dean, Mozart...I have photos of me with all of them. The one of me and Desmond though, was the most realistic (and not just because he is one of the only ones who is still living). I put that photo on my fridge and for years, people would be so impressed with it. "WOW. You met Desmond Tutu????" And then I would say yes, and tell some ridiculous story ("I was a child ambassador who represented my country at a UN conference") and watch people's eyes bug out for a few minutes before I would say "PUNKED!" or some other such very mature thing. So me. Standing next to a lump of wax. Wax that has been shaped into a Tutu shape. Gotcha!

Here's what's happening with me. I am happy to report that I FINALLY, FINALLY had a rip-roaring birthday fandango celebration! So what if it was a week late? It was WELL WORTH IT. My friends Alli and Map blew into town for the weekend and we had a delicious birthday fest. The planets aligned for me. They really did. Here, I'll prove it. You remember the photo of what the view looks like from my city for the bulk of the autumn? It looked like that as I drove to the airport to pick up my pals. As soon as they arrived though, and for the rest of the weekend, my city didn't look like that. It looked like this.



Happy Birthday to MEEEEE.

The first night we were all together, we went out to eat and caught each other up on our lives. Oh, and then? I got to have this.



Happy Birthday to MEEEEE!

Oh, and the other thing we got to do? I took Alli to my favorite little design studio where she got to design her own purse. I didn't buy anything, but being in the presence of fabrics and designy items was present enough. And Alli got two bags out of it!


Look at her! Designing and everything!

In the evening, we all went back to my house and I busted out my binders (dirty!). I have binders of every single letter or note that I have ever received. If you have ever written me anything on a piece of paper, I assure you I still have it. We read out notes from old friends, boyfriends, you name it, and laughed until barfing was imminent. There were several moments where I had to get up and leave the room because the funny was hurting me so bad. For instance, here's a note that was written to me by someone we still know and love. Someone who is a fine, upstanding, compassionate, loving friend. But in 8th grade? She was ANGRY.

"Fuck no! I hate her. At first I just disliked her but now...I mean, who is she to do 'ums' and 'buts' on Jeff? He's my good friend and she acts like she can write down every time he takes a breath. Also, she knows i was doing 'umms.' It was my idea. She as good as stole it. One day, I'm gonna tell her off, I'll say 'Fuck you Susan! And if you cry, I'm beating the shit out of you. Don't go home and tell your mommy, go home and wash your hair scum!'"

HOLY SMOKES. Angry, angry! And the thing is, this person never touched a hair on anyone's head, nor ever got in fights, and was/is a sweet person. But trash talk in the 8th grade? Spewing it forth! Go home and wash your hair...scum???? Who SAYS that?

The next day, we went out for brunch and then, of all things to do, we decided to go to the Locks. The Locks is a point where the freshwater meets the saltwater and boats are raised or lowered so that they can pass from one body of water to the other. This was only peripherally the thing that Alli and Map wanted to see. The real attraction at the Locks is that there is a salmon run, where you can watch salmon swimming upstream in that crazy dash to spawn and die. Out of towners always want to see this. So that's where we went. It was pretty, even though that type of circle of life thing can get me thinking all existential and about mortality and what's it all mean and shit like that.


Lock it up!

Then, we went to Archie McPhee and did super fun touristy things like by trinkets for loved ones (ok, I didn't buy any trinkets, but I was vicariously doing so) and take photos like this.


Map as the Gorton's Fisherman

Then we went downtown and toured the library, whiched totally wowed them, both because of the awesomeness of the library, but I think because of the complete unfathomable nature of the idea that I, the little girl who used to pop wheelies on my bike all over the neighborhood, now works in such a grown up profession, with like, responsibilities and stuff.

What they said out loud: WOW! You get to work in such a great library system, doing such interesting things!
What they said in their heads: WOW! This is the girl who used to dress like Bananarama!

We walked and ate and talked and laughed. Them girls are the funniest people on earth, for reals. I was sad to see them go home. Sad and a little mad. Yeah, that's right. I was mad. They can go home and wash their hair for all I care. Scum.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Birthday Week Happenings in History

I am so incredibly tempted to keep on qvetching about my lack of birthday fun and how I was sick and boo hoo and play the violins and please do cry for me Argentina, and all of that. I could totally still go there. But, I am a bigger person than that. My heart will go on, as that sage of Quebecois wisdom would say. Yes! My heart will go on! Turn on the wind machines and I will sing it while hitting myself on the brittle shard-like collar-bone that sticks out of my body! Or at least I will pretend about that collar bone thing. The point is. Me. Heart. Proceeding.

And in the spirit of THAT, I will celebrate myself, Walt Whitman style. (See how I can go straight from a Celine Dion reference right into a Walt Whitman reference without batting an eye? You love that about me, don't you? If you don't, you really should.) Not only will I celebrate myself, I shall celebrate the day I was born. Oh great day! You shall be marked by more than just an empty box of Kleenex and a VapoRub haze! The day is bigger than me!

Here's some rockin' things that rocked out in history on the day that rocks even when I am illin'. Word.

Weekly #4, The Birthday Week Edition

2003 Arnold becomes governor
Ok, so this one may not be the best way to start things, is what you're probably saying to yourself. But just think of it! The Terminator became in charge of a WHOLE STATE. What universe are we living in? A wondrous one, with mysteries that will never be completely comprehended by the human brain. Just as we were expected to believe that Arnold and Danny Devito were twins, we were also expected to accept that Conan the Barbarian was the best choice on the ballot to make decisions for all of California. And it happened, on the day I was born.

1982 Cats debuted
Do you remember that? All alone in the moonlight? Come on. You know you have an inner Shimbleshanks in you somewhere. Or was it Skimbleshanks? Simple-Skanks? Sorry, my memory ain't what it used to be. Or should I say, my meeeeh-mreeeee ain't what it used to be. Touuuuuch meeeee, it's so easy to leeeeeve meeeeee.... Wow. Looks like some parts of my memory are just fine.

1957 "American Bandstand" premieres
Is it just me or are only really cheezy things happening on my birthday? First Arnold, then Cats, now this? That's ok though. My love of pop culture knows no bounds. Dick Clark and his weird non-aging self can share in my birthday. You know, Dick Clark should have signed a deal to be the spokesmodel for an anti-aging cream. I mean, I don't care if he's not Isabella Rossellini in the looks department, that guy was PRESERVED for so long. I would have bought Oil of Olay if I thought that was his secret. Ok, maybe I wouldn't have, but a lot of people would. Dick. You shoulda done it. See what happens when people don't consult me about things?

1955 Allen Ginsberg reads "Howl" for the first time at Six Gallery in San Francisco.
Lookee that. A non-cheezy one! Awesome. Instead of cheese, we have a hallucinatory poetic journey with lots of sexy bits in it. Plus, this was the book that Jess always had with him when he first showed up on the Gilmore Girls, so it's just GOT to be good, right? (Ok, so I had to add a little cheese. Couldn't help myself).

1959 Far side of Moon seen for first time, compliments of USSR's Luna 3
"There is no dark side of the moon really. Matter of fact it's all dark." See what I did there? I quoted. Fancy, huh?

1985 Lynette Woodward, chosen as first woman on the Harlem Globetrotters
But did she ever get to meet Scooby Doo, is what I want to know. Because wasn't that the big perk about being in the Globetrotters?

1913 Moving assembly line at Ford began
This one I had to include, being that I am from Michigan and all and assembly lines are a big deal there. Plus, had it not been for Ford, we never would have seen LaVerne and Shirley put their gloves on the beer bottles and wave at them as they went by at Schott's brewery. Thanks, Ford!

1931 - Desmond Tutu, South African archbishop and Nobel Laureate, is born.
And look at that! Two birthday fools partying out on the town! This was when I was 15 years old:


Is it me or do I look like the only one who's happy that we share a birthday?

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Good Grief

Ok, listen up people. (Isn't that totally such a high school teacher thing to say? "Listen up!" Who else says that phrase except for teachers? That and "settle down!" Basically, those are the two things that teachers want out of students. To listen up, and to settle down).

Back to my point. I have a birthday curse and it has got to stop. Something stupid always happens on my birthday, like clockwork. Nothing catastrophic, nothing earth shattering, just something stupid enough to make the day feel un-birthday-ish. My brother and I have a term for when something happens to you that can be chalked up to nothing but bad luck. We call it the Charlie Brown Syndrome. When you have a week where you lock yourself out of your house (hi, Bio-Girl), or you lose your favorite necklace, or you stick your foot in your mouth at an important work meeting- those events, individually, are just random bad luck events. But if you have a day when ALL of these happen, this can be quickly diagnosed as the Charlie Brown Syndrome. I have taken this Syndrome to new levels. Bad luck things may not be happening to me all in one day, but they do happen to me every year, like a fucked up Old Faithful, on my birthday.

I don't know what has happened. I used to have great birthdays. My friends would celebrate me, I would get showered with love, I would have this golden day each year that I would remember fondly forever. But now? Nuh-uh. Not happening. Five years straight. The birthday gods are not smiling on me any more. To be perfectly poetic about it: it sucks royally.

I'm not going to get into the details of each of the past five birthdays and why each of them was equivalent to a poopy parade. It's just too depressing. Let me just stick to my current problems. My birthday is this weekend. I have a birthday dinner with some friends tonight, I have a birthday brunch tomorrow followed by a manicure with another pal, I had birthday plans in the evening. Sunday Nordic Boy has a whole mystery day planned for the two of us. But you know what? Not happening. Because my body has decided to shut down and give me a raging cold wherein the only things I can do are drink warm fluids and watch tv and sleep. This morning? I am unable to talk. The sore throaty-ness has gone from Rita Cosby to Mutey McNo-Sounds. I had to do sicky charades at Nordic Boy this morning to ask him for a glass of water and more tissue. So yeah. Birthday Number 5 in the string of cosmic pratfalls that now commemorates the day I was born. It's getting kind of hard not to start thinking this is some sort of existential sign. Why the bad birthdays? Five in a row has got to MEAN something. I am trying to figure out what the universe is trying to tell me. Shut up about your birthday? Stop trying to celebrate yourself so hard?

I am not accepting this. I am nothing if not able to spin something in my favor. Here's what I am thinking. A lot of people have bad stuff happening to them all the time. Most people, actually. Bad jobs, bad relationships, all-around bad. So, when their birthday comes around, they, more than anyone, deserve to have a great day. A day where they can forget about all their troubles and just have a blissful time. So maybe (watch this! spin spin spin!) I am having the opposite. I have a great life. I am experiencing my bliss on a daily basis. There's not much of anything that I would change about my life at all. So maybe, I am having my birthday celebration every day OTHER than my birthday, and I am getting all the Charlie Brown-ness out of my system all in one go, ON my birthday.

It totally makes sense in my head.

You can totally not believe me if you want, or shake your head silently at the way I am trying to re-invent the 5-Year Birthday Shit Sandwich. Just don't say anything about it. I don't want to see any comments or emails from you all in some sort of cacophony of reality or anything. Just humor me. It's my birthday.

Go shorty! It's my birthday!

I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Weekly, the Three-quel

The weather has officially turned. The rain, she pours. The clouds, they laugh. The wind, he cuts.

I thought it would make it that much more dramatic if I wrote it all stupid like that.

I guess it's time for a Weekly, but I'm not sure because I am all jacked up because I worked both days of this weekend. Whenever I do that, it's like a weird form of jet lag or something. I don't know what day it is, where I am, what I am doing. I just get all messed up. So like now, it feels like a Wednesday. But I don't have that half-the-week-is-over feeling, because I still have to work until Friday. You know what I mean?

Goddammit this is rivieting.

That paragraph right up there, kind of reminds me of some of the conversations I have with Biology Girl. She and I can really get into the minutae of our lives. Somehow, hearing about how she did her laundry and that she slightly overcooked her dinner is fascinating to me. And if I am bursting at the seams to tell someone that I counted out the change in my change jar and hey- I have twenty bucks!- she would be the one to care. Not just humor me, but really care. So that paragraph up there, that one is for her. The rest of you all can just go ahead and un-read it.

On to the Weekly! Weekly #3: the Three-peat!

Weekly TeeVee: I have never seen a full episode of Survivor. I know, I know, as the pop culture librarian, this seems impossible. When it first started, I just couldn't bring myself to watch it, what with all the pseudo-tribal mumbo jumbo on there. As an islander myself, I just couldn't stomach it. Much like I will never, and I mean never, participate in "Hawaiian Shirt Day" at work. It's not like I am offended by it, or begrudge anyone else on this stuff. I just can't go there. So, after all these years, I never jumped on the Survivor bandwagon. But, I did catch the first elimination of this season. Apparently some dude named Chicken was eliminated. Chicken. How does one acquire such a name? Shame on that dude's parents. And when he was voted off, it was the most delicious, most honest expression of disappointment I think I have ever seen. Nordic Boy and I have been quoting Chicken all week. Oh, and on a side note. A personal message to Tim Gunn. Tim, I still love you and everything, but you are boring me to DEATH.

Weekly Music: We all know by now that I have a penchant for making up silly songs. In fact, if you are a bonafide songwriter or recording artist, and someone thinks that your songs are on par with mine, then you have really got a big problem. That means that your song is probably a big old turd. Case in point: I was cleaning the living room the other day, marching around the house singing "babywhereyougetyourbodyfrom, babywhereyougetyourbodyfrom...I got it from my mama, I got it from my mama..." I sang this song for so long, with so much committment, that I turned around to see Nordic Boy staring at me.

Him: Did you make that song up or is that a real song?
Me: Totally real.
Him: It is not. You made that up.
Me: Totally real!
Him: Shut up.
Me: I'm serious! It totally is!
Him: No. Really. I mean shut up.

Weekly Worst Moment: I was in a favorite shoe store of mine, buying a pair of gorgeous boots that I have been waiting two years to find, and as I was paying for the shoes, the saleslady (is that the right term? Retail attendant. Consumer helper. Shopping Elf.) asked to see my driver's license along with my credit card. I handed it over, and she had the gall to say to me: "oh. This isn't the best picture of you, is it?" I laughed a little and said, "yeah," because really, I couldn't argue with that. She went on to say "Wow. It's really unflattering. Not good." Ok lady, stop staring at my Quasimodo photo and give me my goddamn boots. I think she felt a little bad for going on about it because she then said "I mean, you're just much prettier in real life." Nice try, Home Slice, but the camera don't lie.

Weekly Best Moment: Nordic Boy and I have known each other a long time. Loooong. And you know, they say that when you've been together a long time, you start to become the same person. So far, this hasn't happened to us, as far as I can tell. There's no way we will ever look alike (me: shorty brown shortcake; and him: tall drink of blond water), we certainly don't dress alike, and our mannerisms are nowhere near each other. However, our strange, strange sense of humor. It's starting to become one. As we were driving to the hardware store the other day, there was a Chrysler Le Baron right in front of us.

Him: See that car? That kind of car totally reminds me of the Midwest.
Me: Totally.

And then, for no reason at all, at exactly the same time, we both yelled out "Le Barrrron!" in our very best fake French accents. Then we laughed so hard about it, that he had to pull over. Tears were shed. Stomachs cramped up. What is funny about this? Why did we both say it at the same time? Don't know. But it was good times.

Weekly Photo: This is what my sky will look like for the next 5-9 months.


Bust out the wool tights.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

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