Taking a Shot

Yesterday, I went to pick up BioGirl from her new work place, and I went in to take a gander at her new office. On her desk, she has photos of her loved ones. "I wanted to bring in a photo of us, but the one photo of us in existence that I had got damaged in the move back to Seattle." I have been friends with her for a decade, people. And yet she used the phrase "the one photo of us in existence." But it's true. Photo taking is not really a part of my life. I always forget to take pictures, and so the only photos I have of myself or any of my loved ones are photos that others have taken and then given to me. Photography is a beautiful thing, but I just haven't done it even with the best of intentions. I often go on picture-taking-appropriate adventures (like vacations, or family events) with no camera at all. And if I do remember to bring my camera, it stays totally forgotten in my purse until I get home. I am just too busy LIVING. I can't be expected to LIVE and TAKE PHOTOS OF IT TOO. That's two things at once and my teeny weeny pea brain can't handle that. I am trying to get better about this. So here I am, pledging it solemnly on my blog. I will take photos of stuff. Then I will post the photos on this here blog. There. Now if I don't do it you can...well, I don't really know what you can do about it, except call me a poopy photo pledger and that will certainly get my goat so that is something. Now I have a camera phone that takes super low-quality crap photos, but they are photos nonetheless so it counts. Do not berate me on quality. I will work up to actually taking my camera out in public and using it, but I shall start with baby steps. This weekend, for instance, was BioGirl's birthday weekend. One of the things that went on for said birthday weekend was that Neighbor J and I took her out for high tea at a local grandmaw establishment. Because, you know, she is one step closer to granny status and so let us all celebrate that. The place we took her was straight up dowdy, people. It was like Laura Ashley and Queen Victoria simultaneously puked out the decor in that place. It was doilies and ruffles and patterns, oh my. And all the servers in there? They all call everyone "dear." As in, "are you all done with that plate, dear?" They are just dearing everyone like crazy with every word they say. It must be company policy or something, because what are the odds that every single person that works there has the same exact verbal tic?

If you must know those are teacups intertwined into the decorative ivy around the windows which is obviously a really wrong thing to do but they went ahead and did it anyway, dear.

That's all of the photos I have from that whole day. Remember, I said baby steps.

How about I just download the last five photos that I have? No matter how unrelated they are? Ready?

This first one? Is of BioGirl's front gate. When we were moving her in, I decided to take photos during her moving day. I started out at her front gate. Why would someone take such a photo? Of all things. The reason I took it is because she lives in the highest security building I think I have ever seen. There are a ridiculous amount of such gates and doors that you have to go through (all locked) in order to get to her apartment. And they all have different keys. Her key chain is like a janitor's at this point.

You shall not pass!

Ha. How geeky is it that I just quoted Gandalf? It's times like these that I adore myself in a most condescending manner.

Next photo.

When helping someone move, there will be tasks that are a Royal Pain in the Ass. Like putting a futon together. When such tasks arise, saying "I just want to get a photo of this momentous futon building moment to remember for all time!" gets you out of participating in the manual labor. A photography tip from me to you.

Next photo! The next two, actually, are related. Last week, I went to lunch at a restaurant where lots of things either had to be gigantic or tiny.

Teeny tiny salt and pepper and...

a gigantic tower of wine.

Listen. I never said that I took interesting photos. The day of that lunch? I walked all around downtown Seattle and saw many a thing. I was at the fancy library, I was in the shopping district, I was at Pike Place Market. And this is what I chose to document. What a weirdo.

Lastly, on that same day, there was a strange thing in front of the library here. I never really got the story as to why it was there. But I did get a photo of it.

I think he's pissed about his hairdo.

These five photos don't bode well for future photo posts, huh? I may have to rethink my photo pledge up there. Hmm.

I'm out, dear,
Librarian Girl

Say My Name Say My Name

Did anyone watch "Girlicious" out there? Anyone at all? Because I watched every single episode, without fail. I liked it, I am not gonna lie. I just feel like I have to confess that. I don't know much about what defines a sin, but liking Girlicious has to rate on that scale somewhere. Ok, now I can move on.

Here's what I'm thinking. Should I change the name of my blog? I am feeling an itch to do it and on many levels, I don't like to itch. I also want to change how it looks. It's time for a new outfit, is what I keep thinking. Maybe. I can't decide.

Here's the thing. I've been writing under this blog shingle for a while now (jeez louise, it's been over two years!), and when I started it, I just did what I typically do with this blog. I blurted it all out. Including the name. I didn't think, I just did. Live in the now, man. That's what I did. Only, you know why I named it what I named it? It was just because I couldn't think of anything else. And you know, is this blog really librarian-ish enough? Or pop culture-ish enough? Or am I just engaging in false advertising? I don't know. It was either that or call it...what? I didn't have any ideas. I still don't, really.

The other thing is, I'm not the only blogger out there who's calling herself the pop culture librarian. There are others. I am not going to say that they are all people who want to emulate yours truly because the name is really too generic to claim ownership, you know? And besides, who knows? There was probably a pop culture librarian before me too so I can't bitch about the people who come after me. It's like, if you're naming your kid John, you can't get mad at other people for naming their kids John too. If you wanted something original, then name your kid Moon Unit or Dweezil or something.

And besides, I have all this fear that if I change my blog name, then all of a sudden people will be incapacitated and not update their readers and links and all such like and I will suddenly lose touch with all my bloggie friends out there. I'm not calling you all a bunch of lazy slobs or anything, but my abandonment issues can get the best of me in almost any situation.

I don't know. I guess since I have no ideas about what to rename myself, then I should just shut up about it. The blog re-design though. I could get behind that I suppose. But again. Do I have any ideas of what I want this thing to look like? Nope. I just want it to be different, and something I like, and enough with this crap blogger template. (Hi Blogger company! Heart you!) Any of you want to give me some suggestions? What do you think a blog like mine should look like? I seriously do have the itch for changing this up, and I need some blog itch ointment, you know what I'm saying?

That was a totally disgusting metaphor.

Shutting up now,
Librarian Girl

Prairie On My Mind

I have a secret arsenal of knowledge, and it is this. Little House on the Prairie. The tv show, not the books. Have I ever outed this about myself on this here blog before? But there. I said it. I am not ashamed!

Chances are, if you are around my age, you may have a part of your brain that is tapped into Little House too. It was a pretty popular show for kiddies back in the day. Not only that, there was a wealth of syndication where the show was played during afterschool hours so in the 80s, if you were watching after school tv, you kind of had to intentionally steer yourself away from that show in order to miss it.

I don't know what it is about certain things that are pop culture-ish, but they stick in my head in a most alarming way. I can quote Little House on the Prairie, chapter and verse. Why can't I have this ability when it comes to scientific and historic events, or even when it comes to remembering my grocery list? For everything else in life, I have to write things down, make lists, look things up. But for certain movies, tv shows, music...it's all right there. RIGHT THERE.

Yesterday, my friend Map sent me an email wherein she explained that she stumbled across a rerun of the Little House movie "The Last Farewell." She didn't even have to go on to explain what that was. She knows that I would know that that was the final episode, where the residents of Walnut Grove blow up their town. (I am not kidding. They end the series by blowing up their own town! TELL ME that isn't awesome). Not only that, she called it "The Last Goodbye" and I knew right away that she meant "The Last Farewell." Sick, right?

Not only that, she emailed me a ton of questions about the show, because, you know, Little House can be kind of fucked up and confusing for the uninitiated. Things like logic and making sense don't sometimes happen on that show. She must have emailed me like fifteen or twenty questions. And I just ripped off all the answers. Like THAT. I kind of spook myself out when I do shit like that, you know?

My relationship with Little House on the Prairie may seem odd to those who knew me growing up and who know me now. I wasn't raised in a farming community, nor do I know anything about rural life in general. I grew up in a factory town, with all the gritty urban ambience of smokestacks and steel. My favorite shows as a child were Fat Albert and Good Times, and I just couldn't relate to Walton's Mountain or the Dukes of Hazzard. None of my friends watched those kinds of shows, and neither did I.

But then, when I was a kid, LHOTP (oh yes! I acronymmed it!) reruns started playing every day after school. I remember my mom started watching them because there were things on that show that, oddly enough, reminded her of her childhood. She grew up on a small island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, and her family used things like hurricane oil lamps and outhouses when she was a child. "Look," she would tell me excitedly during the episode "Sylvia," where Albert apprentices as a blacksmith. "That's the kind of metal work your grandad used to do." "Uh-huh," I would reply absently, too freaked out by the masked mystery man to pay attention to what she was saying. (If you have any idea what I am talking about with that episode, we could SO be bffs).

My mom's love affair with Little House was short-lived. After a few weeks of watching it day after day, my progressive, lefty mom started to grumble. "That Mrs. Oleson is just a reflection of why patriarchy is afraid of strong women who have their own money," she would rail. No response from me, as I was glued to the screen. "That Hester Sue couldn't be any more Aunt Jemima-ish if they tried. Just sickening!" she would say.

It was too late, Mom. I was hooked. I can't even tell you exactly what it was that got me. I just couldn't stop watching, even as I saw every episode and saw them all over again. I watched until my burgeoning adolescent schedule pulled me away from my after-school Walnut Grove visits.

Flash forward twenty years. I had recently moved into a new duplex apartment, which was shared on the other side by Neighbor J. She and I were instantaneously friends as we had so many things in common. We talked incessantly about any topic of interest, and it was only a short time before she mentioned Little House.

"That so-and-so works so hard, it's like he's Pa Ingalls!" was the way it started.
Me: "What did you say?"
Her: "Oh, nothing. It's just that on that show Little House on the Prairie, there were always these episodes where Pa works so hard that he hurts himself. If you watched that show..."
Me: Say no more. I haven't seen that show in years, but I have this uncanny ability of remembering them all.
Her: You're kidding.
Me: Nope. I'll prove it. Ol' Dan Tucker was a fine old man...
Her: ...washed his face in a frying pan...

From that day forward, Neighbor J and I fed off of each other in our love for Little House. It was scary, the things we remembered. We had, it seemed, whole sections of our brains that were solely meant to store LHOTP facts and memories.

Now you guys know me and my friends by now. We are not calico-wearing girlies. We do not harken back to prairie times, we do not eat stew. We are bonafide cutting edge ladies. We eat sushi, we like Jon Stewart, we read Erdrich more than we ever read Wilder. We would rather wear Chanel No. 5 than Lemon Verbena. And yet.

Yet, we have this long-standing, inexplicable, undeniable adoration for Laura, Mary, Nellie, and all the rest (ok, except for Nancy). It's a closeted love that yearns to be free. We have often talked about the fact that there HAS to, there just HAS to be other people our age, in our demographic, who grew up with Walnut Grove and who see it as we do. We know it's cheesy. We know that Pa will well up with emotion in almost every episode. We know that Carrie seems stuck at age three for ten years straight. We know all of this. But we love them anyway. And we have an inkling that there are more like us out there.

Right?

Anyone?

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Papal Pep Rally

It keeps effin' snowing here, people! It is SO NOT CUTE.

It is not significant. I hail from Michigan so I understand what real snow is. (I just said "hail from Michigan!" Get it? I am so punny). This is flaccid little west coast snow. It is an event just because it sticks and forms a thin layer on the ground. I know this. But here's the thing, friends. If it snows in Michigan, it's because it is SUPPOSED TO. Everyone agrees on it. People have clothing that is appropriate for it, and infrastructure, and most of all they have the outlook for snow. Here? We EXPECT late April to be snow free. We expect it to snow once a year, probably in December or January, stick for one day or maybe two at most, and then be done. It's not supposed to keep coming. All of the people who move to the west coast partially move here for the gol darn weather. We were promised NO SNOW and now we are living here and it is a mild blizzard outside! I want my money back!

Ok, so I didn't really pay money for the weather, but who cares. I demand restitution for my suffering.

In brighter news, I heard something hilarious on NPR the other day. It was about the Pope. (And wow, is that Pope getting media coverage OR WHAT? It's like a 24 hour Pope Watch going on. I bet you Paris Hilton is SO jealous). Anyhow, the other day, there was this story on about the Pope visiting some college, or university, or other such book-learning institute. At the end of the news story, they played a recording of how the Pope was greeted by the student body. The students? Clapped and chanted this: "WE LOVE YOU! WE LOVE YOU! WE LOVE YOU!"

Why was this funny, you ask? Telling the Pope they love him was all fine and dandy, no comedy to the sentiment. But the WAY they did it? It was like a pep rally! In fact, if you weren't quite paying attention, it sounded a lot like a Homer Simpson style "YOU ESS AY! YOU ESS AY!"

Is it just me or is it funny to think that the sentiment towards the Pope was expressed in much the same way as oh, I don't know, the Bulls versus the Knicks game?

I don't know. It just cracked me up.

I think the snow is making me lose my mind a little.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Honey Baby Sweetheart

Yesterday, I was driving BioGirl home, and I needed to check a voicemail message on my phone, so I played it on speaker so as not to put it up to my ear with one hand and cause a crash by using my cell phone normally. On it, there was a message from Nordic Boy. After I listened to it...

Her: You know, it's kind of weird. He said your name on that message, and I realized that I don't really hear him use your name very often.
Me: What do you mean?
Her: I don't know. I guess because we usually all hang out together, so he doesn't have to say it very much or something.
Me: He uses my name pretty often, I think.
Her: I guess I just never noticed it before.
Me: I think you are just relieved that you heard a private voicemail from him to me and that you didn't have to hear any sickening pet names or anything.
Her: Totally. I am very relieved to know you just call each other by your names. I mean, if you call each other snookums, then I don't need to hear it, you know?
Me: Can you imagine? Like if I played that message, and all of a sudden, he was all "hello, poopsie!" All baby talk or something?
Her: Ugh!
Me: What is with that word, anyway? "Poopsie." That just don't sound right.
Her: No argument there.
Me: No, I mean, beyond the cutesyness of it. POOPSIE. How did that become a term of endearment? It derives from the word POOP.
Her: I never thought of that before.
Me: You shouldn't be calling your loved ones a word that derives from poop. It's not nice.
Her: I don't know if that's really the etymology of that word.
Me: I don't care. It's still wrong. Poopsie! How you gonna call someone that? What's next? I love you, snotsie? I mean, that's basically what it is. A bodily function name. A name that comes from poop.
Her: Stop saying poop!
Me: It's pretty passive aggressive. Like, you're acting like you love someone, but really, you're just calling them poop.
Her: Stop saying poop!
Me: Sorry.
Me: Poopsie.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Ebony and Ivory

When I was a child, I took piano lessons. They took place at my piano teacher Mrs. Mackelbee's house, and I frickin' hated it with a passion that was unparalleled. Once a week, I would trudge over there, and she would open her front door, wearing her navy blue Keds with white laces and her Mike Brady perm, and she would let me into her house to learn a tune or two. She had this whacked out, slobbery dog that would bare its teeth at me menacingly and race toward me like I was a gigantic sirloin steak, and she would say "oops!" and catch the dog just in time and drag him into another room while it gnashed its jaws at me. She never put the dog into another room before I got there. They did this every week, the dog and her, like some fucked up mind game that would somehow prep my mind and hands to play the goddamn scales out of the Finger Power songbook.

When I started piano lessons, I liked it. I must have been like 5 or 6 when I started. But, somehow, over the years, the seeds of hate were sown. I say "somehow," but actually, I know exactly what my problem was, besides facing Cujo each week. First of all, my sister was taking piano lessons, and she rocked it. And a key part of my life has been dedicated to differentiating myself from my overacheiving siblings. So if one of them rocked something, I was so not even going to go there. I spent enough time being compared to my sister that I never put myself in a position where I would have to directly compete with her, because I knew that in any such competition, I would lose.

But the bigger problem? Was that the more I played the piano, the more that I came to understand that I was so-so at it. Not bad, certainly, but just medium ok. I got myself to a place where I could read music, and move on from "Mary Had a Little Lamb" to "Nadia's Theme" to Moonlight Sonata." I even got myself to the really good stuff like "Careless Whisper" and "Head Over Heels" by Wham and Tears for Fears, respectively. My parents' whole rationale for putting me in piano lessons was that they wanted me to learn how to read music which, they insisted, I would be grateful for later on when I was older. And that is certainly true. I am glad I know how to do that. So Wham songs and music literacy. What more could I have wanted than that?

What I wanted, people, was to be good. Not only good, actually, but GREAT. I wanted accolades, I wanted applause. I wanted my teacher to say that I was such a great student and that she was wowed by my untapped potential.

Mrs. Macklebee never said that. She was a kind lady, and she taught me as best she could, but she wasn't going to lie to me. She gave me a lesson each week and sent me home. Thus, the hatred grew.

I begged my parents to let me quit. And my parents, who were very easy going and usually let things like that be what they are, were kind of ok with me quitting. Until I said these words:
"What's the point? I just SUCK AT THIS."

For some reason, these magic words got me sentenced to many more piano lessons. They kept sending me to Mrs. Macklebee. I begged them, each week, to let me skip. They never let me. I remember the hatred grew so strong, that there was this one time where I was at my piano lesson, playing some stoopid song, and the tears just started rolling down my face in frustration at even BEING there. Mrs. Macklebee didn't say anything. She just let me keep playing. I didn't make a sound, but I was crying my eyes out. When I was done, she silently handed me a tissue and went on with the lesson.

You know what my problem was, people? It seems so obvious to me now. I had learned, from school, that you only do what you are good at. If you suck at something, the best thing to do is to just quit doing that thing. You have to specialize, even as a kid. Not a gifted artist? Put down the drawing pencils and go find something that you excel at. Have an aptitude for soccer? Make sure you quit the swim team then because clearly that is a waste of time.

But you know what happens if you do that? You miss out on lots of things that, although you may not be great at them, you might find fun, you know, just because. You also over-develop the part of you that is goal-oriented, and the part of you that just likes to try stuff for the experience shrivels up and goes away. Third, you may become a person that quits things too early if you don't kick ass right off the bat, and you miss out on finding a talent that needs more time to develop. Didn't Ralph Macchio have to wax on wax off for a good long time before he could do the Crane Kick? What if he had quit at the waxing stage? Crane Kicking would have never happened, that's what.

Eventually, I made my peace with piano lessons. And then my parents let me move on from that to try something new. When we're really little, we don't put ourselves into categories like we do as we grow up. Everyone is an artist, a scientist, an athlete, a brain. But as we grow up, we get these messages that tell us that we need to start letting most of those things go, especially if we're not great at them. We judge ourselves, and then we lose out.

With that thought in mind, I thought I would make a list of things that I do that I 100% suck at, but that I like anyway and will continue to do. With love to my parents who heard me say "I SUCK AT THIS" and knew that I needed a lesson in not judging myself and doing something in order to stretch, even if there was no gold at the end of the journey. And with thanks to Mrs. Macklebee. I really do appreciate that I can still read music and that I can bust out "Careless Whisper" at parties.

I SUCK AT THESE, but who cares? A list.

1. Kickball. I was in a kickball league a couple of summers ago, and it was rad. We lost every single game. By a lot. We could not win. It was fun as hell though.
2. Scrabble. I seriously suck at Scrabble. I have never won a game in my entire life. Ever. I come up with great words like "cat" and "ice." I admit that this embarrasses me somewhat. But I still love to play.
3. Bowling. Me and Barack could totally be on the same team.
4. Painting. My paintings? Would not win any awards. I have no technique whatsoever. Unless "slap some paint on a canvas and call it a day" is a technique.
5. Understanding anything to do with concepts of quantum physics or even time traveling in movies. I can't get enough of those kinds of movies and concepts. I will continue to watch them and want to hear about them, knowing I only understand about 30% of what is going on.

What five things do you suck at that you love to do?

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Squealing on the inside

You know what else happened on our tripsie down the coast? Lots of stuff.

First of all, BioGirl and I played it cool for the entire time, even though it was our big reuniting moment. She's coming home! We'll be in the same town! No more studenting for her! So many reasons to get excited. Like, you know how, when some women get engaged, they announce it to their friends by not saying a word, but just waving their engagement ring around, and then the bride to be and the girlfriends squeal and grab each other and jump up and down? That's the level of excitement that we should have been feeling. And trust me, we were feeling it. (And before I go on with this train of thought can I just ask you if women really behave this way other than on tv? Do they really wave engagement rings in their friends' faces and then have a squealfest with all the jumpy jumpy? Because I have never seen it for real. People I know do not do that. At least not in my presence. So I am having doubts about whether it actually happens that way. Can anyone enlighten me? Have you seen it happen? Have you done the jumpy-squeal yourself? I want to know).

BioGirl and I didn't jump up and down. We didn't squeal. We maybe hugged, I think, but I can't really remember. I don't know what this is about us. We are famous for playing it cool in these types of situations with each other for some reason. We are both, by nature, not really high-drama type people, so maybe that is part of it. I don't know. The other part of the equation was that we were both so damn tired by the time we saw each other that we could barely see straight. And this moment, her moving back to Seattle, has been so anticipated, so talked about, so focused on for both of us for so long, that I think we just COULD NOT COPE. Throughout the weekend and the drive back, this was all we could muster, here and there.

Her: Dude, I am totally moving back home.
Me: I know.
Her: It's so WEIRD.
Me: WAY WEIRD.

We must have had that conversation about twenty times over the past few days. Sometimes there would be a little variation.

Me: I was thinking about how, if I want to go to a movie, or a party, or whatever, I could just call you. And you could go with me. Like any time.
Her: I know. Or like, if I am hanging out at home, and I wanted to veg out and watch tv, I could call you and you could come over and we could just...do that.
Me: WEIRD.
Her: WAY WEIRD.

This is what we did all the way home. Oh, that and also we went over lots of checklists. Moving cities? It involves lots of tasks. Checklisty type tasks. So there was a lot of that too.

BioGirl has been in a bit of a bubble for the past little while, what with writing a thesis and all. So after the first day of driving, we stopped in Ashland, Oregon again (without the forsooths and forthwiths this time) for her first non-student, non-California night out.

We walked around town, which was really, really dead as it is off-season there and also it was a Monday night. We found our way to a Thai restaurant which looked great and ended up tasting great too. The only thing wrong with it? Was the fact that there was all this really weird art on the walls. It was like an amateur who was trying to imitate Patrick Nagel picked up some paints and did some crazy stuff. There was an oil portrait of a boy and two girls, all of whom were dressed like they were heading to prom in 1986. One of the girls had one hairy arm. She also had no legs and a reddish drip where her nether regions should have been. It was not appetizing, people.

We were so tired by this point that all three of us almost peed ourselves laughing over the artwork. It was very classy and mature of us. Ashland, you know you love us!


Then we went back to the hotel room. We tried to find a movie to watch on tv, and there was really nothing catching our attention. So I turned on "Girls Next Door" on E. That show is messed up, right? We all know this. But you know what makes it even worse? Explaining the Girls Next Door to someone who has never seen it.

BioGirl: So who are these women?
Me: They are Hugh Hefner's girlfriends. He has three. That's Holly. She's the top of the hierarchy. The other two are newer.
BioGirl: They're his girlfriends. All of them.
Me: Yeah. And it's their job to live there and throw parties.
BioGirl: So, it's their job to be his girlfriends?
Me: Well, I think. I mean, I don't know. It seems like it's their job. But they say that they love him. But that might be part of their job too. To say that.
BioGirl: So does Holly get paid more?
Me: I don't know that they are paid. I'm just saying, they have a role to play at the mansion.
BioGirl: You actually don't have any idea what this show is about do you? You're faking knowledge about the Girls Next Door!
Me: A little.

The following day, we drove into town, unloaded our stuff, and by the next day, BioGirl was ensconsed in her new apartment. That's right, I said ensconsed.

It's been over a week, but I still keep having these moments where I think about her being back here and I just can't think anything but this:

WEIRD.
WAY WEIRD.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

We-Haul

I wanted to write a big long epic gorgeous post about my trip, but this whole going back to work thing has totally kicked me in the hiney so I am not sure how epic or gorgeous it shall be. Don't you love it when I preface my posts by lowering expectations like that? And don't you love it that I think that you might actually be expecting quality from me? I'm so cute that way.

When we left for California, it was snowing here in Seattle. It hardly ever snows in Seattle, and I love that. I have seen enough snow in my life to last me for the rest of my days. So when it starts to snow here, and it's late March, I get a little bit rageful. So that was actually a good thing in this case, as it booted me out my door that much quicker. I was more than ready to say goodbye to my usually beloved city. Goodbye unseasonal snow! Goodbye pine trees! Goodbye shiny new libraries! Goodbye people who like to cover themselves in fleecewear and wear Crocs in public!

Please, any fleecewearing croc-lovers. Do not hate me. These items, they are just not for me. You have every right to be wearing them, I completely respect that. I am just saying that I was glad to not see it for a while. As Peter Cetera says: "Everybody needs a little time away...from the Crocs...as foot covers." Isn't that how that song goes?

Anyhoo. We took off, trying to outrun the snow, and by the time we got to Portland for lunch, it was still snowing. Not cool, Portland. Not cool. After lunch at our favorite Portland lebanese restaurant, we stopped at one of my favorite shoe stores there. I have been having a shoe dilemma lately, and I was hoping this place would be the solution, as it has been in the past for any shoe dilemma that I have come across.

I really didn't intend for this to be a post that had shoes as its thematic center.

My shoe problem is this. Cute flats. I can't find any. Not any that are really my style, that is. I have cute flat boots, and Converse sneakers, and Puma exercise-y shoes. But all my other shoes, the kind that are cute? All have heels. I am not saying that there aren't cute flats in existence. I am just saying that there aren't any that are suitable to me. Not that I've found. Granted, I am picky. But. Imelda's didn't help me.


There really is no reason why this part of the trip has gotten a whole paragraph dedicated to it. It's not entertaining, clearly.

Moving on. We drove some more and gradually left the conifer encrusted landscapery and entered into the mossy mists of southern oregon. They got a lot of moss there, people. If you have a moss-phobia, this place would freak your freak.

You are thinking that there is no such thing as moss-phobia, aren't you? I can almost guarantee you that there are moss phobics in the world, because there are phobics that exist for everything you can possibly imagine. I saw this episode of Maury one time where this girl was afraid of dill pickles. And so Maury made her go to a pickle factory, and the girl was so skerred it was like she was in a horror film but instead of a dude in a hockey mask, the serial killer was a giant gherkin.

After we saw the mosslands, we then went into the land of "scabby trees." This was a term coined on the spot by Nordic Boy, who despite my last post didn't have the proper terminology to describe the trees we were seeing. These trees were skinny and looked like they had been burned up, but they weren't charred, they were just black and leafless and sort of flaky looking.

It just now occurs to me that I should have been taking photos while on this trip. Because, really, what can one picture in one's mind when faced with a term like "scabby tree?" It's just such a sad term. Like smelly cat, as sung by Pheobe Buffay. "Scabby tree, scabby tree, what are we calling you? Scabby tree, scabby tree, it's not your fault!"

That night, we drove into Ashland, Oregon, home of the Oregon Shakespeare Festival. This caused Nordic Boy and I to drop the words "forsooth" and "forthwith" into as much of our conversation as possible.

Nordic Boy: We will be arriving at our hotel forthwith!
Me: Forsooth, it shall be a grand time!
Nordic Boy: Grand it shall be, forthwithly!
Me: Forsootheth, so it shall!
Nordic Boy: Forsootheth? Say that five times fast.
Both of us: Forsootheth forsootheth forsootheth forsootheth forsootheth.

You are so wishing you were in the car with us for nine hours, aren't you?

We arrived at the hotel, tired to the bone, and checked into our hotel and got into bed. Immediately. No dinner, no smooching, no enjoying the fancy room, no nothing.

The next day, guess what? More driving! And more talking nonsense for hours on end! I shall spare you the details.

We arrived in San Fran in time for a late lunch with friends. We followed our mapquested directions (or was it google map? I can't remember), which led us right into the middle of town which was nowhere near the restaurant. First Imelda's lets me down and now internet directions. What the hell, people?

We made it to lunch, where we tried to be social but were so friggin' starving by that point that we basically shoved food into our mouths with both hands while our nice friends stared at us in pity. Then we drove off to the land of Stanford, to meet up with BioGirl.

We got there, started to help her pack, and didn't stop until the weekend was over. We were packing fools! We packed up her stuff into a U-Haul, then drove the U-Haul to a door-to-door storage type place an hour or so away (more driving! yeah boyee!), unpacked the U-Haul, repacked her stuff into the storage unit, came back to her place and packed up the remaining stuff into her car and our car to be driven back to Seattle.

Next post: the trip back to Seattle. Do Nordic Boy and I torment BioGirl with bad Shakespearean dialogue? Do we ever figure out just what a scabby tree is? Do all of BioGirl's belongings get back home in one piece?

I shall be blogging about all of that and more next time. Forsootheth.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

What about the chaparral?

I made it back from California safe and sound, no worse for wear except that my body may be permanently molded into a driving position. Even though I was gone for only a few days, the things I missed were strong. They included:


1. The overabundance of green in my state.
2. My own bed.
3. You, my blog friends.

See how I come back and feel all guilty for not blogging and so I start right in with the sucking up?

Nordic Boy and I woke up bright and early last Thursday and hightailed it out of town on our way to get BioGirl and move her ass back up to Seattle. This trip was highly anticipated not only because we were both ridickerous excited to have our friend back in town all permanent like, but also because I haven't had a vacation in almost two years. TWO YEARS, people. One fifth of a decade. Sick and wrong and I urge all of you to not let this happen to you. Take vacations! It's good for you! You relax and see new things and learn things you didn't know before.


Like? The fact that Nordic Boy and specific terminology, they are friendly with one another.


(Driving)

Nordic Boy: Hopefully the sun will come out this afternoon. I think I see some patches of blue sky up ahead.
Me: Where?
Nordic Boy: Just up over that set of bluffs there.
Me: Bluffs? That's funny.
Nordic Boy: What? They are bluffs, right?
Me: Yeah. But that's just a word that you would read in a book or something. Who really says the word "bluffs" in conversation?
Nordic Boy: Just me, I guess.


(Later, still driving)
Nordic Boy: That's pretty over there. The big expanse of grass meadow and then the group of trees bunched up in the middle. It looks so cool with the wide open space and then the thicket in the middle.
Me: Did you just say thicket?
Nordic Boy: Yeah.
Me: That is so... Bambi.
Nordic Boy: What?
Me: Bambi was born in a thicket. That is the full extent of my knowledge on thickets. But here you are, pointing one out. Huh.

(Later, still more driving)
Me: Wow, look at those wildflowers over there.
Nordic Boy: You'd think they'd have a hard time growing there, it being all shadowy in the hollow and all.
Me: Stop it. You did not just say "in the hollow."
Nordic Boy: What is with you? It IS a hollow.
Me: What are you, Winnie the Pooh?
Nordic Boy: Sigh.

(Driving into California)
Me: There doesn't seem to be much of a shoulder on this part of the freeway. I wonder what people do if they have to pull over?
Him: They probably just have to haul their car into the culvert there.
Me: Ok. This really has to stop. The CULVERT?
Him: Yes. The culvert. Right there.
Me: What the heck is a culvert?
Him: A drain. That's at a right angle to the road.
Me: You are so making that up. About the right angle.

(By the way, I looked it up. He's not making it up).

Take vacations people. You will learn so much.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

On Becoming Fontastic

Hi Pop Culture Librarian readers. Neighbor J here, reporting for Bloggysitting duty. I feel honored to be a guest blogger for Librarian Girl. She plays it cool, but you guys agree with me that her writing rocks hard core, so I've got some big bad blog shoes to fill. Outside the blogoshpere, Librarian Girl's feet are much smaller than mine, but I've had fantasies about literally being able to fill her shoes. She's got some awesome taste in footwear, that girl. We share a love of shoes, and shopping for the clothes to go with them. There are a few marathon shopping sprees in our past that should go down in some kind of Shoppers-Book-of-World-Records. We don't get to do it too often, but shopping with LG is one of my favorite things. Not surprisingly, we also share a love of pop culture. We can wax poetic about about how The Waltons compares to Little House, and the historical discrepancies between these two shows and our other favorite, Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman. And lately, as Librarian Girl and Nordic boy have been searching for the perfect set of house numbers for the new mailbox Nordic Boy hand crafted, we've discovered another shared passion: fonts. Typefaces if you're nasty.

Just a few years ago, if you said "typography" to me I'd crinkle up my nose at you, roll my eyes, and dry-heave like I was choking on a giant furball made of yak hair. I was in design school and typography was being crammed down my throat, and I was gagging on it big time.

In school the scriptures of Typography came in the form of a book called "The Elements of Typographic Style" by Robert Bringhurst. Our instructor would quote from Bringhurst at every chance she got. And Bringhurst himself writes like some kind of zealous poet-preacher. In a fashion that took me straight back to catechism we had to memorize Bringhurst stanzas like this: "Allow the [type]face to speak in its natural idiom." Cringe. Gag.

My classmates swooned over his writing, and hailed him the god of type. It scared me. If Bringhurst had ever visited our class I think it might have looked like an episode of Oprah's Favorite Things: people passing out over their drafting tables, screaming themselves hoarse, with eyes rolling back into their heads and their tongues hanging out. Freaky. Anyhow, all this fervor for Bringhurst made me only loathe him more, and I promised to burn his annoying book upon my graduation.

Then, I got a job. Part of my job was to lay out an entire magazine three times a year all by my lonesome. I freaked out. What kind of a hot mess had I gotten myself into? If you visit my blog you'll see I'm really an illustrator at heart. And when I got my first "big-girl" design job I started wishing I'd paid more attention in typography classes. I turned to the only expert I had at my fingertips: Bringhurst. Now, I'm not going to say that I'm a Bringhurst convert, but when I read the book a second time I realized that it wasn't his message that bummed me out, it was his delivery. His writing was so exclusive, I felt like I needed a membership to read it. The Country Club of Type is what that guy is all about, and it is too bad because he knows his shite.

One of the things Iove about Librarian Girl, that I think comes through a lot in her writing here is that she's all about being all-inclusive. In her world you don't have to publish something to call yourself a "writer", have an art show at a swanky gallery to call yourself an "artist", or be able to play Flight of The Bumblebee on your granny's upright to call yourself a "musician". It's an awesome attitude that has rubbed off on me in our years of friendship, and I am grateful for it. So I want to add that you don't have to memorize or even read Bringhurst to become your own fontastic typophile. Thanks to personal computers and desktop publishing software everyone can dabble in design. And it doesn't need to be scary, or snooty, or exclusive.

At one time or another you'll probably be called upon to make something like a newsletter, or a flyer describing a free lecture, or a sign for the office kitchen that says "Wash Your Own Damn Dishes". Picking the "best" typeface for your printed piece should be looked at like picking a beverage to compliment your favorite meal (a burger and a float, perhaps?), or a pair of shoes to top off that swanky outfit. It should be fun, and can even be a refection of your personal style. What seems to be the main problem out there is that people don't know that they have choices, and LOTS of them. You don't always have to put vanilla ice cream in your root beer float, people.

One of the best examples out there is the overuse of the font Comic Sans. Yes, I'm picking on a font here. Sorry Mister Sans, it's not your fault. Most people use Comic Sans because they see it as a fun, lighthearted font. To all of you folks who have used and overused the font, take heart. You've got the right idea! Fonts can help set the tone for what you are trying to say. There are just so many other great alternatives out there. Here are two of my fave resources for bulking up my own font library:

Myfonts
This site rocks. It is really accessible, and completely removes all the snootiness from discovering new typefaces. They have an wonderful feature on their site that lets you search for typefaces by describing what you are looking for. For example, here are the selections I got when I typed in "Funny". They also have a great button that allows you to find fonts similar to the one you might like, but want something a little different. It's like saying "I like that boot, but does it come in hot pink"? Here is what I got when I went looking for fonts similar to Comic Sans. Awesome, no?

dafont
Here's great website of free unique fonts. Most of them are free for personal use, so a sign or newsletter would be perfect. Check out their section of "Comic" fonts. There is even one called "I Hate Comic Sans", which is much more interesting that plain ole Comic Sans, and best of all, its free!

Typefaces have power. The power to get your message across quickly and clearly, make it memorable, and in true Librarian Girl fashion do it with "flair". Next time you need to make something printed, take a few minutes before you start and do a little typeface research. You're on your way to discovering your own fontastical abilities!

I'm Out, No Diggity No Doubt.
Neighbor J

Randumb

The word of the day is "random". For some reason, I can't seem to focus on any one thought so you're going to get a big, fat, everything-but-the-kitchen-sink kind of guest post out of me. It's Ali here in case you're wondering. Ready!? OK!!

I love Oprah. Now, some of you might say, that's no big revelation. Millions of people the world over love Oprah. But I mean I really LOVE Oprah. I DVR the show, I watch it, I take notes. I've been to the show. I DVR'd that show I was on and I show everyone who enters my home the half a millisecond shot of me in the audience. Dr. Oz has got me looking at my poop to see what letter of the alphabet it resembles! Ok people. Do you get it yet? I am a proud Oprah follower and I don't proudly follow anyone. But that's not really the shocker. As much as I love Oprah, my husband (we'll call him Man of Song) HATES Oprah. I mean he really can't stand Oprah. It runs deeeeeeeeeep his dislike. Deee-eep. He is like violently opposed to her. He leaves the room when I start watching. So there it is. I feel so much better now.

Sort of confession numero B: I'm addicted to American Idol. Who's with me? I know you're out there. Weren't you sad when Chickezie got voted off last week? You know you were. That damn Kristy Lee has got to go. Shall we start a petition right here on my favorite blog? I'm not sure Librarian Girl would approve.

Next up.... Leave it to Beaver. Were the 50s really like that? I mean the other day I was watching an episode and Beaver lied to his classmates and said he owned a bird, because he was embarrassed that he was the only kid in the class who didn't have a pet. So, Ward went out at night to find Beaver a bird to take to class for show and tell. The big crazy thing about this story, as portrayed on the show, was that Ward was out AFTER DARK looking for said bird. Are you kidding me? People never went out after dark in the 50s? Can that be true? Or was that just Hollywood shiznit? And what's with June always wearing a pearl necklace? Now, Librarian Girl would say I should ask myself that same question. Apparently I wore pearls quite a lot in high school. Apparently more than is normal for a high school aged girl. You know what just occurred to me? Pearl necklaces. A kid named Beaver?! Who wrote that show!? Dirty birdies! I'm surprised Wally's name wasn't Woody. Heh heh.

Speaking of going out after dark, did you see I Am Legend? That shit freaked my shit out. Those dark seekers? Whoa. All that screaming and transparent skin was waaaaaaaaaaay too much for me to handle. It freaked me out so badly that I couldn't get it outta my head when I went to bed that night. That never happens to me. Of course Man of Song thought it would be funny to keep reminding me about it all night so I couldn't possibly move on to something more pleasant in my last waking hours. He cracks himself up. So what did we do the very next day, you ask? We watched it again! Why? Why did we do that? Cause we're asses that's why. Big dumb asses.
OK. That's all I got. I'm plum tuckered out. Parched I tell ya!

Congrats Biology Girl! Can't wait to hear all about the road trip back from CA. I'm sure there will be good stories to tell! Thanks for letting me guest blog Librarian Girl : )

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

Hi, Pop Culture Readers! I was really honored when the lovely Pop Culture Librarian invited me to guest blog. But I was also a little bit intimidated. I’ve got a blog of my own, and to be honest with you? It has been kind of sucking lately.

So I wimped out and asked PCL to suggest a topic for me. In a typical PCL display of awesomeness, she sent me a list of six suggestions. I chose Suggested Topic #3:

A List of the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly of Teen Services Public Libraraining

So, I am a Librarian for the Teenagers in a public library. You probably already know some stuff about this job, being fans of PCL and all, but in case you don’t, a typical workday might include recommending books to patrons, making book lists, posting to a library blog, visiting a school, planning an event, working with teen volunteers, or doing about a million other things. It’s a good job.

But anyway! On to the list!

The Good

1. Teenagers

I love teens. (Not in a dirty way. Don’t be such a perv.) I think people who don’t like teens either don’t know any of them, or only know the ones that they made themselves. I’m sure your own teen is probably a pain in the ass a lot of the time, but other people’s teens are a delight. They’re old enough to have intelligent, reasoned opinions, but young enough that you can still mold their little minds like clay.

And that’s where the library comes in. Mind-warping.

Also, I’m really immature, and I like hanging out with people at my own developmental level.

2. Co-workers/patrons

Librarians and other people who work in libraries are often nerds like me. I like nerds. And overall, I enjoy helping the people who come into the library. Corny but true.

3. Reading, television watching, etc.

I can read teen romances or adventure novels, or even watch Gossip Girl on the CW, and call it professionalizing. Beat that! Plus, as a public librarian, pretty much everything I read or learn could potentially be useful in helping other people find information, which is pretty neat. (If you’re a nerd.)

The Bad

1. Teen Services what?

A lot of people don’t know that my job exists—or if they do, they wonder why. “Teens don’t read!” they say. “Teens deal drugs and harass the elderly! They don’t need their own librarian!” It can be kind of exhausting to have to justify your own existence all the time.

2. Bureaucracy

As in any public service type environment (or maybe, any workplace), there are some people in the library who like nothing better than paperwork—the more, the better! I’m sure they miss the good old days of carbon paper and filling things out in triplicate. They make up for it by sending me twenty emails a day, all marked “Urgent!!!” but never actually containing any information that I could possibly need.

3. The Smell

I work in a big urban library, and my reference desk is near a seating area where people congregate. Lots of these people don’t really have anywhere else to go during the day, and I am 100% behind the library’s mission of intellectual freedom and a creating a welcoming environment for all.
But—and here’s where I start to sound like a Republican and/or a terrible person—when you have a lot of people in the same room who don’t necessarily have daily access to showers, it can lead to a certain . . . aroma. Not a nice one. And sometimes it’s a bit overwhelming.
Don’t hate me.

The Ugly

1. People who yell

Sometimes in the library, people yell at you. You’d think that the mentally ill people would be the problem, but they are usually pretty nice. More often it’s the wealthy, entitled patrons who are outraged that their favorite chair has been moved or something. I try to have a thick skin about it, but it gets depressing.

2. The Politics

This is related to the Bureaucracy, but is a slightly different problem. Basically, in order to get anything done, you have to know who to talk to, and then make them like you, neither of which is necessarily easy.


. . . And there you have it! Only two entries in the “Ugly” column. Don’t you want to be a librarian now?

The Josh Speaks

When Librarian Girl asked me to be her guest blogger I was honored, but also a little bit afraid – similar to the feeling I had when my 9th grade history teacher told me that he thought I should take the government class he was also offering. On one hand I was glad he thought I was smart. On the other hand, well, I actually wasn’t that smart. But after mulling over LG’s offer I pushed my worries aside. After all, I’ve been writing my own blog for more than six years. Surely one entry wouldn’t be all that hard. But how would I ensure that I was carrying on the legacy of the pop culture librarian? In other words, how would I make sure I didn’t become that singer that joins the band and ruins everything? Well I assure you folks that just because I’m replacing Natalie Merchant, I’m no Mary Ramsey.

Of course I planned on following in LG’s footsteps and starting out my post with some engaging and slightly dramatic opening like “Okay people, have you ever had one of those days where you look like Richard Gere in An Officer and a Gentleman even though you feel more like the dude on the cover of the Scorpion’s 1979 album Lovedrive? Well let me tell you people, that is how I feel today!”

Then, following suit, I’d throw in hoards of pop culture references (like that little 10,000 Maniacs bon mot you just experienced, as well as the Scorpion album mention). That’s right, I’ll be dropping pop culture references like they’re hot and I’m the fire fighter who appeared in the calendar as Mr. August (the hottest month, btw), here to put out those flames.

I could also give all my friends fun names like Nordic Boy and Biology Girl. I think my friends would get the names The Redhead, Art School Dropout and Chill Style.

And then once I reached the end I’d wrap it up nicely with something like “I guess I was pretty crazy when I was 12. Fo sho!

Kiss the rings, I’m out!”

This may sound like a walk in the park, but I promise you it’s not all sunshine and random Gilmore Girls quotes (“Copperboom!”). Take the word of someone who knows, being LG is like being Green. It’s not easy.

Blogsitters on Deck

It's just about time for me to jump in the car and hightail it to California! I have spent the last 24 hours doing such things as working, running around town searching for a good brown shirtdress which I somehow got into my head I wanted to have for my trip but the ones I was seeing were just not good enough because I had a vision in my head for what I wanted, and shivering while hoping to high heaven that California will be warmer than 40 degrees.

While I am gone, I didn't want to leave the bloggie unattended so I asked some of my peeps to babysit it for me. So for the next few posts you will be hearing from the following fine blog scribes. I have no idea what any of them might say and so this will be interesting.

1. Josh, my blog friend who does live action book reviews on his blog (librarian brownie points for sure) and who never fails to make me chortle. Yes, I said chortle. He is such a card.

2. Hopscotch, my neighbor and fellow librarian who still likes me even though I demanded a brownie from her once in a most rube like manner.

3. Alli, who never fails to say something hilariously embarrassing about me because she's known me since kindergarten and has seen me in all sorts of stupid situations. I can't tell you how much I love this about her. She keeps me honest.

4. Neighbor J, also a keeper of my secrets and one of the few people that can make me almost throw up from laughing. True friendship, that.

With that, I release my blog to this cadre of pals, to dish up whatever they would like to say. I'll be reading from the road!

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

We owe it all to canoes

Ok, so last we left off, BioGirl had invited me to her birthday party by accosting me in the Gas Shed. I ended up going to that party, and I remember four things about it.

1. I was ridiculously overdressed. I was all gussied up as I am wont to be and all of her friends were in shorts and tank tops. One of these things is not like the other, you know what I mean?

2. Everyone wrote her a poem as a birthday present. Although this was a very cool idea, the fact that I barely knew her caused me to write some shit like "Happy birthday you...awesome person in blue...yes you...you're awesome at what you do...when you rent a canoe..." It was mortifying.

3. As a cap to the party, they all wanted to go out in some janky ass smelly boat and row around the lake in the dark. Why, I ask you, would those of us who worked with janky ass smelly boats want to prolong the jank in our spare off hours?

I excused myself early and went home. I'm sure her opinion of me as Mutey Mc-No-Sounds was growing ever stronger.

You are so seeing the best friend potential here, aren't you?

Despite this bumpy start, over the next few weeks, I started to see things about BioGirl that I really liked. For instance, we had this boss. Our boss was about my age at that time and she treated the entire staff like they were her personal playthings. She would, in the middle of a shift at work, decide that everyone, no matter how tired or how hard they were already working, needed to go outside and get in a canoe and race them against each other just so she could watch them do it and laugh an evil laugh. I also witnessed her order a staff member to stand outside and then order the other staff members to pelt water balloons at said staff member. Just for kicks. She loved to pick on people in a really stupid, juvenile, mean girl sort of way. For whatever reason, she always left me out of it. Anyhow, the thing about BioGirl was that she didn't take crap from this boss of ours. She just wouldn't. This was key in my liking of BioGirl.

One day, I called her up and asked her out on a friend-date. We went to a local park and walked around the Conservatory, and we talked. Like, all day. Then we went to the movies, and we saw "54." We both agreed it was awful. Then we had dinner. It was one of those things where you just keep hanging out, all day. The bonding, it happened immediately. Well, immediately after months of working together, that is.

It's kind of amazing to me that she was 19 when we met. And now look at her. All growed up and everything. The fact that we'll be living in the same town again is so exciting I could just about bust, for reals. And by this time next week, she'll be here.

Too. Exciting. For Words.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Dr. Princess

I would like to start off with an apology. If you have called me in the past week or so, I probably said something like "I am so busy I really can't talk right now can I call you back later because I have eleventy five things going on right this second in fact my hands are full so I may drop this cell phone any minute so sorry about this see you later ok thanks bye!" I have discovered that when I am under duress, the first thing that leaves me is punctuation. I talk in one long uninteruppted sentence like that. I was noticing this all week. I would start to say something, and it would just NOT END. If I am ever held up at gunpoint, where it is really a stressful situation and not made up bullshit task list stuff like I have going on now, I am for sure going to be shot, just because my mouth will go on overdrive.

So the next big thing on my agenda this week (look at me, acting like I have an AGENDA) is to drive down to California and pick up Bio-Girl, who has done gone and got herself thesissifed and doctored up and Pee Aitch Deed. Now it's time for her to stop all this edu-ma-cation nonsense and be all jobby and stuff and she has decided to come back and make Seattle her grown up home town.

I know I just got done telling you all about how I met Nordic Boy, but I figured now would be a good time to tell you all how I met the other love of my life, Bio-Girl. This story doesn't take a bajillion years though, so don't be scared that I am about to drag you into another miniseries, kay?

A few years after I moved to Seattle, I decided it was time to get me back to school for some more undergraduate degreeing. This time around, I decided to get two degrees, all at once. Not double majoring, but two separate degrees. I know. What a nutball. Because of this decision, I didn't have a lot of time for a regular job. Yadda yadda yadda, I ended up working for this place on campus that rented canoes for tourist types and locals who had a hankering to canoe themselves around Lake Washington.

I was a professional canoe renter. How awesome is that?

There are so many canoe stories I could tell you, it's not even funny. Who knew that the canoe business was where all the funny, weird things were happening? It was probably the kookiest job I ever had (and that is saying something), with enough quirky characters to fill up many blog posts. I'll save those for another time and just get to me and Bio-Girl.

All of the staff at Canoes R Us were undergrads and although I was an undergrad too, I was a few years older than everyone else due to my Zigzaggy Life Path. I remember there was this one guy, a fratty bean pole named Sterling (ok his name really wasn't Sterling, but trust me his real name was just as...Sterling-ish), and one day we were hosing the goose poop off the dock together (jealous?), and somehow it came out that I was a bit older than the average college age person (I think I was like 25 or something) and he looked at me like I was about to pop my teeth out and tell him about my childhood in the Great Depression.

So this group at the canoe place were all friends with each other, and dated each other, and did all those college-y type things. I was friendly with everyone, but I kind of kept to myself too. Bio-Girl was a wee one of 19 when we met, and I have to tell you, I thought she was kind of princessey. I can't quite remember why I thought this. I wish I had some anecdote about her wearing a tiara or some such but I don't. I think it has been established between the two of us that she thought I was so quiet as to just about be mute.

Princess and the Mute. Doesn't that sound like the ingredients for lifelong BFF-ness?

One day, I was hauling a big old gas can out to what was known as the Gas Locker. The Gas Locker was a beat down raggedy ass shed where we kept all the gas for the speedboats that we rode in to rescue people who fell out of their canoes (I am so not even making this up). When I got the Gas Locker, Bio Girl popped up out of nowhere and scared the bejeezus out of me. She had followed me to the Shed o' Gas!

Her: Hey. I'm having a birthday party next weekend and I was hoping you could come.
Me: Ok. Sure.
Her: I know it's weird that I followed you out to the Gas Locker to ask you, but I didn't want to ask you in front of everyone else. Not everyone is invited.
Me: Ok.

You guys, I totally lied. I said I wasn't going to make this a miniseries, but now I've gone and run out of time and I have to go. What is with me and the two or three-parters lately? Yeesh.

It's kind of hard to believe that anyone would have thought I was mute, huh?

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Batshit Insane

I am really losing it, you guys. Prepare for this blog entry to make no sense. Because I am totally not even coherent right now. Have you ever had a week or two where you feel like you are about five steps behind yourself? Where, the moment you do one task, there are three or four more that spring up, and you feel like you never will catch up, ever? That your life, once an idyllic traipse through the park, has been reduced to a series of checklists that will never stop and that you will never get ahead of?

AAAAAHHHHHHH!

Really. I say again:

AAAAAHHHHHHH!

I know this woman, let's call her Frazzle McDazzle. I don't know her well, and have only been to parties and suchlike where she is also a guest. Frazzle is never at the party for the first half. Somewhere during the party, she will call the host or a party guest to apologize for being so late, but to assure everyone to expect her shortly. Although I am never the one that she would call in this situation, I always imagine that there are traffic noises and chaos in the background of wherever it is she is calling from, and that one may hear the pounding of her feet as she runs down the sidewalk on her way to the party. Eventually, she does show up to the gathering, and she always looks the same. She always bursts in, like Kramer. She is always completely harried, and even somewhat confused, as if she doesn't know quite where she is. Sometimes her glasses are fogged up. Her hair is always messed up, and her coat is often hanging partway off of her shoulders as if she has almost run right out of her clothes. Her clothes are perpetually wrinkled. She often greets people at the party like this: "What? Oh hi." Or maybe like this: "Huh? Nice to see you." She is so Frazzled, she is truly dazzling.

I am turning into Frazzle McDazzle.

Huh? Oh hi.

I am all booked up, people. BACK TO BACK. Something happening ALL THE TIME. From before the sun comes up until half past Super Late. LISTS, EVERYWHERE, LISTS!

How did this happen? I don't know, but it sucks. More than sucks. Su-hucks.

I am totally doing this to myself, I know. People don't get crazy busy like this unless they are doing it to themselves, I get that. Here are some things that make me realize that I have to slow the fuck down.

1. I walked down the street yesterday? And the wind was a-blowin' all crazy like, and it was blowing my hair right across my face. My hair is black. And thick. And if enough of it blows across my face, I can't see a durn thing. I was in such a hurry, I just kept walking. BLIND FOLDED.

2. Last night I got home around 9:30. I wanted to fall right into bed, but I ate a little something and then watched a Battlestar Galactica episode on dvd with Nordic Boy. I love Battlestar Galactica. But in my current state of mind, I couldn't even follow it. That's right, I couldn't follow a tv show. I was this lady:
"Who is that guy?"
"Why are they doing that?"
"How come they're trying to kill him?"
"Wasn't she there before?"

THE WHOLE TIME.

3. As I was running around doing alla my made up task-list shit, I found myself singing this weird song. "Batty batty bat, batty batty bat, batty batty bat! One two thrrree!" I don't know what part of my brain this came out of. When I got to work the next day, I had to look it up. It was this.


Batty bat, indeed.

I'M TOTALLY LOSING IT, PEOPLE.

What? Oh hi.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Conversation-tastic

Things that were said by yours truly within the last few days in front of normal, well-adjusted people. A list.

At a party:
Party goer: So I was thinking about doing this cleanse. It's lemonade, maple syrup, and cayenne pepper.
Me: Oh yeah! Pepa just did that cleanse on her reality show. Salt thought it was stupid. That Salt and Pepa! Always disagreeing.
(stares from party goers)
Me: Sorry. You were saying?

At another party:
Party-goer: Things just aren't the same any more at work.
Me: Yeah, it's like when Leonardo Di Caprio showed up on Growing Pains. It's like Cousin Oliver on the Brady Bunch. You know it's just never going to be the same.
Party goer #2: Hey, what's up?
Me: We were just talking about Growing Pains.
Party goer #1: And my work situation.
Me: Oh, yeah. And that.

In a car full of people:
Passenger #1: You have to turn left at the yield sign up there.
Me: Yield! Yield before Zod!
(silence)
Me: You know...Superman? Kneel before Zod? Oh never mind.

At another party (yes, I went to a lot of parties this weekend):
Me: So, I'm really glad that our library is moving in that direction.
Co-worker: I'd love to hear more of your opinion on that. Can you explain what you mean?
Me: No, not really. I don't really know what I'm saying right now. I'm just, you know, trying to make conversation.
Her: Oh.

I know. I should really be giving conversation lessons. It's so clearly my calling.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Dr. Feelbad

Before I get to the story of the day, I have to clear something up. I forgot to answer questions from two lovely readers. I just skipped right over them. How rude.

Kelly Green Rogue asked:
How do you take your coffee?

I take it and I flush it down the terlet, because coffee is a nasty teeth-yellower that makes you have stank breath. No coffee for me!

If you could only listen to one cd for the rest of your life what would it be?
Eh. I don't care much really. Hall and Oates Greatest Hits? Funky Funky Christmas by the New Kids on the Block? Paul Anka Sings the Blues? That last one isn't real, but I kinda wish it was.

Do you wear sensible librarian shoes to work or something with a little more flair?
If you knew me in person, this would be the most laughable question in the world. Like, snort milk out your nose laughable. Of course I wear sensible shoes. If by sensible you mean Fierce and Faboo and definitely NON-DOWDY. I am without question 100% against dowd. Want an example? Here's what I wore today.


Flair. Always flair.

teej said:
What is your favorite random act of kindness to bestow on total strangers (or people you know, but strangers is more fun)?

I'm kind to total strangers every single day, through my job. Awww, cheesy! But true.

Ok, I think I got to all the questions. If not, nudge me again and try not to call me a forgetful buttmunch, even though it may be just a little bit justified.

Here's the deal. You know how I was on the hunt for a good hair stylist for a long time? I went to the super foofy place, and the WWE haircutter, etc. I finally did find someone, and I thought my searching was over.

But now, I am trying to find a good doctor. My insurance changed a while back and I have been in doctor-hell ever since. I can't find a good one! And I have great insurance! How can this be? Where have all the good doctors gone?

Maybe I am spoiled. My dad was a doctor, the kind that people loved. I grew up in my town and people would stop me on the street to tell me about how my dad was the awesomest of the awesome. This is because, aside from the doctoring, my dad has the peeple skillz. He makes people feel good. He listens. He respects.

I went to this doctor the last few times I needed doctoring. The first time I saw her, she was super abrupt. It was like I was on the assembly line of health and she had to finish up with me because she had another lump of human tissue coming in any minute. She was a little bit rude. She made me feel like I was taking too long. Hurry up and tell me your symptoms! I am a doctor and I am so busy and important you know!

In a weird way, at first I kind of liked her. I tried to slant her abrupt-bordering-on-rude to mean that she was direct. To the point. And that was good, right? I don't need a doctor to sugarcoat! I am tough feminista librarian! Give me the facts!

I went to her last week. I wanted to talk to her about something totally unrelated to my ladyparts. (The reason I am saying that is because it's relevant to the rest of the story, not because I want to all the sudden talk about how I wasn't talking about my ladyparts.) I had a concern. And she scoffed at my concern. SCOFFED.

Where in the bedside manner handbook does it talk about scoffing? What page? I want to see what PAGE.

After she scoffed at me and made me feel like I was a Total and Utter Waste of her precious Doctor JuJu, she says this:

Her: So, anything else?

(Not, how are you otherwise? Not, do you have any more questions? Nope. ANYTHING ELSE?)

Me: No, I think that's it for now.

Her: Let me take a quick look at your file here. (glance) You know, if you want to have any kids, you better get started. You are getting kind of old.

OH MY GOD. YOU DID NOT.

First of all, does she know if I want kids? Nope. We have never talked about it. Second of all, what's with the OLD? Third of all, OH MY GOD.

Aren't doctors supposed to make you feel better?

The doctor search continues.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Ask and Ye Shall Be McSkilletted

Look at me, rocking the mini-series style blog posts! First there was the Three Chapter Nordic Boy Story That Was Akin to Beating a Dead Horse, and now it's taken me two posts to answer alla these gorgeous questions that you all threw at me last week. Wordy much?

Let's do this, home skillet! Questions, Part Dos!

Oh, but first, have you guys seen all the billboards around that are advertising the McSkillet Burrito at McDonalds? They are EVERYWHERE. Ladies and gentlemen, I ask you. What the hossenpfeffer is a McSkillet Burrito? It's a burrito, made in a skillet, I suppose. I guess it is pretty self-explanatory. But this item warrants a media blitz? I don't get it.

That's all I have to say about that.

Onwards, Home McSkillets!

Becky said:

I have struggled for half my life trying to figure out what I want to do for a living, until reading here, and you reminded me of my love for the library and all things brainy, and I think I might want to be LG2. do you love working in libraryland? what does it take to be a librarian? is there a dark, seedy underbelly that no one knows about? do you feel strange, knowing that you may have inspired a stranger to change their careerpath?

Ok, Becky, let's break it down.
Do you love working in libraryland?

Why yes I do. I believe public library work suits me perfectly. There are all sorts of librarian gigs that you can get, but I am a public services lady (dirty!) so that's all I can speak to so keep that in mind. Which brings us to:

What does it take to be a librarian?

What does it take, you ask? Well let me tell you something. You think the library is all about free stuff? It ain't free! Because right here is where you start paying! In SWEAT! Just kidding, I just wanted to say that. You know how Debbie Allen says that in the opening of Fame? I always wanted to say that to someone so I just threw it in. There's really no sweat in librarianship, unless you count a patron here or there. What does it take to be a librarian, besides the requisite love of informational exchange? A good temperament helps. If you're a grumpy sort coming in to this profession, then this gig will take you DOWN. Non-judgmentalism helps a whole hell of a lot (you wanted to judge me for saying non-judgmentalism, didn't you?). You will be asked everything from the highly cerebral one moment right down to "where can I buy a phone just like Paris Hilton?" the next moment. You've got to treat them all respectfully. If you're easily skeeved out by different folks with different strokes, then probably not the best job for you. Also, you have to be ok with having lots of face time. Because it's you, at the reference desk, open to the masses, most days and most times. You are a library celebrity! People will come up to you and talk. CONSTANTLY. And (in case you didn't know this) you are expected to talk back to them. And sometimes they say really weird shit, and sometimes it's really hard to understand what the eff they are talking about, but it's your JOB to try and figure it out. This actually appeals to me, so I'm golden. But it ain't for everyone that's for damn sure. As for feeling weird that a stranger may have been inspired by me, I am only ok with it if you promise me that if you DO ever really become a librarian, you will at some point in your life sing, out loud, into the sky "You're My Inspiration" by Peter Cetera and think of me. I am so totally not kidding.

Rachel said:

1) Do you ever have the impulse to talk like a gangsta in real life?

First of all, what is this real life of which you speak? Don't you all know by now that I am a disembodied head that lives in your computer drive and I make my thoughts appear on your screen through the interweb tubes? And yes, I do sometimes have the impulse to talk like a gangsta. I also have impulses to talk in various accents (French is a fun one) and character voices (Dr. Claw from Inspector Gadget is a standby) and I think I have already documented my need to sing nonsense songs. IF YOU MUST KNOW.

2) When did you live in Madison (WI)? Or did you just visit?

I lived in Madison back in the mid-90s and I friggin' loved it. This is a weird thing because I had the shittiest job in the history of time and space when I lived there and the scariest apartment I ever lived in too, and the time in my life was not so great and it was colder than penguin snot a lot of the time and I found it really hard to make friends there because I was working all the goddamn time, and yet I was horridly poor, but still? I loved that place. Love, love, love. I think if I ever moved away from Seattle, that town would be one place I might consider.

-r- said:
- are wannabe writers allowed to or supposed to have writer's block ?
and I love everything about the library! the smell the sound the scene

That should so totally be our new slogan for our library system. "the smell the sound the scene." Ok, maybe not the smell. That doesn't sound so good, does it? As for writer's block, I don't know. First of all I don't really know what a wannabe writer is. Writing is an action. Either you're doing it or not. If you're doing it, you're a writer as far as I'm concerned. We can have all kinds of arguments about if you or I or whoever is a sucky writer, but if you're writing, even if it sucks, it counts. And then the thing about being allowed to have writer's block? Allowed? What is that all about? Allowed by who or what? Supposed to? These are words that don't mean much to me. Which, one could argue, is apparent by the drivel that comes out of this here mind of mine. I mean, I talked about a McSkillet Burrito up there. So what the hell do I know about writing?

WDL said:
Tell me about something that you deeply anticipated, and then were bitterly disappointed. Like Ralphie and the Orphan Annie secret decoder ring.

I know I have talked two times about the damn McSkillet Burrito, and maybe that's what is making me think of this story, but for a long time, I had never in my life had an Egg McMuffin from McDonald's. Never! And for a short time, I became mildly obsessed with wanting to try one. On weekend mornings, I would try to get Nordic Boy to get on board with this idea. "Come on! Let's get up early and go get us an Egg McMuffin!" He did not help me with this. "How about we just buy the stuff, and I will MAKE you an Egg McMuffin," he would say. And he did that. But still, I was somehow convinced that the real thing would be better. I finally got one. Nasty egg-powder on a dry sawdust muffin was what it was. Does this really qualify as being "bitterly disappointed" you ask? But I was. I was McDisappointed Burrito.

Sarah said:
Somehow, you find yourself able to live a life inspired by a magazine or a catalogue. Which one do you choose?

Ok, so it's not really a magazine, and it's not really a catalogue either (see how I just flagrantly ignore things that don't suit me?) but the website design*sponge is heavenly to me.

anonymous said:
Would you rather have salt coming out of one nostril and pepper out of the other, or, ketchup and mustard, respectively?

Well I can certainly see why you chose to remain anonymous on this one. I suppose I will go with the ketchup and mustard. Just because.

Pop Quiz Kid said:
Alright, someone has a gun to your head and is forcing you to sleep with one of the following pundits: Rush Limbaugh, Sean Hannity, or Bill O'Reily. Who do you choose?

That is the most evil question I have ever heard in my life. But you know what? I am not scareda you or your satanic questions! You know what I say to you? ALL OF THEM TOGETHER. (Ok I am totally lying and if this scenario occurred that gun would have to go off before I would let any one of them near my nether regions but since you got all gross with the question I just wanted to top you with the grossness).

Megan said:
Are there people you envy enough to want to trade lives with them? Who are they?

Hells no. Not even a little bit.

If you could eliminate any one type of insect permanently from the earth, what would you get rid of? (totally roaches for me!)

Bugs don't bother me, really. Can I eliminate McSkillet Burritos?

I'm out,
Librarian Girl