Neighborly Birthday

Today is the birthday of my friend Neighbor B. Neighbor B, as you all know, may as well be a member of my blood relations, he means so much to me. And so the day he was birthed, that's a big day in my life. And you know that I have to give a shout out to my birthday peeps, so here I go.

First off, let me tell you this. Neighbor B is not big on celebrating his birthday. He's just an understated dude and doesn't go in for celebrating hisself. Now, you all know how I feel about birthdays, and for years now I have been chasing Neighbor B down and figuratively force-feeding him his birthday. That's right, I'm not above bullying people in an entirely unladylike manner, especially on this subject. But, now that I have this blog, I can express all those mushy feelings I have towards my loved ones right here and not badger them and smother them like Pepe Le Pew always did with those poor sexually harassed cats. Hmm. Wait a minute. I just associated Neighbor B's birthday with unwanted cat/skunk love. This was not my intent. I apologize. Let me start again.

One of the first times I hung out with Neighbor B, we played this game. It's called "Loaded Questions." You draw a question, everyone else writes down their answer, and then you have to guess whose answer is whose. It was during this very game that I started to love Neighbor B. I remember it down to the very question. It was: "what was the worst fashion trend you ever succumbed to in your life?" The other people playing the game had lengthy, mortifying answers, like "floral gunny sack dresses with a turtle neck underneath, with large gold chains on the outside of the turtleneck and metallic gold shoes" or "loud, baggy hammerpants with a pink and purple design, like something Hulk Hogan would wear." I mean, really excruciating, true-confession stuff. And then, there was Neighbor B's answer. "Tank tops." That's it. That is the worst thing he could come up with. He had once worn tank tops back in some early bare-armed heyday and that's as fashion-faux-pas-ed as he was going to get. You have to love a guy like that. You just do.

The other thing that has to be said about Neighbor B is that there is a part of me that wonders if he is part robot. Not a robot in a scary, post-apocalyptic way. An android style, benign, Data-like robot. Let me make the case. He is very involved with all-things technical. He's probably got some sort of program running right this very moment that washes and dries his clothes, feeds the birds in his yard, makes doughnuts for breakfast and wipes his nose. Whenever you go to his house, there is always some sort of project going on of the technical variety, and it almost always involves wires, cords and cables. He seems to tend to his cords like a mother bird tends to the twigs that make up her nest. He rearranges them, he moves them around, he fondles them. And when he's done, they do something fantastic and automated. It's awesome. So when I joke that Neighbor B.'s house is merely a facade for the operation he is running where he single-handedly rules the world, I am only 40% joking. I have never in my life seen anyone do so many different things just with the use of cords alone. I am very glad that he uses his android powers for good and not for evil, or else we'd all be in big trouble, you guys.

There was a time when Neighbor B was my actual, geographic neighbor (as opposed to the more existential neighborliness that we feel for each other now). We lived in a side-by-side duplex, and the wall that separated us was not the most soundproof wall in the world. Every day, at some point, Nordic Boy and I would pause for a second because we heard a sound. At first, we were all like "what is that?" After a while, we figured it out. It was Neighbor B, next door, working with his cords. As he worked with them, they were being jostled or slid across the wall, creating a soothing, ambient sound, not unlike the wind in the trees. From that day forward, it was a welcome sound. When it would start, we'd look at each other and say "...cords..." which was really shorthand for "ah, Neighbor B's home. And he's up to something with his techie projects. All is right in our world." It was like he was communicating some sort of greeting to us through the wall, even if he didn't know he was doing so. Rustle, rustle, hey guys. Rustle, rustle, how are you? We even took to nicknaming him "Russell Cords" in honor of his rustling sound. The rustling of the cords was one of the things I missed the most when Neighbor B moved away.

Happy birthday, Neighbor B. I love you to bits. (See how I worked in the techie-talk there? I said "bits." Did you catch that?)

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Ax me a question

Thanks guys! You totally came through with the questions, you bunch of Bernard Pivots. Actually, some of you are a little more James Lipton than Bernard Pivot, I noticed. You know who you are. So, here be my answers, homies.

french panic asked:
I do not know this Glamorous song you speak of. Does this make me a)uncool or b)ultra cool for ignoring Top 40 radio?

You dastardly french panic, you. I see your evil plan. I, being your blog-friend, already KNOW that you're cool. Which means I have to answer this question by sayingthat not knowing this song means you are choice b. Ultra cool. But see, then it would have to follow that people who DO know this song (ahem, like me) would have to be in the uncool category. So it's like a zen riddle. How can either of us be uncool if we're on opposite sides of this conundrum? I am forced to conclude that a degree in the Science of Fergie does not have any bearing whatsoever on coolness.

Also french panic:
In a recent post, you mentioned wearing acid-wash jeans and having a motorcycling boyfriend at the age of 17. Acid-wash was cool in my school when I was in grade 6 or 7. This would make you approximately 37 years old. Are you in your late 30s, or did acid wash have an extended hey day in the US that I am not aware of?

Frenchie, you are really grilling me with these questions. Are you really Christiane Amanpoor and you're just faking this whole Canadian thing? Because you just went and asked me my AGE. Yes, you did. But no, I am not in my late 30s. And honestly, I wasn't actually wearing acid-washed jeans in that story when I was 17. It was added for dramatic effect. I did wear acid-washed jeans in high school, but I think they were pretty much over by the time I was in 9th grade. So that would put me in the dirrty thirties, but early rather than late. Or even mid would be an acceptable answer. Just not late. Not yet.

Parttime Librarian asked:
Have you been a librarian long?

No, I'm a baby librarian, just out of the pupa stage. Although, because many of my colleagues are all I've-been-here-for-thirty-years, I think I will have a librarian-pup feeling for a while. Pass the puppy chow, 'cause I'm all cute and cuddly and stuff.

Sphinter asked:
Am I dreaming this up or are you in Seattle?

You are not dreaming. Although if you would like to conjure me away to a city, try for London, please.

Also Sphincter:
If you are in Seattle, is it true that one of the floors in the new SPL is illuminated by colored lighting (like red and/or blue?) If this is true, this seems odd. Is it as odd as it sounds?

I can't think of a floor that is illuminated, but there are many crazy things about that building that you may have heard about. Like the escalators and elevators are all illuminated in chartreuse. And there is a whole floor that is entirely (and I mean ENTIRELY) red. It's like being inside a big uterus. Not that I remember what it's like being inside a uterus, but it just seems very hello-I'm-in-an-organ. And I really like it. What does that say about me? Discuss.

Teej asked:
What's the coolest thing that a librarian can help the average citizen do--a service most people aren't aware of?

Oh Teej, where to begin? I truly think that libraries in general and my library system in particular rocks the hay-owse in so many different ways. But if you want to know something that maybe isn't very well known...how about the fact that our Central library has private music practice rooms? Notice I said music practice, not
make-out practice. Just to be clear.

Teej also asked:
Are "Bunnicula" and "The Celery Stalks at Midnight" and "Howliday Inn" still popular with the cool kids? Or maybe I never was one of the cool kids.... Oh.

Oh yes indeedy, they are very popular. How can a vampire bunny rabbit ever go out of style? It's like Chanel. Timeless. And I must tell you that whenever I get asked for Bunnicula, I tend to go home and annoy the bejeezus out of Nordic Boy by putting "icula" on the end of any word that I can. "How about a snackicula?" "That Clive Owen sure is hotticula." "I'm going to take a bathicula." You think I'm making that up, but I assure you, I've really said all of those things.

Katie K asked:
...it's not a question but I want to hear about you in library school!!!

Katie, I just have to tell you that your experience of library school (as I've seen from your blog and the blogs of your friends) is SO MUCH BETTER than mine was. You guys seem to have cornered the market on mighty nice people. People who like to hang out and have a sense of humor and don't flip the fuck out if they get a half-grade lower than their peers. My library school people were way intense, like we were learning how to be friggin' CIA agents or something.

Spacecase asked:
What's the largest overdue fine you've ever seen?

Aw Spacecase, I wish I could come up with some crazy ass answer like someone had $10,000 in overdue fines for checking out too many Zamfir cds. Alas, I don't. I don't do any circ at my job (oh look at me dropping the terminoogy..."circ," my non-librarian friends, is short for circulation, which is the department of the library where they actually check books in and out and collect fines and such like), so I don't really see fines too much. I'd say the highest I've seen is maybe 200 bucks, something like that.

devo2007 asked:
What is the gross national product of Zimbabwe?

Hey, what do you think this is, some kind of reference desk or something? I'm off the clock, mister.

pencilwriter asked:
Do you color your hair?

My hair is 100% virgin (please no wisecracks about the rest of me, people). As of now, I have never had any chemicals, perms, treatment, or color. I did contemplate dying my hair midnight blue when I was in 10th grade. It was a grand idea that lasted maybe 5 minutes.

llojackie asked:
How old were you when you had your first kiss?

Honestly, llojackie, I can't really remember who was first (whoa that sounded sluttalicious, didn't it?), I think there was lots of kissing in the spin-the-bottle era of 7th and 8th grade. I don't really count those as my first kisses because they were so...ehh. The one I really count was from my boyfriend in 11th grade. It was the first one that made my knees weak, literally. It was like, all of a sudden, my entire body woke the hell up. Hello, sexual awakening, nice to meet you.

nikki_rgbld asked:

What is your favorite book?

How you gonna ask me that? That is too hard. I am horrible at favorites. Favorite book, movie, song, band. I can't decide shit like that. How about that one book that I wrote that blog post about? The one where Celine Dion is posing with all these random babies? Let's say that is my favorite book. It's so wrong that maybe it's right. There's a thin line between love and hate, you know.

heather1432 asked:
Why do you blog?

Shit, I don't know. It seems like the right thing to do.

laurielaugh asked:
Tell us a strange fact about you that we haven't heard.

I don't know if you haven't heard this, but I dream pop culture and/or historic figures. In recent nights, I have dreamed that I was having a beer with Eddie Izzard, and that I was swimming in the ocean with a young Anne Bancroft, and that I kissed Proust at a bachelor party (and I don't even know what Proust looks like).

crzzzydaisy asked:
What is on your bedside table?

A reading lamp, a book (Brokeback Mountain), a little Italian ceramic bowl for my miscelleneous jewelry, and a framed quote of a line from a Neruda poem that says "by night, love, tie your heart to mine, and the two together will defeat the darkness."

josh asked:
If you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be?

Wow, Josh, you got all literal when I asked you to channel your inner Barbara Walters. Next thing you know you'll want to star on a show where you sit on a panel with four other really annoying women. And you'll be wearing something with metallic gold buttons on it. I'm avoiding that tree question, in case you're wondering. I can't pick one. Kind of like that favorite book question up there. Is there a
Celine Dion tree? If there is, that's what I'll pick.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Ask It

As you read this post, please turn on the song "Glamorous" by Fergie, and listen to it in the background as you read. If you don't have it, just hum it to yourself. If you can't hum and read at the same time, just think about it as you read. Because you guys? My life in Libraryland lately? It's The Flossy, Flossy. Let me prove it to you.

First of all, what does it say about me that I find the word "librarian" hard to type? I always mess it up and type librrian or librarin or liabriar. It's like I'm typing along, perfectly normal, and then I get to the word that describes my very own profession and my hands have a spasm of...excitement? dread? electricity? I don't know what it is. (Are you humming "Glamorous" yet? If you weren't before, you should be by now).

Oh and also. Today at work, I helped six different kids find Garfield books. Like, you know, the comic strip. Did you guys know that Garfield is still the shit with the kiddies these days? I didn't. I thought Garfield had peaked in the early 80s. My friend in 5th grade, Kari, rode high on popularity that year based purely on her ability to draw a perfect Garfield on command. And here it is, years later, and the kids mob the comic section when the Garfields are shelved. (...Glamorous...)

You know what else? I often eat lunch at my desk. So do my colleagues. This causes us to constantly be telling each other "I'm going on a break." And for the life of me, I cannot utter the words "on a break" without wanting to yell it like Ross and Rachel.

Oh and furthermore on this string of nonsensical gibberish that you've gotten sucked into reading, was I the only one who was creeped out by that strange choir on the Oscars that sang in sound effects? I still can't quite figure out why, but that seriously scared me.

Still singing that Fergie song? I thought so.

My week is scattered right now, people. I don't know if I can muster up a good post this week (see Exhibit A, above). Why don't you all de-lurk and email me some questions? I know you're out there. I see your hits on my site meter every week. Go ahead, muster up your inner Barbara Walters and ask me a little something something. Because I really have nothing to say, for once in my life. So, it's all on you. What do you want to know about Librarian Girl? Put it in the comments or email me at librarian.wonder@gmail.com

See how I turn this around and make it about you having to write something?

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Damn Fine Things

This is a belated Valentine's list of things I've been loving lately. Sort of along the lines of Oprah's Good Things. No, wait, Oprah doesn't have Good Things, that's Martha. Oprah is Favorite Things. I think. I can't really keep that straight. Whatever. Let's just say that this is a list of Librarian Girl's Good Nice Lovely Damn Fine Things. And what an eloquent preface to it, if I do say so myself.

1. I saw this episode of Star Trek, The Next Generation the other day, and I noticed that Captain Picard sometimes greets people like this: "REPORT!" No hello. No hey, tell me what's new. No what's up. Just barking out..."REPORT!" I adore this. Next time you want to greet someone, yell "REPORT!" in their face. Preferably with an English accent. It's sexy when he does it.

2. I love the sentence "I shit you not." In response to "really?" or "no way!" or "for reals?" There's something vaguely Shakespearean about that word order, which, when combined with the cussing, adds up to beauty. Heart it.

3. Nordic Boy has the most creative nicknames for me that I never tire of hearing. "Pass the salt, Sweetneck." "Come over here, Sexylocks." "How are you, Smooch-knuckle?" They just roll out, a never-ending stream. Better than a sonnet, I tell you. So, be creative with your nick-namery, my Pretty Lobes out there.

4. When Biology Girl and I call each other on the phone, we can immediately start talking, almost in the middle of a thought, and the other person will totally understand what is being said. For example, the other day, I picked up my phone and she yelled "whoo-hoo!" instead of saying hello. Because I had done something that day that was woo-hoo-worthy. And she knew that, and was calling to express the Love. It's no "REPORT!" but it was still nice.

5. And, speaking of talking on the phone, I, amongst my closest loved ones, have this tendency to answer the phone like an old man. "Yyyyelloh!" is what I belt out. I find this funny. Every time I do it, I find it funny. So it's probably more like this: "Yyyyelloh!...hee hee hee." I imagine myself wearing a big medallion and tinted eye-glasses, like Elliot Gould in Ocean's Eleven. I don't expect you to understand this. It's my own brand of hilarity. Maybe the French would think it's funny. Me and Jerry Lewis. Huge in France. Yyyelloh!...hee hee hee.

6. How ballsy is it for Vera Wang to try and tell us that we need to buy a mattress with her name on it? Way ballsy. Wait, this is a list of things I love. Not things that are stupid. Although, granted, often those are the same things, so it can be hard to keep track.

7. There's a re-mix out right now of that Justin Timberlake song "My Love," where, instead of saying "Because...I can see us holding hands..." etc, he says "be-be-be, be-be-be-be-becaaaaaaause." Have you guys heard this? Now, every time Nordic Boy asks me why something is, I just say "be-be-be, be-be-be-be-becaaaaaause." It's such a joy living with me and not annoying in the slightest, can you tell?

8. Because of the gorgeous Tivo device that lives with me in my home, I don't really see commercials very much any more. However, in the past couple of weeks, I have seen two that are worth noting. First, there was a promotion on some channel where they were going to play all of these Patrcik Swayze movies back to back all weekend. Why one would want to do that is another topic for another day. However, the commercial for this event featured an announcer voice of the monster truck variety screaming "SWAYZE GONE CRAZY!" a bunch of times. Can I just say that that needs to be celebrated, perhaps with its own holiday? How have I lived my whole life without the phrase "Swayze Gone Crazy"? How?

9. Ridiculous commercial #2. There was a promotion on Spike TV (that bastion of high art that is basically the Ultimate Fighting Channel) for re-runs of CSI called "DEATH BY SEX WEEKEND." I really have no commentary to add to this.

10. Neighbor B's dad doesn't say "jist." As in "you get the jist of what I'm saying." He says "jizz." Honestly, he really does. I don't know what kind of regionalism that is, but he honest to god, with no trace of humor, says "you get the jizz of what I'm saying." I shit you not.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Try This Flirting Technique

In 7th grade choir, we sometimes had a sub, Mr. Beemer. Mr. Beemer was well-known for sitting in his office all hour, while the class went berserk in a Jack-the-pig-hunter sort of way. People would run around, playing tag on the risers or wrestling amongst the folding chairs, pummelling each other in that fun-but-actually-very-mean way that middle schoolers can have. Or, if you were like me, you would sit there and talk with friends, write notes, or flirt across the room. I give you the following example..

So, there I sat that day, talking to my friends. As we talked, we all periodically looked over at 7th-grade cutie Seth and giggled audibly, just, you know, to make a point.

As I was talking, all of a sudden...ping! Something hit me on the shoulder. I looked back. I couldn't figure out what it was, but oh my god, Seth was LOOKING in our general direction. This was big news, because cool boys were always stand-offish. They didn't LOOK at anyone. They glanced, maybe. They looked bored and let their eyes pass over you, through you. They didn't LOOK. But there he was. Looking. I turned back around, and I'm sure I did something extremely subtle like squeal "ohmygod!" and clap my hands together. I'm not proud of this, people. I'm just being real here. This is who I was in 7th grade.

Ping! Something else hit me. What the hell? I turned around, looked on the floor, and what did my little eyes spy? M&Ms. Someone was throwing M&Ms at me. I looked up, and there was Seth, looking back. Could it be? I turned back around and alerted my friends. They kept an eye out, so the next time one of them hit me, they saw it. It was Seth. Be still my beating heart.

As the pelting continued, the pile of M&Ms around my chair started to collect. And this is what became apparent. They were ALL GREEN. Seth was picking through his little bag of M&Ms, and getting the green ones out to throw at me. Because, you know. Green M&Ms. Wink wink.

I ask you to please tell me what 7th grade brain could come up with a gesture more funny than that? Seriously, if Margaret Mead was studying the sexuality of American kids being struck dumb by their own puberty, she would find no better archetype of behavior than this. Am I right or am I right?

And, to show you that I was not above this M&M affection/aggression construct, I will reveal that I did not just keep giggling and being pelted. I started picking up those M&Ms and throwing them back. And, in this way, Seth and I got to interact. We didn't actually talk, of course. Because that would have been too much. But we had a green M&M fight, and felt our hormones surging through our charged up adolescent bodies. How sweet it was.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Dead Wrong

When I was a senior in high school, I felt like I ruled the world. Totally indestructable was I, full of hope and optimism and strutting around my town like I owned everything in it. Everything I did was fun and exciting and felt new, and I was brimming over with life. It was in this state of mind that I applied to a job at the hospital where I was born. I needed extra running-around money, and what better way to line the pockets of my acid-washed jeans than to do a little office work for the local hospital? File some papers, answer some phones, chat with the other workers in the office. Like the rest of my life at that point, it was perfect. I set it up, and showed up to the Records Office on my first day.

"Hi, welcome! Let me show you to your desk."

This was a thrilling sentence to me, as any job that I had ever had until this point had never involved anything called "your desk." I got a desk! Mine! I immediately began fantasizing about myself at my own desk, in a cute 40s-esque pencil skirt with Lauren Bacall hair and back-seamed nylons. I decided I would put a fresh flower on my desk each day that I worked, and I hoped that I would be lucky enough to have a sassy desk neighbor who would crack jokes with me and give me advice about boys.

"Follow me please."

I don't remember who this disembodied voice that I keep quoting belonged to. I remember she was female, and my supervisor, and that she seemed nice enough. I wish I could remember more about her so that I could piece together the kind of person that would put young, fresh-faced me in the position that she did. Because, you guys? It was messed up.

We got in an elevator and she pushed the button for the lowest level ever created. It was like, a sub-sub-basement. I figured my fantasy desk would most likely not have a window nearby, but I kept the faith. I was still hopeful.

The doors opened, and I swear to you, I was in hell, people. We entered a gigantic room, with no overhead lights. There were cubicle walls as far as the eye could see. The only lights in the entire room were from little desk lamps that were placed on each desk in each cubicle. As the disembodied supervisor led me through the maze of cubes, I peered into each. There sat sallow-faced workers, typing on computers, the green glow of the screens (this was back in the day when computers were all black screens with green letters like in the Matrix) illuminating their blank faces. There was no talking. There was no sunlight. There were no fresh flowers and Lauren Bacall hairdos.

"This is your desk. Have a seat."

I sat in my little cubicle, in front of my little computer screen, and looked at the tall stack of folders next to my keyboard that reached well above my head.

"Each of these is a patient folder of a deceased patient. You'll just take each folder, look up that patient's name in the computer files, and find the field that says 'status.' And all you do is change whatever is in that status field to a 'd.' D for deceased."

Oh yes. You heard that right. Old Disembodied was telling me that my job was to sit there and look up all these dead people and then change their active records to inactive by typing in a little d. For deceased. D for Deceased! Did Cookie Monster ever sing a song like that? "D is for Deceased, and that's good enough for me"? I don't think so. Because it's not good enough for me. In fact, I can counter that statement with a whole lot of other D statements. Like D is for Damn, that's fucked. Or D is for Dude, are you shitting me?

Anyhow, with those instructions, Disembodied walked off and left me there. And I, although a product of parents who taught me never to take any shit from anyone at any time, put my head down and got to work. I don't know why I didn't object to the fact that this was not what I agreed to do when I applied and accepted this job. I was a very strong-willed 17-year-old who had lived on her own and fended for herself many a time, but something about the environment was overwhelming. I just forged ahead and started in on those folders. Not too far into this project, as I looked at the names of these faceless people and officially switched their status from alive and kicking to dead as a...dead guy, a thought occurred to me. A thought that was even more horrifying than the task at hand. What if I came across a name of someone I knew? My city was not tiny, but it was interconnected enough that I could imagine such a thing happening. This thought put me over the creep-out line. I called my boyfriend on the phone that was thankfully on my desk.

Me: (whispering) Hey. It's me. You've got to come pick me up.
Him: Why? What's wrong? I just dropped you off an hour ago.
Me: I can't do this! I have to look at dead people's files!
Him: What?
Me: I can't talk about it right now. Can you just come and get me?

And he did. I just walked right out of there. I wish I could say that I never went back, but I did. Every day for about two weeks. I never could finish a shift there though. I always, always bailed early. And I never took myself home, or called my parents. I would call my boyfriend, who would ride up on his motorcycle, and I would get on the back and we would ride the fuck out, usually way too fast. Looking back, I think I needed this dramatic exit each day. Something to remind me that I was young, cocky, and indestructable. Something like grabbing onto my boyfriend with my arms and knees from the back of a speeding motorcycle. Something to remind me that I was seventeen and life was delicious. That was the statement I needed. D is for delicious.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

But am I dumb or DUMB?

One day, Nordic Boy and I were talking about a mutual friend.

Me: That last guy she dated, he was a man, but not really a MAN.

Him: What? What does that mean?

Because the word "man" up there? In the first part of the sentence, I said it normally. The second time I said it, my voice went all weird. It was somewhere between Barry White and Eartha Kitt, the way I said it. I growled it out, like the big world-class lunatic that I am.

Me: You know, think about it. He was a man. A very cute man. But he just wasn't...a MAN.

There it was again. I didn't even know what I was saying, and why the hell I kept channeling Catwoman. This time I even clenched both of my fists as I said it. I maybe even drooled a little.

Him: What are you even saying? What's the difference between a "man" and a "MAN"?

Me: Oh come on. You know. A MAN.

Him: Just repeating it doesn't really tell me anything. And what's with that voice?

Me: It's just. Hard to explain. But there is a big difference between a man and a MAN.

Him: Oh my god, you have to stop saying MAAAAN like that. You need to explain that immediately because you are being scary.

Me: Like you. You're a MAN.

Him: But not a man?

Me: Exactly. You're just so...so... you're a MAAAAN.

Him: Holy shit. That is freaky.

Me: Do you really not understand me?

Him: I guess I kind of get it. You think I'm attractive, so that makes me a (sigh)....MAAAAN.

Me: NO. That's not it at all!

Him: Gee, thanks a lot.

Me: No, darlingest, I didn't mean it that way. Just because someone's a man and not a MAN doesn't correlate to hotness. It's just a different kind of hotness.

Him: You are totally not making any sense at all.

Me: Ok, like...Russell Crowe is a MAN. George Clooney is a MAN. You know...

And people, this is where I started to do this ridiculous interpretive dance. Like a strange cavewoman grabbing onto a brontosaurus shank and doing a yummy-yummy two-step.

Him: Whoa. What is happening to you?

Me: I'm trying to describe the difference between a man...and a MAN.

Him: By doing the mambo?

Me: Ok look. A man can be totally hot. Like Jude Law. Or Anderson Cooper. Or Orlando Bloom. But a MAN...that's just another thing altogether. It's someone you can CLIMB. Someone that will just clear off a table and have you right there. Like Clive Owen.

Him: So, Jude Law can't have you on a table? Yeah, right.

Me: You're being way too literal. It's a quality. It's indescribable. It's...

Him: ...a MAAAAN?

Me: Are you seriously telling me you don't understand what I'm talking about?

Him: Seriously.

Me: Now, let me just put it to you this way. It's the same for women. There are women, and there are WOMEN, I'm sure. Equally hot. Just different.

Him: Like?

Me: Nicole Kidman and Salma Hayek. Both hot, but Salma? A WOMA--...

Him: (interrupting me) Totally. Get. It.

Me: Thank you.

See how I educate?

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Mind the Gap

I have to preface this story by saying that it's NOT about being all anti-corporate and hipster-cool and I-only-shop-at-thrift-stores-and-listen-to-indie-bands-and-forage-food-by-eating-boll-weevils-from-the-dirt. Sure, I have my moments when I am sure as hell skeered by Walmart and the fact that Proctor and Gamble owns everything, and that they both probably own me and this blog and the wax in your ears. But that's not what I am talking about right now. Ok? Or if I maybe AM talking about it a little, it's not in that totally annoying holier-than-thou Judgy Judgerson with a side of generalizations way. Because I know it's more complicated than that. So just remember, I'm not being annoying in that way with this story. Annoying in OTHER ways, I'll grant you, but not that one. Ok, preface over.

I was reading this entry by Josh about Gap clothes. How they allow you to fit in, be from everywhere, or nowhere. They are the ultimate place to shop if you want to blend in. As I am a fashion devotee, it was an interesting thing to think about. And because I am a compulsive collector of slightly amusing anecdotes, it made me think of this one that centers around my local Gap.

For a long time, I didn't shop at the Gap. I can't remember if this was a conscious decision or not. More than anything, I think it was just not a "me" store back in the day. So much of where we shop boils down to the marketing of the place, and the clientele, and whether we think our identities mesh with those two things. I could find a pair of nice black pants at Anne Taylor, or Eddie Bauer, or Club Monaco, or J. Jill, or J Crew, but I'm less likely to step foot in all but one of those choices, just based on what it looks like from the outside and whether the people shopping there look like my people. Think about your favorite store, and that logic is probably going to factor in somewhere. When I think about my friends, and what their favorite clothing stores are, it always, always fits them so well that it's almost poetic. Well, poetic if you think about clothes the way I do, which admittedly, is pathological.

Ok, so back to the Gap. I didn't shop there for a long time. Just didn't. Analyze it however you wish. Until last year, when I went in there to buy some t-shirts for Nordic Boy. I went up to the counter with my items, and the woman working there gave me the "save 10% if you sign up for a credit card" spiel.

Me: No thanks.
Her: It's really a great deal. With the credit card, you also get lots of other perks and discounts throughout the year.
Me: No thanks.

And then the urge to over-explain my "no thanks" overcame me. She looked very disappointed. I remember working retail for commission and all that shit. I felt for her and wanted her to get why I was rejecting her.

Me: It's just, I never shop here, so I don't really need a card.

The girl stopped folding the t-shirts and stared at me like I'd blown snot on her cupcake.

I got the urge to over-explain AGAIN. I don't know what came over me. I do not usually jibber-jabber like this to total strangers, ya'll. (Wait, I guess that's pretty much ALL I do on this blog, isn't it. Jibber-jabber to strangers. You got me there).

Me: Yeah, I mean, heh heh, I actually have never shopped at the Gap before in my life.

I may as well have punched this girl in the sternum, friends. Verbally, I kind of did.

Her: You've NEVER SHOPPED HERE?
Me: Well, no, I mean, not that I wouldn't, or don't shop here on purpose, or I mean--
Her: Hey you guys! This girl has never been in a Gap before!

And she called her co-workers over. Yes she did. They all gathered around her and stared at me.

Me: No, I didn't say that. I've been in a Gap before, I just hadn't bought anything here until today--

Her: So, like, where do you live?

Like I had to be from Siberia, or the top of Mt. Everest, or Mars to have made such a statement.

Me: I live down the street.

Her: And you've lived there for like, a while? You're not from...somewhere else?

Me: No. I'm from here. Can I have my t-shirts please?

She and her Gap-mates stared at me some more, but they gave me my shirts and I scurried out the door. I immediately went home and had a snack of boll weevils. They sell those at Starbucks now, you know.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Whine and Cigarettes

The other night I went to a swanky party at a high-end restaurant in my city. It was the kind of place where they serve food like you see on Top Chef, with amuse buches and amuse-geules and unamused bony maitre d's who smile pained smiles as they lord over the power of getting you a good table. I arrived in what passed for day-to-evening-wear (which, really, is kind of impossible. My fabulous hipster-librarian clothes and my fabulous party-girl clothes are really not the same thing, regardless of what Rachel Roy is trying to sell us all) and ready to rock. Except, honeys, I was tired. I had worked a full day at the library, and although many of you non-librarians think we are sitting in overstuffed wing-backed chairs and reading novels all day long with cats in our laps, I assure you that library work can kick the crap out of you by the end of the live-long day. Or even in the early part of the live-long day in some cases.

But there I was, ready to go, rocking a black on black ensemble that hopefully was more NYC than Johnny Cash (you know I love the Man in Black but I really don't want to look like him) and said my hellos to the few people I knew and started in on the many that I didn't. First off was cocktail hour. This was definitely a wine and cheese sort of crowd, and there were many reds and whites to choose from, and not much else in the drinky-drink department. I suppose I could have ordered something else, because the last time I had red wine I had formulated quite an opinion on it, but I figured I would just go with what was right there.

I picked up a glass of red off a tray that floated by me, that was attached to a white coated waiter. And I know this will subtract off some of my urban sophisticate points, but you guys. Red wine? It tastes like ass. I'm sorry, but I'm just being real. If Jenny from the Block can be real, then I can too, right? And red wine may as well be toilet water as far as I'm concerned. Please. Just admit this to me. Just between us. The Emperor has no clothes, and red wine is just a way for people to feel like they are the Earl of Fancyland. This opinion of mine may put me on the hit list of Wine International, most of Europe, and Niles Crane wannabes everywhere, but that's my opinion and I'm sticking to it. Red wine tastes like rotten grapes. Go figure.

So I proceeded to walk around with my glass of red and not take a second sip. I didn't even bother to get another drink. I was THAT tired. And after a lovely meal that was more Elia than Marcel (in that there was no foam involved) I excused myself to my friends because I needed to get the hell home and sleep my knickers off. I was the first to leave the party at the witching hour of 9pm. NINE P.M. What is happening to me? This is a crying shame, is all I can tell you.

As I made my way to the door, one of the waiters came up to me. "Do you need help out?" he asked. Help? To leave a party? No thank you. I think I can figure out how to ride in an elevator and then find the front door. "Please, allow me." He punches the "down" button on the elevator. Ok, great. Thanks for sparing my finger the effort of button-pushing. I am tired enough to actually appreciate this courtesy. When the door opens, I get in, and...he gets in too. He then pushes the L-for-lobby button. "No, really, you don't need to walk me out," I insist. "It's my pleasure, miss...how was your dinner this evening?" As we chat pleasantly in the elevator, here is my inner monologue. "This place really is swanky. They actually escort you right out the door? Unless this guy's just doing this to hit on me. But he called me 'miss.' Such a formal word. If he was trying to be social, then wouldn't he loosen up a little?"

As we walked out of the elevator and out the front door, he did loosen up. He got his loose on, in fact. As we stood there on the sidewalk, he said, "so...do you want to hang out for a bit and share a cigarette? I have one left." Share. A. Cigarette. Is this what the young people are doing these days? No more "can I have your number?" or "can I see you again?" Just an offer to suck a communal cancer stick on the sidewalk? Classy.

"No thanks." I'm way too tired for this. I think I need a drink. Where's that wine again?

Kiss the rings I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Irene Cara Was Sort of Goth

When I was a kid, I had a small record collection. I also had a kiddie record player that would close up like a little red and white suitcase, with a white plastic handle on it. The first record I remember owning was a re-telling of the Wizard of Oz. It came with a book that you could read along in sync with the story. The songs weren't nearly as good as in the movie, but I went along with it anyway. All of the voices on it sounded tinny and creepy, and I wouldn't listen to it unless it was light outside. The second record I remember owning was the soundtrack to the Sound of Music. That record was the shit because I could run around and act out all the scenes. In my version, Rolf wasn't a Nazi and Liesel didn't say "whhheeeee" after he kisses her in the gazebo because I liked to think that playing it cool was the way to be sixteen going on seventeen. I memorized every song on that record, except for Climb Ev'ry Mountain, which is the biggest grandmaw song I have ever heard in my life to this day.

My sister collected records and so I got to listen to everything there was to listen to back in the day, from Billie Holliday to Mozart to the Beatles. But those records weren't MINE, so whenever I actually got to have a record for my very own, it was momentous. One day, my sister came home with a 45 that someone had given her that she didn't want. I distinctly remember her scoffing at it and berating the poor soul who had deigned to give it to her. "Can I have it?" I drooled. And thusly I came to own my first rock record. And, whenever I got the chance, I put that sucker on my little red record player and rocked out with my baby bootay. "If you want my body, and you think I'm say-exy, come on sugar let me knooow..." Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Rod Stewart was my very first rock record. Thanks, Big Sis. You couldn't have given me Hendrix or Joplin? I would've even taken Sonny and Cher or something. But Rod Stewart? This probably explains a lot about my deep love of cheezy goodness that's lasted me throughout the ages.

As the times changed, records stayed in vogue, but tapes were now added into the scene. I spent many a night listening to Casey Kasem or Rick Dees or Shadoe Stevens or John Garabedian with a tiny tape recorder. I would hold it up to the radio and press record to get the songs I most wanted, and those mixed tapes were like GOLD to me then. I also bought tapes at the record store, and the first one that I bought for myself was the soundtrack to "Fame," which was one of my favorite tv shows at the time. I played the shit out of that tape, and sang my little heart out to "I Sing the Body Electric" although I had no idea what the hell I was saying. I even took that tape with me on a trip back to the South Pacific, and it was there, at
my cousin's house, that I played it until it literally wore out. I remember my brother saying "well, I guess it didn't live
forever after all, ha ha" and me being so so MAD at him for making fun of my tape that was gone, never to be played again. And even though that happened years ago, I swear to you I could sing you every song on that soundtrack, backwards and forwards. Those songs were so on my level, as an elementary school kid, it was truly heartbreaking to lose that tape. It had a song on there entirely about hot lunch in the cafeteria, people. Listen to this poetry that Irene Cara was belting out: "Macaroni and baloney, tuna fish, our favorite dish. Hot lunch, hey. If it's yellow, then it's jello. If it's blue, it could be stew, ooh, ooh." Oh man. How can you argue with something as simple as "hot lunch, hey"? You can't. And that's why, when that tape wore out, I cried. Really, I did.

So imagine my surprise today at the American Libraries Association conference, when I saw a demonstration of an online karaoke site. The demo was using the theme song from Fame! Be still my beating heart. I watched the words go up on the screen as some brave volunteers sang along to these words from my childhood.

"Fame, I'm gonna live forever. I'm gonna learn how to fly. I feel it coming together. People will see me and die."

Wait, what the-. People will see me and what? They'll DIE? How come I don't remember it saying that? I remember it saying "people will see me and cry." Still a little creepy and definitely very egotistical, but I can live with that lyric. But DIE? Really? This song has death in it? Did you all know this?

See what I learn at these conferences? Life changing.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Snow Blows

Oh my sweet Rock Hudson on a platter, it is cold. I live in the mild Pacific Northwest, and it is in the goll darn 20s. There is snow on the ground, and wind blowing right through coats and hats, and ice along all the smooth surfaces as far as the eye can see, just waiting to trip you and kiss you right on your assbone. It's just not right. Not right at all.

As I've mentioned before, I am, in the words of Rick James, cold-blooded. I have been known to shiver uncontrollably in 50 degree weather. Honestly. My teeth chatter and the whole nine yards. When this happens, people look at me and ask "Wait, weren't you born in the Midwest? Didn't you spend most of your life there? How did you survive?"

Yes, I was born in the Midwest. I did spend most of my life there. And I'll tell you how I survived. I was COLD. Six months out of the year, I was freezing my knickers off. In fact, this is probably the only reason I got any play with the boys back then. Believe me, if your knickers freeze right off of you, you get dates pretty easy. Har har. My point is that my body, it just isn't designed for cold. My parents come from a tropical paradise, for Cher's sake, and I am convinced that I am just built for 75 degrees and my body is just incapable of forgiving me for sub-60-temperatures. I have this memory of walking home from the school bus at age 7 or 8, bundled up like a wool burrito, and staring at the snow covered ground and trying to visualize fire in order to make it home. I also have a memory of going to high school and sitting in my theatre rehearsal in the auditorium, wearing two pairs of tights, long underwear, jeans, two shirts, a hoodie, and a sweater, and sitting on my gloved hands and trying to breathe calmly and think warm thoughts. My friend Michelle came over to me and said that it was time to go put our costumes on, and I flat out refused. I was not going to peel any layers off of me in order to change, no ma'am. The only way anyone would get me to do it was by letting me change my clothes in the boiler room. Yes, the boiler room was my dressing room. Listen, J-Lo may demand to bathe in Evian and Madonna may require an 8 jillion thread count, but this here diva has her standards too. Only the best for me, kids. The boiler room. And I was STILL COLD in there.

So this is why, whenever I get to miss the Midwest, I think about the cold and the ice and the horrifying winds, and I think ok, at least I don't have to deal with that any more. Except on days like today, when I DO. And then I get irrational grumpy feelings, where I say things like "This is SEATTLE. This snow is being so UNFAIR!" or "Mild winters my ASS!" or, as I did at 4am this morning when I woke up and saw the snow falling: "Doesn't the sky CARE that I'm DYING?" Did I mention that I used to work in the theatre? I know I can be so understated that it's easy to forget.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Start Making Sense

Here's what I am thinking about today. Lyrics that don't make sense. I think I like lyrics to make some sense, in a pretty linear, clear, perhaps simple-minded fashion. Why? I don't necessarily have this requirement for any other type of art. I can watch a Pinter play and enjoy it thoroughly. I can see a Merce Cunningham dance piece and take it all in. And modern art-- you know the kind that people always say "my five-year-old could do that" or "I don't get that, WHY exactly is there a black dot in the middle of the canvas?"-- that's actually some of my absolute favorite art ever. But with music, if I start to sing along, and I realize I don't know what the hell I am saying, it starts to bug me. So I present to you, a discussion of some of Librarian Girl's "Whatchoo Singin' "bout Willis?" greatest hits collection, volume one. If any of you out there can enlighten me on these, please do. I beg of you.

"Listen to the Music" by the Doobie Brothers. (Hey, I didn't say these were good songs, just confusing ones). I get the overall jist of this song. The title says it all. Have a good time, feel fine, dance your blues away, etc. Got it. But one verse always gets me. It goes like this "Well I know, you know better, everything I say, meet me in the country for a day." Ok, the meeting in the country part I get. But the first part? Well I know, you know better"? I know you know better about what? And how does "everything I say" get inserted into the middle of it? Is it like, I know that you know better than to listen to everything I say? Or I know that you know better than everything I say? Whaaaat? I know this is a dope-toking free love song, but really. What the hell?

And then there's Michael Jackson's "Wanna Be Startin' Something." Again, the bulk of the song I get. It's about starting trouble. Simple. But then what's the whole deal with "it's too high to get over, too low to get under, you're stuck in the middle, and the pain is thunder"? What is this weird blockade of which he speaks? Is the person who talks shit about someone else causing the other person to be "trapped" in the web of lies? Is that the symbolism? An aside: this lyric used to be even more disturbing as my friend Heidi and I, when we were in the 6th grade, thought that the "pain is thunder" line was actually "the penis finger." We used to try and understand what the eff the penis finger was and why it was in this song. So I guess I can be thankful that we were wrong about that. And then don't even get me started about the whole "you're a vegetable" repetition at the end of the song. I know, I know, the lyrics of this particular song are only the tip of the iceberg when it comes to questions about Michael, but still.

Even The Jeffersons. Pretty straightforward theme song. Short, sweet, to the point. They're movin' on up. They've finally got a piece of the pie. Uplifting, clearly. But why is that lady singing about "fish don't burn in the kitchen, beans don't burn on the grill"? I mean, why is that in there? The song is all about them movin' on up. Why is she talking about cooking? Wouldn't that be a line better sung for a theme song for, I don't know, Top Chef or something?

Ok, and what about this one: you know that song "Hell is For Children?" Good old Pat Benatar, you gotta love her. But what is with the "Hell is for hell" line over and over before she finally says "hell is for children"? Hell is for hell? What kind of jacked up double talk is that? How can hell be for hell? Hell IS hell. It's not FOR hell. I mean, really. What if we all started making statements like that? Knickers are for knickers! Twinkies are for twinkies! See what I'm saying here? It's just not right.

All of this confusion is enough to make you want to give someone the penis finger. Honestly.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

These Things I Swear

So, I'm not really a New Year's Resolution kind of girl. But since the blogosphere is running amok with New Year's lists, I will join in the fray and tell you all what pop culture has taught me in 2006.

In 2007, I pledge to do the following:

1. I pledge to wear underwear at all times. Because when Britney forgot to do this, the sky fell in and people started having fits, ya'll. On the other hand, you know that scene in "Home for the Holidays" where Aunt Gladdy gets out of the car and flashes her granny-panties at Robert Downey Jr? That's way worse. And who knew that getting out of a car is the sure-fire way to flash some cooch? Do we all need lessons on car-exits? Anyway, a happy medium with the skivvies. That's a promise.

2. I pledge to live simply, with less clutter. If Tori Spelling can sell off her used lipstick at her garage sale and Whitney can sell off her bustiers, then I can certainly cut down on my visits to Zappos.

3. I pledge to keep sexy from going away again. Thank you JT, for bringing it back. I was looking for it for, like, ever.

4. I pledge to come up with a good hybrid name for me and Nordic Boy, along the lines of Brangelina and Vinnifer. Libnordian? Nordbrarian? I'll work on that.

5. I pledge, that if I am ever in the studio audience of a talk show (Oprah, Ellen, The View, etc.) in 2007, I will NOT GO apeshit if they give the whole audience a new ipod. Or a new cell phone. Or a new robot vacuum cleaner. Ok, maybe for the robot vacuum cleaner. I will have my standards for screaming and jumping up and down, is all I'm saying.

6. I pledge to not marry Kid Rock in multiple-location weddings.

7. I pledge that I will not throw computers around like Denise Richards, as they may hit someone. (This one is not as far-fetched as it sounds. There are days in Libraryland where I have been THIS CLOSE to hurling a computer across the room).

8. I pledge to have a 6 limon-cello limit.

9. I pledge to not let George Michael chauffer me anywhere.

10. I pledge to try and yell out "I have had it with these motherfucking snakes on this motherfucking plane!" every chance I get. Because, really, that is a catch-all sentence.

Happy New Year, pals. Let's rock out 2007.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

My Biggest Brother

Ok, you guys, I'm totally warning you. I am about to get all serious. I know this blog is mainly all hee hee and haw haw because that is what my peoples love. And really, that is how I live most of my life. In fact, "hee hee and haw haw" should be my middle name. Except Librarian Hee Hee and Haw Haw Girl is just ridiculous, so it's not going to be my middle name. Anyhoo. I'm just saying. If you don't want to see me get all serious, avert your peepers right now.

See, today is my big brother's birthday, and so of course, I am thinking about my customary shout-out to him on this here blog. Writing brithday shout-outs is hard, because it means I have to take these incredibly important, complex people and try to come up with some anecdote that says something about them in just a few paragraphs. So I have to think to myself, what do I want the Innernets to know about the Birthday Loved One? What can I possibly say that will mean something to all of you out there who have never met me, never met them, and that says something about the core of who the Birthday Person is? It's a tall order, and I don't know if I'm successful at doing it half the time, but here I go again.

My brother is over a decade older than I am. All of my siblings are a lot older than me, and they are all close in age to each other. I came along way after the three of them (can anyone say "accident"?) and have often felt envious of their closeness, their shared experiences, their 70s hairdos in old photos. This may sound strange, but some of the memories I cherish the most about my brother are ones that I can't even remember. My parents tell me about how he helped care for me when I was a baby. My parents had just immigrated to this country with three rugrats and then had me and it was a high-stress time for everyone. I'm sure everyone was homesick for the homeland and that there was a large helping of worry on everyone's plate, with enough left over for second helpings. So, my brother helped out with the newest kiddie on the block. He fed me,and hung out with me, and nurtured me. Nice, right? Damn my baby brains for not being able to remember that.

The second thing I have to say about my brother is probably the most profound thing a younger sibling can say about an older sibling. Ready? You may want to sit down for this. My entire life, my brother has never been mean to me. Never! And believe me, I was the youngest in my family, and in my neighborhood, so I know the tyranny of the older over the younger. I know what it feels like to get my ass beat for being born last. I know what it's like to be left out of the big kid games. In fact, being left out of big kid games could be my middle name. Ok, fine, I'll stop with the middle name thing already. The point is, he never pulled that shit with me. My older brother was nice to me. He would have been totally within his rights as the big brother if he would have chosen to shove me a little. I mean, making little sisters cry is, like, in the Big Brother Handbook somewhere, right? But he never did that. I'd say that is a pretty big deal.

So, when I was twenty, my life turned crap right before my eyes. What until then had been a pretty great life all of a sudden turned into some sort of horrible messed up sickening thing. I had been the victim of a violent crime, I had to stop going to school, I had no money, no job, no plan, no nothing. Everyone has those shitty times in life and that just happened to be mine. I was fresh out of the hee hee and the haw haw that had carried me through all of my life and I felt like I had no place to go.

You know what my brother did? He took me in. I packed my one little bag and I came to the west coast, and he slapped a futon on his floor and let me stay. This act, in itself, was a profoundly loving thing to do when you're busy living your own life and you've got, I'm sure, your own shit to deal with. But that's not the most profound thing that happened. Because, see, I am lucky enough to have lots of people in my life that would have taken me in because I needed a place . It didn't have to be him. I could've gone to my beloved parents, or to my many friends. But the thing is, he was the one that knew that I didn't want to talk. I just needed space. To think about what had happened, to figure out what to do next. To just take a few deep breaths and feel like myself again. To get back that hee hee and haw haw that seemed really far away. So he took me in, and he didn't ask me any questions. He didn't ask me what my plan was, or if I had one. He didn't ask me for details about what had happened, and how the heck it was that I was so, so sad and how the heck did I think I was going to pull out of it. So, for the second time in my life, he fed me, and hung out with me, and nurtured me. And this time my brain was grown up enough to remember it.

Happy birthday, big brother. You are big, indeed.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Hokey for the Holidays

Highlights of the last couple of days, during which Libraryland was closed and I got to max and relax.

1. A midnight drive around my city with Nordic Boy, during which we looked at the holiday decorations that people festooned on their houses. We even drove back to our old neighborhood, to see if our ex-Neighbor still puts out his Blue Nativity. There it was, same as ever, on his porch. A set of plastic wise men, lit from within with bright blue lights, which cast a blue sheen all the way down the street. The baby Jesus lit as well, with a dirty white light inside of him. He is propped up, completely vertical, on top of the porch railing. This gives the distinct impression that the baby Jesus is, at any moment, set to slalom down the porch railing and down the hilly yard below. The wise men are circled around him like they're about to shove him off. Now I'm not a religious person, but that don't seem quite right, do it?

2. Spending an evening with my four-year-old nephew, who is currently obsessed with Stop Making Sense. Nordic Boy, my brother, and I all played the Talking Heads with his play toys (Nordic Boy on guitar and backing vocals, me on accordion, and my brother on percussion)while the little kiddie did the meanest David Byrne impression you've ever seen in your life. So, on Christmas Eve, it was "fa fa fa-fa fa fa fa-fa fah fa" instead of "fa la la." Qu'est que c'est.

3. Keeping up with our tradition of non-traditional holiday dinners, Neighbors B and J, Nordic Boy and I did a "July in Christmas" theme dinner, where we barbecued burgers, had corn on the cob, and potato salad. This was followed by an exchanging of gifts, and in honor of the pop culture-ness that you all expect from reading this blog, behold: the best holiday present EVAH. (Thanks, Neighbors!)



4. For our final day of no-worky-time, Nordic Boy and I turned off the phone and holed up in our house while it rained cats and dogs all day long. We made a big holiday-esque dinner for two, watched "Little Miss Sunshine" (which made "Superfreak" the official holiday song of the year for us), and "X-Men 3" (or Gandalf vs. Picard, as we like to call it).

5. You know how, on the pilot episode of Little House on the Prairie (of course you do), Mr. Edwards shows up on Christmas and brings everyone a present? And the presents are so completely laughable by today's standards? I mean, Mr. Edwards gives Laura and Mary each an old raggedy looking tin cup that looks like he found during some serious dumpster diving. Their response? "We each get our OWN CUP now! THANK YOU!" Their own cup. Like their whole lives, the Ingalls have been passing around one nasty cup between all of them. And I think, if I am remembering correctly (correct me here, Neighbor J), Mr. Edwards brings Ma to tears by giving her a potato. A POTATO. I gotta tell you, hokey holiday things like that usually make me laugh. But, when Nordic Boy and I danced in front of our new mantle to "I've Got Your Love To Keep Me Warm," (the Dean Martin version, not the Irving Berlin), I gotta tell you. I was feeling the holiday hoke. Come on, you guys, you've been reveling in some hokey-ness too, right? Just a little? Comment/email me about it. Don't leave me all alone in the company of Laura and Mary.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

My Friend Jen

This week my friend Jenny is entering what we like to call the Drrty Thirties. Happy Birfday to my dear Jenny!

Some years ago, I took a job at a place called the W.A.K. It doesn't matter what those letters stand for. The word "Wack" is descriptive enough. Because it was. Wack, that is. We rented canoes, schlepped them, and, if anyone was unlucky enough to tip themselves over into the water, we rode out in a little speedboat to save their sorry asses. This is the point in the story where people often say to me: "wait, rode around on a boat and saved people in trouble? LIKE BAYWATCH?" And no, dear Hoff lovers, not at all like Baywatch. In fact, this was probably the farthest away from Baywatch that you could ever picture in your life. Instead of sand and surf, we had murky water and goose poop. Instead of red bathing suits, we wore old t-shirts and shorts that could take a beating each day. And instead of running in slow motion, we ran our patooties off, all so we could half-heartedly rescue some drunken frat boy who had tipped his canoe over on purpose.

Aside from the canoes, the building also held a banquet room that looked out over the water that people rented out for parties. If these parties were held after hours, two employees would have to be stay in the building while the party was going on just in case something went wrong and then to lock up after they were done. The first party shift I worked was with Jen.

You know how, with most of your friends, you meet them, then hang out for a bit, and the love that you feel for them grows over time until you can't imagine life without them? Then there are the rare few who you meet, and you just adore them from the minute you set eyes on them? Jenny was most definitely in the latter group. The night she and I worked together, it was INSTA-BOND. She won me over completely and I was IN LOVE. I remember we sat there and did M.A.S.H. fortunes for each other and told each other our life stories. There she was at the beginning of the night, a stranger, and by the end of that shift, she was one of my closest friends. Just like that. This is the type of thing that Jenny does to people.

Even Wolfgang. Wolfgang was a dude who frequented our work place often, as there was also a sailing and yacht club associated with the WACK. Wolfgang looked like a J. Crew ad. He had sun-kissed blond hair and classical features. He even wore those Tommy Hilfiger type clothes. He also was a first class dickweed of the highest order. And he had an accent that made him sound like Colonel Klink. He yelled at us often, for things that really didn't merit all the yelling. I remember him foaming at the mouth at me one time. "Dee vending machine ees broken!" Spit even flew out of his mouth. To which I smiled and thought to myself: Aww, Wolfy can't get his Twinkie? Poor Wolfy, his life is so hard. This is the way communcation with him went. He would yell or be derisive, and we would sigh and think silent curses. Then, one day, as Jenny was standing there minding her own business, Wolfgang came over and said "Hey. Do you vant a piece of candy?" A piece of candy! For one of us? It was a god damn miracle. This is also what Jenny does to people.

After a couple of years, Jenny decided to move to Oaxaca for a year. Her plans after that year were uncertain. She could have stayed there, she could have returned to Seattle, or she could have moved back to Illinois, where her family lived. None of us knew what was going to happen. The morning she left town, Neighbor J and B, Biology Girl, Nordic Boy and I got up at the crack of ass to see her off. She loaded all her stuff up in a van and we stood on the sidewalk in our pajamas and cried our eyes out and hugged her and loved her. After waving to her tearfully as she drove away, Nordic Boy and I got in our car and started to drive home. Somehow, within a minute or two, we had caught up to her van. We drove alongside her, waving and making faces and cracking each other up. So when we finally turned off and drove in another direction, all three of us were laughing again. Our big good-bye that we had dreaded for so long was turned into this funny, silly, absurdly joyful moment instead. And once again, I have to say, this is what Jenny does to people.

Happy birthday, Jenny! Love, love, love!

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

The Ball Cracker

On a bookshelf in my guest room, I have an inconspicuous-looking unlabeled VHS tape. This tape contains evidence of my days as a starry-toed ballerina. Back in the day when I was better at this crazy thing than I ever will be at another thing in my whole life. It's a tape of a staging of the Nutcracker, the year that I played Clara, the lead. As was my m.o. back then, I was the youngest Clara that that dance company had ever had. So there I am, all baby-ish looking and dancing up a pointy-feeted storm like it was the easiest thing I had ever done. Come to think of it, it was.

Every year, my friends say to me: wouldn't it be fun to bust out that tape and have a party where we all watch it? What better thing to do for the holidays? And I go, yeah, sure, that could be fun. But somehow, it never happens. I'm not sure why. I'm not a person who embarrasses easily, people. When I found my journal from high school, which, really, could win AWARDS for embarrassing material, you know what I did? I read it out loud to anyone who would listen to it. I SHOWED people the parts where I described such things as how I wanted Greg Louganis to de-virginize me and how slow dancing with Sean C. made my ears burn hot and what the first penis I ever saw looked like (I actually described it as "nice." Like I met it at bingo and it let me have the last triscuit or something). HONESTLY. I mean, I would read it aloud on this here blog if I thought you guys wouldn't immediately click away. So me and embarrassment, not so much. But there is just something about publicly viewing The Tape that makes me nervous. Maybe I feel like that would just be too narcissistic, to have my friends over to watch ME ME ME. Look at my GENIUS ARTISTRY, LOOOOOOK. But that's dumb, right, because it's not like I can do ANY of that shit now, believe me, so bragging rights are way too far in the past to really matter any more. So I don't know. Should I do it? Just get it over with? Maybe it'll be fun. Right?

But on the other hand, does anyone out there enjoy hearkening back to when they were twelve? It's kind of an excruciating time of life, like, by definition. And there were some excruciating moments that come rushing back when I think of that time. Like, the fact that I had to partner with a man of 25, who played the Prince, and the choreographer kept telling me to "look at him like you looove him. You adoooore him. Look at him with looooooove." Dude, I'm twelve. Stop saying looooove in front of this man, who I already have to be flipped all around by which is bad enough. Or the fact that I had two quick changes during the show, meaning I had to run off stage, literally into the arms of four old seamstress ladies, who stripped me down and slapped my new costume on and pushed me back out on stage. With many other dancers in the wings, RIGHT THERE, where they could see me. Hi, male dancers, this is me in my training bra in a flurry of old ladies and velcro. Or the time that one of my friends, who was two years younger than me and played the role of a gingerbread candy, peed in her costume and stashed the smelly remnants of this in my dressing room after one of the shows. Or the fact that I kind of knew that two of the dancers in the show were having an affair, one of them being married. The reason I knew this was my baby-girl eyes saw them copping a feel on each other one time after a rehearsal. Or the time a talent scout came to a cast party and told me I should audition as one of the little kid parts for the Broadway touring company of "The King and I" but that my headshot should definitely be "in profile" instead of "full faced." I didn't quite get what that meant, but I knew there was a put-down in there somewhere. Or the time when the guy who played my brother "Fritz" (who was older than me too) had a situation where his costume had been altered right before the show, and there was still a PIN inside his pants, that was, um, POKING him. During a two-minute break in our presence on stage, we danced off into the wings and the poor sucker had water in his eyes. "There's a pin in my pants!" he had whispered to me while we were on stage together. As soon as we got to the wings, he plunged his hand down the front of his pants, frantically trying to find the culprit. "Ow! Ow!" he said in a painful panic, as I tried not to look. The seconds were ticking until we had to go back on, and finally he just dropped trou in the muted light and bent over, trying to find the pin. "Help me!" he said. And so I did. I got down there and felt around in this dude's pants. It was like a needle in a haystack (har har). But I found it. And me and that guy? Never really could speak to each other again. Because he was older and I had seen him sans PANTS. And I had put my hands down where his crotchal area had been, and like, felt the warmth of it all. ICK.

So maybe that is it. Just put aside for the moment that it is a tape of a performance. Would any of you out there, if you had a tape of yourself at the age of twelve, feel excited to watch it? To be reminded, in crystal clear color, of the awkwardness of all that puberty had to offer you? And would you invite all your friends over to watch it with you? Doesn't that seem strange?

Am I making too much of it? Probably. I can be nuts that way. Or cracked. Whichever you prefer.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Powerless

Much of my city's power was out this week, and although literally everyone I knew had no heat, no lights, and a fridge full of spoiled food, our house was not affected. So what did I do with this appreciation for electricity? First, I offered up my house for my friends to crash, take hot showers, and cook a hot meal. Second, since we were out of Netflix, and no electricity meant no video store, we watched The Lord of the Rings on tv. A three hour movie on tv with commercials. That shit it looooong. But, in our watching of said movie, we decided that it would have been infinitely more entertaining if all of the characters talked like us. As in slang-heavy cursers. So, we dubbed. By this I mean we just yelled over the dialogue. Here's some of the gems we came up with. I may have a future in screenwriting.

Gandalf: You shall not pass, you muther-effin' fireballz!

That Elf leader guy who is Mr. Smith in the Matrix: Nine companions. You shall be the Fellowship of the Ring.
Gimli: And our album drops this Christmas! Peace!

I'll stop there. Ok, wait. A few more things. Why does Saruman remind me of an arena-performing diva, like Cher or Celine Dion? And why does Frodo's elvish armor that he wears under his clothes have to look like an ice-dancing outfit? And how come every time I saw Arwen I wanted to sing "j-j-jaded"? And what kind of hair straightening tool must those elves have? And doesn't Pippin look like Willie Aames, from Charles in Charge and Eight is Enough? And wouldn't it have been cool if they carried the Ring around in a Tiffany box? And don't the Uruk-hai belong in the WWE? And every time Gimli referred to his axe, wouldn't it have been funny if he made the air quotes sign? And doesn't the Dark Lord in the sky look like a big fiery va-jay-jay?

Ok, really. That's quite enough. These are the types of thoughts that run rampant in my mind. Just so you know.

In other news, tis the season for some of our sweet library patrons to bring us loads of baked goodies. There's still graciousness in the world, people. And sometimes it comes in the form of pumpkin bundt cake.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Pajama-rama

First of all I have to tell you that today I realized that Amber Tamblyn, the chickee who was in The Ring and Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, is the daughter of Russ Tamblyn, the dude who played Gideon Pontipee in Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. It's discoveries like this that can make my whole friggin' day, friends. This has nothing whatsoever to do with anything blogworthy, but I just had to share the joy. Gideon Pontipee begat Joan of Arcadia. Oh the deliciousness of it all.

On to other topics. Today, I am going to share an anecdote that highlights the importance of user-friendly taxonomy. Because I'm a librarian, and this is the kind of shit we talk. What things are called is important, people. Because based on what they are called, they are then grouped with other things. Because then, hopefully, people can find these things. And, because I like to, apparently, start sentences with "because."

This one time, I went to pick up my friend Delium at the airport. Delium is a fashionable type dude. His duds are stylin'. He's not a sweatpants and flipflops guy. So imagine my surprise when he appeared at the gate in the middle of the day wearing pajama bottoms. Regular, every day plaid flannel pajama bottoms. Now I know that's not that unusual in the grand scheme of things, but in this case, it was shocking. It was like seeing Carrie Bradshaw in socks and sandals, or a child star who isn't Dakota Fanning. Stylish Delium? With pajamas on the plane? Either this was the much sleepier sequel to Snakes on a Plane, or something had gone wrong in Delium's world.

So I asked him about it. "So, you're wearing pajamas in public now?" I drop this in very casually.

He looked absolutely shocked that I had suggested such a thing. "What?"

"You. You're wearing pajamas."

If his jaw was dropped any further it would have been touching the damn pajamas. He was actually sputtering. "I am not! What do you mean?"

"Um. Those? They're pajamas." What was wrong with him?

"No they are NOT. They're just pants. To hang around in. Like running pants."

Holy smokes people. What the heck was going on here? They were flannel plaid pajamas. Period. No question. "They're pajamas, dude. You are walking down the street in pajamas."

"No, I'm not. In fact, I think they are specifically called Leisure Pants."

This is an actual conversation I am having. Leisure pants? Leisure pants. LEISURE PANTS.

"...Leisure pants??? What the hell is that?"

"I'm TELLING you. I bought them at Nordstrom. In the Leisure Pants section."

Do you see what's happened here? Nordstrom has to fancy it up and call pajamas "Leisure Pants" and confuse the bejeezus out of unsuspecting metrosexuals like Delium. Now, I'm not blaming Nordstroms for 100% of this problem, you understand. Delium has to take on the burden of responsibility here too. He's not going to eat shit if I call it a canape, so I concede that he should have realized this. But the point is, the way the pants were classified and grouped with the other pants contributed to the confusion. People, for the most part, believe what they are told.

Poor Delium. I don't know if the thought that he had been traipsing about in his pajamas was too much for him to admit, but he persisted in arguing this point with me for weeks. "They're LEISURE PANTS" he would say to me, in desperation. "Pajamas," I would say back. Such debate skills, we have. For all his persistence in the arguing, he didn't wear them outside again. And finally, FINALLY, he admitted to the obvious fact.

A rose by any other name may smell as sweet, but honestly. What the hell are leisure pants?

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

He's Oliver, I'm Stan

Sometimes love hurts. And I'm not talking about it in the sense of that Nazareth song.

Some nights I work until 6, and other nights I work until 8. Either way, Nordic Boy is home way before I am. He usually picks up whatever we are having for dinner and has that going by the time I walk in the door. So my coming-home-ritual goes something like this. I park my car on the street, walk up my sidewalk and up my stairs, open my front door to the fragrance of something cooking in my house. I drop my bag on the floor, take my coat off and yell out "I'm back, baby!" in my best George Costanza voice. Nordic Boy will then drop whatever he is doing and run out of the kitchen at full speed, wrap me in a
gut-busting hug, and cover my noggin in smooches. I'm sorry about this lovey-dovey description, ya'll. Feel free to gag all you want. I'm just keeping it real. That's just how we roll at my house.

So, if you put the gag-worthy-ness of this scene aside, you have to admit that sounds pretty good, right? Not a bad way to return home after a long day of librarianing. Except here's what happened last night. Same parking, same walking up to the door, same delicious dinner smells wafting up, same "I'm back, baby!" Then, let's slow down to slow motion. As I step over to the dining table, where the day's mail sits, Nordic Boy comes TEARING out of the kitchen. I look up, all smiles. He runs towards me, at full speed as usual, arms outstretched. As he puts the breaks on about a yard away from me, he realizes his socked feet have no traction on our wood floors. There are no brakes! You know how that Dave Matthews song talks about crashing into you, all romantic-like? Crashing into someone is not romantic, people. And...there it comes...very fast...CRASH. He manages to complete the hug, which turns into a tackle with the force of a six-foot-Nordic-storm, and we are both KNOCKED FLAT onto our dining table. You remember how Mary Catherine Gallagher used to crash into tables? It was like that. Except it was both of us. Our dining table, god bless Ikea, held up. But just barely.

After assessing if I was ok, and laughing our heads off for a few minutes, we got ourselves together and went in to the kitchen. Homemade burritos. Delicious. As I loaded up my plate, Nordic Boy got the sour cream out of the fridge. He popped open the container and put a spoon in it. Just as I turned around to go get the sour cream myself, he started to hand it to me. Physics conspired against us once AGAIN, and we crash arms. Sour cream flies out of the container and sprays itself all over the front of my shirt, in big globs. We had one of those slap-stick-movie moments, where we just froze. Me, with my mouth open, looking in shock at the sour cream slowly dripping down my shirt. Him, mouth open, now-empty sour cream container still held out toward me in his hand. Pause. "Oh. My. God!" is all I manage to say. Then, of course, we start to laugh and rub our arms where the crash impact took place.

After I put on a different shirt and we eat dinner, Nordic Boy sits on the couch with a magazine while I clean up the dishes. When I'm done, I come over to him with a blanket and my laptop. "Here," he says,scooching over to make room, "sit next to me." "I don't know," I joke, as I settle in next to him, "you've been kind of dangerous tonight." "Oh really?" he starts, letting go of his magazine and swinging his arm up to put it around me. Except. It doesn't go around me. I swear to GOD, where is this boy's depth perception? Because the back of his arm? Hits me ACROSS THE FACE. "YOWW!" I put my hands up to my face like Marcia Brady did after getting clocked with the football. "Oh my god, did I seriously just do that?" is Nordic Boy's response. As soon as our eyes meet, the laughing starts up again. I elect to stay next to him on the couch. At my own risk,
I know.

Love hurts.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

I Hearth Him

When we moved in to the new house, there were a few things that needed changing up right off the bat. The first thing to go was the stinky carpet that gave me a headache within 20 minutes of sniffing it's doo-doo fibers. I'm not sure what color this carpet was originally, but it was a sort of spotty grey when we got the house, and its bouquet smelled like a combination of kitty pee, cigarrette smoke, and mega-strong incense. So, before we moved, Nordic Boy tore that mutha out and put in our pretty new odor-free wood floors. The second thing that was a must-do was the yard, about which you have heard more than enough, god bless you. The third is my fireplace. Something had to be done about this fireplace, ya'll. I don't have a good photo of it to share, so I will try and explain the hideousness to you. Picture a plain wall. Then, right in the middle of this plain wall, picture a brick fireplace that looks like something that Ma and Pa Ingalls would have used. Something that might have a big rifle hanging over the top of it and an iron kettle on the grate inside. Now please, all you gun-toting, colonial-coffee-drinking readers out there. I have nothing against rifles and iron kettles. Well, maybe I do, come to think of it. My point is, don't email me with any haterade because I am dissing Ma and Pa decor. You go ahead and put your rifle anywhere you want to in your house. But this is my house and that shit is just not me.

So, as part of this buying-a-house deal that I got myself into, I made a lemon-fresh pledge to myself that when it comes to home renovations that I would like to see happen, there would be NO WHINING TO NORDIC BOY to do them. Because, honestly, I am perfectly capable of changing up whatever needs changing up in this house. True, I will not do it with the poise, speed and aplomb that Nordic Boy is able to do them. I do not have the skills that he has. But, I could, if I wished, change something if I really, really wanted to. So no nagging from this here girly. Nordic Boy has style and a keen design sensibility (because really, would I be with someone who doesn't?), so I know that he knows the fireplace needs a-fixin'. In fact, he has drawn up a design for the thing that makes me salivate with yearning. And I can't wait for it to be done so that I can show it to you. Over the weekend, Nordic Boy laid in the new hearth. There was masonry happening in my living room! As I sit and watch the mortar dry, I am confident that by next month, I will have a fireplace that doesn't call out for a gun rack.

In the meantime, as the winds blow outside and the rain pounds my city into a wet pulpy puddle, I will take a cue from Biology Girl by warming myself by the light of as many screens as I can gather together, with my many friends, the power cords. Cozy.


Biology Girl: warming up, entertaining herself, or taking over the WORLD?

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Let's Pretend

Oh my gosh, I am so boring this week. I start to post and then realize that I GOT NOTHING, people. I'm spent. How's this? Yesterday, during a meeting, a colleague did a book review of Maybe, by Brent Runyon (the guy who wrote The Burn Journals). She said this new book was about a teen boy, and there was lots of sex in it. "Well," I whisper to Jen sitting next to me, "if the book has sex in it, I'm glad it's not called The Burn Journals." Then we giggled for like, five minutes. It was funny, trust me.

Like I said, I got nothing.

So, to keep up with all ya'll reading this, I will go back into the annals of my life and come up with something. Hey, want to hear something embarrassing? Of COURSE you do. So check this one out.

I got in a fistfight once because of Erik Estrada.

What is the most shocking part of that sentence? That I, your peacenik, oh-so-lady-like and laidback Librarian Girl actually got into a brawl? I know. I'm a lover, not a fighter. Or is the Erik Estrada thing the jaw dropper? Hard to choose, right?

So when I was a little kiddie, my all-time favorite thing to do was "play pretend." It was simple. Pretend you are someone else. Go ahead, right now. As you're reading, pretend you are...a monchichi. Just imagine it. There. You're playing the game. When I played pretend, I would make up characters and run around by myself and act them out. Many times they were people from tv or movies. Charlie's Angels was a favorite. I was always Kelly Garrett, my favorite Angel. After a while, I wanted to act out scenes with dialogue, and so I had to play multiple parts. For example, at my house, my parents had those light switches that are flat, so you can turn the light on and off with a flat hand. This was perfect for playing Happy Days. As The Fonz, I would turn the lights on with a tap of my fist on the light switch. Then I would pretend to chew gum and stick my hip out like Pinky Tuscadero. Both. Two people was easy enough. Throw Ralph Malph or Jenny Piccolo in, and things got a little too complicated for my 8-year-old mind.

This is when I started to involve my friends. I would wait for the right moment, and then shout out "let's play pretend!" and the fun would begin. The neighborhood kids totally went for it. We would play out elaborate scenes and I could be Penny in Good Times without having to worry about trying to play J.J. at the same time.

So here's where it went south. I had a neighborhood nemesis. She was my Nellie Oleson. She was BOSSY. And just for poetic irony, her name was Angel. Not even kidding you. So this one day, the neighborhood kids and I were going to put on a little play for ourselves. The genius of this play was that we were going to MIX ALL THE SHOWS. So Julie from the Love Boat could interact with Mr. Kotter! Greg Brady could date Velma from Scooby-Doo! It was all good. All we had to do was pick what parts we wanted to play. Enter Angel. She started to ASSIGN parts. And when she got to me, the mastermind of this whole shindig, she pointed at me and said "YOU are Erik Estrada from Chips!"

Me: Oh no I'm not!
Her: You totally are! You're Erik Estrada!
Me: But I don't wanna be Erik Estrada!
Her: But YOU TOTALLY LOOK LIKE HIM.

This is where I got violent. Me, look like Erik Estrada? Oh hells no, you better step off!

I think I took a menacing step towards her, although I don't really remember. What I DO remember, is her putting her fists up and rolling around tauntingly on her rollerskates, saying "What? You want to hit me, ERIK? Go ahead, ERIK!"

And I swear to god, I went apeshit on her. My inner Bill Bixby turned into my outer Lou Ferrigno. I stepped right up to her and punched her right in the gut. That's right. I DID. I'm from the STREETS, SUCKAS!

Ok, so it wasn't really a brawl. After that one punch, she went down. And then she ran home. And I got to be Wonder Woman, just like I wanted. The show must go on.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Gotta Represent

I'm just now re-looking at my avatar over there in the sidebar. Me, in suitably warm-weather clothing. Nice. In front of the library, to signify, you know, the whole librarian thing. But why the boom box? To indicate that I carry a boom box around like I think I am Ozone in Electric Boogaloo? (Which I don't, just to be clear). To indicate that I, um, like music? Everyone likes music, genius. And then there's that crow in the corner. I am an animal-lover, it's true. And I always thought that that author photo that's on the book jacket of Louise Erdrich's Birchbark House is the best author photo I've ever seen: she's sitting there all beautiful and she's got a big ass crow sitting on her head. Really, she does! It rocks. So maybe that's what I was thinking of when I picked that crow. But now that I'm looking at it...what is that stuff under the crow? Worms? Dirt? Some sort of poo-poo material? Oh, nuh-uh. I can NOT be having bird shit representing me!

You know what this avatar stuff reminds me of? Senior pictures. Those photos your senior year in high school, where you wear outfits that scream out your identity and get wallet-sized copies that you hand out by the hundreds? I love those things. I still have most of the senior pics that were given to me. I treasure them. They are so...awful. (If I have your senior picture in my possession, be aware that I may be about to talk shit about you. Rest assured that I will talk shit about myself immediately following, so at least that's fair, right?) I have this photo of Kristi. Lovely girl, Kristi was, despite the frosted pink lipstick and the turquoise mascara. Her photo, however, shows her with her back facing the camera. She is looking over her left shoulder, and her right hand is clutching this same left shoulder. I implore you, when in life does anyone ever assume this position? Then there is Jason. Jason, who came to school most days in a flannel shirt over a t-shirt, and was a cutie. Yet, in my photo of him that I carry this many years later, his hair is all plastered down and he is sporting a Dr. Huxtable sweater and is leaning his chin on his closed fist. He looks like a dude in an 80s Sears catalogue. I have a photo of Christine lying on her belly in a field of grass, resting her chin on a soccer ball, her permed hair cascading down on either side of it like a set of curtains. Then you have the few people who actually look good in their photos. I have the cutest picture of Map. She's wearing jeans, and a red sweater, and she's sitting there on a chair with her legs crossed. She looks like...herself. Pretty. And then there's my photos of Jeff. Jeff was the senior boy that I was obsessed with in 10th grade. Biggest stalker crush I've ever had in my whole life to this day. And his photo is such a comfort to me, because I can look at it and say "yes. I was not imagining it. He was hott."

So my photos. Let's start out with what is positive about them. I did not have a perm, nor did I have a plume of bangs that were Aussie spritzed to kingdom come. Actually, I had no bangs at all. I went through the entire decade of the 80s in the bangs-heavy midwest, and I never had bangs! I don't know how I accomplished this. So, yay for me and my au natural hair. Second. I did not have weird settings for my photos. No sitting on a giant wagon wheel for me. No posing in front of a Trans-Am. I am however, in one of my photos, inexplicably leaning up against a white wicker box. Why, I couldn't tell you. (And yes, I know that these photos don't have heads. It's symbolic, ok?)

Ok, let's break it down, shall we? Note the shoulder pads, as I'm sure you already have. And the dress-shorts! I don't know if you can tell from this photo, but those puppies are white corduroy shorts. With a pleated front. Oh yessss. And those shoes. Those effin' silver metallic flats that I wore with pride. But you haven't seen the best one. The piece de resistance.


Oh BABY. Yes you are seeing this correctly. I have props! I am senior-pictures-with-props girl! Oy vey. I distinctly remember the photographer asking me what my interests were. I must have answered with something vaguely arty, dancey, drama-ish. She went ahead and busted out the paint-spattered drop cloth and the (oh dear drunk Danny Devito) comedy and tragedy masks. And believe me, I ATE THAT CRAP UP. I loved it. You know, there's a reason why photographers have you say "CHEEZ."

Ok, my avatar in the sidebar doesn't look so bad now. Apparently, by my standards set forth so long ago, bird shit is right up my alley.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

World AIDS Day

You know how I'm always talking about librarians who have secret pasts? Here's one of mine. I was a little dance prodigy when I was a kid. Not even some of my closest friends know this about me, even ones that I've known all my life. They knew I was a dancer, but I never let them know the extent of my involvement. But today, I'm telling it, because I want to tell you all about Tom.

This is the overview. By the time I was 7, I was in a class with teenagers. By the time I was ten, I was in master classes with adults. By the time I was 12, I had partnered with the principal dancer of the National Ballet of Canada. I went to schools in Canada and New York, the first of which I went to when I was 11. Alone. No parents, no one to look out for me, just living in a dorm and trying to figure out what was going on.

Except I wasn't alone. Because when you're surrounded by ballet dancers, there are lots of gay men around. And where there have been gay men in my life, there has been love, care, and community. In my young world, they took care of me. In many ways, they raised me. Among these, was Tom.

When I arrived at the Winnipeg airport at the age of 12 with my gigantic suitcase and my Bananarama-inspired outfit, Tom was the dancer who had been assigned to pick me up. I remember he was wearing red Reeboks. He met me at baggage claim, and hoisted my suitcase onto a cart. His first words to me were "Jeezus, honey, did you pack your furniture in here?" followed with "great earrings." On the car ride back to the dorm, I remember sleeping in the passenger seat. After that scary plane ride by myself, I felt safe.

From that first day, Tom adopted me. He took me everywhere, and he introduced me to everyone as his little sister. I would show up at the cafeteria for dinner after an 8-hour day of classes and rehearsals, and Tom would make sure I ate a balanced meal. I was 12- I didn't know what a balanced meal was. I would have been fine drinking a Coke and having a cookie for dinner. And, on a weekend where all the older dancers drove off together to go out drinking on the town, Tom stayed in the dorm with me and we watched Madonna at Live Aid on tv. And by the end of that summer we had perfected our version of "Here Comes the Rain Again" together, which we performed for my dorm-mates at the end of the year party, karaoke-style.

When I left Winnipeg, it was Tom who took me to the airport, and unsentimentally put me on the plane with a hug and a kiss, as if we'd be seeing each other the very next day. I went on my merry way, with no thoughts of writing or calling. At 12, what did I know about keeping in touch, or the possibility that you could lose track of the ones you love?

Years later, I discovered that I couldn't ever have Tom back. The world lost him.

So dear readers, on this day, raise a glass for Tom, who cared for Librarian Girl, made sure she ate her dinner, and always noticed her earrings.

http://www.lighttounite.org

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl