Me me me

I have been tagged by my blogger pal the Well Dressed Librarian. I don't usually do the "8 facts" meme because it's freaking hard to think up things about oneself without the context of a larger post in mind. However! I'm participating in this meme for three reasons and three reasons alone. One, us well-dressed librarianfolk need to support each other in our fabulousness. Two, WDL is one of my favorite blog people. Three, he tagged me by calling me a "gorgeous celebrity," and guys, flattery is like GOLD to me.

Here's the rules of engagement:
Each player lists 8 facts/habits about themselves. The rules of the game are posted at the beginning before those facts/habits are listed. At the end of the post, the player then tags 4 people and posts their blog names, then hopes they notice they have been tagged and continue this chain ad nauseum.

1. You know how Joel McHale always jumps into the tv frame at the beginning of that show "The Soup"? I love that. I wish I could just jump into people's line of sight that way. Can you imagine this at the reference desk? No one at the desk then HEY! A librarian shoots in from the side? That would rock.

2. At the end of interviews on talk shows, sometimes the guests are so naive about how talk shows work that they get up and leave at the end of their segment. If you're a big star, you know that you don't get up and leave when the segment is over. You sit there and soak in the applause, the show cuts to commercial, and THEN you get up and leave, off-camera. The pre-mature leavers are often non-celebrity guests. And when they don't know that they are pre-leaving, I feel all motherly towards them. The sheer unjadedness of these people, not knowing talk show rules, touches me. I know. It's weird.

3. I make up swear words. For instance, if I drop something, you may hear me say this: "punk ass kibble sniffer!" That's one of my regulars. What it means, I couldn't really tell you, but it works for me.

4. I have a stomach of steel. I do not have problems of the Pepto variety. Granted, I eat pretty healthy, so maybe that's it, but even when I don't, my stomach is ok. I have only barfed once in my life (TMI, I know) and it was actually very poetic because it was on the bed of a guy that was a total dick to me. That's a story for another post.

5. I have never seen a Tom Cruise movie in its entirety.

6. You know how some women mother people? I tend to sister people.

7. I have never been camping. I would like to go, but I have a secret fear that I will HAAAAAATE it. And then what would that say about me as a person? Will it say I am a nature-hater? I don't want that. At the same time, when I am not sleeping in my own bed, I enjoy such things as room service and cable.

8. My closest friends my entire life have been girls and gay boys. At this point, I am at my lifelong peak of hetero boy close friendships. I have three.

I have a weird thing about tagging people for memes. Like I don't want to be pushy and tell them what to do with their blogs, you know? So, I'm tagging four people, but it's sort of half-hearted. I won't be upset if you don't acknowledge the tagging.

The woman who brought bullhonkey back.
The woman who always smiles at me during meetings.
The woman who I must have coffee with someday.
Coffee with this one too. She rocks.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Where Have All the Corsages Gone?

My college roomie has come and gone, friends, and she was gracious enough not to bring up the time freshman year when we all took the Purity Test and I got into a fight with my chimp of a boyfriend over it. Then again, the graciousness went both ways because I didn't bring up the time that she broke the heart of the statewide pingpong champion. Oops, except maybe I did bring it up, like right now. Sorry, roomie.

Her graciousness did not stop there! She took Nordic Boy and I out for a lovely dinner and she did not crap her knickers when she saw our ugly yard for the first time. It was very generous on both counts. I took her to see the library (I swear to god it was at her request- I do not drag people who visit me from out of town to the library unless they specifically request it, which- considering the library here, they often do) and we had a lovely time hanging out.

On Saturday afternoon, roomie and I stopped in at the Nordstrom cafe to quench a powerful post-library thirst. As she ordered her drink, the barista asked her what her name was in order to yell it out when the bevvy was served up. And my roomie gave a bogus name! She, who is like me in that she has a non-common name, picked an alias that was short and easy to remember: "Kate." I thought I was the only one who goes undercover when I get coffee and smoothies! That made me happy. Like there's a whole underground movement of us who are "Jen"-ing and "Amy"-ing ourselves to fight the power of mangled first names! Aww yeah! All ya'll out there masquerading as Janes! Can I get a wutwut?

As we sat with our beverages (and it should be noted here that her cup said "Katie" instead of "Kate" so I guess getting names wrong may be an equal opportunity, um, opportunity), we chatted and watched the city go by. We saw, in the span of maybe twenty minutes, a man ride by on a unicycle carrying a brown fur suitcase, another man on a pedal-powered dune-buggy, riding down the street with ads stuck all over his vehicle, two women in identical white vinyl mini-trench coats and heels with spray tanned legs and porn star hair, and more than a few tuxedo'ed and gowned prom goers. And I gotta tell you, the prom goers were the ones that I stared at the hardest.

Prom fascinates me, you guys. Prom! The etymology of this word is "promenade." As in stepping out, walking about, galavanting free. The lore used to be that this event is when many, many people lose their virginity. Is that really true? None of my friends lost their virginity on prom night. None. If anyone out there did lose their crunchberry at prom, will you please let me know? Just one person. They've got to be out there, somewhere.

Part of the reason I am fascinated with prom is because I have never experienced one. That's right, I never went to my prom. I remember when I made the decision to not go to prom and I told my friends, many of them said to me: "but you HAVE to go to your prom! If you don't, you'll regret it for the REST OF YOUR LIFE." And yes, people, I am a shell of a person. I don't know how many times a day I go over and over this mistake that I made. Every time I lose my lipstick, every time a patron is rude to me, every time I can't figure out what to eat for lunch, I think GOD DAMN IT IF I HAD ONLY GONE TO PROM THIS NEVER WOULD HAVE HAPPENED TO ME.

Not only did I not go to my prom, but I never went to any formal dance of any kind when I was in high school. And it was not because I was not getting dates, friends. It was because I was taking a stand. Some people were protesting apartheid in South Africa, some people were trying to save baby seals. My issue was the tyranny of formal dances. I am not even kidding you, this was a topic that would get me CRAZY pissed off in high school. Here was my problem. You were not allowed to go as a single person. Tickets were only sold to couples. I found this compulsory couplehood revolting (still do, as a matter of fact) and so my protest was to vow never to set foot in a formal dance at my school until I could buy my own motherfarking ticket. Fight the power, Librarian Girl! We shall overcome!

So, in the four years I was in high school, I stuck to my guns. When I was asked to go to dances, I would just say NO. Even when it was really tempting and the dude was really cute and I really wanted to make out with him in a hot evening gown (that's me in a hot evening gown, not him), I would turn that opportunity down. I was making a POINT and I was willing to give up smooch time to make it (and honestly, what is more of a valued currency than smooching? NOTHING). And for four years, people didn't make that big of a deal out of it. If I didn't go to Homecoming, or Sadie's, big deal. But when I was a senior and my very own prom was at stake, things started to get ugly. People actually begged me to reconsider, for my own good. I would regret it, they all said, over and over again. And I have to admit, after all the badgering, I started to cave a little bit. I was going to miss my prom! Was it worth it? Didn't I want to get an updo and slow dance to "It Must Have Been Love" by Roxette? Didn't I?

My boyfriend at the time was an older man and there was no way in hell he was going to show up at a high school prom, so that was out of the question. My friend Joe asked me and I seriously considered it. I really did. But, when the time came, I just couldn't do it. I had made a solemn vow for independent souls like me everywhere, and I couldn't go back on my word. Hence, no prom for me.

Oh yes. I rocked it like Norma Rae. Only it wasn't a union thing. And I didn't really change the system or anything. And I don't look anything like Gidget. But other than that, it was totally the same thing.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Baby Love

I didn't write a post for Mother's Day, as I was spending it in the Midwest sans innernets, sniffing hospital fumes. So, although it's a bit late, I would like to say a little something that is semi-related to Momma's Day and to Pappa's Day, because my dear, dear friends Neighbor J and Neighbor B are about to beget a littlin'. Any day now, our family will be welcoming a new juvenile into its bosom. (And Neighbor J, I will refrain from making any comments about bosoms, as in your bosoms. Except to say. Wow). And my dear dear friends will become Mom and Dad. As in, their KID will call them Mom and Dad. Not me. Because that would be weird.

In honor of this blessed event, I would like to write a note to Baby Neighbor, the newest Neighbor in our loving familia.

Dear Baby Neighbor,

Hey girlie. It's your Auntie Librarian Girl here. I know you are going to have lots and lots of Aunties and Uncles in your life, as your mom and dad are well-loved, so it may be a little confusing at first. You can just remember me like this: I'm your cool Auntie that is somewhat immature. Everyone has to have one. Ben Gellar had Monica. Darlene Conner had Jackie. Go rent Auntie Mame when you're old enough and you'll get what I'm talking about. I'll be the Aunt that will slip you a twenty and not laugh at you when you're feeling oh. so. dramatic. And, I will laugh at poop and fart jokes. Then again, so will your parents so I guess you're covered there. I will keep you dressed in fabulous outfits, should that be your wish, and I will listen to as many boy stories as you can dish out (or girl stories, should that be your preference).

You'll be meeting Uncle Nordic Boy soon too. He's the one that looks like he's deep in thought all the time and who always has paint stains on his hip clothes. I know you'll love him. Not just because I think he's cool, but because, in little kid circles, he's a complete rock star. I don't know what it is about him, but the kiddies think he is the BOMB. I have seen crowds of little children jump up and down and CHEER when he walks into a room. "YAYYYYYY!" they all say. I don't know what the mystique is. Maybe it's all the cool tools he always has on his person and the way he's always fixing stuff. At any rate, when you're old enough to wield your first hammer, he's the man to show you how to hold it.

There may come a time, when you get close to your teen years, when you start to have conflicts with your parents. I honestly don't know what those conflicts may be, as you are blessed with Extremely Cool Parents. The only fights I can imagine at this point would be some kind of argument over the typeface that you've chosen to use on a
party invite or something. Because kiddo? Your mom is crazy-talented when it comes to graphic design, and her knowledge and aesthetic of fonts and typography are a wee bit scary. So here's a piece of advice for you. Your first ever Auntie advice from Auntie Librarian Girl! A momentous occassion, to be sure. Here it is: do not, for the love of all that is holy, ever use Comic Sans. EVER. Just don't. She may
ground you, just for that. While you're at it, stay away from Jokerman too.

Here's something else. Talking on the phone. Your mom and I like to do this. A lot. We talk on the phone like our lives depend on it. So, if you get to an age where you are talking on the phone a lot, and your mom gets mad at you for doing so, you can use this ammunition to argue your need to be on the phone. Remind her of the hours she has spent talking to HER friend, and how much she relies on that. (Sorry Neighbor J, to give you up like this. I have Cool Auntie duties now, though. It's, like, my job).

Now let me give some advice on your dad. First off, you are going to be the coolest kid around, because your dad is going to rig up some cool ass technology gadgets for you. Forget ipods. You will probably have some sort of music device that pipes music directly into the side of your sunglasses or something. Your friends will be dying of envy. But here's the downside. I'm going to give it to you straight. Do
not let him build you a robot playmate. Oh, he might try. He might tell you it will rock. But don't let him. The kids at school will think it's weird, and you'll be known as Robo-Girl. So cool gadgetry, yes. Creepy robot people to play with, not so much.

So, little girlie, I will save up any further advice for you until you've moved out of your mom's belly. I just thought it was time we get acquainted. I am over the moon excited to meet you, and I'll be cheering you on in whatever you do and I'll be there for you in whatever way you need me. I know you've got two parents that love you to pieces, but you can add me to the list of folks that love you unconditionally. I will always listen to what you have to say, and I'll do anything for you. Those are the Auntie vows I pledge to you.

Oh, and let me know when you need that twenty.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Hyperactive

You know how I am always talking about how librarians tend to have secret lives that you would never guess were there? It's totally true. I am not trying to perpetuate a stereotype- you know the one, where the stodgy librarian whips off her glasses and takes down her hair and all the buttons pop off her shirt and then it is ON. That is merely one incarnation of the secret lives of librarians. The diversity of librarian secret lives is really boundless. I have seen it proven over and over again. I have, on occasion, revealed some of the secret lives that I carry around in my own life portfolio. And today, I'm revealing one more. Ready?

There was a brief period, back when I was first in college, when I was HYPER. I mean, bouncing off the walls, extrovert-to-the-max LOUD and PROUD, kind of insane, hyper. Energy for DAYS. There was loud verbiage spilling from my mouth at all times. You remember Gilda Radner on SNL as the little girl named Judy Arlene Miller? Yeah, that was me when I first showed up at college. If you know me now, this seems ludicrous, and you're probably having a hard time picturing me acting this way. Because now, I am the person who is known for thinking before she speaks, a person who would never, ever jump up and down for no reason at all. Or even if there was a reason. Jumping up and down is no longer on my list of ways to express my glee. I don't really know if I am even one who feels something called glee any more. I am now known, first and foremost, as the Responsible One. The one who has all their Shit Together. Steady. Reliable. But when I first arrived at my dorm my freshman year of college, the words "woo-HOOOOO!" was a word I would use in just about any situation. I would routinely walk up to people I didn't know and say "Hi! What's your name?" no matter who you were or what you were in the middle of doing, and by the end of the conversation, I might actually be hugging you. Oh yes. I was that girl. By the end of my first week, I was the person who knew everyone on my floor, and my dorm room door was always open and my room was always filled with people. All. The. Time. And I was always up for fun! That was me! Fun! Fun! Fun!

Talk! Talk!

Jump! Jump!

Giggle! Giggle!

What? Did you say something? I was busy talking! And jumping! And giggling!

Oy. It makes me exhausted just thinking about it. I have a souvenir of this time in my life, and it makes me laugh every time I look at it. It's a handmade flier, announcing "Quiet Hours" in the dorm for exam week. These were the hours that you were supposed to shut the hell up so that people could study or sleep. So, the sign says something like "Quiet Hours 11pm-5am." And, in the white space of that flier, someone had graffitied in the words: "Librarian Girl, THIS MEANS YOU." That says it all, doesn't it? We have a sign telling people to shut up, and I am literally the Poster Child of those who need to shut up the most.

The reason I am bringing up this time in my life is because my roommate from the good old (extremely hyper) days is coming to visit me this weekend. My roomie was not, and is not, hyper. She bore witness to all of my lunacy and kept her head about her the entire time. She lived with me for a whole year and never once told me, god bless her, to CALM THE FUCK DOWN. On the contrary, I think she found my antics entertaining. At least I think so. We're still friends so that must say something.

It's kind of a funny thing to hang out with her now, knowing that she knew me best at a time when I was so different than I ever was before or since. It really was a sort of flash in the pan, Haley's Comet sort of time for me. I got every ounce of extroverted energy out of me all in one go. And then, almost overnight, it burned itself out, and I went back to being laid back, still social, but overall pretty introspective. I can't explain this. Maybe it was hormones. Who knows. I'm mostly amused at my 18-year-old self when I look back at it, but there is a small part of me that's a little embarrassed too. I left that college just as this phase was burning out, and the thought that there is a whole group of people out there who only knew me during this era makes me feel kinda funny. And there's a part of me that wonders, after all this time, if my roomie friend really sees me for who I am now, or if that Lunatic Me is lurking about in her mind when she looks at me. You know how, when you see someone do something truly embarrassing, there's a part of you that associates them with that act forever? Like, when this girl named Melody barfed on my desk in 7th grade math, I could never look at her again without thinking about that. You know what I mean?

Maybe, in honor of my ex-roomie's visit, I should resurrect High Energy Me. I could greet her at the airport by running toward her full speed and shrieking at the top of my lungs, ending up in a hugging/jumping display of affection. Or I could giggle and introduce myself to every cute boy I see (another trait of that era) and invite strangers into our conversation as much as possible (I did that too).

I don't think so. I think I'll just enjoy the fact that I have this friend, who has seen me with my metaphoric pants down, and who still loves me in spite of this. She didn't just tolerate me, she loved me. I'm sure of that. That's so cool, it fills me with glee.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

My Ass Is Grass

Even though all I seem to do on this here blog is talk a lot of horseshit about movies and clothes and the really stupid embarrassing things that I seem to do on a daily basis, in real life I do have concerns that go beyond those things. Really, I do. I know it's hard to believe that I'm not just walking around worried about the way that my living room is color-coordinated 100% of the time, but I'm not. Maybe 80 or 90% tops. But still, I have plenty of other concerns. Worldy concerns. Philosophical concerns. Existential, political, all of it.

A big topic around my house these days is climate change. And before I even get into this I can assure you that I am not about to suggest to anyone that they use one sheet of toilet paper per use. I don't care if Sheryl Crow does that; she must not be doing any sort of number one-ing or two-ing of normal human proportions. Still, climate change is a big conversation in the Librarian Girl/Nordic Boy household. We've always been of the green persuasion, but now that we have our very own house, the conversations have escalated to where we're talking about it on the daily. Nordic Boy, I have to admit, is the more informed of the two of us because of his sustainable builder, engineer mind. I may think that having an energy efficient house is like, really cool, but he's the one that can tell you all about what system is the best, and oh, how to BUILD IT. That guy will tell you the R-value of your favorite slippers on your feet, he's so into this stuff. But still, we are both on board for this whole eco-stuff (see how I'm not the technical one? "Eco-stuff"? I mean, really).

A lot of the stuff we do is completely intuitive and common sense. Use less gas, live in a smaller space, buy local food, energy-efficient light bulbs, yadda yadda. No problem. Piece of cake. But then, a line was drawn. Nordic Boy presented an idea to me, and I balked. Complete and total resistance spewed forth from my pores. And it wasn't about giving up a food that I like. Or about cutting back on a luxury I was addicted to. It was about my YARD.

If you've been reading my blog for very long, you know about my new yard. It is a big shitty dirt pile that the previous owners neglected and so now Nordic Boy and I have the monumental (not even exaggerating) task of making it presentable. Add to this my need for things to LOOK NICE and the task becomes even more daunting. I have spent many months, as we have been cleaning up in preparation to start planting stuff, dreaming about what my yard will look like when this is all said and done. I had a vision, people. A dream.

Nordic Boy: You know, we should really think about planting our yard with things that are low-water use.
Me: Totally. I am down. Sign me up.
Nordic Boy: You know what's not low-water use? Especially with our soil make-up? Grass.
Silence. Silence. Silence.
Me: What?
Nordic Boy: Look, I've made some sketches of what our landscaping would look like with all native, low-water use plants. You'll still be able to walk on it. It will still be all green and lush. Just with native ground cover. Not grass.
Me: NO GRASS? AT ALL?
Nordic Boy: Hey, look on the bright side! No mowing!

Who knew this was where my eco-friendly lifestyle would come to a screeching halt? Grass! It was the thing I could not let go of. I come from the Midwest, where people, even people who don't have a lot of money, have impossibly large lawns of grass. As a kid, I rolled around in grass, ran through grass, picked dandelion bouquets for my mom out of the grass. I am a lover of grass! Who knew? Had you asked me hypothetically what my feelings were on grass before this, I would have thought you were crazy. Who has an opinion about grass? Weirdos, that's who. Well, here I am, weirdo grass lady.

The no-grass conversation started last fall. Smart guy, that Nordic Boy. He knew I needed time to mull this over. And the sketches he presented to me-- very convincing. His landscape ideas were certainly gorgeous. Over the winter, I read articles about grass. I looked up alternatives to grass. And you know what? I got used to the idea. It took me about six months of grass-grieving, but one day, I woke up, and I was OVER grass.

Me: I totally don't want grass.
Him: You DON'T?
Me: Nope.
Him: What happened? You were so anti-anti-grass before.
Me: I just needed time. I'm sure I will miss grass at first. But I'm willing to give your way a try.

So on Monday, Nordic Boy got up bright and early and started phase one of Grassless in Seattle. I have to admit. It looks really good.

So I have let go of grass. It was stupidly hard. It's all well and good, you guys, but if I start with that one square of toilet paper thing, someone stage an intervention. Really.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

I Think Therefore I Blog

Oh my goodness! I have been nominated as a THINKING BLOGGER. You may be wondering what that means. I am too, yet I am too lazy to look it up. Oh yes, I am a librarian who is, sometimes, too lazy to look things up! I sometimes have library late fines too. Don't tell anyone.

Regardless if I know what the heck it means to be nominated for this, I will graciously accept. How can I give up the chance to say "it's just an honor to be nominated" like all those famous nominees for famous things do? Somehow, I doubt being a Thinking Blogger has a red carpet event attached. Rats. Because I would have totally gone out and rocked a Naeem Khan number. Oh well. Maybe I can get all gussied up and blog in full evening attire even though no one can see me? So what if that's pathetic? You can nominate me for the Pathetic Blogger next. I can live with that, and plus, I have a shot at winning that sucker.

So yes. Me. A Thinking Blogger. How can I argue? I both blog and think. Sometimes simultaneously. In fact, let me demonstrate the sheer strength of my thinky-ness. After I am through, you may call me Thinky Tuscadero for the rest of the week.

Nice thoughts:
The weather here is GOH-GEOUS. I didn't have to wear a coat to work for the past couple of days. I had a lovely dinner with my pals Heather and Jason last night. Life is good.

Wonderings:
I wonder if my yard will ever look nice? I wonder what's next on my Netflix queue? I wonder why Mike Holmes always has to wear those awful gold bracelets? They must have sentimental value.

Ideas:
Wouldn't it be cool if there was a nice clothing lending library? Clean, exciting clothes that you could check out and then return after wearing? That could be really cool. Or really gross. Not sure which.

Apprehensions:
Did anyone see that episode of "Planet Earth" where they showed the great white shark attack? That shit was the scariest thing I have ever seen in my LIFE. Nordic Boy and I both yelled "HELL NAWWWWW!" at the exact same time when we saw that.

Premonitions:
I predict that I will be kind of bored during the new Pirates of the Carribbean movie. I predict that I shall lose a tube of lipstick in the next week or so and then find it as soon as I buy a new one. I predict that I shall have some ice cream tonight.

Chimera:
Does the sequel to Donkey Kong, called "Diddy Kong," have anything at all to do with P. Diddy? If so, I am deeply, deeply troubled.

Conjecture:
Had I ever had a Dorothy Hamill haircut as a child, I would be a totally different person today.

Conviction:
Chocolate cake is the best cake flavor by far. Watermelon on a hot summer day rocks out. People who are afraid of tofu are funny and overly dramatic about it. "AHHHH! TOFU! AHHHHH!"

Observation:
Orangutans sure had a film heyday in the late 70s. There was Clyde in the "Every Which Way But Loose" movies, and then there was the Planet of the Apes movies, and even on tv shows. Even Little House on the Prairie had an episode where an orangutan showed up in Walnut Grove. (If anyone can cite any sort of fact about this episode, I will be very impressed with you. Neighbor J, you don't count.)

Inspiration:
This was the name of the song that I had my first slow dance to. Or maybe it's called "You're the Inspiration." You know, that song by Chicago? And actually, come to think of it, it may have been "Hard Habit to Break." All those Peter Cetera ballads sound the same, don't they?

Conclusions:
I so totally AM a Thinking Blogger. Think think think. I'm all about that. Look at all that stuff I just came up with. I think I need to work on an acceptance speech.


Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Looking Out for Number One

I gotta break it down, fellas.

I may not have a lot of things. I don't have a Zac Posen outfit, or an appetite for destruction, or a biological clock (or if I do the ticker is broke), or an understanding of why one would use representations of mallard ducks as a motif in home decor. The list of things I don't have goes on and on. But one thing I do have, friends, is boundaries.

Do you have good boundaries? Think about this. Really think. Because it is my feeling, after thinking about it for oh, maybe a good half hour or so (sufficient time for me to start making proclamations like this), that there is a severe lack of boundary-having among most people. It baffles me. How does this happen? How are people so unaware of what they really want? Why are so many people spending all sorts of time doing shit that they do not want to be doing and could pretty easily get out of? It's rampant.

What if we all had good boundaries? What if you heard people say things like:

You know, thanksgiving at Aunt June's is miserable. I'm not going to Aunt June's for Thanksgiving any more. Even if Aunt June might be a little disappointed, not going would make ME happy, and so I'm doing that.

My friend Jill never calls me. I always have to call her. And chase her around endlessly to try and make plans with her. You know what? I'm going to stop chasing Jill. Honest to god that chick drives me nuts, for reals.

Edwina wants me to attend her bridal shower, and her couples' shower, and her pre-wedding bbq, and her bachelorette party, and her bridal spa weekend, and her wedding. Each event requires a present. I'm just going to the shower and the wedding. Because, really. That's enough.

The above are things that I have absolutely no qualms about thinking to myself and acting upon. I don't even think twice about it. It just comes naturally. I just ask myself some questions: is doing item x making me annoyed, upset, pained, or exhausted? If yes, I need to stop doing item x. JUST SAY NO. It's really pretty easy once you get the hang of it. Try it. PLEASE, for the love of Bailey Quarters, just TRY IT. You'll be happier, I guarantee you. I see this happening all around me, all day, and it makes me so sad. And face it, it makes you sad too. I know it does.

I know it does because when I was younger and stupider-- (yes, people, there WAS a time when I was even stupider although I know this is hard to imagine. But really, I was much, much stupider back in the day. Ask anyone who knew me in college)-- I was a person who was constantly doing shit I didn't want to be doing. I had this relative who lived six hours (by car) away from me. Every holiday, I would get my ass into my beat-up car and drive to her house for the day. Six hours there. Six hours back. Did this relative ever travel to my town? No. Did she thank me for making the trek? Nuh-uh. Never mind that I was a poor student with loads of homework to do, and she had time and money and paid vacation and she was the adult in the situation. I look back at that and think that that was so pathetic of me. Putting all that effort in, for what? So that I could complain about it and feel a little resentful. Do you do that? Be honest. If you do, I-- as your blog friend--am telling you. STOP THAT. Do things because it comes from a place in you that WANTS to. There's enough crap in life that we have to deal with that is completely out of our control, as I've been thinking about these days with what's been up with my dad. Save up the effort in you for those things. Not for dragging yourself to a work-related party with people you don't really like that much. Or whatever your thing is. You know what I'm talking about.

I'm warning you though. If you start doing this, you won't be able to stop. Things that seemed perfectly acceptable to you before (oh ok! I will try and go out on a date with this mediocre dude who has Ken-doll hair and kisses like a salamander!) will no longer fly. And the other thing is, there are times the sheer force of people who are doing crap that they hate will make you feel like you are being a big selfish asshole. What do you MEAN you aren't going to go to your family reunion in Indianapolis because you're using your vacation time for staying at home and getting some much-needed rest? HOW SELF-INDULGENT, YOU ASS.

Go ahead though. Be self-indulgent when you can. Put yourself first. Ask yourself what you want and then do that, when you can. When given a choice, choose you.

Too hard? For the next week, at least, promise me this. Every time you are somewhere you don't want to be, doing something you don't want to do, take note of it. Just notice. And ask yourself why. Life is so short, friends. You gotta just do your thang. Seriously.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Might I Add?

Now that Bio-Girl and Ali went and spilled all my beans (well, some of my beans) I shall now take this opportunity to respond to the many allegations that were put forth while I was away. I just have to clarify a few things, expand on some others, and protect my rep. Because, you know, my rep was so perfect before.

1. First of all, let me elaborate on the moment that Bio-Girl alludes to where I first had an inkling that she and I would become friends. It was indeed in that cesspool of mildewy life jackets that was the canoe rental facility. She did grab some paddles and say "Beam me up, Scotty." This, alone, was not the reason that I fell just a little bit in love with Bio-Girl. The true reason was because she didn't actually grab the paddles. She just touched the handles, like they were the ends of big live-wires, and convulsed like she was conducting electricity through them, into herself. As she convulsed, she said "Beam Me Up Scotty" in an ethereal ET-meets-Carol-Channing voice. And she did this in such a way as to make sure that I was the only one who saw it. We barely knew each other, and I was the quietest person in that workplace, yet she had honed in and figured out that inside, I am a sucker for some weird ass funny shit. And she served it up. Awesome.

2. Bio-Girl did pack her bags and up and left me for getting all doctorate of barnacles and stuff. Only she didn't just pack her bags. She stuffed any and all carrying devices above and beyond the capacity for which they were made. She stuffed pairs of socks under her car seats. She piled clothes up to the top of the roof of her car. She wrapped my legs up in coats until there was no space between my legs and the floor of her car. She even had a box full of cheap wire hangers that she absolutely REFUSED to leave behind. "You can get more wire hangers when you get to California," Neighbor J and I tried to convince her. Nope. They must have a wire hanger shortage in California, the way she was holding on to those puppies. Please insert your own "No more wire hangers!" Joan Crawford joke here.

3. Yes, yes. I archived years worth of emails, formatted them all and made them look pretty, and printed them out and bound them chronologically in multiple volumes to give her as a present. If this doesn't make me a librarian, then I sure as hell don't know what does.

4. Nordic Boy and I serenaded her with "I Will Always Love You." And it was definitely the Whitney version, not the Dolly Parton version. And I must point out that this was way, way before Lorelei serenaded Luke.

5. On our drive to California, not only did I provide the tunes, I played all the CDs I brought in alphabetical order. Did I mention, um, me = librarian?

6. Alli mentioned the psychedelic wallpaper in my parents' dining room. She wasn't kidding, friends. They also have yellow Saarinen tulip chairs and a white tulip table. But the wallpaper is what really says it all. Here's the proof, I'm not even kidding you:



7. Oh, that nice musician. That story makes me sound so rock star, right? But just when you think that I was that cool, please read number 8, where I will demonstrate the truth of the matter.

8. The Michael Jackson button collection. I know that you've just been reading this far to see if I was going to talk about and/or defend the Michael Jackson button collection. Oy. Really? You guys really want to know? I can't bring myself to talk about it. And, I can't find a picture of it in action. BUT! I am happy to say that I still have a representative sample of the collection. Please keep in mind, I was eleven. Oh god.



Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

You Can Go Home Again

Well, I suppose I asked for it, didn't I? Now you guys all know about my Michael Jackson button collection and that I archive emails like a big dorky librarian and give them as PRESENTS. I'm not going to try and rebut these things. I do however feel that I have, in the immortal words of Desi Arnaz as Ricky Ricardo, some es-plaining to do.

Before I get to that, my trip was good, and although I got to see a lot of medical-building scenery that looks like this:

I also got time at my parents' house, which is heavenly, and where I can read in a hammock with a view that looks like this:



And, my pops was out of the hospital, and so I got to see him like this, the best view of all:



I am from the kind of city that is renowned for being depressed. It's a town that people think of as a --how do I put this delicately-- a pit. More than a pit. A boil on the ass of the you-nited states. When I tell people that this is where I am from, I have gotten looks of pity. How lucky you are, people say in their eyes, to have gotten out of a place like that. I don't know, maybe I am lucky. Maybe they are right. But I just can't seem to look at it that way. In fact, when people do this, I want to pop them in the jaw, as if they just told me that my mom was ugly or something. Nobody talks about my mom like that, sucker. And conversely, when people tell me about where they were raised, and sneer at it and put it down, I always want to question them about that further. How can you really hate it that much? If you were raised there, didn't that city raise you? Isn't it in your bones? Didn't it make you who you are, the good parts and the bad parts? And if you hate the place that made you, is the part of you who comes from there something you hate too? That makes me really sad. It's like hating your parents. Then again, some parents are evil, and if they were evil to you, then I guess it's ok for you to hate them. I get that too.

What I'm leading up to here is that I love my hometown. Love. It. So what if it's a boil on the ass of the earth? It's MY BOIL, and I love it. I love how, no matter what store I walk in to, what business I frequent there, everyone knows my mom and dad and is overjoyed to see me, their daughter. "Look at you, so grown up!" they say. They seem proud of me, and I don't even know them. I love how, although there are no Starbucks any where to be found, there are doughnut shops on every street. Even the gas station near my parents' house boasts "fresh doughnuts!" You gotta love a place like that. I even love the weird things about this town. Like the fact that there is a church being built there called the "Fragrance of Christ." The FRAGRANCE! Is that not just the greatest thing you've ever heard in your life? Eau de Messiah. Breathe deep. Or the fake German town that bustles just outside of town. It's called Frankenmuth. It's a German town- with no German people! It's German, of the Disney variety, with a Bavarian-esque outdoor shopping mall where the workers wear lederhosen and you...are supposed to do what exactly? I'm not sure. Walk around and feel German? Shop for t-shirts? Have a bratwurst? I have never, in my entire life, really understood Frankenmuth and the crowds that flock there. But it's fair to say that I have an inexplicable, unconditional love for Frankenmuth that I could not for the life of me explain to you. (And this trip, I introduced Nordic Boy to the enigma that is Frankenmuth, and he understood the glory and the bounty of the cheesy goodness. He even dubbed it with a nickname. "The Mooth." Where do you go where you want a stein of beer? The MOOTH. This is why I hang out with that guy, just for saying things like that).

I love how I can drive around, and literally have a story about almost every single house in town, or at least every street in town. There's the driveway where I kissed that boy after a party one night. There's the apple orchard where we played "Bloody Murder" at dusk in the summers. There's the ice cream parlor where I would go for Superman flavored ice cream (a Michigan staple) with my sister. Every square mile of that place holds hundreds of memories, and they're all pretty good.

I don't know. Maybe it is a pit, and there is no getting around that. But here's all I'm saying, you guys. My life, overall, has really been a dream. I have parents who love me, and friends who rock the hiz-owse, and a daily feeling much like kitties and puppies and rainbows. And half of that life was lived in that town. So what's not to love? I was born of the ass-boil-town, but it's what started all this beauty for me, so I'm grateful. Thanks, ass-boil-town. I was so lucky to be raised by you. I love my life and myself, and so much of that is because of you.

Ok, so now I've talked myself out and can't explain my Michael Jackson button collection, nor post any pictures of it. Convenient, no?

Alright, alright. Next time. I promise you.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Exit 69 and Other Random Trips

Since Librarian Girl made the trek back to our home state, I figured I'd take you on a little trippy trip down memory lane. I have fond and vivid memories that I need to catch you up on.

First, there are soooo many things I could say about the very "nice" person who she did "it" with. "Nice" is in quotes, because in her diary description of the affair, she described everything about the whole ordeal as being "nice"... his parts, what he said, the music, the mood. But, I've decided to take the high road. I'm keeping it clean and free from sex. So, here's a bunch of random stuff you should know. Oh, by the way, I'm Ali (a.k.a Ali-Slo-fro).

1. I'm not sure why I'm bothering to tell you this, because you just have to see it to fully appreciate it. Her kitchen growing up had this 70's, shiny, foily, orangey, brown and yellow, jungle scene wallpaper with giraffe's. I've never seen anything like it. It's a good thing we weren't pot heads growing up, because I think that wallpaper would've really jacked us up.

2. Tea was always included in visits to Librarian Girl's house. It was always the same kind of tea. It came with a miniature ceramic animal figurine in each box. What was the name of that? Something with Rose in the name? Red Rose? Anyway...So they had a whole zoo of teeny tiny tea animals in the kitchen. It totally worked with the wallpaper.

3. This I can't explain. We were always amused, and even amazed, by the fact that we had the same old-ass garage door openers. This was in high school and it was like everyone else in the world had skipped from Atari directly to the X-Box, but our parents were still clinging to Atari. That's what I liken it to. But they were garage door openers! Who notices this shit? We did for some reason and felt quite connected for having matching ones. When my family got a new garage door, which came with a new opener, I was sad! What the hell is that!? I wonder if her parents still have theirs.

4. She drove a little red car in high school. I think it was some sort of Mazda. It had this bendy plastic doll thingy hanging from the rear-view mirror. We used to bend her into precarious positions... usually sexual.

5. Librarian Girl had BALLS. Big f'ing huge balls (to quote Bugsy Calhoun from Harlem Nights). I mean we were all talkin' a big game, but it was just that. All Talk. She! She had balls. We were in this choir in high school and every year we had Spring concert. It was the concert where we broke free from Mozart, Rutter, and matronly choir robes and sang contemporary songs like "Cherish," by Cool and the Gang, in our coolest trendy outfits. People would sing moving renditions of, "She's Like the Wind," and really cheesy Michael W. Smith songs.

For this concert our director would hire a real live band. This band included a very "nice" musician. (Have you made the connection to the "nice" comment a couple paragraphs up? Clearly, I've taken exit 69 off the high road.) We were all in serious high school lust with said musician. He was older and very cool. All we did was stare at him, and giggle about him, and wonder what he would be like, and fantasize about hanging out with him and being his friend. Next thing we knew Librarian Girl was DATING HIM! We were all flabbergasted and scandalized. I mean she just up and asked his ass out. She immediately rose to legendary status with that move. Man, he sure was nice!

6. OK. Moving on. The Big Wheel. That picture says it all people. She was a bad-ass on that thing. Well, as bad-ass as one can be when you're not allowed to leave the driveway. She was bad! And it was a circle drive. She had territory to cover and she wasn't messin' around. Just look at her face!

7. In Junior High, she was a Michael Jackson super fan. I mean the likes of which you've never seen before. She had a sweatshirt that was down to her knees. This thing was COVERED in Michael Jackson buttons and baubles, pins and paraphernalia. She could bust a move that put Young MC himself to shame.

8. She wasn't kidding when she said her parents are cool. They really are. When we were in High School, they would sit and talk with us, rather that at us. They were always fun and easygoing and so totally the opposite of judgemental. Her mom actually giggles! It's the greatest thing. It's just so refreshing. But then again, so is Librarian Girl!

I don't know how to wrap this up gracefully, so I'll just quote the biggest doofus ever: "Seacrest... Out!"

A Very Merry Unbirthday

When I first heard that Librarian Girl was looking for someone to blogsit while she went to visit her folks, I thought “Ooooo! Ooooo! Pick Me!” And LG, who lovingly tries to support me in all I do, DID pick me. All of the sudden, I went from feeling like I chose the lucky suitcase on Deal or No Deal to feeling like Jack Skellington did when he realized how badly he had fusked up Christmas. For the past year and a half, LG has selflessly blogged her way into your hearts by making you laugh, cry, and occasionally utter the phrase “What the ?!?!?”. So how could I hope to fill her exquisitely chosen footwear even for a day?

And then it hit me. After all the tributes she has paid to her near and dear with Birthday Posts, no one has ever written one about her. So, since it is not quite the season for LG’s actual birthdayness, I present to you an Unbirthday Post to assure you all that LG is, in fact, as surprising and wonderful and, let’s face it, nutty as she seems.

We shall start back in the late 1990’s when LG and I met at the aforementioned glamorous canoe rental facility. According to LG, there was a moment when she knew we would become friends and it involved me getting so frustrated with that stupid job that I grabbed on to some paddles leaning against the counter, turned my eyes upward, and said the words “Beam me up Scotty”. If references to Star Trek can’t bring two people together, what can really?

In dating terms, our friendship became serious fairly quickly after that and we soon relied on each other for important things like distracting each other from ridiculously impossible math homework and paper writing to embarking on a quest to find the best donut shop in town. And let me tell you, no one can elaborate on the finer points of a donut better than LG. Forget about wine with all of its bouquets and noses and legs, the culinary world of glaze, sprinkles, and cake-like texture is where it’s at!

And so, we come to the time when I (being Biology Girl) decided to pack my bags and head to California a la The Clampetts to pursue more edumacation in the name of everyone’s favorite sea creature – the barnacle. (Okay, let’s be honest here, technically Nordic Boy did the packing and there’s no way a family of four could have fit in my car with all of the crap I had in there.) But in the way that no one but Librarian Girl can, she managed to give me a send-off worthy of one of our favorite TV shows leaving the air.

Here are the highlights:

1. As a going away gift, Librarian Girl gave me MULTIPLE binders with years worth of all of our emails to each other in chronological order. These tell my history better than anything I could try to write and I’d guard them with my life if I had to.

2. On my last night in town, I settled into LG’s guest room and started to mist up thinking of all I was leaving behind when suddenly a chorus of Whitney Houston’s “I will always love yooooouuuuu” burst across the hall sung by none other than LG and Nordic Boy.

3. During the long drive back to Cali, LG made sure to keep us stocked in Smart Puffs, snacky cakes, and an endless supply of tunes. And if that weren’t enough, she didn’t complain one bit about the fact that every time she got back in the car I had to literally pack her in amidst the houseplants, random pairs of socks, and my answering machine that tended to fly out when she opened her door.

4. Most importantly, during this time of trial, tribulation, and dealing with a gas station attendant who bore an unsettling resemblance to Charles Manson, LG pulled out all the stops to be silly and keep me laughing when part of me wanted to do anything but that. The night before we got to our final destination, she got us a spot in a swanky boutique hotel, took me out to dinner, and assured me that everything was going to be okay.

And, as usual, she was right.

Now, here I am almost five years after that historic trip, and I don’t think LG and I could be closer even if we lived right next door to each other. So thanks Librarian Girl for the love, friendship, and urgent phone calls about the latest example of why wearing socks with sandals really is a bad idea. I don’t know what I would ever do without you and, quite frankly, I have no intention of finding out.

Gotta Go. Bye.
Biology Girl

Blogsitter's Club

I'm going on a little trip this week, back to the land where I was done borned. My dad's been under the weather lately, and so I'm making the trek back to the midwest to be there with moms and pops. Dad is finally out of the hospital, but not out of the woods, so Nordic Boy and I are going to lend a hand with whatever is needed. Despite the sucky circumstances, it's always good to be back there, and great to see my folks.

My parents are very cool old people. They are so cool, in fact, that the longer you hang out with them, the more you forget that they are old. They are the opposite of every stereotype you can think of when you think of old. They are active, and open-minded, and not grumpy in the slightest. And, when it comes to most things, they put my knowledge of certain kinds of technology to shame. When it comes to the latest in camcorders and ipods and such, my parents can talk the talk. One of my favorite things to do is to take them to Best Buy or Circuit City (or "Circus City" as my mom calls it), and watch the beefy salesmen try to put one over on them. Watching my sweet parents correcting them on how many megapixels something should have is like New Year's Rockin' Eve, as far as I'm concerned.

One thing that my parents do not have, however, is an internet connection in their house. They had it for a while, and used it, but not enough for them to really get into it. So, while I am visiting them, I will be traipsing over to the local library for my innernet fix like Tyrone Biggums runs to the crackhouse. And, while I'm gone, I have asked two of my closest homies to blogsit for me. So people, get ready, because if you ever wanted to know the juiciest, most gossippy tidbits about me, these two are the ones that could dish. I gave them instructions that went something like this: "write about anything you want," and now I am thinking about every silly thing that I've ever told them, every stupid boy-story that they have in their vaults, every mortifying morsel of crazy shit I have done in my life, and it's all flashing before me like one long blooper reel, which is basically what my life is in many ways.

First up will be Biology Girl, from sunny/foggy California who I talk to just about every day and knows everything about my daily happenings from what kind of skivvies I prefer to wear to which ex-boyfriend has resurfaced lately, and then up after that will be Alli from Chicago, who I have known since I was, um, born, and knows all the shit about things such as My First Time. Oh, shiver me timbers. What have I done?

Whatevers, though! I am an open book! Have at it, girls! I'm not scared-a-you! BRRRING IT!

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Me With Fries

Hey people, I'm the guest blogger du jour over at Berg With Fries. I feel like I've been asked to sit at the cool kids' table in the cafeteria. Here's hoping I won't blow milk out my nose in front them. Go read it!

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Head Case

I decided I need to ditch my hair stylist. Sad, but true. The snooty-patooty atmosphere was just a little too much to stand, even if they totally give good hair. Plus, I am on this kick where I don't want to drive any where, and now that I live in my cute new neighborhood with all the delicious urban amenities, I really don't need to be driving five miles to get my hair cut. So, I found a salon (rated highly in my librarianesque over-the-top research I did beforehand) located about ten blocks from my house, and made an appointment. The first time I went there, the person I got was nice, and gave me a fair-enough haircut (you have to train your stylists into your hair, you know, so having her be spectacular the first time is kind of unfair). The only teeny, tiny, itsy bitsy problem was that she almost crushed my skull in her ninja-like hands. Before she cut my hair, she told me that she was going to give me a "complimentary scalp massage." Okey dokey. Go for it. I'm ready for relaxatio--OW OW STOP IT WHAT THE HELL MY HEAD MY HEAD!

Really. She was trying to smoosh my head like a pistachio. I tried to tell her "less pressure, please" and although she lightened up, it never got to a place where it felt good. Who likes deep tissue Swedish massage on their head? Not me, that's who. So, the next time I needed to get my haircut, I went to the same salon, and got someone else.

I know this has to happen all the time. Stylists must be used to it. People coming in, getting a haircut from one person, then switching over to another person until they find someone they want to stick with. It's like dating. If it ain't working with one person, you gotta move on to the next. But am I the only one that feels weird about this? It's just such an obvious judgment on someone's talents. You suck, I'm outie, ya punk. It's got to sting them a little, right?

For my second haircut, I walked in to find that Atomic Skullcrush wasn't working that day. Good, I thought to myself, I at least won't have to face her for today. I was introduced to the stylist for that day, who started me off with a massage that didn't belong in the WWE. She then started on the haircut. As she started snipping away, who should walk in but the Skullcrush. Oh well, I thought as I saw her eyes take note of me, she'll have to start her shift at her station, which is across the room, and the awkward moment will pass.

Only? It didn't pass. Because she wasn't there to start her shift. She was there to get her haircut. Right next to me. She came over and sat herself an arm's length away from me in the station to my left. And then, you know what? The dude that was cutting her hair swiveled her right around so that she was staring right at the the side of my head. Dead on. I tried to look nonchalant. La la la, I am getting my haircut and looking straight ahead at myself in the mirror, chatting away with the nice lady who didn't try and decapitate me with her bare mitts. After a couple of minutes, my stylist swivels ME around. There we are, face to face, (a couple of silver spoons). Did anyone get that joke? Anyhoo. So there we are, in our chairs, facing each other as we both get our hair cut. What does one do in this situation? Do I say hello? It seems presumptuous that she would remember me, but, to be honest, I know she does. I wait for her to say something. And wait. And wait.

Meanwhile, my stylist is still chatting away with me.

Stylist: So how did you hear about this salon?
Me: Oh, I just live in this neighborhood and read good reviews about it.
Her: So you just walked in?
Me: Yes. I made an appointment and came in.
(Skullcrusher: stare stare stare)
Her: Well, I hope your first time with us brings you back!
Me: Yeah, ha ha. I'm sure it will.
(Skullcrusher: stare stare stare)

It was a neutral stare, not a glare. I couldn't tell if she was even listening to what we were saying. She couldn't possibly be judging me for implying that this was my first time in here, when she and I both know that's not true, right? Right?

After a good ten-minute stare down (the Skullcrusher versus her victim!), we got swiveled away from each other. I managed to get out of there without further incident. But gawd, you guys. I felt kind of bad. And I'm not one to feel bad about stupid shit like this.

Maybe, because of her head-assault, my brain was tenderized into stupidity. She's the one that beat the crap out of my cranium, so why should I feel bad, right?

Has anyone out there felt bad for dissing a stylist? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

She's Mighty Convincing

It's a birthday post for Biology Girl! What kind of embarrassing story do I choose to share on this, my sister-friend's birthday? There are a lot of things I can say about Biology Girl, that's for sure. She's loving (for my 29th birthday she bought me twenty nine presents), she's stylish (although one time she almost answered the door to a dinner party that she was throwing with the back hem of her skirt tucked firmly into her undies), and when she and I go shopping together, people tend to give us free items. Who wouldn't love a girl like that? She is endlessly lovable. Ask anyone.

However, if any of you out there ever meet up with Biology Girl, I feel it is my duty to tell you something about her, and it is this. If she, at any time, becomes ardently hardheaded about a debatable position, you can bet that what she is telling you is the exact opposite of factual. Really, I know it will be difficult, when the moment comes. This girl, who is normally so sociable and easygoing, will at some point become obstinate, uncompromising, and downright single-minded on some point of contention, and it will seem almost impossible to refute what she is saying. You'll think to yourself "she sounds so SURE. She must know what she's talking about." Nope. Just remember what I'm telling you. There is an inverse relationship between the stridency of her arguments and the chances that what she is saying is true. The more she believes that she is right, the more wrong she most likely is. Got it?

Exhibit A:
The first documented case of this quality came some years ago, when Biology Girl was in college and rooming with Jenny. A song was playing on the radio. Jenny entered the room. Upon hearing the song, Jenny made a statement to Biology Girl: "Oh! The Cowboy Junkies!" To which Biology Girl, her voice dripping with disdain, responded: "DOUBT IT." The tone that accompanied these two words was so strong, so confident, that Jenny immediately thought "oops, guess it's not the Cowboy Junkies. How could I have been so wrong?" Of course, we all came to find out later that it was indeed the Cowboy Junkies. Given some distance from the situation, Biology Girl had to concede the point. But in the moment, there was no question. Anyone would have believed her. That's how strong it comes across. In just two words-- "DOUBT IT"--Jenny yielded knowledge of one of her favorite bands. See what I mean?

Exhibit B:
One day, Nordic Boy, Neighbor J, Biology Girl and I were driving somewhere. Neighbor J was telling us a story about a trip she had taken to Mount Saint Helens and the Visitor Center, where she had learned about the people who had died there during the eruption in 1980.

Biology Girl: So sad that President Harry Truman died there.
The Rest of Us: What?
Biology Girl: President Harry Truman. He died on Mount Saint Helens.
Neighbor J: I don't think so.
Nordic Boy: I'd never heard that.
Me: I don't think Harry Truman was still alive in 1980.
Biology Girl: Yes, he was. He died on Mount Saint Helens. I remember reading that, and I saw his name listed among the dead at the Visitor Center that Neighbor J is talking about.
Neighbor J: I didn't see that. His name was listed there?
Biology Girl: Yes. I saw it.
Me: Maybe it was someone named Harry Truman, but not the President Harry Truman.
Biology Girl: No, really, it was the President.
Neighbor J: But, if he really did die there, don't you think there would be a whole exhibit about him at the Visitor Center? It doesn't seem right to just list his name. He was a former President, after all. You'd think they'd make a big deal out of that.
Biology Girl: Maybe there's an exhibit somewhere else. I just know that he died there.
Me: But why was he even at Mount Saint Helens and why didn't he evacuate?
Biology Girl: I think he might have lived there. You know, like retired there.
Nordic Boy: He lived on Mount Saint Helens? Really?

You see what's happening? What started out as an obviously absurd statement, where three out of the four people in the car were SURE that President Truman did not die on Mount Saint Helens, becomes completely plausible because of the surety with which this girl can speak. There was no hesitation. Any sort of "are you sure?" questions were met with a clear, unblinking "of course." Within minutes, we were all questioning ourselves. How could we have not known about President Harry Truman retiring in a little cabin in the woods on Mount Saint Helens? I mean, duh. Obviously everyone knew this but us. Look at Biology Girl, teaching us something new. Thanks, Biology Girl! And once again, she was shown to be wrong about this. And when we all found out she was wrong, I think we were more surprised than she was. She's that convincing.

Exhibit C:
Ok, this one is great because I don't think this one was ever resolved. Ask her and she may still argue this one until she's blue in the face. There's no way to prove this one because all we have to go on is what we saw with our own eyes but what we witnessed for ourselves is not enough. Biology Girl is still confident that she is right. It has had to be put up on a shelf called "agreeing to disagree." It went like this. We were on a vacation in Whistler, Canada, where we had rented a cabin on a lake. Jenny and I were reading our books on one of the couches in the living room. Biology Girl was lying down on the couch opposite us. As we read our books silently, Biology Girl became very relaxed. She sank down into the couch in such a way as to look dead. She stayed in this position for over a half hour, unmoving. Jenny and I giggled at her quietly and kept reading our books. As Biology Girl sprawled, she made cute sleeping noises. She breathed slowly and evenly, and mmmm'd and did all of the sleepy sounding things that people do when they are, um, sleeping. Her sleepy sounds were so funny, in fact, that Jenny and I giggled at her a little bit louder, which roused her from sleepyland.

Her: What's so funny?
Jenny: You were making noises in your sleep.
Her: I was not!
Jenny: You were, while you were napping.
Her: I do not NAP.
Me: What?
Her: I don't nap! Never have. I'm not a napper.
Me: I'm sorry, Biology Girl, but you were napping. Even if you haven't napped ever in your life before, you were, just now, napping. Asleep.
Her: I was not! I do not nap!

I know what you're thinking. Why, of all things, is this the time to take a stand? It's not like we accused her of pooping on the patio or something. We weren't accusing her of anything. But that's just the thing. It's always something inconsequential. Cowboy Junkies, Harry Truman, naps. Not things that you expect someone to have a strong opinion about. But she is adamant. She does not nap! How dare we insinuate that she was napping? We had to let this one drop. How do you prove to someone that they were, indeed, napping? And really, what would you gain even if you could prove it?

So, if any of you run in to Biology Girl this week, do three things:
1. Wish her a Happy Birthday.
2. Become incredibly skeptical if she becomes obstinate about a random point.
3. Tell her that I love her.

Never mind, I'll do #3 myself. Love you, Biology Girl! And you do totally take naps.




Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Concentration

Jen, over at Sunday Undies, was writing recently about the fact that expiry date (the way Brits say "expiration date") is so much better, because there are entirely too many words that end in "-ation" in the english language, and that cutting down on just one is something we should all get behind. This made me think of a game that I used to play when I was a kid, called "Concentration." The object of the game was to pick a random category (like "colors") and then one person would say a color ("red!") and the next person would have to say that color plus one more ("red!" "amber!") and the next person would say both of those in order plus one more ("red!" "amber!" "turquoise!") and on and on. Your basic memory game. The way that this game would commence, however, was for all the players to hold hands, and swing them back and forth, and say (in that sing-songy voice that is reserved for jump rope games and patty-cake-style hand-clappy-rhymey games) "Concentration! Iddy-Oddy-Ation! Pick a color! Any combination!"

Iddy-Oddy-Ation? What the Jordan Knight is Iddy-Oddy-Ation? The phrase sounds uncomfortabley related to the word "idiotic," does it not? Perhaps a state of idiocy that is grander than idiotic would be iddy-oddy-ation? Or maybe it's like, where you live if you are idiotic. "That dude was so dumb, his address is located in iddy-oddy-ation!" Just think, I could do a re-make of Janet Jackson's Rhythm Nation with this. "People of the world unite, strength in numbers we can get it wrong, each time! We are a part of the iddy-oddy-ation!" What do you think? No?

I am feeling like I am the mayor of iddy-oddy-ation these days. My dad's sick in maybe a scary way, and I love my pops like all get out--I mean he is the greatest pops, ya'll, no contest--so the worry is making me lose my brain cells a little bit. I feel distracted, like I start to do something and then can't quite remember what it is that I'm doing. That kind of stuff.

This post is not to boo-hoo about my dear dad, but to tell you that, as I walk around in my own private iddy-oddy-ation lately, dropping things and saying "pardon me?" a lot, I know I am lucky because I gots peeps, and my peeps are the type who go the extra mile and who love me to bits, and take care of me when I'm all jacked up. The morning my dad went to the hospital, Biology Girl called me up and managed, somehow, to get me laughing so hard that we just had to hang up, she was just being too damn funny. Nordic Boy has been cooking me dinners and inventing new dances (my favorite was the "taco rumba" last night) to make me laugh, and wiping away at my leaky face when things get a little too much around here. My mom, even in the midst of this stupid week, has funny anecdotes about hanging out in the hospital, and as I listen to her on the phone, I see right where I get my penchant for telling funny anecdotes, and it's comforting to me somehow, if a bit absurd.

So, living in my little bubble of love, as I do every day, I realize that I depend on these people to get me through whatever bumpy bullshiz is coming down, and I don't really look outside of this little circle for much comfort. Most people are nice when they hear what's new in my world right now, and say supportive things, and are kind. But that extra mile, the act of reaching out beyond just a kind word (I'm not at all knocking getting a kind word, don't get me wrong)- I'm just saying I don't really expect that from people I work with, or friends I hang out with every once in a while, or friends that I may even consider close but that I don't really talk to about the Big Things in life.

Imagine my surprise when one of these friends--one that I know through work and consider close but haven't shared any of my rocky times with--showed up at my library today, with gifts of hugs and homemade chocolate cupcakes, and talked to me for fifteen minutes about the whole mess. She just showed up. Did something extra. Just 'cause. And it pulled me out of iddy-oddy-ation, just for a few minutes, just when I wasn't expecting it. That rocked my socks.

Next time you're thinking of doing something like that, you should totally do it. Make someone's bubble of love a little bigger. I don't care if that last sentence sounds cheesy. Just do it. Ok?

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Dazed and Confused

Let's get right to it. Ladies and gentlemen (can I just say that I can't think of the word "gentlemen" without internally saying it like Major Charles Emerson Winchester?) I give you:

Things That Confuse Me

1. People who ask me for "bibliographies" at the reference desk when they mean to say "biographies."

2. Why it's funny when dudes in the movies get hit in the nuts.

3. How the Search for the Next Pussycat Doll show could eliminate a contestant because she "dances like a stripper."

4. The lead singer from Sugar Ray now being a Ryan Seacrest type tv host.

5. When people who aren't friends with celebrities call them, not in jest, by their familiar names, ie "Bobby Deniro" or "Marty Scorcese."

6. People who can't pronounce my name after being told multiple times.

7. People who don't laugh, but just say "that's funny" instead.

8. Why the entry for "Libra" (my sign) in wikipedia says "Libra is said to rule the excretory functions via the kidneys, skin, lumbar region, buttocks, adrenals and vasomotor system."

9. Jodhpurs.

10. The episode of Star Trek where Data's head explodes off in 19th century earth and he then finds it in the future. I have gone so far as to ask someone who is quite well-versed in quantum physics to explain this to me, and I still can't get it.

11. Larry the Cable Guy. Totally confusing.

12. When people put the word "actually" at the end of a sentence unnecessarily, as if you have argued with what they've said, when you haven't said a word. "This food is quite good, actually."

Can anyone explain any of these to me? Virtual kisses to anyone who will try.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

In the Brown Stripe

I went and got conferenc'd this week, friends. Getting conferenc'd is kind of like getting punk'd, except without Ashton Kutcher annoying the bejeezus out of anyone, and with a lesser amount of tantrums, and a ton more ankle-length-minus-two-inches skirts. Yes, I conferred with my librarian peeps, diligently. Conferred in large and small groups, with old comrades and new, conferred like a maniac. Here's how it went, in list form. And hey, just be thankful this is in list form and not in the form of Powerpoint slides, because after the week I had, I am dreaming in god damn Powerpoint slides.

1. Until last week, I have probably only seen about 1/5 of the state, all on the western coast. Now that I have ventured to the center of the state, the sheer striped-ness of the region was overwhelming. Here, on the coast, we live in the green stripe. As you drive east, all of a sudden you are in the white stripe (didn't see Jack nor Meg any where though), with snow coming down in the mountains. Just when you're getting used to that, whammo- it's green again. And then, another imaginary line is crossed and you are up to your eyeballs in brown. Kennewick, where the conference was, can be described as a monolithic shade of brown. I mean, if I were naked in Kennewick, I would be invisible due to the camoflaging effects. Bee-rown in the hizzy.

2. So, my friend S and I found the conference center (which was brown), went inside (the brown walls), and registered for the conference (on brown carpet). Then, we released ourselves into the throng of librarians and swam amongst them like salmon in muddy brown water. After a long afternoon of learning us some new librarian schtick, we decided to bust out and find ourselves a nice dinner somewhere in town. Catch a little local flavor, say howdy to the townies, perhaps get caught on tape in a Librarians Gone Wild video. We looked in our handy Kennewick city guide, and found an ad for a restaurant that went something like this: "Mountain River Pub, a quaint, cozy pub in a renovated storefront. Join us for an elegant meal in historic downtown Kennewick." Ah, that sounds heavenly. We drove out to historic downtown Kennewick. And, my apologies to anyone who has a soft spot for historic downtown Kennewick, but I have to tell you. It was a scary railyard. And the quaint pub? It looked like an abandoned storage facility where librarians who enter are never heard from again. We had to pass it up for thai food in a strip mall. Sorry historic pub. Local flava is all good, but if it looks like Chuckie lives in the restaurant, I'm not down with that.

3. That night, we went to see the keynote speaker, Diane Rehm from NPR. You know, the gracious interviewer who sounds like she is two billion years old? I gotta tell you something, and I mean this in the most respectful way possible. Diane Rehm was hhhot. She looked nothing like she sounds on the radio. She was downright smokin'. She didn't even look like photos that I've seen of her. If I can someday reach a level of geriatric hotness of even half that level, I will count myself lucky. So, in addition to being gracious, intelligent, and inspiring, which we already knew she was, she was bug-out sexy. Who knew? Hey Diane! Woot!

4. The following morning, I got dudded up and arrived for my session, where I was to give my presentation. The turn-out was good, and I managed to stay right within my time constraints despite the fact that there was no clock any where to be found in the room. I didn't drool or fall down or accidentally insult anyone's mother, which are all plusses in my book. Hey Librarian Girl! Woot!

The rest of the day was full of other interesting sessions, oily fettucini, and wondering what the heck I'm going to do with another conference tote bag. By late afternoon, I was back on the road to Seattle, and by evening I was back in the green. I love being home. Love, love, love it. Hey Seattle! Woot!

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Hiatus

Hey bloggie friends,

I'm currently in the middle of my state, amongst the sagebrush and the tumbleweeds, getting my conference on at a librarian conference (I have really never seen so many pairs of glasses in my life). I'll be posting about my week soon enough, but to tide you over until then, it's time to update those bookmarks. Neighbor J, artist extraordinaire, pop culture librarian superstar friend, and all around chic mama has her very own blog. Like her, it rocks. Check it while she wrecks it!

The Flying Pencil

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Lost My Shoe in the Dinosaur Room

Holy smokes, I love my life. Today, a patron at my library told me a joke to "pay me" for all the help I had given him. And it was a corny, but very funny joke. It's all in the way you tell it, is what I say, and he was Telling It. Jokes for information. This is a bartering system I can get behind.

Speaking of things that are all in the way you tell it, the buzz around the library these days is all about poetry. In case you didn't know, it's National Poetry Month. So if you've got some poetry in your soul, you better get that shit out into the world before April 30. Because poetry in May, is like, so ten minutes ago, like Armed and Famous and that talk show with Karen Walker who kept wanting to sing everything. Did anyone else notice that? That girl would sing the phone book if she could. Kind of reminds me of that episode of Northern Exposure where Shelly woke up one day and couldn't stop singing. That was kind of painful too. Maybe I have something against singing? I don't know.

Gosh, I don't know how I get myself into these pop culture tangents. I was talking about POETRY. And, I don't mean to brag (ok, maybe I do a little), but I am known, in my little circle of comrades, as being quite the poet. I have often written poems for people in birthday cards, in emails, just whenever the mood strikes me. So, I had this grand idea to write a poem, in honor of Poetry Month, on this here blog. Except, I'm just not feeling it. That's right, I'm going to go ahead and proclaim that I have impressive poetic talents, and then I am NOT GOING TO PROVE IT. The phrase "put up or shut up" means nothing to me, people. I will neither put up and god knows I will not shut up. Sorry.

However, I will provide you with a poem for your Poetry Month expectations. It comes in the form of a note that I received from a young poet when we were both in the 8th grade. There are two lessons I want you to take away from this. One is that poetry comes out in the most unexpected places. This particular one deals with love, with sex, with death, with the very nature of life itself. From the days of the dinosaurs to the modern day, it is a plea from the poet to make her mark. To be remembered. And two: if you ever write me something on a piece of paper, I will horde it for the rest of my life and possibly share it with others for a good laugh. Be warned.

With that, I give you, Brooke, and her poem, which I like to call "Ha Ha, Remember That."

Hey chickeeeee!

What's going on over there? Not much here. This field trip was totally bogus is what I'm thinkin. Who gives a rip about dinosaur bones? Not me- I only give a rip about RB's bones! Ha ha just kiddin ya hon. I almost lost my shoe in the big dinosaur room! I about died! But I played it off. Oh my god, I totally love that song Be Near Me! Ha ha! Remember that? Do you like LD? I heard he likes Monica now. Don't tell anyone, kay? I would die. Mr. Straw is so funny! He always has to wear those plaid shirts and sneakers. He's "sexy"! Ha ha! Remember that? This bus is shaking my hand so my writing looks scary. Do you think it looks bubbly? April said it did. This is the longest note ever! I'm bored. Write me back, ok? Unless you fall backwards! Ha ha! Remember that? Bye bye tut alu. Or however you spell it.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Betrayal!

His name was Marlon. In sixth grade, he had that most glamorous of descriptors: he was new. At that age, if you were new and didn't look like a troll, it was instant popularity. To add to this newness, he had an additional trifecta of Cute. One, he was shy. Sixth grade girls go wild for shy. This was the same shy that made me like George the best out of all the Beatles, before puberty set in and I was all about John's rebelliousness. Two, he had moved from Chicago. The big city of all our midwestern dreams. And three, he had (brace yourself) a red leather jacket like Michael Jackson wore in the "Beat It" video. Oh yessss. The zippers. He had all the zippers! Really, need I say more?

He was in the class across the hall from me. Honestly, he was way out of my league. Who was I to go after Marlon? But I did. I used the tried and true method of telling all of my friends, especially the big-mouth ones, that I liked him. This method is like putting a message in a bottle and sending it out to sea. You don't have to really do anything more than say what you want and hope that it comes back to you. Kind of like "The Secret" but less freakishly weird. It helps if you give this bottle to a bossy messenger who will transport it directly to its destination and knock your beloved over the noggin with it.

Soon, via messenger, Marlon was my boyfriend. My friends had told him that I liked him, and he had told them that he liked me, and, through a somewhat lengthy arbitration, we ended up agreeing to Go Together. Marlon and me. Going Together. And I hadn't ever needed to even talk to him. How easy was that?

Marlon and I had quite the relationship. We never spoke. Ever. We never wrote each other notes. We wouldn't even make eye contact. No matter. We were Going Together, a matched set, and the fact that he knew it, I knew it, and everyone else knew it was enough for all of us. Every once in a while, Marlon would come over to my lunch table and sit next to me and eat his sandwich. Silently. I would continue to talk to my friends, as if he wasn't there. It was a beautiful arrangement. We even attended the sixth grade dance at the same time, and there was never any expectation that we would dance together, because, yikes, that would mean we would have to touch each other. (As a side note, I have to say that Marlon was also a wicked breakdancer, and when he did The Worm in the middle of that dance, I fell even more deeply in sixth grade love with him).

In the spring, all the sixth-graders in our school got to go to this nature camp for a weekend. In our factory, cement-encrusted town, this was the school's way of making sure that we all understood that there were actual trees in the world. One weekend for trees, and a lake, and even a horse or two! To us, it was like friggin' Grizzly Adams. I was so excited. Until I found out, through the sixth-grade messenger service, that Marlon couldn't go. His parents didn't give their permission. My dreams of not-talking to Marlon for an entire weekend were shot. Damn.

I went to the nature camp weekend anyway, and had a great time. I sang camp songs, saw camp fires for the first time, and I played basketball on the little blacktop court, just to remind me of home. And when I got back, I looked for Marlon in the hall before school.

When Marlon saw me walking down the hall, he actually looked at me. Full in the face. Stared, in fact. His face was cold. My friends came running up to me. "Marlon wants to break up with you," they said, sad but excited by this new drama. They regaled me with a story about how Marlon had heard from Mike (another boy in my class) that Mike had managed to hold hands with me at nature camp. I was shocked. I hadn't held hands with anyone! Lies, all lies!

This was the point at which I actually marched up to Marlon, ready to defend my hand-holding virginity. But he wouldn't listen. He just walked away from me, every time I tried to explain. And just like that, it was over. Betrayed by Mike. Spurned by Marlon. Unjustly accused.

The next month, Marlon moved back to Chicago, taking all of his zippers with him. I never saw him again. I probably live on in his memory as a brazen hussy who spread her hand-holding promiscuity all over nature camp. That still kind of bugs me.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Huh-Hi

Sometimes, my friend Delium will stop by the library to pick up some goodies and say howdy. One day, he happened to be standing there as I was helping another patron. As the patron walked away, Delium commented "wow. Your work-voice is very pleasant. And you somehow have a work-voice that doesn't sound like a work-voice. It sounds like you just talk that way normally."

What? I have a work-voice? When I started to pay attention to it, I had to admit I do. It's different from my regular voice. Warmer, with more clarity. I'm not saying that I walk around in my personal life talking with a cold, hard slur. The difference is more subtle than that. But if you know me really well, you can tell the difference. And I guess I'm ok with that. But there is a line that must not be crossed.

The other day, someone from work called me at home. After I hung up with them, I turned around to see Nordic Boy looking at me.

Me: What?
Him: You just did the double goodbye.
Me: What is the double goodbye?
Him: You know, like flight attendants do. "Buh-bye."
Me: I did not.
Him: Oh yes. You did.

Listen, I'm not saying that there's anything inherently wrong with the double goodbye. All of you double goodbyers out there, don't be mad. Some of my best friends are buh-bye people. It fits on them. I, however, am not a double goodbyer. Or so I thought. But apparently, the Work Character that I have inhabited since I have started this librarian gig has evolved into someone who says buh-bye. How did this happen?

My brother would laugh if he heard about this. When we were growing up, we would take these epic trips back to the homeland that required up to thirty six hours on airplanes, all in a row. We would get on and off these planes ad nauseam, and one of the things we would do, as we got punchier and punchier, was, as we would de-plane, say "BUH-bye!" to the flight attendants. This, as a child, was hysterical to us. Now, look at me. I'm saying if for reals.

Also, there is the concept of Keeping It Fresh. This, despite what it sounds like, has nothing to do with Ziploc bags or Summer's Eve. It is an acting term. When you have to memorize lines and say them over and over, night after night, performance after performance, you have to work at Keeping It Fresh. You have to make sure that you sound like you are saying those words for the very first time, every time. It's hard. And it applies to librarians too.

Every night, we have to read a series of closing announcements over the loudspeaker thingamajig. At regular intervals for the last half hour before we close the doors, we have to let people know we're closing, so that they can prepare themselves for the shock of leaving the library. We have a little script that we read for this. It goes something like: "May I have your attention please. We're closing. Get out." Only, you know, nicer than that. That's why we need the script, or we may accidentally say something goofy like what I just said. Anyhoo. About two months into my job, I was doing the closing announcement. A patron walked by and saw me speaking in to the loudspeaker. When I was done, he said, all smiles, "Hey! That's crazy! I totally thought that was a recorded machine talking!" Yeah. So apparently my work-voice when I started this gig was akin to Rosie the Robot from the Jetsons. May. I. help. you. with. that. reference. question.

So I guess evolving to a place where at least my work-voice is pleasant is a step up. And that's all I have to say about that. Buh-bye.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Lunch Feats

There are things that are hard to understand that I pretty much grasp, like Standpoint Epistemology, or Gertrude Stein, or Buckwheat. Then there are things that are easy, straightforward, and seemingly impossible to not grasp that stump me. One of these, ladies and gentlemen, is lunch.

You heard me. I don't understand lunch. My whole adult life, I have never quite gotten behind the concept of lunch. I'm telling you, it's the most enigmatic of meals, and it continually looms just outside of my reach. It's maddening.

Breakfast is easy for me. I get into phases where I can just eat the same goldarn thing for brekkers every damn day. Right now, I am in a longstanding grapefruit and oatmeal phase. Day in and day out, I eat grapefruit and oatmeal in the morn, and it makes me happy. I had a Cheerios phase before that. And a hard-boiled egg and toast era before that. Easy peasy. No soul searching required.

Dinner. Also easy. Dinner is the time to mix it up, anything goes, whoo-hoo, crazy time! Hankering for a burrito, or stir fry, or chick pea curry and rice, or ravioli? No problem! Go nuts! Ok, ok, and the truth is, Nordic Boy is the chef of the house, and I seldom have to make my own food choices for dinner. Easy. I eat what I'm broughten, and I like it that way.

But lunch! Why can't I figure this out? Every single day, around midday, I start to feel hungry, and I have NO IDEAS. I'm telling you, this happens to me every day! A sense of confusion comes over me. I don't know what to do. The other day, Biology Girl called me to see what I was doing, and I was walking around, trying to figure out what to do for lunch. Walking around, in my very own neighborhood, where I already know what all the options are, but for some reason, I feel like I have never seen lunch options before in my life. When I finally decide on the grocery store, I wander the aisles. Nothing looks good. Nothing. WHY? I could walk in there five hours later and rustle up a dinner, no problem. I have some sort of lunch block in my synaptic pathways. Maybe I have been hypnotized to go into glassy-eyed confusion whenever the concept of lunch comes up. Because I end up eating a Cliff Bar and an orange on more days than I can count. And I don't really WANT a Cliff Bar and an orange. But at some point I just give up.

What do you guys eat for lunch? Teach me, oh blog-reading, lunch-eating yodas out there. The part of my brain that decides on lunch is missing. Along with the part that understands the metric system.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

The Non-Victory Garden

There are things that are fabled to have calming powers. The sound of sea waves. Counting to ten. The scent of lavender. Intelligence for Your Life, with John Tesh. These are things that are supposed to make you feel less stress in your life and make you a more relaxed goomba. But what if these things don't work for you? What if you're allergic to lavender? Or John Tesh? What then?

When I was a kid, my dad had a heart attack. I came home from school one day, and my brother told me that dad was in the hospital. This news, coming from my brother, had just about as much believability with me as many other stories he tried to pass off as fact. (Like the time he told me that the reason I was shorter than him was not because I was younger, but because I had been adopted from a pygmy tribe, like the Oompa Loopahs, and my parents were just waiting for the right moment to tell me that I would never grow another inch). Because of this track record, I proceeded to debate this news about my dad with the technique called "Nuh-UH!" To which he replied back with the tried and true "Yeah-huh!" After a few rounds of this, I went to Mom, who informed me that, yes, this time my brother was actually telling me the truth. Scary shit.

The day my dad came home from the hospital, my sister and I gave him a present. We had read somewhere that stress was bad for people with heart trouble. And we knew that dad, due to working the way he did, had stress. We also read that having an aquarium full of pretty fish was something that relieved stress. So we enlisted the help of my mom, bought a smallish aquarium, and went to Meijer's to pick out a couple of fish. My dad loved the present, and we waited to see if their fish personalities would come out and inspire us to name them. That first night, I sat on my dad's lap and we watched the fish together. Calm, tranquil. Until:

Him: Oh!
Me: What?
Him: Nothing. The big one bumped into the small one.
(pause).
Me: Oh!
Him: Did you see that?
Me: The big one. He bit the small one.
Him: They're just playing. The small one sure dodged that quick, didn't he?
Me: I want to name him Smarty.
Him: Good name. I'll name the big one...Bully Boy.

We both laughted at the names, and thought it cute how they played together.

Only, the thing is, they weren't playing. The big fish? Was pissed off and psycho. And the small fish? Was being nipped, slowly, to death. We woke the next morning, and Smarty had chunks bitten out of him and was cowering behind a rock. Eeek. This was many things, but stress-relieving was not one of them. I was freaked out that my dad had to watch his fish cannibalize each other, which was the exact opposite of calming. I felt horrible. Welcome back from the hospital, Dad! What your blood pressure and your tired ticker need is the soothing sight of your pets killing each other. Feel better?

So, this weekend, we finally had some sunny, dry weather. (You all should be used to these weird segues of mine by now, so you can stop looking so confused). Nordic Boy and I commenced with Monster Yard Clean-up, Act 2. In case you forgot, the house that we bought last summer had a yard that resembled this, on a pretty city street alongside yards that look like this. We are doing our best to clean it up and make it look presentable, which is a Herculean task, and I so wish I was exaggerating. So, this weekend, we got our gardening gloves on and jumped in.

Gardening. One of the things that's purported to be relaxing. Do you see where I'm going with this? I think you do. Let me just preface what's coming next by saying that I am, by nature, a stress free person. If you looked up "que sera sera" in the dictionary, my mugshot would be right there looking back at you. I don't yell at people when I'm driving, I don't sweat work when I'm kicking it at home, and ballistic library patrons have never made me cry or even ruffled my feathers, really. Those everyday things that get people's knickers in a twist are things I don't even tend to notice. But put me in the middle of a messy garden? Here's what happens.

Me: (pulling on a deep-growing weed) Goddamn, muther-humping, crap eating nutsucker!!!!
Nordic Boy: WHOA. Everything ok over there?
Me: Yes (grumble grumble) I'm fine (grumble) I just (grumble grumble) feel all...(tug on weed)...kinds (tug tug)...of...(tug)...HATRED.
Nordic Boy: Take it easy, slugger. Take a breath.

Then we look at each other, and I have to laugh. We have a good chuckle and I move on to the next task. Minutes later:

Me: You god damn asswipe weed! You are coming out of there if I have to rip you out with my teeth, you big...FUCKWAD!
Nordic Boy: Sheezus! What the heck is going on with you?
Me: I don't know. But I'm feeling the pissy feelings, I gotta tell you.
Nordic Boy: Here, why don't you just put these clippings into the yard waste bags and stop pulling up that stuff?

So I do. Although, I have to stop every once in a while, and look at the mess, and SIGH. You know, one of those annoying, irritated, impatient SIGHS that crusty, moldy, deeply unhappy people emit. SIGH....SIGH...

Nordic Boy: I swear to god, you're the only person I know that needs anger management help for GARDENING. You never get mad about anything, yet THIS is what sends you over the edge? What is up with that?

What is up with that, indeed. I have no idea. I need help. Maybe I need John Tesh?

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl