Gimme Links

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Hope It's Not a Bore-ah, Nora

Here's what I know about Nora Ephron.

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

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

I Live...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

What about the paper in John's hair?

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

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



My Shoe Did Indeed Match with the Harrison Ford Decor

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

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

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

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

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


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



Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Pumpkin

My Nights With Han Solo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Too Tired For Paragraphs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

9. God I'm tired.

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



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

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

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Loud and Proud

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

"You...are a Delight."

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

Here goes nothing:

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

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

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

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

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

Sleepless in Dallas asked:
Why not marry Nordic boy?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WDL asked about first day on the job:

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

Phyl asked:
How many times have you moved?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Buy Me A Ticket to Chicago

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

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

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

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

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

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Coffee, Band-Aids, and Boredom

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

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




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

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

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

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

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Oatmeal Ultimatum

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

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

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

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

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

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

or,

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

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


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

Chachi In Charge

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kiss the rings I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Moana Lisa

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

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

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

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

A half hour later...

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

And then...

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

How quickly he turns on me.

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

5 people that will be annoyed that you tagged them

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

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

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

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

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

2 things you find yourself moaning about

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

1 thing the above answers tell you about yourself

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

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Love Ya Babe

Among my vast collection of archived notes that have been written to me, there are ones that need to be shared. The one above is just such a note. I was in junior high when I received this note, and the writer, Steve, was a year ahead of me, in high school. Aside from the oh-my-god-a-high-school-guy credentials, I can't really remember why else I had a crush on him. Perhaps the high school cred was enough, as that seemed pretty unattainable and I did have a problem staying away from seemingly unattainable boys back in the day. I know. It's retarded. I remember I liked Steve for a good month or two, and that he was the older brother of a friend of mine. I also remember that we called him the Anteater, for some reason, although I can't tell you why. See how the page is sort of brown? That is not from wear-and-tear throughout the years. I distinctly remember the day that I was given this note (via his sister), and commenting on the fact that it looked like he had stepped all over it before folding it up. That should have been a clue to me. Alas, it wasn't. Shall we have a line-reading of the note? Oh, yes, let's shall.

Hey babe, what's up with you?

What's up with me? I'm sure at the time there was a lot of squealing and reading this note over and over again with my friends that was up with me. Thanks for asking.

N ot much here I'm pretty bored right now,

Why are teens always claiming boredom? When I was a teen my friends and I had things going on non-stop from sun-up to way past sun-down, yet all of my notes always have this comment about how bored we all are. Poor Steve. So bored.

Hey, listen, Andi told me about what Heather told her, and don't worry be cause I know that it is not true and that you would not say that, I BELIEVE YOU )))'&%$#"*

Oh no. Trouble in paradise. Andi told Steve about what I told Heather and then Heather told Andi but actually I didn't say that? I wish I could remember what I supposedly said, because knowing these people the way I do (including myself) I probably DID say that. So, sorry Steve. Chances are we were all playing a twisted little game.

I'm really sorry that you cried and everything ,

oh boy, I turned on the waterworks over Steve? I am a moron.

but I relly believe you I sure hope that you believe me, I can't believe that Heather would say that about you saying that, but I'm sure that she must have Gotten her info mixed up BIG-TIME

I'm so glad and I totally believe you that you believe me and I don't believe Heather would say that either and can you believe how much believing we are doing right now? Lots of believing. BIG TIME.

Wipe away those tears little girl, you shouldn't be crying;

Are you patronising me? I think you are.

I ' m not worth crying over anyways, No jut kidding,

Just kidding? Just kidding? SOMEONE thinks awfully highly of himself.

Thiiis pretty coll ttping on this mnual typwriter It kind of sucks but that's O.K.

Ok, moving on from the crying and the believing.

Tell DD I said HI! I'm sorry if I spelled your name wrong, but that's how ANDI
told me how to spell it

Story of my life, dude. My name is unspellable.

If I told you that you were dumb, would you hate me?

Oh my god. What kind of shit is that?

I'm just kidding thhonly reson that I wrote that is because I was testing out this stupid thing because it all off a sudden went KURPLUNK on mmmmmmmmme me,

Whatevers, man. I should have kicked you to the curb a long time ago.

Is this a long note? It better be because it took me a 1/2 an hour to ttpe it,

Bust out the violins.

Sorry I've been using comma's instead of periods cause' my periods are out of order,

Ha ha! You said "periods!"

I really had fun at the movie's yesterday,

You did? That was a nice thing to say.

An di wrote that,

Oh. Of course. God forbid YOU would tell me you had fun. Talking through your sister. Ya big coward.

Well hon, I've really got to go now, See ya later, aye, Sorry I did'nt call you
the other day, but I had business to take ccare of,

What are you, Don Corleone? What business are you taking care of? Punk ass non-calling boy.

LOVE YA' BABE
LOVE STEVEY D,

Thanks for the memories, babe.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

A sorry, a sorry, and a huh?

A sorry:
I am of the minority opinion on many things. I think gangster movies are sleep-inducing. I think Nellie was better than Laura. I think Brad Pitt is unattractive. I think coffee is disgusting. And I love, adore, worship hot weather. Now, I know it is the most banal thing in the world to talk about the weather (sorry meteorologists!), but oh well. I just have to come out of the closet with my heat-loving self. If it is under 68 degrees, I am cold. So, in this town that I live in, where everyone I know grumbles loudly when it gets above 75 degrees, I feel like a major outsider. To me, the answer to "is it hot enough for ya?" is a resounding NO. It is not hot enough for me! I can't help it! I'm sorry I'm a freak! Turn those fans off!

Another sorry:
Did you know that there are people, out there, READING THIS BLOG? Seriously. I don't check my site meter that much, and usually the same dozen or so people comment on here, so I have this sense that there are like, maybe 20 people reading this stuff, and though I may not know you for reals, I know you as blog friends. But I was riding around on the innernets last night, and I stumbled upon a blog, one that I had never looked at before, and my site was on their links sidebar! I'm not kidding you, I almost crapped a cabbage. It was shocking. I guess it's because I am not so good with the lurking myself. I mean, if you comment on my blog, and you have a blog that's linked to that comment, I am totally coming to visit you at your blog. I don't know how to not do that. You peeped my stuff, there's no WAY I'm not peeping yours. And I will comment! Maybe not every post, but I will comment at some point, you know, say howdy, hey, whatsa haps. So, a special shout-out to you lurkers out there! He-ey! I'm glad you're there, in all your invisible glory! And I am sorry that I never once thought that you might be there. I really didn't. Ya'll are so quiet, I thought there wasn't nobody here but us chickens.

Huh?:
Emily Post would boot you in the hindquarters for this one. One of my peripheral groups of friends is constantly trying to get all of us together in a party-it-up type of situation. Here's how it goes. Person A (Towanda) will send out an email invitation, saying "party at Towanda's! Saturday night!" and then 95% or so of the invitees will do WHAT IS NORMAL, which is reply "groovy!" or "dang, can't make it." Then someone will inevitably write back and say "can't make it Saturday, Friday works better for me. Who's in?" Then this causes someone else to reply "Towanda's house is too far away from where I work, let's make it my house instead!" This causes all sorts of confusion as to what's actually happening, when, and where. And, the original party-thrower has, essentially, gotten her party hijacked. And the ensuing chaos usually means that nothing happens, any where, and the group plans dissolve totally. This has happened with this group multiple times. I totally don't understand it at all. If someone invited you to their house for a specific event, aren't the only appropriate answers "yes, thanks" or "no, sorry"? Since when is it ok for a response to be "no, it's inconvenient for me, so everyone else should change their plans"? Is this socially acceptable? Am I out of it? Perhaps this is one of the many things that the kids are doing now that I don't understand, and I should just file it away with freak dancing, Runescape, and Hannah Montana. Who knows.

That's all I got.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

These Are My Words*

I do not have anything of a specific nature to tell you all today, but I am certain that if I sit here and start typing, something is sure to come out of my head and through my fingers and through the internets and then out and then it will finally hit all of your eyeballs out there which when you think about it is kind of gross. My brain is touching your eyeballs!

So today is Harry Potter day. You're probably not even reading this because you're all out there running amok in your Hufflepuff yellow and maroon outfits. (I know, I KNOW it's not Hufflepuff. It's Gryffindor. I was just messing with you. Don't freak out). Regarding all this Harry Potter madness, I have a little confession to make. The confession is not that I hate Harry Potter, nor is it that I am a raving Potter-Head. It is that I like Harry Potter ok. That's all. No love, no hate. He's aa-iiight. As a librarian, I feel strange about this. Like I should have strong feelings about Harry, one way or the other and that I should be able to hotly debate these feelings with anyone who doesn't feel the way I do about him. But I don't. He's like that boy who looks attractive and is nice in every way, who you date occasionally but could never really picture yourself, you know, inviting in to your place at the end of the date, no matter how cute your friends think he is. Is it wrong that I just sort of sexualized Harry Potter? It felt wrong.

In other news, I bought a plane ticket today to go have a weekend of fun with Bio-Girl in foggy San Fran-cheesy!* This is beyond exciting, since I have been feeling all kinds of sad that I am not getting to go on my annual beach trip with my best pals this year. I have such the blues about that, I can't even tell you. So off to San Fran I go to have some fun, by Jehosphat! In addition, this particular trip marks a great moment in history which is the moment, ten years ago, that I walked in to my first day of work at the canoe rental facility (oh my glamorous past) and met Bio-Girl. Ten years! TEN years!* Never mind that the first few weeks that we met I thought she was too princessy and she thought I was practically mute. We got past all that quickly and now I know that she is far from princessy and goddamn it if she thinks I am anything but Blabby Moutherson. It was the start of a beautiful friendship.

FURTHERMORE. When I talked to her on the phone today and I brought up the ten-year-anniversary of our us-ness, Bio-Girl asked me if there was any way we could get away with registering for this event. Sadly, I don't think so. This brings me to one of our favorite topics of conversation: Made-Up Events That We Should Be Able To Register For. See, Bio-Girl and I. We want to register for something. Not necessarily together. We haven't had weddings, we don't have kids. But just because we don't have these things doesn't mean that we don't want to tell people what to buy for us, you know? Why is it that only wedding people and baby people can tell people what to buy for them? Not fair, right? Hmph.

We also discovered that the ten-year anniversary gift is (traditionally) tin/aluminum. First of all, what is with that traditional list? Does anyone really even use that list any more? Are people really celebrating their 7th anniversary by exchanging wool or copper products? Are people expressing ten years of love with aluminum? We need to get rid of that list, people. But, on the other hand, I must confess that tin/aluminum actually did resonate with Bio-Girl and me. Because we have a joke about tin foil. Yes, there is no end to things I have jokes about.

See, when Bio-Girl was in college, she and our friend Jenny would run around saying, in a weird Angela-Lansbury-as-Mrs.-Potts voice: "Get on the tin foil!" We thought this was so funny. I can't even think of an example of WHY we would say this. It was during any sort of putting-something-on-something gesture. Like, if you were serving up a piece of cake, you might, as you placed it on the plate, say to the piece of cake "get on the tin foil!" I know. There is no tin foil in the example. That doesn't matter. It's just an all-purpose placement statement. There are times, even now, that I will say this phrase to Bio-Girl. I am sure there is some hysterical story where this phrase was born that did have actual tin foil involved. But I can't remember it, and when I asked Biology Girl, she couldn't remember either. All we have left of some apparently hilarious moment is the phrase. As we spoke today, and I told her that the ten-year anniversary traditional gift is tin/aluminum, this is how it went:

Her: Ten years is aluminum? So what, I'm supposed to buy you some tin foil?
Me: If you did, would you make me get on it?
Her: Get on the tin foil!
Me and Her: (laugh laugh laugh)...(pause)...(laugh laugh laugh)...(laugh laugh laugh)

Do you think we could register for indecipherable joke commemoration? No?

Rats. I'm going to come up with something. People WILL be buying me presents.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

*I'm quoting a movie again. Anyone know which one?

Phone Home

When Nordic Boy is away on business, we are in constant contact with one another. I don't know how this habit started, and for some reason, I'm kind of embarrassed about this. Ok, maybe the reason is that Bio-Girl totally MADE FUN OF IT and I felt shame. SHAME! Which is really dumb for me to feel because Bio-Girl and I have a more joined-at-the-hip communication style than Nordic Boy and I do, so who is she to talk? Honestly. Nordic Boy calls me too much? Um, hi Bio-Girl, or should I say hi, pot-- how's that calling-the-kettle-black thing going?

So Nordic Boy calls me a lot when he's gone. When he's away on business, he usually has to go from meeting to meeting, from building site to building site, and so he calls me in between each, just to say hey. As the days go by, the check-in calls get more and more comical. Here's a sampling.

7:00 am
Me (groggily): Hello?
Him: Hey babe, what are you doing?
Me: Sleeping!
Him: Dude, you have to get up! You're going to be late!
Me: What? I don't have to work until 9:30!
Him: I know!
Me: It's only 7!
Him: It is? Oh, yeah. I guess it is. My first meeting is at 8.
Me: But that's YOU. See, I'm a different person than you are. Remember?
Him: Yeah. Ha ha.
Me: (half into my pillow) It's totally raining. What the hell is up with that?
Him: I can't understand a word you just said. Go back to sleep.
Me: Bye.
Him: Bye.

11am
Me: Hello?
Him: Hellooooo me-lay-deeeeee!
Me: Wow, we're singing now?
Him: Oh yes, we aaaaaaaare!
Me: Okeeeee-dokeeeeee!
Him: What's up?
Me: Just taking a break. What happened to the singing?
Him: So over it.
Me: That was quick.
Him: I'm shallow that way.
Me: What are you going to have for lunch?
Him: I don't know. There's a deli next to this building I'm at. Maybe that.
Me: Cool.
Him: Call you later.
Me: Bye.

2pm
Him: Hello?
Me: Look at that! Me calling YOU!
Him: Whoa!
Me: Are you so surprised?
Him: Totally!
Me: You're so humoring me right now, aren't you?
Him: A little.
Me: What's up? How's your day?
Him: I feel like Leonardo DeCaprio in the Aviator.
Me: "Show me all the blueprints, show me all the blueprints"?
Him: Totally. What's going on with you?
Me: I'm wearing the wrong outfit today.
Him: What's wrong with it?
Me: You really want me to go into it?
Him: If you can do it in 5 minutes. I'm walking to a meeting.
Me: Five minutes? Not going to happen.
Him: Tell me later.
Me: Bye.
Him: Bye.

4pm (on my voicemail)
Him: Hey sweetness, it's 4pm and I am on my way to the last site of the day. Where are you? Breaking hearts and taking names? Are you at the top of the charts? Are you sticking it to the man? Are you fighting the power? I don't even know what I'm saying. Aren't you glad I called? Ok, hanging up. Love love love.

7pm
Me: Hey!
Him: Hey!
Me: I just had dinner with Sarah and it was so good.
Him: I just had dinner too and I bet it was better than yours.
Me: What's with the contest?
Him: I'm just saying. It was better than yours. I know it.
Me: What did you have?
Him: I went to that Lebanese place on Hawthorne.
Me: AWWWWW! My favorite place!
Him: I know. It was right down the street from where my last meeting was.
Me: So obviously how could you not take advantage of that and go there?
Him: Exactly.
Me: I would have been mad at you had you NOT gone there.
Him: I know.
Me: Yet, I'm kind of mad at you for getting to go there without me.
Him: I know that too. But, believe me when I say this. I went there all for the love of you.
Me: Shut up, you went there for the grape leaves.
Him: "'Cause I'm your ladyyyyyy, and you are my maaaaaan..."
Me: First of all, you're singing our genders backwards. Second of all, Celine Dion never makes me feel LESS anger.
Him: "Whenever you reeeeach for meeeeee....I'll drive in my vaaaaan."
Me: You'll drive in your van when I reach for you?
Him: If I had a van, I totally would.
Me: Call me later.
Him: Bye.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Soap Opera

The house right next to mine used to be a rental house, full of fairy-like goth kids who would flit around in their rooms in flagrante delicto with their shades up while I ate my breakfast. Soon after I moved in, the house was sold, and the renovations started. They are putting a third story on this puppy, and gutting it, stripping it, shining it up until one would never imagine that grungy tattoo clad youngsters used to live there. Kind of sad. Nordic Boy and I have been overly curious about who our new neighbors will be. The house keeps getting bigger and bigger, dwarfing us in its shadow. What kind of bigwigs are moving in next to us? How many rooms could they possibly need? When there is a new or different car parked on the street, we crane our necks to try and spot the newcomers. So far, they have not been spotted. They have, however, been heard.

The other morning, I was soaping up my face to the regular sounds of the morning. Nordic Boy shaking up his box of almond milk, birds chirping outside the window, wind whistling through the trees. Then...Puccini. Something was being sung, from La Boheme, if I'm not mistaken. LOUD. So loud, it sounded like it might have been Nordic Boy, busting out a secret soprano voice from inside our house. I walked out into the living room and looked at him. He looked back at me.

Me: Did you hear that?
Him: Hear it? Of course I heard it. It almost broke the windows!
Me: Is it just me, or was that singing? As in LIVE singing?

Before he could answer, there it was again. A real live soprano opera singer, belting it out at 8am.

Him: Wha---?

And before he could even finish that word, another voice joined in! A tenor! There were two very professional-sounding, very loud opera singers serenading each other right next door! God, I felt cosmopolitan, having my neighborhood sounds be live frickin' Puccini. Could it be our new neighbors are opera stars? How FRASIER is that?

You might be thinking, having opera singers next door, especially opera singers who like to serenade each other before breakfast, could be a problem. You might be right. But you know what? They sounded GOOD. If I have to be woken up by something loud, a beautifully sung aria is not a bad way to do it.

Listen, I have had bad neighbors before. I know what a bad neighbor is. And artists who can sing up a storm are just fine with me, compared to some of the neighbors I have experienced. For instance, there was the Meat Family.

The Meat Family was headed up by Meat Man, the patriarch. Meat Man's favorite pasttimes were grilling, killing things and screaming at his two children, the Meat Babies. Let's start off with the grilling. On his front porch, he had three large state-of-the-art grills, so that when he was standing at them, one was in front of him, one was to his left, and one was to his right. He would stand there, oh, I would say maybe 200 evenings out of the year, grilling the shit out of something. His porch was three yards away from our front door and all of our front windows, so the grill-smoke would waft in, on a daily basis, until I would just have to take the batteries out of my smoke detector, because it was either that or pretend I was in a Heart video. Slightly annoying, no? Let's move on to the killing. Meat Man liked to march up and down our street, "weeding" the grass that was growing up through the cracks in the sidewalk. Only, instead of actually weeding, he would walk around with a Meat Man sized, 6-foot blowtorch, incinerating any weeds that looked at him the wrong way. WHO DOES THAT? I lived in constant fear that he was going to set the entire block on fire. Also, he informed us that one night, he saw some teens running up our street in the middle of the night, possibly up to some shenanigans. "I had my hand on my rifle- they were lucky they ran up the street so fast!" he told us proudly the next day. Nordic Boy asked him, "well, you wouldn't have really shot at them, right?" To which he replied, "damn right I would have! I won't have that sort of riff raff in OUR neighborhood!" Great, thanks, Meat Man. Excuse me while I put my bullet proof vest on before you pepper our yard with buckshot, will ya? And lastly, Meat Man would go on these hunting trips, where he would bring back huge carcasses of something or other, whose blood would fill up the back of his truck bed. He would hose out his truck, and the blood run-off would run down our street, stinking up the gutters and splashing up onto our driveways. Whenever this would happen, Nordic Boy and I liked to exclaim to each other: "the streets shall run with BLOOD! Bwa-ha-ha-haaaaaaaa!" Because, really, what else are you gonna do with a situation like that?

Then there was the screaming at the Meat Babies. The amount of screaming at these kids that happened on any given day was alarming to me, but then I do not come from a screamy house, as I know many people do. I have friends that I grew up around that had a lot of screaming happening, and they turned out fine so let's hope for the best for the Meat Babies, shall we? So far, however, they were the two brattiest kids I had ever encountered in my whole life. They would greet Nordic Boy like this: "Hey! Gimme a dollar!" This would happen right in front of Meat Man and Meat Lady and apparently that was just fine by them. They also would look at the both of us rather derisively and say "GAWD your house is small. How do you even LIVE there?" But I guess this was ok from the perspective of Meat Man, who routinely told us that he wished our landlord would sell our house, because as far as he was concerned, it was just the size and quality of an ok-ish shed, you know, to store his stuff.

So, when I heard that opera busting through our neighborhood at breakfast, it really did not give me pause. Sing it up, neighbors! Welcome to the neighborhood! But, if you keep singing La Boheme, I'm telling you right now, you're gonna hear a lot of things from our house when you do so. Namely, I'm sure Nordic Boy will have to yell "I ain't no freakin' monument to justice!" and I may have to say "she was coughing her brains out, and still she had to keep singing!" Listen, you have uncontrollable breakfast arias. We have uncontrollable pop culture references. I think we'll get along just fine.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Cough-y Talk

Far be it from me to say something unladylike (hey! I saw that eye-roll!), but can I just say that being sick sucks ass-water? I can't? How about hot dog water? Yes? Ok. BEING SICK SUCKS HOT DOG WATER.

I know, I know. Having a little cough is not the end of the world. Trust me, with the drama surrounding my dad's health, I am quite aware that this is small potatoes compared to lots of other things. Small potatoes? Is that right? Or is it small peanuts? What is that saying? Whatevs. Small twinkies, small matzo balls. It's not a big deal, is my point. But still, I'm feeling whiny. Whiny and coughy.

I am just about all better, but what kind of mutant virus is this that is sticking to my lungs for two whole weeks? It is so aggravating, people. I am SO OVER IT. It's cramping my style. Everything nice makes me cough more. Eating makes me cough, exercising makes me cough, talking makes me cough, and making out is totally out of the question. The only thing that seems to calm it down is sitting. very. still. That and popping Riccola like they are Scooby snacks. And really, what is the point of popping Riccola if you can't yell out "Reeeeee-colaahhhhh!" every time you do so? And I can't do that because it makes me double over with the hacking. And the hacking? It's ruining my rep as the foxy mucus-free lady that I have been carefully cultivating for the past few years.

At least, for a couple of days there, I had my new husky voice to make me feel better. I am choosing to think of it as a sexy Kathleen Turner thing, rather than a wait-a-minute-are-you-a-dude thing. But now even that is wearing off and I am just me, with coughing, and without talking and make out privileges. And WHAT IS LIFE WITHOUT TALKING AND MAKE OUT PRIVILEGES?

I can see why Katie Couric beat up that guy for using the word "sputum." Maybe she had the same virus I have. At this point in the game, someone saying sputum would put me over the edge too.

Anyone have any miracle cures for lingering coughs? Send them my way. I have much talking and making out to catch up on.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Seymour And His Cozy Roomies

How's this for random? For the past two days, I cannot, for the life of me, get the song "Rumors" out of my head. Not the Lindsay Lohan Rumors. The one from the 80s. How do rumors get STARted, they're started by the jealous PEOple and! AHHHHH. Make it stop! Please, someone. Make it stop. I don't know why this is happening. There are no rumors in my world right now. I am wholly unconcerned about the concept of rumors. I don't even think I've heard the song recently. Yet, I can't stop thinking about it, all of it, including the line about that guy who tasted Tina's juice. SO. WRONG.

I got a nice email from my freshman-year-in-college roommate today. I haven't seen or talked to her in YEARS, but through the magic of social networking, we're back in touch. My roomie, she was fabulous. The summer before my freshman year, my college sent me a little questionnaire in order to (supposedly) help them match me up with the perfect compliment to my weirdo personality. I remember I wrote down lots of things about how I was an extrovert (which I was at the time), how I was a night owl (again, I was at the time), and how I liked to, in the immortal words of Eddie Murphy, party all the tah-hime. And you know what? They took that questionnaire and flushed it down the toilet because what ended up happening is that my roomie had a few things in total opposition to me, such as being a calm, rational, mature 18 year old who knew enough to not be a pain in the ass to all she met.

But you know what? There must have been some good juju in the roommate match-up process, because it turns out that she was the perfect roommate for me. She had a penchant for silliness that cracked my shit up and we ended up doing all the stereotypical roomie things that roommates of that age do. We giggled profusely, we obsessed about boys, we ordered and consumed acres of pizza, we danced around the room singing into our hairbrushes, we had reams of inside jokes, and we talked and talked and talked. I certainly seemed like the crazier of the two, but let me tell you something I have learned over the course of my many moons on this earth: the quiet ones can always come over to the dark side. This situation was no different.

First of all, we got into this idea that all of our possessions should have a "cozy." A cozy is some sort of decorative covering that envelops an inanimate object. You know, like a tea cozy? So, we had a cozy for our computers (cloth covers that were all matchy matchy with our dorm room decor) and a printer-cozy for our printer. Our blankets were not our blankets, they were our cozies. Then, we took the cozy idea a step further- we started putting decorative contact paper on everything. I don't know where the hell this idea came from, but we thought it was the greatest, funniest idea ever. We contact-papered our dresser drawers, our notebooks, even our phone.


Stop looking at the 90s fashions and scrunchie in my hair and look at the contact-papered phone, please.


The fall of our freshman year, my roomie's mom sent her a care package for Halloween. In this package was one of those paper skeletons that are for putting up in a window or something. You know, the kind where the joints of the skeleton are hinged so you can pose it and stick it up somewhere. This particular skeleton was labeled "Seymour Bones." We put Seymour up on our wall and there he stayed for the month of October. After Halloween, my roomie and I decided that we had grown quite fond of Seymour and couldn't bear to take him down. From then on, Seymour became our room's mascot. Each month we got crafty and decorated him. In November, he was a pilgrim. Well, I guess he would have been a dead pilgrim. In December, we hung christmas tree ornaments on him like a morbid tree. Seymour was quite the conversation piece for the scads of homies we constantly had in our room.

These are the things over which she and I bonded. Seymour, cozies, and gales and gales of giggling. So thanks, social network site, for giving us the venue to have a Peaches and Herb style reconnection. We both get so excited 'cause we're, re yoo nited, hey hey...I'm a man who thinks not a man who drinks so please let me live my life! Oh geez. Now it's a Peaches and Herb and Timex Social Club duel to the death. Rumors and Reunited, the mashup. Yikes.

Lips Ahoy

Oh my dear blog friends, I am so neglectful! I have an excuse though. A really good one. I was sick, as in temperature of 101 degrees sick, all week. So I haven't checked email, nor returned phone calls, nor blogged, nor left my house, nor done anything other than decide to say the word "nor" a lot. And although I am feeling better today, the week o' sickness doesn't really have a lot of grist for the blogmill. In the past few days, I have done the following.

Watched "Little Children" and "The Devil Wears Prada" and "Notes on a Scandal" and "Marie Antoinette" and "Venus" and "The Cosby Show" and "Sex and the City" and "Pillow Talk" and "Gentleman Prefer Blondes" and "Office Space" and "Holmes on Homes" and "Gilmore Girls" and "His Girl Friday" and "Battlestar Galactica" and "Extras" and "Rumours" and Oprah and Ellen and Bob Vila and Amy Devers and Kathy Griffin and James Lipton and Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert. And maybe a dash of Judge Judy. If you must know.

Oh, and oh my GOD, you guys. Did you know Rick Springfield is still on General Hospital? And he plays TWINS. Could this be true? Maybe I was hallucinating from the fever, but I swear I think I saw him, double trouble style.

That's about all I've done. I guess I could have been blogging about this each day, but I chose not to. You're welcome.

Before I got sick though, I did have a wonderful visit from my friend Alli, who, for all intents and purposes, has known me since I was born. When I told one of my friends she was coming, one of them said "Oh that Alli. She freaks me out." Why? "It's like she's YOU. She sounds just LIKE you. She has the same references to things. The same accent. The exact same memories. It's like there are two of you." And truly, what could be scarier than that? Pair us up with the twin Rick Springfields and you've got DOUBLE the double trouble, people.

So after spending a day with Alli, here's my conclusion. You may think less of me after I'm through here, but I just have to say this. Alli and I (and you too Map, you're totally implicated here), we were pretty good girls in middle and high school. I mean, as teens go, we were pretty average in our behavior, I think. In our school, there were plenty of ways to get into trouble that were scary and serious. We knew plenty of people that were having sex in 5th and 6th grade, and there were active gang members in our midst with guns and crack and the whole nine yards, and there were fights and all sorts of other crap that was right there, if any of us wanted anything to do with it. So although we did get into trouble in high school, it was tame trouble. We skipped classes, we smoked occassionally, we were mouthy to teachers sometimes. We also got good grades, were friends with pretty much everyone (from the gang-ish people to the geeky people), and our parents almost always knew where we were. Pretty average. But here's what I am thinking as I hang out with Alli now and we reminisce about the old days.

We kissed hordes and hordes of boys.

Now, let me be clear here. I'm not talking about carnal promiscuity of the bumping uglies kind. I am talking about kissing. First base. Making out. Or, as we called it back then, "mashing." For a group of average girls, we were getting in a liplock an awful, awful lot. I don't know how this could be-- it just doesn't add up, like, mathematically. When I think back to high school, I don't remember constantly running into boys with my lips. But yet now, when Alli and I talk about high school, the subject of who was kissing who just comes up CONSTANTLY. Half of it is lying dormant in my brain, forgotten, until I get with Alli and Map and then it all comes flooding back. For example, on the back of a senior picture that someone wrote me, it said "...always remember Durham boys..." When I was in 10th grade, I went on a tour of England in a youth choir. And we had a stop to perform in Durham. So when Alli read that senior picture to me...

Me: Oh my god. I kissed a boy in Durham and I just am now remembering this.
Her: You did?? Who was he? What was his name?
Me: Um. I can't remember. I do remember he was wearing a green sweater though. And he was really hot.
Her: Green sweater boy. Wow.

Green sweater boy? That's the best I can do? What a trampy-lipped young lady I was. It seemed my standard was this- hotness. If you were hot, I would kiss you. Simple as that. My friends, it seems, were not much better. In fact, I would wager that Alli has kissed many more boys than I ever have. The girl's kiss-list has volume. This is especially funny to me since Alli's good-girl credentials outweigh any of my other friends, by far. She had an iron chastity belt, and it was cinched TIGHT. But man. She may have been staying on first base, but she was CAMPING there.

Alli: Did I ever tell you that I once made out with Ryan M?
Me: YOU DID? First of all, how did I not know this? And second of all, we were friends with him since we were 5. He was clearly friend material, not make-out material. When did you kiss him?
Alli: The fall of our freshman year of college.
Me: WHY did you kiss him?
Alli: I don't know. We were at a party. It seemed like the thing to do at the time.

It seemed like the thing to do. What deliciously teen-ish logic that is.

By the way, kisses to everyone who sent me emails asking me where I was and if I was ok this week. It's nice to be missed. So kisses. Really, I mean kisses. Apparently, I have lots to hand out and I don't have a problem doing so. MWAH!

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl