The Way My Mind Works

1. I live in a little one-story house with no stairs, but my house sits up off the street so I have a small stairway that leads from the sidewalk to the front door. When I leave my house in the morning and I walk down these stairs, I say silently to myself "One two three four five six seven eight schlemiel, schlamozzle, hassenpfeffer incorporated!" I also then wonder why I do this on stairs, as Laverne and Shirley did that on a flat sidewalk, not on stairs, so why do stairs remind me of this? Next thing you know I will be tossing my gloves in the air instead of my hat while singing "you're gonna make it after all!"

2. Every time someone is going on a trip on a plane, I think of the time when Bio-Girl was going on a trip and Neighbor J asked her if she was taking any snacks. And then we all said "SNACKS ON A PLANE!" and peed ourselves laughing.

3. There are lots of times where Nordic Boy will ask me a question and the answer won't really matter much to me. ("What do you want for dinner?" or "What movie do you want to watch?") I will respond in these situations with "It don't matter to me." And he will say back "BREAD! That's a song by BREAD!" And it's funny. Every time.

4. You already know about our Markie Mark thing, but I'll tell you again. If Mark Walberg is ever mentioned in conversation, one of us has to say "FEEL IT! FEEL IT!" like in the beginning of "Good Vibrations." You would be surprised at how often Mark Wahlberg seems to come up in our house.

5. When people say the words "Saturday Night" to me, I find it difficult not to go all Bay City Rollers and say "S A T-U-R, D-A-Y NIGHT!"

6. I have bamboo in my yard that grows like crazy. We are constantly pruning them back. When I do so, I sing "Me Ol' Bamboo" from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Mostly silently, but sometimes aloud.

7. Sometimes, when I am at work and in non-cussy mode, and I need have a cuss-worthy moment, I often say "Aw nuts!" Like Michelle Tanner. I say it without the lisp though. I have some pride.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Destiny Will Arrive

It was the very last breath of the 1970s. I was in Australia, visiting relatives. There are many things about this trip that were exciting for a teeny midwest girly like me, but there was one thing that was more heartstopping, more electrifying than anything else. Was it the fact that I got to see koalas, emus, and kangaroos in person? BORING. Was it the fact that I got to walk all the way across the Sydney Harbor Bridge and then visit the famous Sydney Opera House? SNOOZEFEST. There was one thing that blew all of that boolshizz out of the warm blue Pacific water.

Olivia Newton-John was from Australia. And she was blitzing the Australian media promoting XANADU.

I know that people my age have a fascination with the movie Grease. And believe me, I am not dissing it. I can sing the "brusha brusha brusha" jingle just as well as anyone else. I know every last syllable of that movie and if you are a pop culture child of my generation, you probably can too. And I also give props to ONJ for her "Let's Get Physical" years. Anyone who can rock the terry cloth sweatbands is ok by me. But in between the 70s era Grease and the oh-so-80s "Make a Move on Me," square in the crack between decades, was my favorite ONJ effort: Xanadu.

I am just going to say this. Xanadu has an Andy Gibb look-alike. And ELO music. And a duet with CLIFF RICHARD. And those awesome 70s barrettes with the ribbon hanging off the ends. And rollerskating. Lots and lots of rollerskating.

You'd think, that with my obvious love for the movie, that I would be all atwitter about the Broadway musical remake. Au contraire. In fact, I am annoyed with the musical. I saw a clip on the Today show, and I wanted to barf. The reason for the pukey feeling was that they were trying to camp it up. YOU CAN'T CAMP UP XANADU, PEOPLE. The campy, it must be organic. You know what I mean? It's like, they were trying to HIGHLIGHT the campy. Which makes me, as an audience member, feel like an idiot. Do they think that I don't KNOW that Xanadu is silly, far-fetched, over-dramatic, and largely nonsensical? Do they think I need this pointed out to me?

What can I say? I can be ok with "Time After Time" being remade. But this? I can't do. I have my standards.

Happy Friday.



I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Wave 'Em Like You Just Don't Care

Well, apparently I am the only one left on earth who cares about how old I am and who can answer the question "how old are you?" correctly. The only one! All ya'll out there are just like Nordic Boy and have no idea how old you are and you don't care, and I am amazed! Look at you, being all healthy! I was expecting...well, not that. Doesn't anyone think about mortality? The passage of time? You mean to tell me that I am the only one who thinks time is careening out of control, and that being 10 years old, or 15, or 25, feels like yesterday and it's ree-frickin-diculous that years are piling on years and hey, will someone step on the brakes because this whole time thing is WAY TOO FAST and birthdays just seem to highlight that fact?

Anyone? Anyone?

Oh well. I am so on my own with this one, I can see that. Still, you guys really blew my mind. All the comments and all basically saying the same thing.

You know what really gets me. Here I was trying to write a post with the clear subtext of Nordic Boy as weirdo and me as sane person and you guys went and ruined that whole premise. Man!

In other news, despite Nordic Boy's lack of knowledge about his own age, we had a damn fine birthday. Well, almost. It started off rocky, because we had both taken the day off to do FUN! BIRTHDAY! THINGS! but then he found out he had a meeting he couldn't miss in the morning. No matter. It would only last an hour and then we would meet up and start with the birthday activities. Except those bastards at his workplace kept him over the one hour time limit that was promised. And not just by a teensy bit. By over FIVE HOURS. That's right. A one hour meeting turned into a six hour meeting. With no lunch, even! So, he didn't get out of work until evening, which means that him getting the day off for his birthday boiled down to a day off wherein he was still at work.

I thought this might have made him a bit grumpy, so I pulled out the failsafe grumpy-combat behavior. When he got home and opened the door, I greeted him with a song and dance version of "'S Wonderful" that would have made Gene Kelly proud. And you know what he did? He joined right in, even throwing in the Georges What's-His-Name accent and everything. I don't care what anyone says, nothing is more cheerful than a badly sung but balls out show tune. Oh fine, if you want to see it done WELL, then you can click here. That's only if, you know, you want to see it IN TUNE. Boring.

Then, on account of him not having had any lunch, we had to hightail it out the door to get a nice birthday dinner kind of early. Ok, really early. At 5:30. Who says we aren't getting old when we are rocking the early bird special like that?

Thanks for all the well-wishes, guys. I know Nordic Boy appreciated it, and now feels quite validated that he doesn't know how old he is. You've shown me what's what, that's for sure. Knowing your age is like, SO yesterday. I see that now.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Aging Gracefully. Or Something.

My parents come from a land where age ain't nothing but a numba. Not even a numba, actually. People don't give a rat's ass about how old they are back in the homeland. I remember having conversations with aunts and uncles and cousins where I would ask them how old they were and they would shrug and say things like "uh, I don't know. Forty, maybe? Forty-five? I know I'm somewhere in my forties." As a child, a very American child who was used to birthday cake and presents and parties, I would bug out at this sort of answer. "But, when is your birthday?" I would ask. "I don't really remember. In the spring. I'll have to go look at my passport and I can tell you an exact date then. Now let's go eat a mango! They are falling from the sky!"

Ok so they didn't really say that stuff about the mangoes. I just put that in because eating mangoes that fall from the sky (or, um, mango trees) is one of the great pasttimes of the Motherland. (I almost typed Mothership there, instead of Motherland. But that's a totally different thing, to be discussed at another time).

The point being, how old one is is totally not at all important there. No one thinks about it. No one cares. No one is obsessed with seeming younger. Or older. They are too busy sitting in all that white sand and swimming in warm blue reefwaters and serious business like that. Isn't that age-free mentality hard to picture? Isn't it weird to even try to think like that?

Not for some people. Take, for instance, my dear Nordic Boy. As anyone who knows him well can attest, he is as far from Island native as you can get. Corn-fed midwest boy is what he is, all American, apple pie, blah blah, stars and stripes. But that guy? Cannot remember his age to save his life. I have known him many years now, and at any given moment, you can ask him how old he is, and HE WON'T KNOW. He will just blurt out some number, and then look at me as if to say "Is that right? It sounds ok, but is that right?" NO, it is not right. And not only is it not right, he is always aging himself. He always thinks he is older than what he really is. ALWAYS. And you want to know something? The only reason I really care about him knowing his age is that I am the same age and when he ages himself, he is dragging me right down with him and I DON'T LIKE IT.

I am not proud of this. Don't hate. Appreciate.

I know I should be thankful that he doesn't care about this crap. Perhaps it will rub off on me at some point in our lives. It's only fair, right? I mean, there are lots of ways in which we have taught each other valuable things. I have taught him how to eat/love super spicy food, and how to do a spot-on Indian "screw in the lightbulb, wipe the table" dance maneuver. (And if you are unclear on that particular dance move, you need to get yourself to an Indian party, pronto). The least he can do is teach me how to forget my age.

Today is the birthday. If you ask him how old he is turning, he may say 72. Just nod and smile and tell him he must soak in a Palmolive/Oil of Olay stew to maintain his youthful veneer. And I will do my best not to freak out.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Festool Fairy

Here is my discovery for the week...

watching someone be totally confused can be BARRELS OF FUN. It can make your whole day.

Here's what happened. And I am warning you that this, once again, may be the type of story that only I find funny, but Ima tell you anyway. Just pretend-laugh for me and I shall be satisfied.

Nordic Boy's birthday is coming up fast. And although he is generally happy with whatever birthday gifts may come his way, there is really, truly only one set of things on his wishlist. Items from a company called Festool. Tools, tool storage, all that stuff that I have no understanding of whatsoever. Suffice it to say for the sake of this story that this brand is not readily available at Home Depot, Lowe's, Ace, etc. It's German-made, fancy, ergonomic, environmentally friendly, hyper-efficient, blah blah blah. Nordic Boy has the catalog and he pores over it. Salivating. Almost crying with yearning. And when there is any workplace bonus money, or birthday money, or any extra money of any kind, he's buying Festool. And with the scarcity of anything that could be called "extra money," that's not very often.

Wednesday night, at around 9pm, Nordic Boy and I were chatting it up. Here's the fun part.

(Doorbell rings).

(Nordic Boy opens the door. There, on the front steps, is a woman, in her 40s or so, definitely of the soccer mommish persuasion. In her hand, she holds a piece of Festool merchandise. No packaging, no box. Just the merch itself.)

Soccer Mom: (holding out the merch and smiling) Here. This is for you.

You know that confused sound that Scooby Doo makes when he's not understanding something? AARRH?? If any sound would have come out of Nordic Boy at that moment, it would have been that. And from me too, for that matter. Who is this soccer mom fairy godmother, coming to our doorstep late in the evening, with this VERY SPECIFIC item that only Nordic Boy would want and just handing it over?

Nordic Boy: Um, what?

Soccer Mom: This. It's for you.

Nordic Boy: But---how?---who?---I don't---understand.

Soccer Mom: Are you Nordic Boy?

Nordic Boy: Well, yes. But, who are you?

Soccer Mom: Well, I'm coming from Mountlake Terrace (a suburb of Seattle) but my son goes to the high school down the street from here.

Nordic Boy: What? What are you talking about? Why---who...WHAT?

I wish I could convey the level of confusion. It was like Nordic Boy's head was going to explode. Sheezus it was FUNNY.

Soccer Mom: So I figured since I was going to be in the neighborhood I would just drop this off. Here.

(Nordic Boy takes the Festool product. He looks like he has seen Santa FOR REAL).

Nordic Boy: Thanks. B-but who ARE you?

You think this is confusing so far? Are you wondering who this Soccer Mom with the ability to grant wishes could possibly be? There couldn't be anything to add that would make this situation more confusing, could there?

Here's what she said next.

Soccer Mom: This is a gift for you from your daughter in California.

I wish that Nordic Boy would have been taking a drink of something. Because he would have done a SPECTACULAR spit-take if he had.

Nordic Boy: MY WHO??

Soccer Mom: Have a great night!

And she left.

After some information gathering, we discovered that the item had been ordered online from our dear friend Bio-Girl for Nordic Boy's birthday. The distributor for this area was (apparently, although this is not entirely clear) Soccer Mom, who obviously has great customer service inclinations (home delivery and friendly too!), but whose communication skills are clearly lacking. Bio-Girl assured us that she in no way indicated that she was posing as Nordic Boy's offspring and has no idea where Soccer Mom came up with that jive.

So all is well. Nordic Boy gets a birthday gift that he adores and is reassured that he hasn't sired a child in California that he had no idea about and who wants to express his neglect of her by buying him fancy presents, and everyone is happy. Except me. Because I was hoping Soccer Mom really was Santa and that she was coming for me next with that Lela Rose outfit I've been dreaming about. Dang.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

To the Beat of the Rhythm of the Night

Back in the day when I was a young lass, I was friends with sleep. Me and the Sandman, we would kick it. Hardcore. I could sleep any time. Anywhere. When I was a teenager, my friends and I would carouse about town doing teenage things (2am sundaes at McDonald's! whoo hooooo!) and then I would crash into sleep wherever I ended up. In the back seat of a car? No probs, holmes. On a friend's couch? Bring it! On the floor of a friend's living room, my blue mascara (oh no) crunched together, my white keds kicked off and my jaw all aslack? Totally. I would sleep. Just like that.

Somewhere, in my early early 20s, things changed. The Sandman broke up with me and sleeping was never quite the same again. I would spend hours, awake. Reading, watching tv, gnashing my teeth in frustration. At the time, it was the least of my problems. I was in the middle of a period in my life I like to call Puberty the Sequel, where everything that happened was dramatic and exhausting. So in addition to the lack of sleeping, I was doing a lot of Diane Keaton-style crying about stuff. You know that whole montage in Something's Gotta Give where Diane Keaton just walks around busting up crying over everything? That was me, around age 20. (And if you have never seen that montage, you have to so totally click on that link there. It is so freakin' funny.) So really, I didn't have time to sleep. I had a full day's worth of waterworks to get through and I was burning the midnight oil doing it.

After Puberty the Sequel ended, I went into a phase where I could sleep, but would wake up over anything. Traffic noises outside my window, a creak in the ceiling, the next door neighbors having sexual furniture-moving episodes that I could hear through my wall. (What is a sexual furniture-moving episode, you ask? It was what I chose to name the sounds that I was hearing, which could not be described any other way than to say that my neighbors were clearly knockin' boots and pushing their furniture around at the same time. I tell you, there is a fetish for everything). Just when I was getting over this hyper awareness of sound and sleeping through all the racket, I moved. And my new apartment? Was totally silent. I remember my first night in that apartment. I was wide awake most of the night, freaked out by all the nothing that was happening in my presence. No traffic, no neighbors, no nothing.

The Sandman was chased away once again, and came back slowly and cautiously and settled into my new silent room. And then? Wham! Nordic Boy got sick. Really, really sick. In and out of the hospital, almost kicking the bucket kind of sick. When that was going on, my sleeping habits grew even lighter than they ever had before. "Sleeping with one eye open" is what I believe it's called. I was atuned to everything about Nordic Boy-- I would wake up if his breathing pattern changed. I would wake up if he moved in the slightest. I was watching him for any changes and so conking out was out of the question. And during this time, the Sandman was fed up and just hightailed it out the door and never came back. To this day, I will wake up if Nordic Boy so much as sighs in his sleep. The fear of that period has never left, I suppose.

So for the past two days, Nordic Boy has had a very slight cold. You wouldn't even know he had a cold really, it's so slight. But for the past two nights, the congestion has made him snore. I am talking full on, buzz saw, cartoon style snoring. It's like a nasal nocturne all night long and it ain't soothing. So for me, the girl who usually is functioning on a few hours of sleep a night, and who wakes up when a mosquito farts, this has meant no sleep at all. At all.

The Sandman has screwed me over once again. Maybe some day I will sleep a full 8 hours again at some point in my life. Sleeping for real seems like part of my lost youth, gone forever just like Pixie Stix straws and DeBarge.

I'm tired, peeps. As usual. That's all.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

2007 Has Left the Building

Stealing a meme from Librarisaurus Rex. Stealing is fun. Go ahead, steal this from me, you'll see.

1. What did you do in 2007 that you'd never done before?
Commuted more than five miles away from where I live to get to work every day. I am now a card-carrying member of car culture. And it sucks. And I watched the Bachelor this year for the first time ever. And that sucked too. Wow, way to start off the list all cheery!

2. Did you keep your new years' resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
Honey please. I'm living in the now, dude.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
Yes! Babies were shooting out all over the place. Most notably, Neighbor J and B had a sparkly eyed girlie who is now locomoting herself around town via her patented rolling technique, and friends H and J had a little zen baby who looks at you with eyes that say "'whatsa haps?" And lots more babies. All destined to be more mature than I am in a year or two.

4. Did anyone close to you die?
No, although it was pretty damn close this year. Too close. That shit was the real deal.

5. What countries did you visit?
The good 'ol US of A had to be the only resting place for mine asseth this year. That's ok. Sometimes I think I have spent enough time on a plane in the first 25 years of my life to last me forever. Oh, but I did get to go see Frankenmuth. Which should totally be its own fake German nation.

6. What would you like to have in 2008 that you lacked in 2007?
Healthy, healthy loved ones. All of them! I don't want to hear ONE SNEEZE out of the lot of you! Because I have HAD IT. A robot vacuum cleaner would be nice too.

7. What dates from 2007 will remain etched upon your memory?
H and R being born, a Most Shocking Day at work (and I am not easily shocked but this one was a doozy which I wish I could tell you about except I would surely get dooced), the day my dad had a stroke, finding out that my sis-in-law has MS, finding out that Nordic Boy's mom has a combination of serious health ailments, the day when my brother went into the hospital (what a pattern this is, huh?), sitting in my parents' back yard with my mom, dad, and Nordic Boy when my dad got out of the hospital and me just soaking in the precious time that we had together, eating cupcakes in the middle of the night with Alli and Map, having an official Librarian Girl and Bio-Girl Day of Fun (much like Joey and Janice's Day of Fun, except, you know, we like each other), getting to see ex-roomie Palindrome for a day or two and playing with my nephew.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
Having a laugh each day, even when things were bad. (You know how the catchphase on Extras that Ricky Gervias always says is "Is she havin' a laugh?" Yeah, that's me. I'm having a laugh.)

9. What was your biggest failure?
I stopped categorizing things I do as failures a long time ago. That shit is toxic. Not doing that.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
No, I made it through another year in tact.

11. What was the best thing you bought?
A washer and dryer. Not an iPod, or a trip, or an exciting pair of shoes, but a washer and dryer. God I'm old.

12. Whose behavior merited celebration?
Did I tell you about the time I didn't whine about being cold? Ok, ok, spotlight off of me. I had a couple of friends who were just the most kick-ass support system ever when all the family health crises were going down. Most notably K and Bio-Girl. Nordic Boy and I were barely functioning for a while there and you two rocked the hizzy. And everyone else that helped us out too. So much kindness out there.

13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?
World events certainly can make my mood go over into the bad place.

14. Where did most of your money go?
Mortgage, mortgage, mortgage. Oh, and um, my mortgage.

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
Ok, I am starting to sound like a one-note Sally, but I was obviously excited when my Dad started to pull through. On a more superficial note, I was also excited by Lost and Battlestar Galactica (shut it, I know it's geeky), the final Harry Potter book (geek points going ever higher), finding a really great pair of jeans, and hosting Alli and Map in my town.

16. What song will always remind you of 2007?
Stronger by Kanye West (which I could totally spit out word for word for you which you would think I wouldn't be advertising but hey, whatevs). And What Ever Happened by the Strokes. Neither of these have anything at all to do with what actually happened in '07. I just heard these two songs a lot.

17. Compared to this time last year, are you:
a) happier or sadder? Happier, baby.
b) thinner or fatter? Who the hell is counting? Not me.
c) richer or poorer? About the same, I think. Maybe a tad richer.

18. What do you wish you'd done more of?
I haven't been arting as much as I would have liked during the year.

19. What do you wish you'd done less of?
Worrying.

20. How will you be spending Christmas?
I spent it with Nordic Boy and blood-sucking zombies and Will Smith.

21 is missing. Couldn't be bothered to stick around, apparently.

22. Did you fall in love in 2007?
Every damn day.

23. How many one-night stands?
365 in a row. What a hoochie!

24. What was your favorite TV program?
Battlestar Galactica.

25. Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?
What kind of jacked up question is this?? The yearly hatred question? I'd have to say that my hatred levels are all about the same as they were last year.

26. What was the best book you read?
Asking a librarian this question is like kicking him/her in the mouth. OUCH! I plead the fifth.

27. What was your greatest musical discovery?
I re-discovered Radio Department this year. I loved them and then sort of forgot about them. Now the love, it be renewed.

28. What did you want and get?
Unconditional love.

29. What did you want and not get?
A nice yard.

30. What was your favorite film of this year?
I didn't have one. Movies weren't really grabbing me this year. I liked the Queen with Helen Mirren in it.

31. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
Sick, weilding tissues, hacking up a lung, cancelling birthday plans, and mad as HELL. I felt like I was turning older than dirt.

32.What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
I missed out on my annual Oregon beach trip with my best pals this year. I wish we would have gone because the year just didn't seem right without it.

33. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2007?
Head to toe fabulous, of course. Same as every year.

34. What kept you sane?
Who says I was kept sane? Clearly, meme-question-writer, you don't know me.

35. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
Who did I "fancy?" Oh, I don't know. Jonathan Rhys Myers is a cutie.

36. What political issue stirred you the most?
Iraq, of course. The situation in Myanmar. Now Pakistan.

37. Who did you miss?
Too many people to name, sadly. This meme is starting to bum me out.

38. Who was the best new person you met?
Well, the two new babies in my life are right up there. And when you ask "best NEW person," they are definitely that. New people, that is.

39. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2007:
Dancing around and singing nonsense songs can always cheer you up in a pinch.

40. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year:
"And you were not a dot dot dot
waiting for me to complete you
and it was like I just forgot
to measure everything that I do"

Final Thoughts:
2007 was a kick in the crotch and walk in the park all at the same time. I smiled a lot and worried a lot, and I tried to grow up and I felt about a hundred years old too. 2007 was just more of my life and that life is pretty damn good. I can't wait for more. Bring it!



I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Mild Weather in Seattle My Ass

What do you do if you:

a) have a fear and hatred of cold weather the likes of which is so out of control that all of your friends and family tell you that you need psychological treatment because you whine so goddamn much about it; and

b) have the day off although you just had one on account of it being Jesus' birthday; and

c) don't have your gloves, hat and scarf with you; and

d) are wearing shoes that can not in any way be described as "weatherproof" or "practical"; and

e) are witnessing icy rain pelt down in a sideways fashion?

You decide, as you're driving back from the store, that you need to go to the plant nursery, of course. The outdoor plant nursery. Just for the pure joy of being completely underdressed for December in Seattle and to see just how wet one can get while running around trying to find a good deal on some plants. And to remember with nostalgia what it was like to not be able to feel your hands and then to feel them painfully thaw out just as you did as a child growing up in Michigan. And to watch a droplet of moisture actually freeze up on the end of your beloved's nose as he tries to pick out a lovely evergreen shrub before it gets too dark. And to experience what a huge nursery is like when there is not one other person there. Even the people who work there are huddled inside. Buncha wusses.

You do this because you have a coupon for this nursery that expires on December 29. And the savings are too great to pass up. And even as you curse your parents for making you so pathologically frugal, you run around the nursery just the same, milking the coupon for all it's worth, even though the experience is making you seriously consider peeing in your pants just to feel a few seconds of warmth in your nether regions which you fear may never have feeling again.

At the end of it all, you have some new winter plants, at a STEAL of a price, and a compliment that you never thought you would hear.
Nordic Boy: (on the way home) Wow. You didn't even whine once. That WHOLE TIME.

At the close of 2007, this is the biggest statement of progress one could make about me. I'm so proud.


Even Nordic Boy was cold. And he's NORDIC.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Zombie Christmas

I have only posted 7 times this month. After the post-a-day binge of November, I have gone on some kind of crazy posting-fast for I'm not sure what reason. So although I am not much of a New Year's Resolution kind of lady, I am going to give myself until the first of the year to get my shit together and post more come 2008.

I hope you all had some days off of work this week. As far as I am concerned, that is the best part about this time of year. Well, that and the cookies. I was going to tell you all about my existential feelings about the Christmas holiday but then I realized that the liklihood that you all would give a flying figgy pudding about that is pretty slim.

So instead of doing that, I'll tell you what I did on Christmas.

1. Nordic Boy and I are not big Christmas celebrators. In order to explain this further I would have to go into that existential Christmas feelings thing I was talking about before, so don't ask. We don't give each other presents or anything like that, usually. This year, we decided we would exchange a couple of things. Small things, no wrapping required. I got a pop culture crossword book (score!) and a pair of earrings from my favorite handmade store. He got a whole mess of socks and some new pens, the type of which I know he likes to use on his blueprints for work. Nordic Boy loves socks. And pens. We were both genuinely overjoyed with our gifts. They were the kind of gifts that only we would have gotten for each other. What a coupla geeks.

2. We stayed in our pajamas and read books on the couch while sharing a blanket until lunch time.

3. Nordic Boy made us his famed grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch and we watched the snow fall outside of our window.

4. At 1pm, while still in our pajamas, one of us said "let's go to a movie!" We got ready in five minutes, jumped in our car, and went to the movie theater to see what was playing. We ended up with tickets to "I am Legend" which started at 1:30.

5. Saw Will Smith battling zombies on crack using fire bombs, automatic weapons, and hand-to-hand combat. Happy birthday, Jesus!

6. Got home and made a big dinner and ate and talked.

7. And talked, and talked.

8. And talked some more.

Here's to the close of another year. I had the perfect day and I hope you all have one too, whatever that may look like.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Just A Little Patience

If I had to describe Nordic Boy with a list of adjectives, one of the top things I would say about him is that he is patient. I think this is part of what makes him so good at designing and building stuff. He takes his time to think it through, and he never gets frustrated with the process. As obstacles or problems arise, he just deals with them as they come, and he doesn't have that impulse that so many people have (ahem, cough cough, ME) to hurry up and be done with something. He does things wholly for the process, not rushing toward the result. Other qualities that I think of as quintessentially him (thoroughness, thoughtfulness, craftsmanship) are secondary- I don't think he would have these other things if he wasn't the poster child for patience.

Hey, remember that Guns N Roses song? Patience? Am I remembering it wrong, or is there a part to that song where Axel Rose just sort of lets out this long note where he's not really saying anything? Sort of an aaaahh-eeeeeh-aahhhh-eeeeeeh-aaaaah sound? Am I totally hallucinating that?

Anywho. Nordic Boy and I had this conversation last night, and after it was over, I laughed until I wanted to die, it hurt so bad. And I am walking around today, and it is STILL FUNNY. I keep cracking myself up over it. It may be one of those stories where you had to be there, or you have to really know Nordic Boy and me in person to really get how gut-busting funny it is, but what the heck. I'm telling you anyway.

Nordic Boy was watching "Ask This Old House" last night, and I was doing a crossword. I happened to look up, and there weren't any familiar faces on the screen. No Norm, no Kevin, no Tom, no Roger. It was some random guy I had never seen before, doing the project. I was about to ask who they were, but then the scene changed and there was Norm and Kevin and the whole familiar gang again.

Me: Who was that guy?
Nordic Boy: That was the electrician.
Me: (thinking that he wasn't understanding that I was referring to the guy who was on the screen a second ago, and not the guy who was on the screen now) But who was that other guy?
Nordic Boy: The electrician. He's not on here as regularly.
Me: (Still thinking he wasn't getting who I was talking about). No, not this guy. The guy before. Who was that guy?
Nordic Boy: He was the electrician. Not on every time. You probably just didn't recognize him.
Me: The other one. The one BEFORE. Who was he?
Nordic Boy: He was the electrician.
Me: The one in the BLUE SHIRT. Who was he?
Nordic Boy: He was the electrician.
Me: The one with the blue shirt?
Nordic Boy: Yep. He was the electrician.
Me: Not Roger (on the screen now). The one from before. The one with the DARK blue shirt.
Nordic Boy: He was the electrician.

I am not even kidding you guys. This entire conversation, Nordic Boy knew exactly who I was referring to, and he answered my question. And I kept, like a frickin' moron, re-asking it. Thinking he wasn't with me. Clarifying my question for him. Re-clarifying it. Oh, he was with me alright. He was with me from the first five seconds of the conversation. And yet. His voice never wavered. He never sounded the least bit exasperated by my vitriolic badgering. He never went to the place of "OH MY GOD YOU GODDAMN LUNATIC. I KNOW WHO YOU MEAN. HE'S THE MOTHERSUCKING ELECTRICIAN NOW STOP ASKING ME." He answered it each time, calmly, lovingly. No problem.

This went on for a few more rounds. He never made me feel like an ass, although clearly, well. Yeah.

When I finally caught up to this conversation I had been having, where he had said to me about twenty gajillion times that "he is the electrician," I realized how insane this was. And how patient he is. And his level of patience was just so FUNNY. How long would he have kept working with me, his slow-witted lover? How many times would he have sublimely informed me of the dark blue shirted electrician? 20? 30? I'm almost sad that I caught on, because now we'll never know.

I laughed about that all night last night. And today. As I washed my face and he brushed his teeth I would bring it back up. "So what you're saying is, that guy was the electrician?" and that would start me off laughing all over again.

Patience. It's awesome. Aaaaahhhheeeeeeaaaaaahhheeeeeeeahhhhh.

Who was that guy?

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

"Recappy Chappies With Snappy Serapes"

The year is winding down and so all you are going to see from all sides is Attack of the Year's Recaps. There will be countdowns aplenty and people summing up the year and pontificating about the best songs, the worst shows, the most fascinating people, the most intriguing artisanal cheeses, the top-rated beard groomers, and the must-have nun-habits of 2007. And there will be lots of bloggers tagging other bloggers with year-end recap memes, and although I tecnnically have not yet been tagged, I am anticipating that I will so I am going to declare myself tagged. I should have thought of this technique a long time ago. This way, when I wasn't picked for the dodgeball team in middle school, I coulda just said "eff you, effers. I pick myself for your team. Deal with that."

Two things about that little imaginary anecdote there.

1. I used to get picked pretty quickly for dodgeball. Not first, but somewhere in the front of the middle. So I didn't have that whole picked-last trauma that everyone else seems to have. I have never understood that mathematically- how can SO MANY people have picked-last trauma? If everyone in the world was getting picked last, then who the hell was getting picked first and second and third?

2. I never would have said "eff you, effers" in middle school. I would have said something way more cussy. I had a rotten mouth back in the day. Sorry Mom.

Then, after I had tagged myself for Recapping Fun, I started to think about my year. And I started to type. And you know what? The really Big Events of my 2007...kind of sucked. I mean, I started to look at it and I realized how Eeyore-like it all sounded. First of all, my beloved Dad got sick. Really super serious scary sick. Second of all, my BFF lived far away and this was the first time in years that I hardly ever saw her, which totally felt weird. Third, another (former) BFF of mine, after a couple of years of The Chop Chop Salad between us, finally bowed out of my life for good and it truly broke my heart in a way that was in the back of my mind for much of my year...

Jeez, Wheezy. What kind of jacked up list is that? Because I hadn't thought my year was so bad until I actually started writing this list out. In fact, I had been under the delusion that the year had been ok. Good, even. Because in my head, on a day to day basis, I think about things a certain way that is actually quite sunny. For example, when my dad was sick, I was really upset, yes, but I was also really full of love for him, and I spent a ton of time thinking about how lucky I am to have had a dad like I do, and how many people I know that don't have such great dads. So in the midst of feeling sad about what was happening, I was also feeling at peace about it, in a weird way. I'm not trying to minimize the worry that I felt. I was scared shitless, believe me. But to sum up the whole event by putting it on a list as "my dad almost died in '07" just doesn't feel like a fair assessment of what happened and how it affected my life.

So I'm going to take myself right back off the Recapping Train. At least in the way that I have seen it done, which makes you have to reduce your life into the really big deal events. My life is more than the really big deal events. It's all the little things that add up to my year.

Things like:

Freaking out the Gap ladies.

Rating men and MEN.

Talking in my sleep for the first time ever.

Running around with a horde of librarians.

Going green by subtracting some green.

Becoming an auntie.

Keeping Nordic Boy alive.

Talking on the phone a lot. And always about very important matters of state.

Living in Operaland.

Showing you a 9th grade note.

Showing me some love.

Getting beat up for beauty.

Being cold. I talked about being cold a lot. A really lot.

These are the things that made up my life in 2007. I can't reduce it more than that. Life is, to me, by and large, silly. Day to day weirdo stuff. I'm trying really hard not to use the phrase "fabric of my life" since that will just make everyone think about cotton. But you get what I'm saying right? Life is made of the small things. The unrecappable.

What are the small moments that happened to you in '07? Comment or write about them on your blog.

Look at that. I totally just picked you for my dodgeball team.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

The Secret of Our Success

In the car, radio on, flippin' zee channels. Nordic Boy and I, totally silent.

"Oh Yeah" by Yello comes on.

Me: Ferris Bueller!
Nordic Boy: The Secret of My Success!
Me: Starring Michael J. Fox!
Nordic Boy: Planes, Trains and Automobiles!
Me: Oh my god! You are on a roll!
Nordic Boy: Teen Wolf!
Me: Really? This song was in Teen Wolf?
Nordic Boy: And K-9!
Me: Oh my god. You didn't just say K-NINE.
Nordic Boy: This song is in everything. From the 80s.
Me: And you remembered like, all of them.

Satisfied silence for the rest of the ride.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Believe the Hype

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Taco Seasoning

You have so been checking back here, day after day, just WAITING for me to finish the Taco story, haven't you? You know you have.

Please. Just let me have my delusions.

I'm going to start Part Deux with a word about Taco's friend, Dave. They were best friends, and in best friend world, it was clear who was who. Taco was the Hot One. Dave was the Funny One. They sat next to each other in choir, and so as I tried to worm my way into Taco's good graces, I also got to know Dave. And shit, you guys. Dave cracked my ass UP. And he was so nice. In retrospect, he is so OBVIOUSLY the one I should have been macking on. But no. I only had eyes for the Tacola.

Anyway. There were days where our choir teacher would make all of us get up and mix up where we sat. The point of it was that he wanted us to be able to sing our part of the harmony, even if we were sitting next to someone who was singing a different part of the harmony right in our ear. One day, when we mixed it up like this, I happened to be sitting next to Dave, in the third row. Taco was way up in the front row. And Taco kept looking over his shoulder at Dave and me, and the two of them kept making these faces at each other. And then Taco started to mouth these words to Dave, right in front of me: "I'm going to ask her! I'm going to ask her." After which Dave and he would look at me significantly. Dave's face was bright red at the mortification of me seeing this exchange. But I didn't care.

Taco was going to ask me something!! I swear to you sparks must have flown out of my panties.

The day passed, and no asking of any kind was happening. Rats! That's ok though. I was willing to wait.

Oh, and I forgot a slight detail. Taco had a girlfriend. The lead soprano in the choir. They had been dating for over a year, which was, in high school terms, like being an old married couple. But this holiday season, there had been trouble in tenor-soprano heaven. They had fought and were in Ross and Rachel land ("on a break.") So see, technically, Taco was free. And now that he was free, he wanted to ASK ME A QUESTION.

That night, our choir was going out as a group to bring food to some needy families in our town. We loaded up our bus with all kinds of presents and food and rode around town dropping the stuff off. And that night, Taco (with Dave in tow most of the time) would not leave me alone. He never quite sat next to me, but he was sitting behind me, or in the seat in front of me. There was more significant looking. Dave cracked jokes in the background, and we all laughed, the three of us. Merry, merry times. I was giddy with excitement.

After the bus ride, we all went over to a friend's house for hot chocolate. I remember it vividly. I was sitting on a couch while Holiday Inn with Fred Astaire and Bing Crosby played on tv in front of me. And who should happen along, but Taco. He plopped down in between me and my friend Donna who was sitting next to me, and turned his head toward her and started to chat it up. And I sat there, with my eyes on the screen, watching Fred Astaire and his crazy Firecracker dance, and thought about the fact that Taco's leg was touching my leg. It was too good to be true. Finally, he stopped talking to Donna and started watching the movie with me. There were people all around, flopped down on the floor and on either side of us. The place was packed. And as we sat there, not talking, he put his hand next to my hand. The backs of our hands were now touching. We're talking skin on skin, people. All we would have had to do was turn our hands over, and we would have been holding hands. But I didn't do it. And neither did he. We just sat there and watched that movie, knuckle to knuckle, with Fred Astaire tapping the shit out of that movie in front of us.

The following week, Dave called me up on the phone. In typical buddy fashion, we talked and joked and laughed, and I didn't have the bawls to ask him about Taco.

Him: What are you doing right now? You hungry?
Me: Totally. You?
Him: Yeah. Let's go get something to eat.

Awesome. Time for me to grill the best friend about the knuckle-make-out that had gone on and what it all meant. Dave was so easy to talk to, and I wished I could be as relaxed around him as I was around Taco.

When we got to the local food court (which was, by the way, a brand new concept at the time in my town) and sat down, Dave totally changed. There was no more joking, there was no more easy manner. He got all nervous and serious.

Do you all see where this is going? Do you see what I am about to say? How the hell am I always telling you guys stories where I come out looking like an ass?

I was, totally unbeknownst to me, ON A DATE with Dave. He had asked me out, picked me up at my house, and brought me to an eating establishment for a textbook date. And I had no friggin' idea that it was happening. Because he was just DAVE. Jokester. Friend-guy. No smouldering eyes. No acid-washed clad ass.

I sat there and remained oblivious to this date the entire time. I did not catch up. And you guys, it gets worse. In my state of Taco-smog that I was sitting in, I started asking Dave about it. Does Taco mention me? What did he say after the Holiday Inn night? Do you think he's going to ask me out?

Looking back on this whole shipwreck, I still feel awful. Because I have to realize that this was probably the story of Dave's life, having Taco as a best friend. The girls, they must have all gone for Taco, and he must have just had to accept it, all the while knowing that he was the better dude. Smarter, funnier, nicer. Aw Dave. I was an ass. I know better now.

After that date was over, Dave never talked to me much after that. And I did end up having more escapades with Taco in the weeks before he finally got back together with his girlfriend. And after he got back together with his girlfriend and forgot about me, he started man-whoring it up all over school behind her back and I never could look at him quite the same again.

The lesson? Andie should have gone for Duckie. Angela Chase should have been with Brian Crackow. And I am stupid enough to go on dates without knowing I am there. For all I know, I am on a date right now. I should probably go check.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Yummy Taco

Well look at that. I go all the way through November, posting like a, um, crazy posting lady, and then December hits and whammo! I drop off the face of the earth. Did you miss me? Huh, huh, did ya?

My lack of posting has nothing whatsoever to do with the end of NaBloPoMo (that word never stops sounding dirty, does it?). I have only one thing on my mind these days, and that is weather and traffic. I guess that's two things. Whatever. The point is. I think of nothing and do nothing that is unrelated to traffic and weather these days and really, who wants to read about traffic and weather? I mean, isn't weather what one talks about when there's nothing left to say? It's like, the banter that you say to people who you don't have anything in common with. It's right up there with how about those Mets or did you hear about Britney or TGIF. And I don't want to do filler-talk with you guys.

So, instead, I will hearken back and tell you a little story about a boy named Taco. It's a holiday story. Ready?

When I was in 10th grade, I auditioned for varsity choir. The choir in my high school was supposed to be a Really Big Deal and making it in at all, much less as a lowly 10th grader, was nothing to sneeze at. And if you were a star in this choir (which I never was), that was better than being a star on the football team, or the class president, or whatever other bullshit high school popularity thing you may have up your sleeve. It's only now that I see how weird and unusual this is. What kind of high school deifies the kid who can sing a Mozart mass the best? Isn't that kind of strange?

So I made it in to this weird little culty club, and there was this tenor that sat in the row behind me. I called him Taco. I called him Taco because the word sounded punny when paired with his last name, and also because then I could make all sorts of lewd taco-related jokes with my friends about him (taco meat, taco meat between the shell, sour cream...high school humor rawks). Taco was a senior. Not only was he a senior, but he was the best singer in the choir. He was that guy. He was my Jake Ryan. I was mad about him. Cuckoo for cocoa puffs insane.

I can't tell you, even to this day, why I was so in love with him. I was not one to go gaga over boys like that. I dated them, thought this one or that one was cute, but I wasn't a groupie type. I thought girls who tripped all over themselves over a boy were stoopid. But the power of Taco was too much for me. I can honestly say that I have never in my life, before him nor after him, ever, obsessed so acutely over a dude like I did over him. All I can attribute this to was that perhaps my pubescent hormones just kicked in and he happened to be the target? I don't know.

I befriended Taco. He sat behind me in choir every day, and we would talk. I still remember the conversations we would have. There was nothing to them. At all. For instance, we had a whole running conversation about the colloquialism "you can like it or you can lump it." We thought this was hysterically funny and would say it to each other about any situation. Deep, right? And I would go home, every night, and write in my journal every word that he ever spoke to me. Every word. Not only that, I would write down what he was wearing, every single day. I still have this strange catalog of Taco happenings. "He was wearing his acid washed jeans today and boy did his ass look NICE." Ladies and gentlemen, this may have been the first thing the future librarian ever catalogued. Taco's outfits. What's the LCSH for that?

Although I never got my hands on Taco for real, there were moments that we shared that were so full of messed up teen sexual tension of the Welcome to the Dollhouse variety that I feel like we almost had a relationship, in a way. I had thrilling moments with Taco. For instance (and I can't believe I am about to tell you about this one as it makes me look slightly pervy but who wasn't slightly pervy when they were 15?), the number 69 was a big number for us in high school, as I am sure it is for everyone in high school. We used that number for everything, because we thought it was SO FRICKIN' HILARIOUS. Examples...

Teen #1: Dude, when do you have to go home?
Teen #2: Six or nine o' clock. Either one.
Haw haw haw haw haaaaaaaw!

Or

Teen #1: God that test was hard. I know I failed it.
Teen #2: I bet you got about 69 percent on it.
Haw haw haw haaaaaaw!

You see what I'm saying? It was 69 everything. Extra funny points if you could slip in saying sixty-nine to an adult with a straight face without them realizing what you were doing.

I was not above such tomfoolery. I said the magic number as much as the next person. Except the difference for me was, I didn't know why it was so funny. I had no idea what 69 meant. Isn't that sweet and innocent? I want to pat my 15-year-old head like a little fuzzy puppy for that. I knew it was something dirty, but I didn't exactly know the details. I thought it was something slightly sexual, but had no idea what it was for reals.

So you know what I did? I tried to flirt with Taco by confessing to him that I didn't know what 69 was. And I asked him if he would please explain it to me.

That day in choir, we all stood up to sing. And when I sat back down after the song was over, there was something on my chair. It was a note! From TACO. Oh my word. We were acquaintances, not friends who wrote each other notes! He was taking the acquaintanceship to the next level. What did it say?

The note didn't SAY anything. It just had the numbers 6 and 9 drawn out next to each other, and then, next to that there was a...drawing. Of two people. Two people who were doing the sixing and the nining. To each other.

Taco. Drew me. A diagram.

I crumpled up the note and freaked the fuck out. THAT is what 6 and 9 is? Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod. I was mortified beyond mortified. How could I ever talk to Taco again? I thought I was going to die. Not metaphorically die. Literally melt into the floor and croak.

But you know what else? Besides the imminent kick-the-bucket-ness? The note gave me a thrill. Taco and I had shared a moment. A freaky deaky, jacked up, non-sex-but-sexish moment.

I know what you're thinking right about now. You're wondering what the hell I meant when I said at the beginning of this story that it was a "holiday story." What kind of weirdo holiday am I talking about, is what you're thinking. This is not a Hallmark Channel Original type story. This is bordering on the Skinamax channel. Hold on, though, I haven't gotten to the holiday part yet. In fact, I think I may have to hold off on that part of the story, because this post is getting way too long and I have to go and you know, live my life and stuff. So I will finish telling you about Taco and the holiday part of our flirtation next time. Wow, I don't think I have ever done a two-parter blog post before. Look at me, being all wordy!

Until next time then, my friends. Taco, Part II. Sorry to give you only part of the story and run. How much is left, you ask?

About 69 percent.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Chop Shop

Ok, brace yourself. I am going to talk about Scott Baio again. Wait! Before you click away from here! Hear me out! I assure you, this post will have relevance. Who knew that Scott Baio would lead to not one, but TWO blog posts? Thanks, Chach. I owe you one, even if you are kind of a hoochie. Or, as you would have us believe, you were a hoochie. Past tense. The artist formerly known as Skankbomb. Whatevers.

So on his show last season, Scott took a long hard look at his friends. Most of them are ok. There's a guy who lets everyone call him "Cooch" which, although he seems like a nice enough fellow, the fact that he would allow this makes me look at him askance. Scott's other best friend is Wayne from the Wonder Years, who I cannot help but think of as "Scrote" because wasn't that what he always used to call Kevin? So yeah. Cooch and Scrote. Kind of an unfortunate pair. But really, they seem ok, despite the names. Then, there's Johnny V. Johnny V. needs to be re-named Johnny V.D. and that's all I have to say about him. So in this episode, Scott decides that he needs to "break up" with Johnny V. It is his most toxic friendship, and so he has to get rid of him. And he does.

Getting out of a bad friendship is hard. Have you ever done it? Have you ever had it done to you? Breaking up with a romantic partner is so much easier. We have social conventions on how to do this. We have words to describe it. We have ways to talk about it. But breaking up with a friend? No one really talks about how to do that, do they?

Well, I'd like to offer you all a way to think about the friendship break up. See, back in my homeland, not only do we have turquoise ocean waters and coconuts falling from the trees, we also value a friend just as much as we value a husband, a wife, a girlfriend or a boyfriend. And when you place that much love and care into these friendships, getting rid of a friend is on the same level as getting a divorce. It's yooge. And when something is yooge, as a concept, you have a name for it. So in the South Sea land where I come from, we call friendship divorce: friendcutting. Friendcutting can be a noun or a verb. "We had a fight and then we had a friendcut." "She totally friendcutted me!" "I'm going to friendcut him for that." Friendcut. It's the perfect word for when you have to say that the bonds of friendship are done broke.

I have taken this concept of friendcutting and I have added some terms of my own. Because there is more than one way to get the Cut.

1. You can get the Chop. This is a severe form of Friendcutting, where the Cutter tells the Cuttee that it is over. Balls out. It's when someone tells you in no uncertain terms that you suck as a friend and that it is over. Pros: There's no confusion. Everyone knows where you stand. Cons: It's way harsh.

2. The FriendSlice. This is when you tell the person straight out that you don't want to be their friend any more, but you try to be nice about it. It's kind of like the "it's not you, it's me" method of break ups. It's like "I'm glad we had our time together as friends, but it's just not working for me any more. Still love you." Pros: You can kick someone out of your life without having to feel like as much of an ass. Cons: It can be kind of passive aggressive. "I don't like you any more. Now let's hug it out."

3. The Cold Cut. This is when you just totally freeze someone out and don't give them any indication that you were even friends in the first place. It's all "who are you again? I don't believe we've met." Pros: It's over and no one has to ever speak of it again. Cons: Ice, ice baby.

4. Indirect drift. This is when you just drift away from someone, not even intentionally. Time passes, you don't do a good job of keeping up with that person. You feel kind of bad about it, but let's face it, if you felt REALLY bad about it you would do something about it. So away you drift, and they drift, until you can't see each other across the miles. Pros: No confrontation! And you don't have to feel like the bad guy. Cons: You'll probably feel guilt, because you've fooled yourself into thinking that you didn't mean for this to happen. Will you try and change it though? Prolly not.

5. Directed Drift. This is when you intentionally drift away from someone in a pre-meditated manner. The exact same thing as #4 up there, except you totally mean to do it. Oops, forgot to return that call. Huh? What? Your friend stopped by? I'll get back to them another time...or not. Oh, there they are, across the grocery store...I'll just pretend that I didn't see them. They'll never know. Pros: Again, no confrontation necessary. Cons: If the other person doesn't take the hint, this can be a long, drawn out process.

6. Statue of Liberty Non-Cuts. This is for you folks out there who have no boundaries whatsoever and will take on just about anyone as a friend and keep them no matter what. Bring me your tired, your hungry, your annoying masses, yearning to breathe in the air of clingy friendship, even though I hate you I will endure being around you, just because. Pros: You'll never be at a loss for company, as you will accept anyone. Cons: No standards friendship is a dangerous, soul-sucking thing. It's akin to the loveless marriage.

7. Chop Chop Salad: This is when you keep trying to break up with a friend, but they keep coming back and you keep trying to make it work. The cycle of breaking up and getting back together makes the chopping happen over and over until your life is like a shredded up salad. This usually has an endgame of someone finally doing a successful chop and puking out the friendship like a big old Salad Shooter. Pros: You can keep the hope alive for a little while, and who knows? You could save the friendship. Cons: Did I mention that one or both of you ends up shredded in this situation? It's brutal.

8. The Friendship Whittle: This is when you don't actual cut someone out, but you re-configure the friendship to make it better. You mold something nice out of something dysfunctional. You work it out. You make a piece of wood into a nice tobaccy pipe.

Really, the Art of the Friendcut is multifaceted, much like the breaking off of a romantic relationship. But I am a firm believer that sometimes, this has to be done. And having a name for it is the first step in making it easier to think about. So that's my present to you.
I have to admit to you that I have done every single one of the above Friendcutting techniques. Some of these I am proud of (like the FriendSlice and the Whittle) and others I am not (like the Cold Cut).

And you know what else? If you feel like you made a FriendCut in error, you can attempt to woo your friend back to you. Repair the damage. I call this The Friendship Suture. It is, out of everything that I have outlined here, the most delicate and difficult to do. I can only think of two times where I have successfully Sutured.

Next time you have a dysfunctional friendship, consider your options. There is a way out.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Holiday Half-sies

I grew up with all kinds of ambivalent feelings about holidays. Almost all holidays. Name a holiday and I will spew back at you some sort of love-hate crap associated with it. For example:

New Years?
Postive: Parties and staying up late and feeling like you can start anew! Negative: All this pressure to change your life with resolutions and such can really get to be a drag.

Thanksgiving?
Positive: Eating and friends and days off from work!
Negatives: That whole Native American genocide thing.

Halloween?
Positives: Again, parties! And fun/funny costumes. And candy. All good stuff!
Negatives: Bossy costume people who make shy people and/or people who aren't costumey feel bad. Or work places that make you dress up in themey outfits. Halloween peer pressure is very high maintenance.

Valentine's Day?
Positives: Celebrating love! What could be better than that?
Negatives: All this coupley hetero "you complete me" boolshizz. Gross.

I don't know why I am like this. I think it's partly because I have two very strong character traits that sometimes go toe to toe with each other. One part of me is just really a very happy, genial, accepting person. Hey, you want to celebrate something? I love celebrating! I'm IN! Another equally strong part of me is an introspective, critical thinker type person. Wait a minute. What does this all really mean? And does it mean something to me for real or just because everyone else is making a big hooey about it?

Not only do I have a split personality in that way, I have this split personality thing in another way. Culturally. I was born in the US, but as child of immigrant parents. One part of me is all you better believe I am as American as you! And the other part of me is all this American stuff isn't mine. Not really.

When I was growing up, my family did it up on all the holidays. No one ever overtly told me that Thanksgiving wasn't mine, or Christmas, or St. friggin' Patrick's Day. There was no difference in how we celebrated holidays if you compared our house to any other house in our city. But somehow, the message seeped in. I never really felt ownership of holidays. There was always a part of me that felt like I was just playacting the part of holiday-celebrater. Not all of me, but a part of me. And the thing is, it works both ways. When I go back to the place where my parents were born, those holidays don't seem like they're completely mine either. So I get half of both, but whole of neither.

So. This time of year. The Big Holiday Season. Puts me in a tizzy. How much do I envy the people who just celebrate because they know this holiday-- it's theirs. I look around at my friends and I see a certainty about how they celebrate that I never have felt in my entire life. They all do things a bit different from each other, depending on their religious beliefs, or their family traditions. But they are (well, most of them are) all American. And so they know what they want to do for the holidays, and they just do it. Simple.

Not so at my house. Every year it's the same damn thing. Do I get a tree for Christmas or not? And stockings? And mistletoe? Is Christmas, the way that it's celebrated in this country, mine? Should I do that? Some years I do, some years I don't. The years that I do, I always feel a little bit like a fraud, but at other times I really like it. The years I don't, I am always wistful at the cozy trees that reside in my friends' houses. It's like I am looking in on someone else's house and it's cozy and warm in there, but I can't quite get in. But I also feel good that I'm not feeling that fraudulent feeling. So it's part good and part bad. I just never feel whole. Either way.

The older I get, the more I am trying to make things my own. I feel like that's the only solution that feels ok to me. I do this all the time with other parts of my life. For instance, the way relationships are set up? So many things I hate about that model. So, my relationship with Nordic Boy has to be made our own. Just because the rules don't apply to us doesn't mean I can't participate, you know? So we'll do this whole relationship thing, but on our terms. So I've got to figure out a way to do this with the holidays. For instance. Eating and parties are two things I never have a problem with on any holiday. Those two things are consistently what I find positive about every holiday I can think of. So my December holiday? Has to involve these things. Also, loved ones. Yes to those, please. And giving/getting a little giftie-poo is a nice thing. So check yes on my list for that.

That's the stuff I am sure about. The other stuff? I'm still all mixed up over. Maybe that's what I should be celebrating. Not to get all Coom-Bah-Yah about it, but I'm just all mixed up and that's sort of beautiful in its own way, right?

Or maybe I could saw a tree in two pieces and put up half of it. That would be uniquely me, wouldn't it?

Tell me, what are some holiday things that you do that are just ALL YOU? Things that you do not because it's tradition, not because it's what you're supposed to, but just because you've made the holiday all your own? Go ahead. Inspire me.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Hobby Hob-Nobbery

I've really been jonesing to write a post that is cohesive. Just something with a clear beginning, middle, and end, all on one topic. See how I set the bar really, really low for myself? A clear beginning, middle, and end. What kind of chimp can't do that?

This chimp, that's who. Not today. Just ain't going to happen. Ahh, to set one's sights so, so low and then not be able to follow through. My parents would be so proud.

So, NaBloPoMo doesn't include the holiday weekend, right? Because, like, that's a holiday. See my reasoning there? It all works out perfectly logically in my head.

Hey, as long as we're talking about me sucking at things like cohesive posts and logical thought, you want to know something else I suck at? Listing my interests. Bet you didn't even know that that was a skill. It totally is. You can test your skill by asking yourself this question: so what do you like to do? Find that question easy to answer, and you are an Interests-Lister. If you do what I do, which is say something like "um, I don't know. Sit? I like to sit. Also, I like to walk around." This means you are in my demographic. The interest-listing-challenged.

See, I was getting my hair did the other day, and I was with a new stylist. (The search for a stylist that does not intimidate me with floofy hipster cool, nor beat me to a pulp is still going strong). And this stylist was super perky and chatty. She asked me: "so, what do you like to do?" And me? What did I say? "Uh, I don't know. Lots of stuff."

Lots of stuff. What kind of doofus says that? The stylist then started asking me if I was interested in specific things, and it just so happened that everything that she asked me about was something I don't do.

Her: So, do you like winter sports? Snowboarding, skiing?
Me: No. I have a really deep hatred for cold, so I never really got into that kind of thing.
Her: Oh. How about baseball? You a baseball fan?
Me: No, not really. I've never seen a game.
Her: Oh.
(awkward silence)
Her: You know, Seattle is really great though because it's such a nice looking city that you can just have fun while drinking some coffee and sitting at a cafe.

Look at that. She's trying to be all nice and tell me that it's ok that I don't do ANYTHING and that I can't even list any sort of interests. She's making it ok for me, the Hobby Retard. So kind of her.

I don't want to be the Hobby Retard, really I don't. But I think our society is set up to make all of us feel like, if we're going to claim an interest, we have to be really, really into it. An aside: ha haaaa. Look at me, talking about SOCIETY. What a dork.

For instance, I have a small drawer in my home where I keep some nice paper, and some stickers, and a rubber stamp or two. When I feel like it, I might make a nice homemade card for someone on their birthday. Not every birthday card, but sometimes. To me, this is not enough of a part of my life to make me a "crafter." I don't feel like I can CLAIM that. Who am I, making a card two or three times a year, to list card-making as a full-fledged interest? The same could be said for painting, or writing, or hiking, or traveling, or baking, or yoga. These are all things I may do, here and there, when the mood strikes. I am not dedicated to these things. I may not do them or think about doing them for long periods of time. So are these things really hobbies of mine?

I look out there in the world and I see people really going full throttle on their hobbies and interests. I have a friend who always makes her cards. SHE is a crafter. I have another friend who trains for triathalons. SHE is a runner. I have this other friend, who I made a card for a couple of times, and he still asks me ALL THE TIME, "so how's that card-making going?" This always makes me uncomfortable. What does he mean, how is it going? I know, I know, he's just being nice and trying to make conversation, but still. I hate the thought of being one of those meat-eating vegetarian types, not really doing something but claiming that I do. Just doesn't sit well with me.

Part of me thinks that this whole unsettled feeling I get around hobbies and whether I can claim them may just boil down to a question of stuff. It seems a big part of hobby-ing in our society (there I go again) has to do with the stuff that you accumulate to do it. I don't have enough knitting stuff to really be a knitter. I don't go to yarn stores and salivate over the merch. I don't have enough painting stuff to really be a painter- in fact, I have three or four canvases that I just paint over and over again each time I want to paint. When I exercise, I don't have special shoes, or outfits, or journals where I keep track of the times I go or how I did or what goals I have.

So what does that leave me with at parties when someone asks me what I like to do? I'm not sure. Maybe I should just try and be honest about the things I am dedicated to. The things I do think a lot about and have to do because I love them so much? Who says hobbies have to be things like knitting or photography?

Here is my new and improved list of my hobbies/interests: listening to people tell good stories either in person or via books, tv, movies, music or blogs; having a good meal whether I cooked it, you cooked it, or someone else cooked it; being observant about my surroundings; laughing; hearing something new; silent reflection; non-silent reflection; general thinky-ness; being around kind people; creating or looking at art or design; getting a good night's sleep.

I'm going to try and bust this approach out the next time I'm at a party and someone asks me what I like to do. It may take me out of the Hobby-Challenged demographic and into the Weird-Lady demographic. But let's face it, I'm probably in that demographic already anyway.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Thanksgiving Giblets

I know. Giblets are disgusting. But it sounds cuter than "disjointed moments from yesterday."

10am
Roll out of bed. Slowly.

11am
Nordic Boy goes to the hippy dippy granola cafe down the street to get us some bagels. The place is notorious for the slowest service around (the staff are all hanging loose, dude) but the baked goods are tasty. Nordic Boy comes back after an entire hour of waiting in the slowest line known to man.
Nordic Boy: The service is so bad in there. No one seems to know what they're doing. But, it's Thanksgiving, so I just kept saying to myself, over and over: I'm thankful to the hippies for teaching me patience, I'm thankful for the hippies for teaching me patience.
Me: I'm am so digging that, dude.
Nordic Boy: Yeah, it was far out.
Me: Live in The Now, you know?
Nordic Boy: Totally.

2pm.
Me: I'm going to take a shower and then figure out what to wear.
Nordic Boy: Wear something comfortable. For all the eating.
Me: You mean, it's not going to be Spanx-giving for me today?
Hardy har. I makee the jokee.

3pm
We set the table and then I decide to make placecards from a Martha Stewart article I found online. Then I notice that the directions say the process will take me three hours. Who the hell is making three-hour placecards? I ditched Martha and made my own design. Piss off, Martha.

4pm
Neighbor J, B, and H arrive as does Delium and Jennifer. Wine is uncorked and ceremoniously poured into water glasses. I have no interest whatsoever in owning wine glasses, so our guests have to swill from tumblers. Classy.

4:15
Jennifer (to Nordic Boy as he whips up the gravy): So, are you the cook in this house?
Nordic Boy: Oh no. It's 50-50, pretty much. Evenly split. Yeah, LG helps out all the time.
Total. Bald-faced. Lie.

4pm-7pm
Little Hannah makes her cute, happy, creaky door noises and thoroughly entertains us all.

4pm-7pm
Topics of conversation cover everyone's interests. Neighbor J tells us about fonts and how everyone has a font that is "so them." She reveals that Nordic Boy and I are "so Futura." Of course, then everyone wants their font-fortune told. Neighbor B tells us about voice command software developing and we all do our best impressions of voice command robot voices, while saying totally inappropriate things that voice command robots would never say. Delium tells us about zombie movies and the best way to avoid getting one's brain eaten, which will totally come in handy for some of us some day. Nordic Boy tells us about U-values, and as usual, psyches everyone up to do home improving. I swear if there was such a career as "home improvement motivational speaker," Nordic Boy would make a hundred jillion dollars at it. When he preaches the gospel of energy efficiency, people start to say amen and get out of their seats to start home improving.

7pm
This story is revisited and everyone's gut is busted all over again.

7pm-11pm
Pie and ice cream is consumed, games are played, stories are told, love is felt.

Midnight
Back to bed as frost sparkles on the windows, my throat aching from the belly laughs. The full, full belly laughs.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Post Thanksgiving Neurosis

After dinner is over and guests have gone, we have this little chat.

Me: So...what are we having for dinner tomorrow?
Nordic Boy: Why are you even thinking about that?
Me: We shopped and prepared so much for today that I don't think we have anything left to eat tomorrow.
Nordic Boy: I don't know. We'll figure it out tomorrow.
Me: Whatever we have, it's got to have more veggies. As much as I love Thanksgiving food, my body doesn't feel right if I don't eat a lot of veggies. Corn and green beans weren't enough for me tonight. I'm all full of starch. Ugh.
Nordic Boy: Ok, so we'll go back to lots of veggies. TOMORROW. Why are we talking about it now? Are you worried you're going to get scurvy from one starchy meal?
Me: No. Unless your body can feel temporarily scurvish. Then yes.
Nordic Boy: Oh my god.
Me: I'm shutting up now.

A Gratitude Attitude

I am going to start off today by saying something totally nauseating. Ready?

I avoid making, writing, or saying out loud any sort of "I am thankful for" lists, not because I am a grumpypants who is dead inside and can't come up with anything to say, and not because it is kind of a sappy thing to do, but because I have so much to be thankful for, from the really, really big stuff to the day-to-day minutae, that a list seems so inadequate that I just don't even start.

Are you barfing now? Just a little? More than a little? I'll wait until you're done. Go ahead. Hold your hair back and let thy cookies tosseth.

Despite the barfy nature of what I just said, I decided that today, I am going to attempt such a list. I'm not going to think about it, I am just going to start typing and let the thankfulness flow, no matter how disorganized and jumbled it all comes out and no matter what kind of goofy things I may reveal about my thanky feelings. I'm just going to blah blah blah and then click publish. Ok, so this is normally what I do anyway so maybe it's not so different except for the gratidudinal nature of the blah blah blah. You got me. But I'm still doing it. Here goes.

I'm thankful for heat. Heat in my house, heat in buildings, hot water heaters. What the hell did people do before heated houses? I don't want any part of that shit. Heat. Yes. Hallelujah.

On a related note, I am thankful for leggings that can be used in place of long unnerwears. It's just more attractive. And warm. So far I only seem to be thankful for heat-related objects but I promise to diversify from this topic now. Just know that I am also grateful for sunlight and hot chocolate and steam and gloves and warm beach sand and slippers and blankets. Heat is good.

I'm thankful for thank yous. When you're in my line of work, the thankful phrase, the look of gratitude, the sigh of relief that you've helped someone out and treated them with respect can lift me right off the ground.

I'm thankful for phones, email, video-conferencing, snail mail, and texting. I know lots of people think that we're overburdened by this stuff, and I totally get that, but I live far away from many of my loved ones and all of these things make us all seem so much closer. Now if we could just invent that transporter...

I'm thankful for Tivo. Shut up. I just am.

I'm thankful that I live in a city that still has recognizable seasons but is not buried in snow for 6 months out of the year. Oh shit, I veered right back into being thankful for heat-related topics again. Sorry. Heat is a big factor in my life.

I am thankful for my pals Allison and Map, who almost kill me with laughter every time I see them and have loved me unconditionally for my whole entire life, even through my Bananarama outfits, blue mascara, and every embarrassing crush I have ever had.

I am thankful to be kissed awake every morning.

I am thankful for colors. Aren't colors awesome? They're so goddamn colorful.

I am thankful for parents who modeled so many great things for me, including laughing hard and listening well.

I am grateful for the movie Xanadu.

I am grateful for this innate ability I have, which I don't quite know how I got, to get the hell away from draining, exhausting people. I just slice them right out, and I am so glad I know how.

I'm thankful for Biology Girl, who I can say anything to, from my shopping lists to my nonsensical musings on imaginary people to any secret that I have in my stash to big, heavy, teary talks and she is always interested. That girl will talk to me about paint drying if I wanted to.

I'm thankful that I never had really big, tall 80s bangs.

I'm thankful that I know what it's like to be poor, lonely and sad. I'm even more thankful that I'm no longer any of these things.

I'm thankful I can speak the language my ancestors spoke.

I'm thankful that my years as a dancer didn't leave me with ugly feet.

I'm thankful for Nordic Boy, a stand-up guy, all salt of the earth and stuff, who has never been mad at me for one second or even slightly perturbed by me no matter what kind of shit I pull and who cracks me up and dances with me and cooks me up dinners and is so frickin' consistent about everything it's crazy and who is by far the smartest person I know and who looks at me all moony and also is totally sultry. I know. He sounds too good to be true. But he is. So, so true.

I am thankful for kind people, in all situations and places.

I am thankful for the word succubus.

I am thankful that places like Ace Hardware and Ikea play cheesy oldies so that I can relive my youth. Where else would I hear "Don't wanna lose you now" by Gloria Estefan, which is a song we had to sing in choir back in the day?

I am thankful for my pal Neighbor J, who writes bad poetry with me that makes us cry with laughing and is the only person I know who can keep up with me in clothes-shopping and who feels like a family member in the best possible way.

I'm thankful I have nice hair that covers the fact that I have a small head under it all.

I told you this list would go on and on if I started. I feel like I am just getting warmed up but I will spare your having to hear any more since I already made you feel barfy once and no blog post should have multiple pukey points.

So, to wrap this all up, I am thankful that I am me. I like that I know who I am and that I don't quite fit in with anyone but in that misfittery I manage to fit in with everyone, and that I have a super genial disposition wherein I don't get mad a lot and that I'm from where I'm from and I know who I know and that I take care of my body and myself first before I take care of anyone else and I don't ever feel guilty about that and that I write people snail mail letters and cards and that I always make room in my life for the people that I like and that I rock the librarian gig on the daily and that I don't have any room in my heart for bitterness which makes my life sweet sweet sweet.

And also? I'm thankful for you guys. I love reading what you have to say and you're all so ridiculously kind in your emails and comments. Blog friends are real friends, one of you said to me a while ago. Thanks for that.

Now let's stop all this gratitude and go do what this holiday is really all about. Eating until we pop out of our pants.

Happy Thanksgiving, homies.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Food Mood

With Thanksgiving coming up, let's talk about food, shall we?

Things I Believe About Food
(Caveat: I know some of this is totally irrational. But if you wanted rationality, you wouldn't be reading this blog right? This is the blog where I talk about my Celine Dion nightmares and argue about the difference between pajamas and leisure pants, after all.) So here we go.

1. I grew up in a house where I seldom ate the same thing for dinner twice in a row, ever. It was all about variety in our house. To this day, eating the same food twice in a row (pizza? AGAIN???) seems wrong to me. I am always amazed at people who can make a huge batch of something and eat it all week. I am a very non-monogamous eater.

2. Oh, you know what? BioGirl has a friend who knows Doris Day. IN PERSON. FOR REAL. I adore Doris Day so being two degrees of separation away from her is more than I can BEAR. This totally has nothing to do with food but I just thought about it and it was so thrilling that I had to tell you. Ok. Moving on.

3. Processed, packaged food was doled out very sporadically in my childhood house. This has had some strange repercussions. Like, the only time we ever had pop in the house was when we were sick (7-Up for a yucky tummy) or on holidays. My parents would serve us Faygo Red-pop (that reference is for all you Michiganders out there) in wine glasses to make us feel all grown up on Thanksgiving and birthdays. And we could have a Coke when we went out to this Chinese restaurant in our town, which was like, maybe twice a year. Even now, I like Coke with Chinese food but hardly ever any other time, and I think of red soda as a Very Fancy Beverage, akin to a nice Merlot.

4. The lack of packaged food also had the result of me coveting certain things as if they were gold in my youth. I had an aunt that didn't have anything against packaged food and I would go to her house and gorge myself on frozen pizza and Keebler Fudgestripes until I was blue in the face. It was awesome and felt so SPECIAL. To this day, sometimes I walk by Funyons in the grocery store and stop and go "wow! Funyons! Can we have that??" Who am I asking permission from? I am an adult, I can bring some goddamn Funyons into my house if I want to. But I hardly ever buy them. It seems too special for just me. Funyons are like, food for company.

5. We were a very sit-down-together family when it came to eating. I still do this and have never, not once, EVER, eaten food standing over a sink. In fact, I find it hard to believe that people actually do that. I half-convince myself that this is just something that people SAY they do, like go to the gym every day or bake their own bread in the morning or something, but that no one really, truly does it. I know I am wrong about that, but I can't help myself from doubting.

6. I miss Blue Moon ice cream so bad sometimes that I think about planning a trip back to Michigan just so I can have some. Does anyone out there know about Blue Moon ice cream? If you do, can you please describe the taste for me so I can explain it to Nordic Boy? Thanks.

7. I don't know if I could live if I couldn't have hot, spicy food. It's like an addiction. Certain foods just don't taste right unless they are burning the skin right off of your skull. You know what I mean? The kind of hot that is so good that while you're eating it, you're all "whoo!" like Cher? Come to think of it, maybe that's why she was always "whoo"-ing and sticking her tongue out like that. Maybe she had a mouthful of Tabasco or something. Whoo!

8. I was always a kid who brought lunch to school, and never bought lunch. I was always jealous of the buyers. When I think back to the nasty food that I was so frickin' jealous of, I want to smack my former self across the back of my head. I mean, the rectangle pizza with that kibble meat on top? What was the story with that? And the taco meat that seeped orange oil? Gah.

9. When I was growing up, we had tea time in my house every day after school. Sometimes my mom would make these crepe things that were basically like little pancakes that you put jam on. Tea and snacks. It rocked and I miss that.

10. I believe that Necco wafers are an evil plot to try and get kids to eat chalk. Who, you might ask, would want kids to eat chalk? And for what purpose? Don't bother me with details, people. The Necco company is chalking our children!

11. When I was in high school, I thought the Olive Garden was WAY FANCY.

12. I shop at small markets. I went into a large chain grocery store over the weekend (I couldn't find fried crispy onions for the top of my green bean casserole any where else) and I almost cried with the magnitude of it all. 8 million aisles! Surgery-bright lights! Aisles the size of, well, something huge! Where the fuck is everything? How many types of cereal can the world POSSIBLY NEED? Aaaaahhhhh!

I'm out,
Librarian Girl