confuseybaby

There's this shopping center in my town. It's pretty standard in that there's a Gap store and a Barnes and Noble and you can't spit without hitting a Starbucks (seriously, enough with the Starbucks, you crazy coffee drinkers), but there are a few little local independent shops there too, which is much groovier. A few months ago, a new store opened up. The storefront was pretty tiny, and the window had a display of little colored votive candle holders. All different colors. Pretty. I thought it was probably a candle/incense type store, like Illuminations. Or maybe a little home decor store. Something like that.

The next time I went to that shopping center, (which was weeks after the first time), I walked by there, and the window display was pretty much the same. Votive candle holders. Arranged a little differently than the first time, but still.

Then, I went in. And you know what? That store is ALL votive candle holders. That's it. Nothing else. Rows and rows of the SAME THING. No different sizes, even. No different shapes. Just different colors. THAT'S IT.

I walked around the store, peering around the corners. What else is there? I wanted to ask. You can't have a whole store full of just glass votive candle holders. That's nuts. That's like having a whole entire store of just Ticonderoga No. 2 pencils. Or something. You have got to have something else. A tapered candle holder maybe? Or a tealight candle holder? A different size? Anything?

Nope. Nothing. Just votive candle holders. All exactly the same. In any color you want them. And you know how much each of them costs?

Forty bucks.

FORTY FRICKIN' BUCKS.

Some of them are fifty bucks, although I couldn't tell why the extra ten dollars on the same exact votive candle holder. Are some colors ritzier?

Lookit, I am not trying to hate. This is an independently owned, local business, and the people who make these things make them by hand. These are all things that I love. Things I want to support. These are precisely the reasons that I am dangerously addicted to the Etsy website.

But really? Does this sound weird to anyone else?

First of all, how is this business even sustainable? How many forty-dollar votive candle holders is one person really going to buy? And how many people are going to drop a Benjamin on a pair of these puppies? A Benjamin! A whole Benjamin!

Apparently a lot of people. Because I looked it up (librarian!) and these things have got lots of media attention. They were featured on Martha Stewart. And many other places. There is hella hype about the votive candle holders. People love these things. And are buying them.

Another thing? They are not votive candle holders. They are "glassybaby." That, according to the website, is both the singular and the plural title of what these things are. So, you can buy one glassybaby. Or you can buy ten glassybaby (goodbye four hundred smackers). That's what they are. Don't call them candle holders.

I'm sorry that I am going on and on about this but isn't it FASCINATING?

Also! In the store, they had a display. The display was like, all these candle holders (or glassybaby, but I feel like a dumbass calling them that) doing different things. Like, one of them had a candle in it. Duh. Another one had a couple of pencils in it. Another one had some jewelry in it. Another one had some pennies in it. It was as if the person who put together the display was saying "look! So innovative! You can use it as a pencil cup! And a candle holder! And a change jar! And a place to keep your jewelry!"

Come ON. Glassybaby cannot possibly be saying that they invented the idea that a cup is something you use to PUT THINGS IN. Are people really not smart enough to know that a cup can be used in such a manner?

Again, I don't mean to hate. The website looks very lovely and I am sure the person who owns this is very nice indeed. And so I mean this in the nicest way possible:

That shit is WEIRD.

Am I wrong?

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Scary Children

I don't know what is wrong with me but I can never type in my passwords right. I have various passwords and they are all different, but for some reason I always have to type them in twice because the first time I always get a tremor (of excitement? fear? rage?) or something. Does this happen to anyone else? Just with passwords? Usually my typing is pretty good, even though I never took "keyboarding" in high school. Do they still teach that in high school? It seems really old school, that whole idea. Especially when I am in the library and seeing little elementary school kids typing up a storm with their teeny tiny fingers like they are scary robot children. If you ever wanted to play a practical joke on me, send a little kid into the library and have them type really fast while saying "beep boop beep" or some such, with a glassy Kardashian stare. I will freak out, maybe noticeabley, if you're lucky.

I am so helpful, giving you advice like that.

So I was going to try and post a photo essay yesterday to join in on Photo Essay Tuesday, but I just can't be bogged down with scheduling my posts like that. It's a wonder I can get into my blog at all (it's password protected you see) and spewing forth such tasty golden blog niblets such as hey-I-can't-type-my-password-it-is-so-riveting is just about all I can do.

So it's not Tuesday. And I don't have any new photos to share. (Does Photo Essay Tuesday have to be current photos? I don't get the rules). But it is Thursday! And I have totally out of date photos! How's that?

Check this out.



This photo is awesome for one reason. That reason is that it was taken MOMENTS before all hell broke loose. I am talking seconds. Can you feel the tension?

First of all, the players. That's me in the green t-shirt there. I would say I was about three. Even so, I remember this moment like it was yesterday because I am an idiot-savant (heavy on the idiot) when it comes to childhood memories, as you well know. The girl right next to me that looks like she is about to explode with wrath was named Seema. The other girl was named Deepa. I think they were sisters, although I am not sure about that. I don't remember the boy's name. We were in Seema/Deepa's house in Fiji. My family was there for the summer and their parents were friends of my parents.

When you're a little tiny kid in Fiji, and your parents take you to someone's house, you are thrown into the middle of whatever little kid gang that household has. It doesn't matter if you have never seen those kids before in your life, you are told to "go play" and the grownups leave you to go about your business, pretty much unattended. Even if the house that you are visiting doesn't have kids, there are inevitabley some kids somewhere in the neighborhood, and those kids will have heard through the village grapevine that new playmate meat has arrived, and they will show up and you are expected to run off and play with them. Saying no thanks is not an option.

Most of the time I was ok with this arrangement, as any chance I had to get away from my brothers who were just looking for ways to terrorize me was fine with me. But this time? I was kind of leery of Seema and Deepa. They seemed...off. Look at that photo. Look at the fear in my eyes. "Hey photo-taker," I am thinking, "I am trying to act nonchalant but on my signal let's you and me get out of here before these two go apeshit and wipe the floor with me."

Photo taker (who must have been my mom or dad) was not picking up what I was putting down. They turned around and left the room. And as soon as they did? THOSE FUCKERS WENT NUTS. I distinctly remember that Deepa wanted the ribbon out of my hair. And when I said I didn't know how to untie it, she started to beat the crap out of me.

You think that's bad? Well Seema wanted a piece of the action too, and unlucky for me, Seema was a BITER. She bit my face! MY FACE, people. Like Hannibal Lechter. I don't remember yelling anything out, but in my imagination when I remember it, I picture myself saying something like "NOT THE FACE! NOT THE FACE!"

Little kid violence, people. What is up with that?? It's right there, under the surface. Next time someone tries to tell you about the innocence of children, feel free to refer them to this oh-so-cute photo and tell them about my face being the main course in this buffet of pain.

Apparently (although I don't remember this part), I broke free of this peewee melee and ran off to find the grownups. "Sanctuary!" I yelled at them. Ok, no I didn't, but that's only because I didn't know that word back then.

When my parents tell this story (which always comes up when this photo is seen by anyone in my family), they always talk about how I came tearing into the room screaming "Deepa hit me and Seema bit me! Deepa hit me and Seema bit me!" and this makes both my parents, usually the dearest, sweetest, most gentle parents anyone could ask for, almost cry with laughter. "It was like a siren! A rhyming siren! A siren POEM!" they laugh.

I admit I find this ridiculously funny too. Which is kind of messed up.

But that photo! I can't help it. It's funny.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Hall of Shame

Can I just tell you that my co-worker has crowned me with the nickname The Queen of Calm? I love it! The Queen of Calm. You all may find that hard to believe as I am kind of spazzy in my writings here, but in person I am way tranquil. Really. Why am I getting the feeling that you don't believe me? I am calm. I AM CALM, GODDAMMIT.

Anyway. I just like the nickname. And I really am calm a lot of the time plus it's better than being the Queen of Ridonkulous, which would also be quite valid.

Still though, I am having a hard time thinking about something to blog about, other than the fact that my ovaries are a buncha assholes (hi Blue Soup, I know you feel me on that), so let's talk about me doing something stupid, how about that? I know, I know, there is no END to these stories. And believe me, what I have told you about so far? Tip o' the iceberg, laddies.

I got a little Irish there. Didja notice? See, the stupid just keeps on coming.

A long time ago, like many years ago, before becoming a librarian was a twinkle in my eye, I worked at an urban college that was pretty small. Small enough to where it kind of reminded me of high school, except unlike my high school, people actually did their homework, were engaged with academia, and didn't hit each other on the back of the neck and yell out "neck respect!" when they wanted to really burn someone. Since I was on staff at this school I got to take classes there. One class I took was a philosophy class and it was taught by a very nice, very smart, very kind professor. Let's call him Frances Bacon. Frances and I bonded a little bit, as I was really geeked out by philosophy at the time and he was quite young as professors go and so we felt maybe a little bit like contemporaries and we would do things like have these long conversations in the hallway about riveting things like whether or not one could find principles of Wittgenstein in the movie RoboCop (I am not kidding, we really talked about that once).

I have to insert here that there were no (as far as I am aware) amorous tingly feelings emanating from either of us and although we were friendly and talking about very sexy things like RoboCop there was nothing at all torrid about our interactions. He was just nice. A little awkward and shy, but I think we would have become outside-of-school friends eventually. If only I hadn't effed it all to shite.

The road to ruin began when my friend Palindrome came to visit me from the Midwest. I took her to school with me and she sat in on my Philosophy class. Or maybe she just was walking around campus with me and I pointed Frances out to her and told her that I thought he was cool. Something like that. The important thing to note was that Palindrome was single at the time and she thought Frances was cute, which yes, he totally was. Too bad she was leaving to go back home in the next couple of days or I am sure they would have made beautiful philosophy together.

Palindrome went home. This was also a time in my life where she and I emailed each other constantly. Like once a day for sure. And most of those emails were nonsensical inside jokes that meant nothing to anyone but us. One of the running jokes? She started to ask about Frances. She would say things like "How is my future boyfriend Frances? Do you think he noticed me? He would totally be hot in bed, you can just tell with those cute geeky types." To which I would reply "Oh totally. He would make your glasses steam up for sure. But he would probably want to talk dirty about attributes and modes while you were doing it though."

Of course as the semesters went by, the joke continued, and we made up dirtier and dirtier scenarios about Frances, always with some weird philosophical punchline involved. Of course. That's just how I be. This all culminated in one email where I wrote a dirty poem about Frances. And my friend. And maybe Kant too. You getting the picture?

I thought my poem was so genious, that I printed it out that afternoon to take it home and show my other friend.

You probably know how this story is going to end, but I'll go ahead and end it anyway. Just so you can be extra impressed with my idiocy.

On my way out that night, I walked by Frances' office. I happened to remember that I had an article that maybe he would be interested in. Hey! I'll just slip that article I have here, in my hand, under his door. Because I am so nice. And so thoughtful.

I slipped the article under his door, went home, looked through my stuff, and COULDN'T FIND MY POEM.

That's weird. Where's my poem? I printed it out all specifical so as to make all my friends laugh with me.

You guessed her, Chester. My poem? Was lying there, in the dark, on the floor of Frances' office. The article that I meant to slide under the door? In my bag.

Poor Frances. To imagine what it must have been like, to arrive at his office the next morning, see the paper on the floor, pick it up, SEE MY NAME ON THE TOP, and then read the poem. Sometimes I lie awake at night and think about that. You know, when I'm in the mood to die of shame.

Frances never really talked to me again after that. I was at a party once where he was, and I distinctly saw him look at me, do an aboutface and then march away almost in a sprint. What could I do? I just had to eat it.

Maybe I should be the Queen of Ridonkulous after all.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Flintoids Forever

When I was growing up in Flint, Michigan, that is the only Flint-centric thing I remember anyone saying. Flintoids Forever! People who are from Flint tend to have a weirdly strong loyalty to it, myself included. But to be honest, it's not the easiest place to have a pride-filled slogan about. What are we supposed to say? Flint! It's where Bob Eubanks was spawned! Or how about Flint: we make cars, or we used to, anyway! Or how about Flint, remember when we had that awesome sit-down strike?

There are people out there trying their best to come up with something better.

There are those that celebrate...our area code.

Hey, why not? It's a DAMN FINE area code!

There are those that celebrate...our population!

This one makes me strangely nostalgic for some reason.

There are those that celebrate...the fact that we live in a place shaped like an appendage!

It's us and Italy, yo. Do people from Italy point at their legs to show where they live?

But a lot of them? Are like this.


Or like this...



And my personal favorite.

I so totally need this one. It's SO ME.

Flintoids Forever!

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Her Brown Eyes Were Still Brown

On the phone...

Me: Did you get your hairdid today?
BioGirl: Yeah. She blew out my hair straight.
Me: Cool.
BioGirl: I mean, it is straight. Super straight. Like, Crystal Gayle straight.

I'll take awesomely outdated references for $500, Alex.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Photos Galore

"Cheddar Cheeses and Ocean Breezes..." --Caption of a flyer advertising the Oregon Coast, which does indeed offer up the heady mixture of Pacific Ocean waves and dairy farms.

Some photos.


Loading up the car in the city with all the essentials. (Beachy clothes, lots of tunes, and Smart Puffs).

After lunching in Portland, we stop off at the Tillamook Dairy...


where you can watch the cheese being made as if on Mister Rogers' Picture Picture.


And enjoy fresh ice cream in an extremely scenic parking lot.

Add in some random pit stops where we wander around small towns on the way...


which totally pays off when we find something called "Dave's Beaver Service."


and we all run over to it to take pictures and giggle in a very mature way and then postulate theories on what services exactly Dave would be able to provide, especially with that big squeegee on the sign there.


Arrive with trepidation at the beach house that I was totally responsible for reserving and then breathe a sigh of relief when it isn't a shithole that my friends will kick my ass for getting...



And when you step outside the door, it looks batshit beautiful.


And once you walk over the dune, you just want to run around all Chariots of Fire style.


And there's a big effing rock in the ocean just giving you the finger each morning.


Here's Neighbor B (still a bit sleep deprived), Baby Neighbor (the sleep depriverer), and that's BioGirl on the side there, who by the looks of it, has been lasagna deprived.



While BioGirl and Neighbor J knitted, read and laptopped...


Nordic Boy and I spent our time doing much more important things...




We played a lot of pool too.

We also were outside a bunch, where we saw things like this come right out of the misty sea like a Decemberists song.



During low tide, the intertidals made us all walk with our heads to the ground...


where things are super sparkly...


and--what a coincidence!- we have a marine biologist in our midst to tell us what the hell we are looking at.





Anemones!


Starfish!


Mussel mania!


To be continued...

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

POW!

I haven't been sleeping well lately, my friends. My Friendias.

I feel I have to explain that last thing I said there. In the Lord of the Rings movies, sometimes the characters call the wizard characters "mythrandia." Isn't that the most deliciously geeked out word you have ever heard? Doesn't it make you want to dress up in plastic chain mail and go to the park and act out the Battle of Gethredion in front of the soccer moms who are walking by? I have no idea what mythrandia means. Still, I love it. There is something about not knowing what a word really means that makes you want to apply it to everything. So, sometimes, Nordic Boy and I will feign an Ian McKellan voice and say things like "Come and eat your dinner, MYTHRANDIA." Hopefully it doesn't mean Dickweed in Elvish or Hobbitish or Gandalfish or something. And sometimes, just to be kinder and gentler sounding, we change it up and say My Friendia. Like, when we watch the news and say things like, "The world is so jacked up, My Friendia."

Anyway. Did I mention that I haven't been sleeping well? I'm going to blame that last paragraph on sleep deprivation. In fact, I am going to blame this whole blog on sleep deprivation.

Let's begin again. I have an announcement to make. Starting tomorrow, I am going on vacation. First, tomorrow, I shall run amok in my very own city. Then on Saturday, I am taking a road trip to the beaches of Oregon. And I VOW TO YOU that I am going to take photos. And post. Maybe daily. Dare I say daily? YES, I shall say it. POW!

Hey, here's a disjointed thought, but when I said POW! it made me think of it. This will especially mean something to you if you grew up in the greater Detroit area in the 80s or 90s. And who out there reading this did that? Two people. (Hi Allison and Map). Back in the days of Commodore Vic-20s and Atari, there was this "video game" that would come on TV in the afterschool hours. It was called "TV POW." On the screen, there were a couple of digital guns, and aliens or something would float down the screen, kind of like Space Invaders. Get this. You could call in to the tv station and play the video game over the phone. So you dialed in, and when it was your turn, the way that you would make the guns shoot is by saying the word "pow!" When you said "pow!" a gun would fire.

I don't want to hear none of ya'll talk about Old Skool. Because THAT is paleozoic, dig?

Basically, what kids would do is call in, and when it was their turn to go, they would just take a really deep breath, Pavoratti style, and let out one loud, incredibly long, uninterrupted string of pows with no space in between.

"powpowpowpowpowpowpowpowpowpowpowpowpowpowpow..."

This was a SHOW. And we would watch it. My brother and I. And we never called in, but we always talked about doing so and how funny it would be to say something completely inappropriate on tv. It was, like, our big dream. To go on TV Pow and say "shitcakes!" or something like that.

That really makes me miss my brother. Is that weird?

I need a nap.


My brother and I, still rockin'. POW!

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Pull THIS

You know what I love about summer? EVERYTHING.

This weekend was awesome. After work on Friday (wherein I cut my 62-item to-do list down to 32 items...BOOYAH) I went straight out to dinner with my friends L and R. Not only that, but I coaxed Nordic Boy off of the roof to actually attend with me. It was quite the event, as he hasn't been off the roof for like, a month. (Well, he goes to work and he sleeps in the house, but other than that). It is like he is a reclusive celebrity these days. He doesn't show up to normal things, unless he decides to put in an appearance. Some people have started to refer to him as my imaginary gentleman friend. But Friday he came out! In public! He IS real, he IS!

After dinner, we went for a walk, and then the pull of the roof was too much. He had to go back, like a moth to a flame.


He'll be in his office.

So he dropped me off at Hopscotch's house where I whiled away the nighttime hours in a deliciously summery way. By this I mean that I sat outside, with no coat and was NOT COLD. For someone like me, who is cold a good 90% of my life, being able to sit outside in the nighttime air and feel perfectly comfortable is so delicious I could almost make myself cry over it.

Not really, but I was looking to make it sound as dramatic as possible so I thought I would talk about waterworks.

So, we sat outside and told funny/embarrassing stories (and I will have you know that two of my adorable friends have stories where they have lost their underwear in public places which to me sounds like a high ratio of people that I know who have done that) until the wee hours and it was summery and delicious. My friends are currently obsessed with cornhole, which they claim to be a Midwest past time, but as a bonafide Midwesterner I must say that I had never heard of this. Any Midwesterners reading this care to chime in?

I don't know why I am fiddle-faddling about when the big news is all about Saturday. Saturday, my friends, I went to a Plane Pull Race. This, in case you didn't know, is where teams of people line up and pull a gigantic plane and whoever goes the fastest, wins. How awesome is that? And you know what else? I TOOK PHOTOS.

First of all, Biology Girl and I drove down to Boeing Field, where the plane pulling was to happen. This is a good place to have it since, you know, it's an air field and so they have planes there. Good thinking, plane pullers. The whole thing was a fundraiser for the King County chapter of Big Brothers and Big Sisters. Delium is a Big Brother to Little T and so a-plane-pulling he went.

Before the teams started, they had this one dude attempt to pull the plane BY HISSELF to break a world record. It was cree-azy. He put this harness on, grabbed the rope, and just pulled this plane around. How is this something that a person ends up doing with their life?

Then, it was time for the teams to start. The first team (20 people per team) went out there and they were the biggest, butchest motherflippers you have ever seen. Like, they had big necks and Popeye arms and stuff. And they did a lot of fist pumping in the air and WWE type noises. I was kind of scared of them. It took them two tries but they pulled the plane.

Next up was Delium's team. His team was not American Gladiator-esque. They were the normal looking dudes team.


Look at them all normal dude-ish. That's Little T in the front there.

They went out there, and you know what? They pulled that plane on the first try! No growling or fist pumps needed. It was quite exciting.


Contain yourself.

Here's the kicker. As Delium's team was lining up, I noticed something. One of the dudes on his team? Was JASON from the Bachelorette. So, all that time that was SUCKED out of my life watching that goddamn waste of a show and then hating myself for watching it afterwards TOTALLY PAID OFF. Because had I not watched it, I wouldn't have recognized Jason. And had I not recognized Jason, I couldn't have said "THAT'S JASON FROM THE BACHELORETTE!" all loud and crass like the uncouth social vagrant that I am. I may have even pointed at him. And taken a photo.


And we probably stared at him too.

So then, after that, BioGirl and I walked around the air field, where they had historic planes and cars on display for some reason. And one car (marked "Sheriff Car") had this weird thing about it.


Hmmm. There's something on the hood there.


Can someone please explain this one to me? Because what the hell?

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Ten Friday Things

Random pre-weekend thoughts.

By Librarian Girl.

Ahem.

1. I had a to-do list today that was fricking NUTSO. It had 62 items on it. All with deadlines. It shook me right in my gizzard.

2. When I was at work, there was this patron who was being a little flirty. Nothing offensive or anything, very harmless. He asked me to re-fill the copier paper for him (hello graduate school! look what I am doing with my life!), and I had to pull out this ream of paper. I guess I wasn't particularly dainty when tearing off the outer covering of the ream. I just tore it off with both hands. So he goes (I think, trying to be funny) "I love the way you just TEAR THAT OFF." Then he tried to laugh, and then he was embarrassed, and stopped laughing abruptly, and then I was embarrassed for him. Um, awkward. We didn't make eye contact after that.

3. If anyone out there gives a rat's ass about So You Think You Can Dance, can I just tell you that last night's episode broke my heart? Damn voters. What are you, BLIND? There had to be a hanging chad mishap somewhere, I just know it.

4. I have been reading nothing but crap lately. Some of it good, cotton candy crap, and some of it just stankface crap. I am going on vacation next week and so I asked my most book-learniest pals to recommend me something MINDBOGGLINGLY good. And then I ordered all of it from my library. Now I have a delicious pile of friends-with-good-taste-approved books waiting to be snarfed down. Munch, munch, munch!

5. Biology Girl called me today just to confess that she was wearing socks with mules. In the privacy of her office only (she had to protect her feet from some sort of sciency chemicals that are used in her lab which sounds awfully sinister for marine biology if you ask me). I didn't know what to say. It was like I should have assigned her some Hail Marys or something, but I'm not really qualified to do that.

6. I have an action-packed weekend coming up! And like a bad boyfriend who keeps promising you more romance, I am saying once again that I WILL TAKE PHOTOS! Really. I will. I've changed. Take me back. I mean it this time.

7. This week, on Project Runway, how awesome was it when that one contestant who looks like a forty-year-old Emily the Strange said that being sent home makes her "the biggest jackass of the nation"? It is, hands down, the quote of the week. If I had such a thing as a quote of the week.

8. Has anyone seen the short film "Green Porno" with Isabella Rossellini in it? YOU MUST SEE IT. That shit is trippy. She dresses up like different bugs and acts out the life cycle of said bugs. She pantomimes bug sex of all types. I watched the whole thing with my mouth hanging open. Whatever that illustrates.

9. I woke up at 4am this morning (have I ever told you that I am what is called a "troubled sleeper"? Oh yes. I am troubled.) and Nordic Boy half-woke-up, looked at me and said to himself "yep. still sweet" and then went back to sleep. Do you think he was talking about me? What happens on the day he wakes up and looks at me and says "nope. gone bad"? What THEN?

10. My new thing that I love to say? "THE END." Said like Alfalfa from the Little Rascals. Four syllables. Thuh-ee Ay-und! Nordic Boy and I say it for everything. Instead of goodnight, we say it. After dinner, we say it. We had a few friends over to watch Project Runway this week, and when they all walked out the door at the end of the night, we yelled it. It's so mature. Indeed.

You know what I have to say about my work week?

THUH-EE AY-UND

Oh, and this.



I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Mr. Mom

Hey, you know what I forgot to mention to you? Nordic Boy and I, we have a baby.

What? Surprised?

Yeah, me too. I totally did not sign up for this.

Ok, so it's not a human baby, fruit of our loins, birthed from inside one of us like in that movie, Alien.

(Do you like how I said "birthed from inside one of us"? Like, if there was any birthing happening, there would be a chance in hell that I would be able to say "not it!" and get out of it? This is only one of the many ways that I live in my own private Idaho where things are set up exactly how I want them).

Our baby, I am surprised to discover, is our house. And Nordic Boy is one dedicated effer of a parent.

I should have seen the signs.

Sign #1: A while ago, we were having a morbid conversation, as couples do. You know the ones. The ones where you say things like "if I die, make sure you find someone else to love." Not to get all seriousface with you, but one of the things I think about with Nordic Boy is that he, more than any person I have ever met, ever, is totally and completely unaffected by lonliness. He never, and I mean NEVER, gets lonely. He really likes his own company, and can spend days upon days not really interacting with anyone and feel completely occupied and stimulated. I tease him about this constantly, with a very mature and sophisticated humor that goes something like "you looooove yourself. ooh, you are so in loooooove with you. smoochy smoochy from you to youuuuu." Yeah. Anyway. So we were having this conversation, and I said that I wondered if I was gone, would he really go out and do things, like with other people. Or would he become one of those Dick Proenekke style hermits who goes out in the woods and spends their time making spoons out of tree branches with nothing but a whittling knife. I know he loves our friends so I don't really think he would do that, but a part of me worries. So I say:

Me: If I'm gone, make sure you keep up your friendships. Because you may not feel lonesome now, but you might later, as you get older.
Him: Don't worry about me. I have the house to work on.

People, he really said that. Like the house is a PERSON. A friend to hang with. A CHILD to care for.

Sign #2:
When we go away on vacations, this conversation will happen.
Me: I miss (insert friend or family name here).
Him: Yeah, I know what you mean. I miss the house.

Sign #3:
If you are around Nordic Boy, he is often deep in thought. He always looks like he is thinking about something. Thinking hard. I call it sultry furrowed brow face. But ask him, AT ANY TIME, what he is thinking about. And I mean at ANY TIME. Guaranteed that it will be building-related. "I am thinking about busting out the shower and re-designing how the plumbing is routed back there." Or "I am thinking about how many BTUs we'll save if we use this insulator. Give me the calculator" or "I am thinking about geothermal heating." Seriously.

Sign #4:
Lately, Nordic Boy has been (as you know) re-doing the roof. I think all of our friends think that we have separated because he has not been seen by them for a month. He won't leave the roof. It is full-time babysitting. You know those moms that have babies and you never see them again? Yeah.

Sign #5:
The final straw. Last night? Nordic Boy got OUT OF BED, three times, to CHECK THE FRIGGIN' ROOF. We were sleeping with the window open, and he kept convincing himself that he was hearing the plastic covering blowing off the roof. So today? He is sleep-deprived. Because the baby kept us up.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Photgraphic Memory

Nowadays (and by the way, is there any word in the English language that can spotlight you as old and decrepit more than the word "nowadays"?) it seems as though everyone knows someone who is famous, or at the very least, semi-famous. Or if not, you at least know someone who knows someone, right? "I went to high school with Madonna," (hi John) or "I studied acting with Dustin Hoffman's daughter" (that's Delium), or "I did home improvements for a Melrose Place starlet" (that's Nordic Boy). And when you factor in D-List type famous people (like knowing someone on Rock of Love or whatever) or even just seeing someone you know interviewed as the "man on the street" on the news, you'd think we'd all be saturated with celebrity boolshiz and be so totally over the whole thing. But you know what? We're not. When I saw Clinton Kelly on the street one time, I blogged about it. When I saw one of the Top Chef people, I blogged about it. It was exciting. I don't really know why. Does anyone know why?

I have three levels of reactions when I see people that I know who have gone on to be the type of person one sees on tv. These are the levels.

Level #1: "HEY!"
This one happened to me just a couple weeks ago. A former boss of mine was a guest on Oprah. There sat Oprah, talking about some issue and making it all melodramatic, and among the panel of guests she had on the stage sat someone who mentored me in this whole librarian racket that I now have going on. I did an internship for her when I was in graduate school. And there she sat. Next to Oprah. Telling her all of her personal private secret business. And my response? To yell out, at the top of my lungs..."HEY!!!!!!" Nordic Boy came running into the room as he thought that I may have severed an artery or something. "What's wrong?" I jumped up and down and pointed at the screen. "I KNOW HER. I KNOW HER. I TOTALLY KNOW HER." Nordic Boy was not jumping up and down, but he did give me a "wow!"

Wow? And me, jumping and yelling? Why? It seems kind of strange when you really think about it.

Level #2: "Huh. Look at that."
This one happens when you know someone that is on tv, but you're not really surprised that they are on tv. Like, they are actors or journalists or musicians or whatever anyway, so by the time they end up actually on tv, it's a little jarring, but not a shock. I have a few of these. For example, Selma Blair. You know Selma Blair, of Hellboy fame? Ex-Mrs.-Ahmet-Zappa? I was in college with her, and we were in plays together. We were friendly, more than we were actual friends. But I knew her fairly well. Although she wasn't someone who I automatically thought "she'll be a STAR someday, a STAR I tell you!" (that was my friend Emily who I had those thoughts about), I still wasn't super surprised to see her on tv. She's talented, and pretty, and fits the "on-tv" mold. She was camera-ready, you know? So the first time I saw her was in a Nike commercial. Or maybe it was Reebok. Some kind of shoe. And when I saw it, I said "huh. Look at that." Then, I saw her as an extra in the movie "In and Out" with Kevin Kline. Again: "huh, look at that. It's Blair." And now that she's in movies, even pretty big ones, that is still all I can muster up. You'd think that someone I knew once actually being in MOVIES would warrant the jumping up and down more than the random person on Oprah. But it doesn't happen that way. Does anyone else have this reaction?

Level #3: "BLAAAAAAHHHHHHH."
This one's a weird one too. This one is when you knew the person really well. Like, let's say, for the sake of argument, that you dated them, or were former best friends with them, or something like that. I have one of those. And this person? When they come on tv? Makes me say "BLAAAAAHHHHHH!" If it happens in front of other people, I say it inwardly, with a poker face. I have had lots of practice so I am good at that. But if I am alone, I say "BLAAAAAAHHHHH!" right out loud. And I feel a little nauseous. And I want to run out the door. It's been years since I have seen this person, but still, I want to barf every time. And then leave the premises immediately.

So this is a very lengthy preface in order to tell you guys that I took a hike this weekend, and it was over three hours long, and I am STILL TIRED. And kind of sore. How does this relate? Because the reason I took the walk was that I had a Level 3 moment. See, in the afternoon, I came home and flipped on my tv, and there was Level 3 looking right back at me. And, since I was alone, I went ahead and said BLAAAAHHHH, and I ran out the door. Like, right away, no conscious thought involved. And I turned my back on my city and walked away from it through neighborhood after neighborhood. Just because. It was actually quite pleasant, aside from the fact that I was totally not prepared to be out like that in the heat for three-plus hours (no water bottle with me, and dressed in a long sleeve sweater and jeans)and after those three hours my body was like "um, STOP WALKING PLEASE" and so I had to call Nordic Boy to come pick me up and I kind of almost didn't know where I was. But other than that, it was an awesome walk. I went down streets I had never been on before. And you know what else? I had my purse with me. And you know what was in my purse? MY CAMERA. And so as I was taking my walk, I kept thinking to myself I have my camera and now I can totally use it and post all sort of photazz glamour shots of my city on my blog and have witty captionography and all like everyone else does on their blogs! I thought it and I thought it. As I walked. And so in order to show you the photos, I had to tell you about why I was walking around in random neighborhoods taking random photos. And in order to explain that, I had to explain Level 3. And in order to explain Level 3, I had to explain the other levels.

Ok, I am shutting up. Because the thing is, after all that talking and explaining and walking, I took TWO PHOTOS. In over three hours. That is one photo per 1.5 hours, for you mathletes out there. But what the hell, I am going to post them. I am like a two-year-old, just learning how to hold a crayon, so proud of my scribbles/bad photos. Please humor me. I am trying.


This is so totally pathetic and embarrassing. A random street in some neighborhood somewhere. You are riveted, aren't you.


This was so much prettier in person. I came up over a hill and there was the lake. Trust me. It was pretty.

Oh never mind.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Picnic Schtick

Lordy Bee Gordy, I am terrible at remembering to take photos of things.

I just look at all y'all's blogs, and I love looking at the photos. And I want to take photos and post them. But do I do it? NO. I am so over myself about that right now. I mean, how hard is it to do? Jeezy Creezy, people. WHAT THE FRACK.

I guess I shall have to rely on word pictures to paint in the spaces of my colorful world.

Ha ha. What if I really talked like that? I feel like if I did, I would have to wear bright, glittery scarves and twirl a lot.

So last night, I had the most picture-worthy evening. First of all, Hopscotch and I met up at my house and had a conversation with Nordic Boy, who was, as ever, on the roof. It's like he's friggin' Rapunzel up there these days. I just walk up my front stairs and scream out "HELLO??" and then his head will pop over the side of the roof for a little conversation. And then I go in the house.

The good news is that the deconstruction phase of the roof is over, and the garbage in my yard has been taken to the recycling center. YEAH-HOO! Last weekend, Nordic Boy got a truck and loaded it up to take it away. And although he didn't ask me to help (I was very busy having lunch with BioGirl you know) he did offer to have me ride along in the dump truck so that when he arrived at the dumping grounds, I could push the dump truck button to make the bed spew out the junk. Isn't that romantic? We keep the spark alive, yes we do.

I ended up not going, but the button pushing gesture was very nice. It's the thought that counts you know. I just didn't really want to sit in the rental dump truck for that long because yo, that shite was dirty. Like, I thought I was going to get ringworm just from sitting my ass on the seat. I am, in many ways, a low maintenance sort of lady, but when it comes to avoiding janky germtown, I can be a little weird and hyper. It's just a thing I have. No ringworm is my motto. Well, not my motto. I just have a three-decade ringworm-free stint that I am anxious to keep going.

ANYWAY. Last night, Hopscotch and I packed a picnic dinner (well, mostly she packed it) and went to Lake Washington (or Lake Warshington as some people like to say) to eat. It was gorgeous. GORGEOUS. Perfect weather, perfect view, perfect everything. And we even saw Clay Aiken there. Ok so it wasn't Clay Aiken but there was a dude there who looked just like him and that was enough to satisfy us. We talked about bad dates. She had a pretty bad one. And then she says "top THAT" and I totally did. I had a date bad enough that when I tell it people fall down laughing with embarrassment on my behalf, without fail. And this was no exception. She had to lie down in the grass for a second to collect herself when I told her. And NO I am not going to tell you guys about it, at least not today. Just try to imagine the absolute worst, most embarrassing thing a person could do while on a date and you just may guess what my worst date story is. Please, do not try and get into a contest with me about most embarrassing date behavior because you. will. lose.

So we sat there and ate cheese, crackers, fruit, and spanikopita. It was very romantic. If that girl wasn't already married I might have just popped the question.

Then we mosied back to my house, where we ate ice cream sandwiches while Nordic Boy tried hard not to fall asleep from roof-fatigue.

See, if I was any kind of photo blogger at ALL, you would have seen (a), Nordic Boy's head poking over the side of the roof, and (b) the gorgeous lake where I ate my dinner, and (c) the romantic cheese and fruit spread on the picnic blanket, and (d) Hopscotch being struck down by my bad date story, and (e) ice cream sandwiches.

It was all very pretty, I assure you. And I made it through another day by not breaking my ringworm-free record. Score.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Eddie Izzard and the Bizzarro Date

Guess what I did this weekend?

I went to see Eddie Izzard, live on his Stripped tour. Oh, it was divine, thanks for asking.

I am not a big "woo"er. I'm not talking about wooing as in courtship. I am talking about it as in, when I go to shows, or out dancing, or any other place where there is a lot of "wooooooooo!" or "wooo-hoooo!" going on, I am not participating in the woo. As a matter of fact, I often wonder what the heck wooing is. Where does this sound come from? Is it primal? Were there cave people who, after killing a beast of some sort that would feed their families for a month, welcomed the hunters back by saying "wooooo-hooooo!"? Somehow I doubt it. Where does this sound come into human history? What is the etymology of the word wooo? If it is indeed some sort of behavioral evolution thing, then I haven't evolved that far yet.

Or at least, I hadn't. Until this weekend. Where I went apeshit for Eddie Izzard and woooo-hooooo'd myself hoarse. I even did that thing where you clap for someone, with your arms up in the air. I also feel like that behavior is a little bit dipshitty. But I did it. I felt it. I can admit that.

It was an awesome show, people. Awesome. If he is coming to your town, GO. Please. You will thank me. Although the tickets are probably sold out and the only way to get any is to sign away your first born (which is basically what I did), it is worth it. If it can make me "wooo-hooo!" then you know it has to be something special.

Aside from the fact that the show was truly great, and I laughed until I wanted to puke (always nice), and we had seats right in front where I could see everything right up to the eyeliner on his face, there was a little bit of side entertainment for me.

I was sitting next to a couple who were on a date from hell.

Now, I don't mean to imply that I was getting entertained by someone else's awful evening. Entertained is the wrong word. I was intrigued by it. It made me realize that although I think I have had some bad dates in my life, I really haven't. Being a little bored by your date or ordering a bad meal or getting a little lost on a hike together or something is small potatoes, really. Anyway, here's what happened.

We got there about 15 minutes early and found our seats. When the couple next to us arrived, they sat down, both whipped out their Blackberries, and started to play solitaire with themselves in silence. For 15 mintues. No talking, no acknowledging each other, nothing. Ok, I thought, maybe that's just what they do. Maybe that is the equivalent of reading the Sunday paper together in silence. Nordic Boy and I are comfortable with silence. Maybe not in this type of venue, but to each his own, right?

Wrong. Then, the show started. When Izzard came out, everyone went nutty for a second. Cheering, clapping, standing up, stomping (and whoo-hooing) for a solid minute or two before he could even start. Sourpuss and Grumpypants stayed seated. As I sort of turned myself to sit back down, I glanced over, and they were glaring at each other. Like a STAREDOWN. What the hell is that? Then, when the show started, the woman, who was sitting next to me, sat there, her arms folded across her chest, and didn't laugh once. Nothing. I don't know about the dude, but I don't think he was laughing either. I got into the show right away and sort of forgot about them, until about twenty minutes in, when Sourpuss (the dude) leans over and whispered something to Grumpypants. And she says in an irritated way (kind of loudly, like I thought maybe even Mr. Izzard heard it) "NO! GAWD!"

Yikes, people.

I thought they might actually start arguing right there, fifteen rows away from Eddie. They didn't. Whew. (Whew is totally different that woo, by the way, and I am very familiar and adept at whewing). Then, about twenty minutes more after that, she grabbed her purse and stormed out. And I mean stormed. And, sitting up so close, it was extra noticable because she had a long way to storm to get out of there. About five minutes later, the dude stormed out after her. They didn't come back.

I know, in the grand scheme of things, that's not the worst date ever. But in my life, I can't think of a time when I had a date where I was at an event with someone I wasn't too gaga for where I didn't just, at the very least, enjoy the event. I'm not saying that to point out that I think Sourpuss and Grumpypants should have sucked it up and tried to have fun. I have no idea what was going on in their lives and it may have been something terrible and legitimately staredown-worthy. I am just saying, I've never been on that date. It looked awful.

You know what? Even with that shit going on right next to me, it was still the best show ever. Seriously, you should go.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Embarrassment, Hatred, and Guilt, Oh My!

Three things.

As you all know, I am not easily embarrassed. I do, after all, share my embarrassing social faux pas with you on a semi-regular basis. But today? My requested copy of Stori-telling, the memoir of Miss Donna Martin herself, was sitting in my work inbox, with my name on it and everything, for all to see. And I felt like everyone at work had seen my skivvies. And they were torn ones. I think I need to quit my job, as I may never be able to face them ever again.

Let's talk about something I HATE, ok? Tra la la, skippety doo dah, look at me all full of sunshine.

I hate cliques. HATE THEM. Hate hate hate. Leaving people out, because they are not cool enough? DISGUSTING.

Here's what's weird. I was totally immune to cliques in high school. I never even noticed them. I have told you all that before. So my hatred does not even arise from some after-school-special psychodrama where the popular kids left me out or poured pig's blood on my head or kicked sand in my face or whatever. So I don't quite know where this feeling of hatred comes from. It definitely has heightened more and more the older I get. And I notice it. If you are being cliquey around me, I SEE YOU. Even when it has nothing to do with me. I just notice it. Why exclude? What's going on, people? Where's the love?

I may be a little cliquey myself, as maybe it's something we can't avoid. I hope I am not, and I don't feel like I am, as I am sort of hyper aware of it. But if anyone I know out there is reading this, and you see me being cliquey, will you do me the honor of KICKING MY ASS? You can choose to not tell me if I have spinach in my teeth, or if my skirt is tucked into my underpants, or if there is a boogie hanging out of my schnozz, because all in all I will get over that. But seriously, if I am being a cliqueish dickwad? You gotta let me know. Because that shit is unsightly.

There are people I know, and I know deep down that they are kind of not so jazzed about me. I mean they think I am ok, but that I am not really worth a whole lot more than just ok. (If you are one of those people, yeah, that's right, I am getting that from you) and I see that the reason for that is because I am not cool enough. I am talking about ADULTS. Hipster adults who want to cross-pollinate with other hipster adults. And I am not a hipster, and so they get confused, because outwardly, at first, I seem like I am one of them. I seem arty, and political, and I have funky shoes. But then they get to know me and see that in addition to those things I am just a big old dork who likes to talk about tv shows and giggle about stupid stuff as a pasttime. So then they can't quite make up their minds about me. Dork? Or hipster? Dork? Or cool girl?

Let me clear it up for you. It's DORK. And you want to like me, hipster doofus, I know you do.

Third thing. I walk to work on days when my job doesn't require me to be all over the city in meetings and such. And now that it's summer, I am doing this quite a bit. And in my neighborhood, sometimes there are little kids who set up lemonade stands. First of all- wow, people still do that? And why am I saying "still" because I never remember anyone doing that when I was a kid? Just...people do that? How cute is that? And because I never leave my house in time to be very leisurely about my walk, there are days when I am (a) running late, and (b) don't have any cash with me, and I am sure the little 10 year olds do not take debit cards. Whenever I pass by and I CAN buy one, I do. But other (most) times? I don't. And I feel like the BIGGEST SCROOGIEST ASS ever. There usually isn't a ton of foot traffic either, so the kid will just look at me, all sweet as can be, and I always say hi, and I will buy another day, but not today, sorry, but great job! and I love your sign! and good luck! But still. I feel bad.

That's all. Oh, and PS. It's the weekend and I am almost faint with glee.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Afeared

Things that don't scare me but at all.

1. Most scary movies about the paranormal. Ghosts, goblins, monsters = snoozefest.
2. Mean patrons at the library who yell at me with rabid spittle flying out of their mouths because their copy of The Secret has a fifteen cent fine on it.
3. Spiders. I think they are cute.
4. Public speaking. Why are people scared of this? It's just talking. Unless you've accidentally done a number two in front of a crowd while making a public address somewhere in your dark past, I don't see where the fear comes in.
5. Thunder and lightning. LOVE THEM.
6. Flying. Every other negative feeling you could possibly feel about flying, I have. Rage, frustration, disgruntlement. Just not fear.

Things that do scare me.
1. When I am on Facebook, and the chat window pops up with on of my friends saying hi. It scares me every time. AAAHH! My computer is talking to me! It's like War Games! Tic Tac Toe! Tic Tac Toe! Help! I know. It's time for me to knock back some Geritol and calm down.
2. People I love getting sick or physically hurt. Bad health can be a super large pain in the hoohah and it's the one thing that truly scares me.

That's about it. Chat on Facebook and ill health. Those two things shiver me timbers.

Things that make me feel an impending sense of doom.

1. Pauly Shore.
2. Politics and the news, which I am also addicted to and can't turn away from.
3. When I mean patron that I have dealt with before comes storming up to the reference desk.
4. Martha Stewart.

Things that initially fill me with anxiety but then after a minute I see that they are actually quite awesome.

1. Roller coasters.
2. Christopher Walken.
3. Sharks.
4. Tammy Faye Baker.
5. Musicals.
6. Shamrock shakes.

Things that don't exactly scare me, but, when come upon unexpectedly, give me quite a jolt of something akin to "that just don't seem right."

1. Walking into my laundry and seeing this.


There are feet coming through my ceiling, people.


I'm out,
Librarian Girl

My Barbecue Tis Of Thee

YAWN.

I am tired today, because I had a blast on the 4th. An honest-to-goodness blast. Let's talk about my day, shall we?

First of all, holy baby Jeebus swaddled in a manger, the place where I work? IS HELLA BIZZY. I have been away from my particular job, doing another particular job in another locale, for the past 9 months. Now I am back to my regular digs and I kind of forgot that my library location is busy. Very, very busy. We are talking crowds of people, swarming the library like we are giving away free stuff or something, which I suppose we are so it's our own damn fault. I always hesitate to talk about how busy my workplace is to anyone, because let's face it, everyone feels like their workplace is busy and so hearing about someone else's busy really doesn't amount to a hill of beandip. And I don't mean that it's busy in a poor me sort of way, because how tiresome is it to hear that? I just feel like I have jumped back into a race, that's all. And when you're in a race, having a break from that race feels EXTRY GOOD.

Hence, the Fourth of July.

To start off with, Nordic Boy continued peeling the old roofing off of the house yesterday. I actually traipsed up there a bit myself to witness some roof nudity. (The roof was nekkid, not us on the roof, just to be clear). I am more excited about having a new roof than I ever would have imagined I could be. I love how dang productive Nordic Boy is and how he starts a project and progress just happens. I come home each day and there's more done! Lots more! Look at that! Time has elapsed and there is something to show for it! It's very satisfying, because I get to see lots of progress without, you know, having to do any pesky work myself.

So I spent the early part of my day running water and snacks up and down the ladder, reading, taking a walk, watching a couple of Tivo'd episodes of Living Lohan while folding laundry, talking to the 'rents on the phone. It was loverly.

Then I went over to a librarian bbq and caught some (very filtered, but still quite pleasant) sun. Nordic Boy could not be bothered to come down from the roof (it's like he's Rapunzel up there or something) so BioGirl and I headed over and had a grand old time. The highlight of that party was that my friend C revealed that she read my last blog post and she promised me that should she ever get married, she and her beloved bride would have little ol' me as a bridesmaid. Could it be? My bridesmaid-free existence could come to an end, someday? ROCK ON.

(I have to add to this story that, in my excited state at this prospect, I blurted out that I would be more than willing to don whatever merengue-looking bridesmaid get-up that she would care to come up with. This statement made me catch a little bit of hell from BioGirl later, as I have specifically told her on multiple occasions that should she ever make me wear a hellish bridesmaid outfit, our very friendship may be in peril. After such harsh admonishment from me on this subject, hearing me offer up myself like a bridal paper doll to be swathed in as much taffeta and tulle as C could dish out was, I grant you, an almost mortal shock to poor BioGirl). Oops.

After that party, we caught up with Nordic Boy at another party, the pull of which was strong enough for his feet to get back on terra firma. This party was way awesome. You know how, in movies like Bridget Jones, or Four Weddings and a Funeral, or whatever, there are those parties with bosom pals and everyone is gorgeous and witty and busts their guts laughing at each other and you think, damn, I wish I had a group of friends like that?

I do. And they rock. And I crawled home at an ungodly hour and fell asleep instantly. And today the muscles in my stomach are sore from all the laughing we did.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

More random nonsense

I think I got this from the Soggy Librarian, aka Hopscotch. You should do it too. Double Dog Dare you.

1. Who was your first prom date?

I took a very serious political stand against prom when I was in school. Hey, some people took down apartheid. My issue was prom. You think I am kidding, but I am not. That is a story for another time.

2. Do you still talk to your first love?

Yes, about once a year. Haven't seen him since high school so I still picture him as a 17 year old and I sometimes embarrassedly think about what a good kisser he was. Don't tell him I said that because the mortification would strike me dead.

3. What was your first alcoholic drink?

A Segram's Wine Cooler in some ridiculous berry flavor. It was red as I recall. Basically it was spiked Kool-Aid. And I drank a bunch of them and got loopy, and then went out dancing in a club and felt so grown up because I was underage. What a klassy young lady I was.

4. What was your first job?

Making people deceased, and not by killing them or anything.

5. What was your first car?

Although it technically wasn't "mine" per se (did I just say per se?), I drove my mom's little red Mazda 323 around my home town like crazy when I was 16. I thought that was so STYLIN' back then. I also had this little bendy mod doll hanging on the rearview mirror. She had the head of Julie Newmar and the body of Gumby. My virginal, sex-obsessed friend Jason would contort poor Gumby Newmar into Kama Sutra-esque positions when I wasn't looking and then leave her like that and if I wasn't paying attention she would stay like that and then my mom would see it.

6. Who was the first person to text you today?

Nordic Boy.

7. Who is the first person you thought of this morning?
Nordic Boy, since he was right there. Although I did have a dream last night where Simon Doonan came into the library and told me that our summer reading display was hideous. So that sort of counts.

8. Who was your first grade teacher?

Mrs. Czap. Pronounced ZAP. How friggin' awesome is that? I just want to keep saying it. Mrs. CZAP. It's like a superhero name. Although pronouncing it "Ka-zap" is also quite nice. Nordic Boy had an elementary school teacher named Mrs. Knipple. And it was actually pronounced "Ka-nipple." Now there's something you don't hear every day.

9. Where did you go on your first ride on an airplane?
When I was a year and a half, I went back to Fiji with the fam. My parents got on a plane, for a trip which was in those days about 48 hours long, with four small children. God bless 'em.

10. Who was your first best friend, and are you still friends with him/her?
My first best friend was Malin, who I was friends with when I was in the first few days of our lives because our parents were friends. So it was like an arranged friend marriage in that our parents put us together. Luckily, we adored each other and went on many little kid adventures together all the way through middle school when she moved away. I am still friends with her, in that Facebook sort of way. She still rocks.

11. What was your first sport played?
I never really played sports since I was in ballet every single minute of my life from age 4 until adulthood. I used to be such a wuss in gym class too. I was that person that never took anything seriously (surprised?) and so my gym teachers didn't like that too much, because, you know, I was having too much FUN. How ridiculous of me.

12. Where was your first sleepover?
I can't possibly remember my first one, since me and my friends were crashing at each other's houses all the time. People were always staying for dinner and staying over and I was always doing the same. I have a feeling people don't do that any more, because parents seem way more controlling now. I get why, but still it's sad to me.

13. Who was the first person you talked to today?
Simon Doonan. I am going to go with saying Simon Doonan. Although he did most of the talking.

14. Whose wedding were you in the first time?
You know that saying "always a bridesmaid, never a bride?" My saying is "Never a bride, nor a bridesmaid." This is one of those things that people can NOT imagine to be true, as almost every one of my friends has bridesmaid-ed a jillion times. Part of it is that many of my friends are unconventional girlies who don't really do the whole wedding thing, or if they do then they don't do it with a lot of tradition. Of the people who are more traditional, they have just never asked me. Sometimes I secretly wonder if it's because they think that I think weddings are dumb or something, which I don't. Just because I don't want one doesn't mean I wouldn't don some seafoam taffeta get up for a homegirl. But no one has asked me. Boo hoo.

15. What was the first thing you did this morning?

Looked out the window to make sure it was sunny. It is not. It is thunderstorming and hailing. I was TOLD that it would be sunny today. I was TOLD. I was also told I could listen to the radio at a reasonable volume from nine to eleven.

16. What was the first concert you ever went to?
Chronology is difficult for me to remember on this one. I went with my parents to see Dizzy Gillespie. I also went to a Neil Young concert with my brother when I was in elementary school. So one of those. I can't remember which was first.

17. What was your first tattoo or piercing?
This is a whole other story for another time, but my first attempt at getting my ears pierced was HORRIFYING.

18. What was the first foreign country you went to?
It feels weird to say Fiji, since that doesn't seem "foreign" to me. So I will say Canada. Now that shit is foreign. They put gravy on FRIES, people.

19. What was your first run-in with the law?
The po-po was always on our ass back in the day. Breaking up friends' parties, pulling my family over in our car, all that stuff. One time police came up my parents driveway and pulled their guns on them as they were getting out of their car in their own damn garage for some fuck-all reason, and if you ever saw my two teeny little innocent parents that would seem even more racist than you might even want to believe. I still have to fight off a deep seated fear of cops sometimes, but mostly I am over it. It really helped me when Alli's brother became a cop because then I knew a good cop. I realize there's lots of great po-po out there so please don't send me hate mail. I'm just talking about how I grewed up thinking. And that I can't remember my first run-in with the law as I feel like they were everywhere even though there was no law-breaking going on in my vicinity.

20. When was your first detention?
I got in a lot of trouble in high school, but I rarely got caught. For this reason, I was often the person that all my friends would "send in" when something untoward needed to happen.

21. What was the first state you lived in?
Michigan, baby, born and raised, in the playground was where I spent most of my days.

22. Who was the first person to break your heart?
Little kid style, it was probably Mike, the menage-a-hand-holder. Goddamn hand whore.

23. Who was your first roommate?
My sister and I shared a bedroom, where she had a flouncy canopy bed with a grape pattern all over it, and i had a mattress and box spring on the floor. I'm just saying. My first non-family roomie was Rebecca at dance school when I was 12. Rebecca looked and acted (in my worldly 12 year old opinion) like she was 10. I hung out with her older sister the whole time I was at that school, who was 15. This was my m.o. back then. I always had older friends in dance school and learned many things I shouldn't have from them. Dang I loved those guys.

24. Where did you go on your first limo ride?
My first limo ride was to my graduation ceremony and we were so friggin' excited about it we could have DIED.

On a totally unrelated note, it hailed on our house in the middle of the night last night. It was loud, especially because it was hitting the tarp that is covering our roof right now. It woke both of us up with a jolt.

Me: Is that hail?
Nordic Boy: HAIL NO!

We both fell immediately back to sleep. This morning? I keep thinking about that and cracking up. That he would yell out HAIL NO and we would just go back to the Sandman like that. We are so weird. Well, technically, he is so weird. I just get to bear witness.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Hot Mess

Most of you that read this blog have never met me in person. There aren't very many people that I know that read this blog. At least, I don't think so. Every once in a while, someone I know will say something to me like "so, I read on your blog that..." and it never fails to make me go whaaat? Ex-squeeze me? (Hi, pop culture reference from 1994). It's not that I mind anyone reading this or have any delusions about it being in any way a private venue for idle insane rantings or anything like that. It just throws me a little. It's like, you guys are my blog friends and then there are my in-person friends and having you all at the same party is cool but strange. Do you have different groups of friends like that? Like, if they were to meet, it would wig you out just a little?

Anyhow, for those of you out there who DO know me in person, especially the local ones here in Seattle, I have a little message to send to all of you. Rather than telling each of you individually, let me lay it on you here, announcement-style, and call it covered. Kay?

I am really sorry that I am ridiculously, deliriously, maddeningly happy in hot weather. The girl can't help it now.

I know that I am generally a happy sort anyhow, and that in and of itself may be slightly annoying, but my usual brand of happiness is, at least, quiet. Understated. It's right there, under the surface, but I try to keep it low key, because there is nothing worse than an overly pepped up happy person, tooting their own glee every chance they get.

But in hot weather? It all comes out. I don't know what it is. Perhaps it's the fact that I only get, all-told, maybe one full week a year when I get this much sun, and it makes my brain go a little haywire. And so, in weather that makes most people slow down and want to melt into a puddle, I am perfectly comfortable and ready to rock. And it causes awkward moments with all ya'll that are miserable because you're dehydrating up like a piece of human jerky.

So...sorry. Just, sorry.

In other news, you know what that crazy Nordic Boy has been up to lately? Tearing off the roof. I don't mean that in some slangy 90s way. Raise the roof! The roof is on fire! Not like that. I mean literally. He is re-roofing the house. Because on a 90-degree day, what could be better than wrestling with roofing material and melty tar? Ah, refreshing.

I am excited about the new roofing we are getting, which will be eco-whatever (that's a technical term) and reflect the sun and save us some Benjamins on the heating bill come winter. What I am not so excited about, however, is that right now? During the tearing out old roof phase? He is piling up the roofing discards in the front yard. As I sit in my living room right now, I look out the window and every few minutes a black, tar-filled, gooey mess flies down past my window. And I know we have to keep it there so that we can haul it to the recycling place all at once, but dang.

Remember how my yard, she is ugly? I finally got the portion that used to look like this...


To look like this...

Ok so it's not that different, but just humor me.

And was going to move on to the next part, near the house. But I am glad I didn't now, because the front yard is jacked. And smells like tar. And is kind of scary looking. It looks like the Blob is eating our house.


Welcome to my lovely home.

Nothing can phase me though, not even a hideous, trash-filled yard. If the temperature dips though, I will have to go apeshit.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl