Huh?

Yes, yes, I am a superstar superhero super-terrific librarian. I actually got one of my city's disaffected youth to proclaim "librarians must be the smartest people in the world!" the other day. And I am 60% sure they weren't being sarcastic. I like taking in information, and sharing it, and thinking on it. You other superstar librarians out there know what I'm talking about. I've got some smarts. I know this. Excuse me while I pick up these brains that keep spilling out onto the floor.

Not only do I have some smarts, I am also a reflective person. I ponder. I muse. I do lots of mulling over. About anything. About everything. What is the nature of life? Why is the universe designed so? What really matters? And why did Rory Gilmore never work it out with Jess? I liked Jess.

Except, you know what? Sometimes, when I think too much, something in my 'licious brainage can rebel. It's like, it just can't take any more and has to shut completely down. And I mean completely. And that's what's happening with me this week. I was in the middle of reading a Turgenev novel, and it was all of a sudden "blah blah blahsky." So I put that down earlier this week and started in on Raisin Rodriguez and the Big-Time Smooch. Couldn't concentrate on that either. A few days ago Nordic Boy walked in to the living room to find me standing in front of the fireplace, facing outward into the room. "What are you doing?" he said. "Huh? I don't know." He finds this funny. "You were staring off like Puddy on Seinfeld." Unfortunately, that wasn't the only time this happened. It's happened a few times, enough for him to coin the phrase "Puddy-ing out." As in, "hey Librarian Girl, you're Puddy-ing out again." As a superstar super-pondering librarian, this chaps my ass.

I think what's happening is that I have been working too much. My schedule just got out of control and I find myself without a day off for more than my brain can handle. This causes me to want to do nothing but puddy out, or watch tv, or sleep. Not that any of these are things I wouldn't do anyway, it's the doing them in excess that I mind.

So, bear with me this week, people. If anything I post in the next week seems kind of vacant, just cut me some slack. My two week stint is almost over. And on that note, I leave you with this:

I got home from work last night at 8:30 pm as Nordic Boy was preparing dinner. I peak into a grocery bag that is full of assorted fruit...yum. Apples, pears, bananas. "Hey," I say, "what are those orange things?" Nordic Boy looks at me with his Russell Crowe brow, all wrinkled up. "Librarian Girl, they're oranges."

Me: "Oh. Right." Giggle giggle from the both of us. Giggles turn into gales of laughing. "Young lady, you need to go sit the hell down and relax!" And I am summarily marched over to the couch.

Those orange things. Yes, I remember now. They're called oranges. Thanks, Nordic Boy.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Neighbor J Rocks the House

This time around, it's Neighbor J's Birthday Shout-Out! Raise the roof, ya'll!

Neighbor J and I first met almost ten years ago, and soon after we were living next door to each other in our duplex that we lovingly called The Commune, since our friends were always over and Neighbor J and I shared everything. During one of the first times we ever hung out, I knew we were destined to be lifelong friends because of her deep and meaningful relationship with art and pop culture. It was a meeting of the minds, kiddies. We were having tea, and as she poured milk into her Earl Grey, she sang this eerie song. "Meelk, mee-ilk, meelk." Does anyone out there remember a short piece on Sesame Street in the 1970s that showed how milk got from the cow to the crying baby? It was all set to this freaky song, where this woman's infantilized voice sang "Meelk, mee-ilk, meelk." You probably don't know what the hay-ell I'm talking about, but the point is, Neighbor J just freaking SANG that song. And I TOTALLY knew what it was. And we had a twenty minute conversation about it right then and there. Thus, a friendship was born.

And so we lived, side by side in the Commune duplex, where I would watch "A Wedding Story" on TLC and yell through the wall "can you believe this crap?" and she would yell right back without missing a beat "oh my god, no!" We would shop together, eat dinner together outside on summery evenings, exercise together, have papermaking afternoons in our backyard. She always has the perfect pop culturey metaphor to make me laugh. Five years ago, when I was having some drama with a psycho with a terrible bowl haircut and a continually sour expression, she shook her head and said "what a Romulan." It was hilarious. Because he DID look like a Romulan. This other time she was the only one who stayed up with me until 2am one night, after a bunch of us had gathered to watch the "Seven Year Itch," because after that movie was over, "Love with a Proper Stranger" was on. And who can resist Steve McQueen and Natalie Wood talking about love and comparing it to Banjos and Bells? Well, apparently everyone could resist it but us.

Neighbor J and I have taken to calling ourselves Statler and Waldorf, because as soon as we start a-chatting, we are basically the peanut gallery of the world, with a comment for everything. We also call ourselves Alyssa and Blanche, which only will make sense to you if your knowledge of Little House on the Prairie extends into background characters and lost episodes. She's the only one I know who loves Doris Day as much as I do and she can channel Howard Keel singing "Bless Your Beautiful Hide" from Seven Brides for Seven Brothers like NOBODY'S business. And we have literally emailed each other pictures of cute outfits and shoes back and forth thirty times a day. She's one of those friends where you've talked so much, shared so much, that when you talk to each other you are basically speaking a secret language, all chock full of references that only the two of you can understand. And isn't it grand to have a friend like that? It's the definition of banjos and bells, being around this girl, truly.

Happy Meow Meow Birthday, Kitty Neighbor Meow.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Chicago Part Three

I spent the rest of the Week 'O Chicagoness with my friends Alli and Map. I've known these two literally my entire life. If some of you out there don't have any friends from this long ago, let me tell you that it is simultaneously awesome and weird. It's like knowing two people that live in your head, because they have all of the same memories that you do. I can say the most random shit from my childhood (something like "remember when those girls in elementary school would chase Chad P. around the playground while singing 'Maneater' by Hall and Oates?" and Alli will reply "remember it? of COURSE I remember it. I was one of the girls who did it!") It's like your entire childhood has been brought to life again, and every crazy memory that you have is totally validated by two other people who saw every messed up childhood thing that you saw. It's the greatest thing ever.

So a couple of highlights about this weekend. First off, I need to say a few words about Oprah. Oprah is famous, yes. Oprah has influence on a vast number of Americans, true. But in Chicago, the level of Oprah-ness is just a wee more intense. The number of times Oprah is mentioned in Chicago is higher than in other places. I was in stores where footage of Oprah was playing. Oprah's penthouse building was pointed out to me. Oprah sightings were discussed. Chicago and Oprah. Like peas and carrots.

Ok, so apparently Oprah had a show where she talked about bras and the importance of getting a bra fitting, especially if you are Large and In Charge in the boobal department. In this show, she endorsed a Chicago store called "Intimacy" where one can go to have such a fitting. Alli had done so and assured Map and me that it was a LIFE CHANGING EVENT. So we made an appointment for Map and went bra-shopping. Let me tell you guys, Oprah was right. Oprah was ridiculously right. Although I didn't need to have a fitting (as I am neither Large nor In Charge, in fact next to Alli and Map I am basically a boy), I witnessed a crazy body-transformation on Map right before my eyes. After that fitting, Map looked taller, her clothes looked newer, and her girls were SMOKIN'. So Oprah, kudos to you. Thank you, O Educator of Boobology.

On the El ride back to Alli's house, I introduced them both to a game that Neighbor J, Biology Girl and I made up. It's called "Who would you do?" It goes like this. You name two famous people, and everyone has to say which one you would sleep with if you had to choose. It can be played Fantasy Style, where the choices are so good it's hard to choose. Like, who would you rather do: Johnny Depp or Jake Gyllenhaal? That's ok, but not as fun as the other way to play, which would be Anything Goes Style. Like, who would you rather do: Yoda or Chewbacca? Gary Coleman or Emmanuel Lewis? Barney Miller or Mr. Kotter? Basically there is no real point system to this game, but the person who can come up with the most combinations that can cause the rest of the group to yell "awwww SICK!" is the de facto winner. And this time, I would have to say that hands down, Map was the champion. Not only because she came up with the weirdest combos, but because she brought in the SO SO WRONG element of throwing our former teachers and classmates into the mix. She brought up a name so random, so forgotten except in the recesses of all of our elementary school minds, that Alli actually gasped like someone had smacked her across the face. So Map, you win. You totally win.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Chicago, Part Dos

Ok, so we last left our intrepid heroine fighting back the snowflakes with her super strength in the cold, cold tundra that is Chicagoland.

The next part of the trip involved getting Biology Girl checked into her hotel, which was booked in advance for her by the folks that had invited her to Chicago in the first place for their bridal nuptuality. The wedding was to be in a 'burb in Southwest Chicago, which is far beyond my knowledge of the city. The hotel that was booked for her was in a town called Alsip, which, after we'd seen it, we forever after called Ass-lip. Although the hotel itself was ok- your standard Doubletree in suburbia, the surrounding hinterlands of Ass-lip had much to be desired. For example, there was a motel down the street from us that advertised its claim to fame: a "4 hour nap, only $28!" A 4 hour nap, people. Egregiously smutty, no? How dare they even try to euphemistically call it a NAP? Honey, please. If you're going to dress it up, call it a Three Hour Tour, only $28. At least that's got a little pizzaz. Up the block from that was a store that was called simply: "Nut and Candy." Nut, singular. So there, I'm assuming that one buys a nut and some candy. But more than one nut, and you're outta luck, buster. Down the street from this, there was another motel with a sign that advertised "Coin operated, mirrored waterbeds." You see what kind of stuff is going down (ahem) in Ass-lip? Although I do thank that last motel for providing Biology Girl and I with much conversation about the appeal of the coin operated bed. Do you really want to be vibrated out of your teeth while getting freaky deaky with your lovah? I'm going on record to say that it don't sound so good. But what do I know?

So we drove down to Ass-lip, checked her into the Doubletree, and then readied ourselves for a night out on the town. Now, you know I am in serious Friend-Love with Biology Girl. In my eyes she can do no wrong. But everyone, hear me on this one. This girl can take a long ass time to get ready to go somewheres. She'll be the first to admit this, so I am not outing her here. I'm just saying, it's LOOOONG. The funny thing about this is that she is naturally gorgeous. And when she is done with the gussying up, she still looks naturally gorgeous. And there is irony in this. The reason being, if you look at me, and then you look at her, I would most definitely be judged as looking to be The High-Maintenance One. When I go out, I have make-up on. Lipstick and everything. My hair is done. I am accessorized. And yet. I had one sandwich-bag-sized baggie that held all of the accoutrements for my toilette. And dear, dear Biology Girl has a bag the size of a large toaster, and it's packed to the gills! She even amazes herself with it. "Look at all this stuff!" she says, showing me her bursting toiletries. "What IS all that stuff???" I say. "I don't know! But I use all of it!" she replies. You heard me right. She doesn't KNOW. But she uses all of it. This is the enigma that is Biology Girl, people.

Anyhoo. After the hour or two of getting ready for the evening (yes, I said the hour or two. I wasn't kidding up in that last paragraph), we embarked back to the city for a Bachelorette Party. I admit I had my qualms about going to this party, as I don't know any of the people (they're all Biology Girls' comrades from California), and this shit was long. As in, nine hours long. A nine hour long party! What is this, Caligula?

So I won't go into the details of the party, because it would take me nine hours to recap the nine hours of revelry. There were presents, and sushi, and manicures, and drinkies, a swanky bar, dancing, a drag show, and everyone busted out their fancy shoes. And there was lots of this: "woo-hoo! whoooo!" That was the sound of the evening. Glasses raised, arms around each others' shoulders, and a big hearty dose of "whooooo! whoo-hooooooo!!!" Now, don't get me wrong. I can woo-hoo with the best of them. When I get the spirit in me, I whoop it up like crazy. But, it's funny to be in the position of being the Party Guest that No One Knows. Because it feels funny to whoo-hoo then. The rest of the group, they are close friends, they are celebrating their bridal sister, they are Feeling The Love. So it makes sense for them to whoo-hoo. But me? On the outskirts of the group? Trying my best to do a nice "hi, I'm Librarian Girl, nice to meet all of you." How am I to bust into a random whoo-hoo? I just couldn't. It seemed so...forward. How am I gonna say "so what's your name? Good to meet you. And what do you do? Whoo-hoooo!!!"

So after the longest party ever, Biology Girl and I hauled ass back to Ass-Lip and got some shut-eye by 3:30am. THAT is the point of the day when I was most likely to whoo-hoo.

Up next, Chicago, the Final Chapter...

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Chicago

So here's how it went, ya'll.

First off, I sat next to the Grumpiest Couple Ever on the plane ride there. It was funny grumpy. They were in the AARP age bracket, and the woman had her hair in a severe bun with golden glitter chopsticks through it and the man had a red polka dot tie on. However, these cheery, faintly circus-like get-ups could not squelch the grumpyness. When Polka Dots was irritated by something (which was very very often), he would gruffly exclaim "Jesus Christmas!" Over and over with the Jesus Christmas! I wanted to lean over and give him a big fat smooch, just to irritate them further and keep hearing that. I was afraid that Sparkles would stab me with her chopsticks though, so I kept my distance for safety's sake.

After arriving and meeting up with Biology Girl, we drove over to see my college roommate, Ms. Palindrome in lovely Andersonville. The leaves on everything were deliciously crunchy all over her street. (That made it sound like I was eating the leaves, didn't it? I was walking on them, people, just walking). We made a plan for the next day, which included a suggestion from Pal that we go check out the Giant Bean. Ha-wha? I feel like I know Chicago very well, but I ain't never heard of no Giant Bean, Willis. How did I miss that? She insisted that it was more exciting than it sounds. And boy was it ever. How could a Giant Bean be so enticing, so interesting, so lovely? I don't know, but it was. Check it:



There was so little time on this whirlwind trip, I had to choose very wisely the things that I most wanted to see. First on my list was the Art Institute. I've been there a million times, but still, I had to go. You just gotta love those big stone lions that look like they are lifting their tails up to deposit rocky poo poo in front of the doors there. We ate lunch there and then breezed through the modern art galleries after which we had the obligatory Ferris Bueller moment in front of the big Seurat. An aside: museum security guard has got to be up there in terms of the most Boring Job Ever Created. Museums are so quiet, and people just mill around and stare at stuff, and these poor muthas have to watch. Looking at people who are looking at stuff. Yowza.

After that, more sights were seen, shops were shopped, and the wind whipped our asses all over town. We crashed at Pal's house again that night, and when we awoke the next morning, snow was coming down in blowy circles. Pretty, puffy flakes. This caused me to look out the window and say..."oh hell nawwwwww!"

I grew up in the midwest. I adore the midwest. I am a midwestern girl through and through, believe me. Being in Chicago was full of nostalgia and hordes of people who talk just like I do. My people! My town! So you'd think with all the nostalgia, I would feel warm and fuzzy about the snow. I didn't. The one thing I don't like about the midwest is the god damn friggin' stupid assmunch snow. So hells no. Hell to the N-O. You better stop that mess right now. I had a stupid shitty Birthday Week and I came out here for some crispy orangy homestyle autumn to cheer myself up and I mean to have it.

The gods did not forsake me. After about a half hour, as Biology Girl and I ate at delicious M. Henry's, the snow dried up. Chicago still loves me, I knew it.

Coming up next, The Trip, Part Two.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Birthday Vacation Proclamation

Ok, forget last week. Just forget it! That wasn't Birthday Week! I just can't let that be Birthday Week. Nothing that involves me being too sick to be able to eat the delicious peanut butter and chocolate cupcakes that Nordic Boy made for me can in any way be placed in the category of Acceptable Birthdayness. So just forget that.

THIS, my friends, is Birthday Week. My Birthday was on Saturday, and thus it was the Kick-Off for the goddamn metaphorical ticker tape parade that I need to have to celebrate Me. Yes, I am going to be all princessy. Me me me. Now gimme that cupcake.

In honor of Birthday Week, let me hearken back to former ages of yore and tell you some things I would have never believed about my Librarian Girl 2006 self.

1. When I was 7, I made a list proclaiming my future careers. According to this list, my adult-self should be a cashier at Meijer's Thrifty Acres, a waitress, a dancer, a movie star, and a superhero. Notice I said "and." Not "or." So the fact that I am none of these things, let alone all of them simultaneously, is a goal that has yet to be reached. Librarian figured nowhere in my childhood mind. Ah well.

2. When I was a teenager, I made a list proclaiming the must-have characteristics of the future dude who would be worthy of my lovitude. It was a long list, which I won't get into now because we just don't have all day. Let me just say that Nordic Boy measures up to my thirteen-year-old expectations pretty well. Except for the fact that he doesn't look like Michael Jackson. And I think we can all heave a sigh of relief that he doesn't.

3. When I was a senior in high school, I vowed to myself that I was going to live in a big city some day, preferably Chicago. (Are you getting the picture that my childhood was full of me sitting around making proclamations about my adulthood?) And although I do live in a big city, it didn't turn out to be Chicago.

However, in honor of my senior-in-high-school self, I will be spending Birthday Week in Chicago, running around town with my friends and acting like that 7 year old, that 13 year old, and that 18 year old. I will run around there like a crazed birthday princess. I will make much silliness, I will giggle profusely, and Chicago will embrace me in Birthday Love. This I proclaim to all of you.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

The Birthday Curse

You all know how I feel about birthdays. Mine and other peoples. I love them all equally. Birthdays cause me to turn into a gushy mess of Yay-For-You. That's just how I roll.

When I was in high school, my friends and I would call a birthday by your name, followed by the word "fest." As in LutherFest. Or NatashaFest. Or PrudenceFest. It was a Friggin' FEST. And all day long, we would fest it up. Usually, this would start with a 5am trip to McDonald's or Big Boy for breakfast (or Bob Evans if we were feeling extra kitschy) before school. Who cares if we were teenagers and had only slept three hours the night before? We were going to get up at the crack of ass and go start the Fest! (Please don't point out the sad fact that we were woo-hooing ourselves all the way to
motherhumping Big Boy. I know it sounds sad and pathetic now, but trust me. It was good times). Then we would pile back in the car and go to school, and all day it was birthday birthday birthday. In choir, which was almost 100 kids large, you would get a rousing version of Happy Birthday sung to you, followed by whistles, hoots, and a long hearty stomping of feet on risers. This was usually followed by a weekend celebration of some sort at the local pizza joint, and capped off with running amok around town and then sleeping over at my house where we would eat ice cream cake and tell each other shocking stories of all of our secret lives ("you kissed WHO???") until we crashed in a heap on the floor.

So maybe this is why I have big expectations for the Birthday. But here's what's happened lately. I have the Birthday Curse. For the past four years, stoopid ass shit always happens around my birthday. Sometimes right on my birthday. Sometimes the week of my birthday. Why? What is the universe trying to tell me? Is the cosmos telling me to shut the eff up about the gol-darn birthdays? I am not going to whine about what exactly has happened this year during my Birthday Week. Not anything too specific anyway. Let's just say that I started out the week by getting some godawful cold where I couldn't talk (and Librarian Girl likee the talkee, people) and then there was stressy times at work when I finally got back. Oh, and my washer and dryer went kaput. This is only pre-birthday bad luck. I'm still waiting for the big whammie as the Day gets closer. Remember that game show in the 80s, "Press Your Luck"? No whammies! No whammies! That's what I'm hoping.

Well, be it foolhardy or no, I am going to go right on celebrating my birthday. It's Birthday Week, and I don't care if it sucks, I'm going to have it suck with sparklers and a parade. I will not give up!

As I'm typing this, I'm eating dried apricots. I just bit into one that was full of mold. What kind of luck is that? Stupid Birthday Week.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Big Hairy Deal

There's something a little bit embarrassing about the salon where I get my hair did. Actually, there are several things that make the whole ordeal embarrassing. And they are.

1. It's totally pretentious and hyper-swank, but along with the swanky and the pretense, they can make you goh-geous. So every six weeks or so, I go there and lay my money down and enter the World That Is Sexy Hair. Today was just such a day.

The first thing is the decor. It's all black and red, like Jack and Meg White exploded all over the place. All of the stylists look like models. The lighting has soft edges, like there are gels over the lightbulbs, making everyone look a little more Pore-less. Because pores. Mustn't have those. Oh, look, there's a Marcia-Cross lookalike snipping the shit out of someone's 'do. That one in the station next to her looks like Justin Timberlake. Techno music permeates to such a degree that it seems as if everyone should be voguing in slo mo. And honestly, they kind of are. Even though I've had a long day at work, and it's not even dark out yet, I feel like I am walking into an afterhours club. I have to silently shake my head at all of this. Seriously, you guys? All day? With the voguing sans pores?

2. Second embarrassing thing. After you've put on a robe (because Madonna-forbid you would get your hair cut in your own clothes), you wait in the waiting area. And in this waiting area, all of the magazines are GIGANTIC. Like, a foot and a half by a foot and a half. They are almost newspaper size, with huge photos of Kate Moss looking like she is in desperate need of a buttermilk biscuit. So you try to flip through this magazine, that in all honesty, you can barely hold upright. And you try to look cool doing it. Embarrassing.

3. My stylist has these assistants that prep you for her. So one of them will come over to get you, and take you into the prep room, where he will wash your hair and put all sorts of mysterious sprays and gels into it. Now, sometimes, I get Young Gay Josh Hartnett. Young Josh is embarrassing because, well, he seems to get, well, overly excitable about my hair. Let me explain. People who do hair love me. I am like a blank canvas to them. I have long hair that is healthy, thick, and easy to maneuver. It has never been dyed, or permed, or tinted, or anything. It's what they all call "virgin hair." So I am used to a certain glazed hunger coming into the eyes of stylists when they get a hold of me. HOWEVER. Young Josh. He, um, loves my hair. I mean, he looooves it. So, when he's washing it, he TALKS to it. Rather lustily. "Oh my gaaaahd. Look at this haaaair. It's so strong. So shiny. Oh. Oh. GOD. Ohhhhh." All as he is lathering it up. I never know what to do in this situation. He does not talk to ME. It's all happening between him and my hair. I feel like I should excuse myself, before it goes too far. But what can I do? Embarrassing.

4. I like my stylist a lot. She is nice, funny, and she gives me the best hair I've ever had. This explains why I endure all this agita. So most of the time, once I am in her chair, I feel safe. But not always. This, friends, is because in this salon, the stylists are Arteests. And as arteests, they want to study the techniques of their genius colleagues so that they can maintain their own geniosity. So sometimes, as my stylist is cutting my hair, and the other stylists are in between clients, they will GATHER AROUND YOU in a circle. They stand there, and stare. They point and whisper. Sometimes they ask my stylist what sort of technique she's using, and I get treated to such lovliness as "I am turning the strands as I cut them because it's the only way I can get the pounds off of her heavy hair." Pounds? Heavy hair? Sigh. And they all nod and "ah yes" about my fat hair. Not phat hair. But fat hair.

So I endure an hour of embarrassment because the bottom line is that they all really know hair. They actually ARE artists. My hair always looks a bazillion times better than it did going in, so I grit my teeth and get it overwith. The things I do to make my locks more luscious. Please don't judge me. I know it's dumb. And I've been embarrassed enough.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Just Type Something

Hey peoples. I have abso-tootly nothing of coherence to write about today (as opposed to the barrel of coherent monkeys that I usually have to share) but I have committed myself to writing at least two posts a week (please no jokes about needing to commit myself, it's just too easy) and I am nothing if not Committment Ready (or whatever the opposite of Committment-phobic is) so you will be treated to some good old-fashioned diaherria-of-the-keyboard. As the cheerleaders like to yell: Ready, ok!

1. First of all, my birthday is coming up. Usually, I have been known to throw a party of some sort, all cake and candles and finery galore. The upside to this is that, well, it's a party, with all my peeps together in one glorious ball of gorgeousness. The downside of this is that a- I have to pick a date and time that may or may not work for all, and b- during the party I don't get to actually spend time with everyone. It's more like a friend-buffet, where I have to make room for all instead of actually catching up with each. So this year I decided that I would have actual dates with each and every one of my peeps for weeks around my birthday. The result is that my social calendar for the next few months looks a bit like Paris Hilton's, except for the fact that none of my sweet friends would ever, ever call someone a Firecrotch.

2. On Friday night, my neighbors to the back of us (who I have never met nor seen) had a rip-roaring hippie party in their back yard that started at 10pm and continued until 4am. FOUR. A. M. There was a drumming circle involved, people. I guess that technically I don't know for a fact that they were actually in a circle formation, but I have my suspicions. There was clapping, and singalong-ing, and folksy-ness abounding. Let me just remind you all that I live in the city, where yards are eensy little squares that butt up against each other in blocks. I snuggled up in bed and tried to sleep, and debated with myself about calling the po-po on them. I just couldn't bring myself to do that, because, well, hippies...they're so harmless. And they integrated a loud, buck wild cowbell into their drumming, which allowed Nordic Boy, Neighbor J and I to re-live the Christopher Walken/Will Farrell cowbell skit from SNL, so it was good times all around.

3. Does anyone else find that "Lips of an Angel" song the Funniest Thing Ever? Just asking.

4. Neighbor J crashed at my house on Saturday, and we stayed up until all hours of the night, laughing so much my throat and stomach still hurt today. Before I went to bed, I washed my face and brushed my teeth, but my MAC lipglass was a mighty powerful thing and some of it stayed on my lips as my head hit the pillow. The next morning, as Nordic Boy got out of bed, I did a double take. He had glitter ALL OVER his face. Apparently our nighttime smooching made him into Simon LeBon. I guess that means I have the Lips of an AAAYN-GEL.

It's not much, but that's all I've got, my lovelies.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Birthday Map

It's been a while since I have done a birthday shout-out people! And today is the day for a GOOD ONE. Happy birthday to my awesome friend Map!

Mappella, where to begin to talk about her? It's hard because I can't really remember a time when I didn't know her. Along with Alli, she is my oldest friend. The thing about Map is, she is FUN. Eff You Enn, fun. Not only that, when we were growing up, she had BAWLS. Gigantic cajones, people. We went to a large public school in a factory town, and let me tell you some of those teachers we had were mean, nasty wardens. Not a lot of nurturing. Lots of unnecessary corporal punishment going on. I remember my 9th grade math teacher actually throwing a kid out of his chair onto the floor. Rough stuff, right? Teachers were there to KEEP US IN OUR PLACE. And Map, well, she would not be put in her place. She defined her own place, on her terms. And that rocked all of us.

The thing about Map was that she was so friggin' SMART about her rebellions. She would mess with people in good humor, with a large dose of irony. Like, the other kids would do stupid things like smoke in the bathroom (snore) or sass back to teachers (boring) to get their point across. Map was much more creative. Like, we had a dress code in high school-- no shorts was a big one, for some reason. So, Map wouldn't wear shorts, but she WOULD come to school in her pajamas. Just march into first hour wearing her pajamas, with no hint of defiance on her pretty face. Who me? she would seem to say. Oh, yeah, I guess I AM wearing pajamas. Is there a problem?

In 11th grade, we had this US History class that was a total waste of time. It was basically a free hour, where we had no real assignments, no reading to do, and no lectures. Half the time I don't remember our teacher even being in the room. Yet, there was a strict policy that we could NOT be late. If we had something like 25 tardies, we automatically failed the class. You must be on time for this hour of nothingness! Butts in seats for...no reason! So, Map, Alli, and I started sporadically showing up late. Although Alli and I did this every once in a while, Map took being late to a high art form. In my high school journal, I have documented that she went to the absolute brink of failing-via-tardiness each and every marking period. The days that she wasn't late was only because she put her foot over the threshold of the classroom door AS THE BELL WAS RINGING. She never made a statement about this. She never sassed our teacher. She was perfectly pleasant about it every day. Just late. She also gave us (Alli and me) the brilliant idea of bringing in our breakfasts from McDonalds and just spreading them right out across our desks. Because hey, we weren't doing anything anyway, so we might as well have a hash brown or a shamrock shake or something. If she wasn't already a straight A student she should have been just for ideas like that.

Then there was the last week of school before we graduated. I'll never forget it. We were standing in the hallway and the principal of our school was standing there as well. Map went into a classroom and grabbed a pair of scissors. "Hey Mr. K" she said to the principal, just bright and sunshiney and balls out. "You know there's a tradition where graduating seniors get to keep a part of our principal's tie, right?" and she reached out and SNIPPED OFF A PIECE OF HIS SILK TIE. We all stopped and stared. Oh no she didn. She did NOT just cut off a piece of his tie. He looked surprised, but looked at her angelic-face-of-innocence and just laughed hesitantly. "Heh heh. No, I hadn't heard of that before. But there you go!" She then proceeded to pass the scissors around and we all snipped the shit out of that tie. He walked around the rest of the day with a little stub of a windsor knot, and I still have that friggin' piece of tie to THIS DAY.

So that's what I learned from Map. She was smart, she was fun, and she always, always had a sense of her own worth. She wouldn't be treated like crap and she never let the bastards bring her down. And she can still make me laugh until I cry.

Happy Birthday Map! You rock my socks.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Our Town

So Biology Girl and I have had many a night where we have stayed up way past the witching hour talking. When this happens, we come up with what I am choosing to describe as Mind Art. The material that we use to make this art is nothing but our genius little brains. One of the earliest installations that we have invented is what we like to call Our Town.

This in no way is meant to reference that Thornton Wilder play. The one that I had to read (as Emily) out loud in 10th grade opposite this kid named Jay, who had a disturbingly full, bushy mustache that I kept trying not to look at. The one that Rayanne read with Angela Chase. The one that made Mike Seaver want to be an actor. OUR Our Town has nothing to do with Thornton, and is apparently too artful for anyone else to understand.

So it all started one night, when one of us jokingly said to the other: "what in the Sam Hill was that all about?" This led us to think...who is Sam Hill and what in the Sam Hill is up with that expression? We shrugged and kept talking. Later in the conversation, one of us said something about tomfoolery. The other one of us said "who in the Sam Hill is Tom Foolery?" This, as you can imagine from reading this blog and seeing how sophisticated our humor can be, made us giggle for a good five minutes. Sam Hill! Tom Foolery! Hee hee ha ha!

From that day forward, we have added other fictional people. We have so many now, that we decided that these people were all residents of our fictional town. They even have personalities, and jobs. The population keeps growing. Jack Shit. Dot Matrix. The only rule seems to be that it has to be a common phrase or term that sounds like a name. Doesn't that sound simple?

One day we are sitting there with Nordic Boy, and we tell him about our town. "...Willy Nilly. Fanny Pack. Get it?"

To which he replied "that's pretty funny! Hey you guys. I got one. How about someone named M'Hand Stinky? Ha ha!"

Insert cricket sounds here, as Biology Girl and I did not laugh. Imagine confused faces from us both. I said to him, ever so lovingly: "M'Hand? What is M'Hand? That's not a name! And M'Hand Stinky. Well, that's not really a common phrase or term either. It's not a name, and it's not a phrase. It doesn't even really make any sense. What is M'Hand Stinky?"

Nordic Boy tried to defend his name as being funny. Just as funny as Charlie Horse. Or Dick Weed. Yes, it's funny. That's not the issue. It's just NOT A NAME. NOR A PHRASE.

Ah, well, we thought. That's just Nordic Boy not getting us. That's ok. He probably wasn't really paying attention to the explanation of our town. Who can blame him? When Biology Girl and I get talking, I bet lots of people just hear blahddy blah blah.

So then Biology Girl mentioned our town to the boy she was dating. "...Nick Knack, who is dating Patty Whack! Isn't that funny?"

To which this boy replied: "yeah! That IS funny. How about some siblings for Jack Shit? Maybe his brother's name should be No Shit!"

More cricket sounds. You see, No Shit is a common phrase, yes. But it's NOT A NAME. Why is this so hard?

This trend has continued. Whenever we mention our town to anyone, they just REFUSE TO GET IT. Why? What is so difficult? It's not the theory of relativity, people. It's just terms that sound like names. Then you make them into characters. Chuck Roast, the chef. Phil Harmonic, the symphony conductor. Russel Up, the cowhand. Get it? Someone, please. Anyone? Anyone?

We even have landmarks. My favorite is Mount Yin Yang. You see, people like to hike up the yin yang. Come ON! That's funny!

Oh I don't know. I have a feeling that if I was in room with all of you right now, and I asked who all was getting this, there would only be one hand raised. And it would be M'Hand.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Where's Your Head At?

So the other night I was in a card store with my SIL (sister in law), and she was looking for a couple of wedding cards. I haven't been in a card store for a while, because should a card be required, I make it with my own hot little mitts. That's right, I can get crafty. I'm not a Family Circle style crafter that has an affinity for the Ducks-With-Bonnets motif (who the hell thought that one up, I always wonder), but I can get arty-cardy.

So, we're in this card store, and I see that there is a card with a HEADLESS BRIDE on it. Yeah, like a bride with no head. "Look at that!" I said. "A headless bride!" When we took a closer look, we saw that what it was supposed to depict was the bridal dress, with no bride in it, just standing there, upright and ghostly. The sleeves didn't show any hands because where the hands would stick out was covered by the bouquet. And there are shoes peeking out from under the dress. So it really did look like a bride with no head. Ha ha. Funny.

But the thing is, we looked at that section of cards, and there were TONS of headless bride cards. It's, like, in fashion or something. Card after card of empty dresses and bouquets with no bride. "Look, there's another one, " SIL would say, "and another one. And ANOTHER one." And after a while, I started to get creeped out.

Now, I know what you're thinking. I tend to get creeped out by traditional bridality in general, so you think I'm just extending my non-bridal feelings to these perfectly acceptable cards. But that's not true. I mean, just THINK about this. A headless bride. Over and over again. This HAS to mean something, doesn't it? Like, the dress is so paramount, that it doesn't matter who/what the bride is. The accoutrements of Wedding Land are what matter, people, and don't you forget it. The bride's happy face? Forget it. The bride's corporeal being? Mere detail. Come on, isn't that kind of icky? Just a little?

I don't know. Maybe I AM just biased. I probably shouldn't have gotten so worked up about it. It's just a few cards, after all. I guess I just lost my head.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

The Finger

I should have known something bad was about to go down. Something was just not right about the day. So the first warning I had was this. I had a day at the library where not one, not two, but SIX DIFFERENT creepy men trolled their ominous comments my way. Six. What can I say, I have a gift. I am a maggot magnet. One of them told me that I was the "best little librarian ever," and that he wasn't just saying that to "kiss up" to me. Kiss up? What kind of power do you think I have that you would think anyone would need to kiss up to me? I DO have the magic bypass key to the copy machine that will get you free copies, but that's about all the power I wield. Another one of them asked me if I thought Tom Cruise was cute. So that's not technically a come-on, but when followed up by "some people tell me I look like an older Tom Cruise," it's not a conversation I need to be a part of, people. Another one of them called me "schweetheart." Like Bogey, but so so incredibly not like Bogey.

Then, my mom took me shopping for a little pre-birthday birthday shopping. I admit it, this made me cheer up a little after the creepy crawly day I had. I am not above the idea of retail therapy. Buying some cute clothes goes a long way with me. Don't even try and shame me about that because it won't work. So, a-shopping we went. And I tried on, oh, maybe six or nine THOUSAND things. And none of them looked good. I am not even going to get into the whole skinny jeans and high waisted pants issue right now. Other than to say that this season's clothes look like dookie on a stick with ranch for dipping sauce. How else can you explain away shoes that look like this and cost fifteen HUNDRED dollars? Or this? Hi, I'm a Gladiator with Marc Jacobs shoes. What about this one? Seriously? Nanook of the north, with pompons?

Then, I went home and started pruning a tree of mine (because that's what I do now? apparently). I was using my little garden branch-saw that is cute and blue and very toothy, and oh my god I sliced my finger open. Right through my tough garden gloves. I hadn't injured myself like that for a long, long time, and I was aghast at how much gore I could produce. It was so...gross. The first thing I thought of was that Elmer Fudd line, when he says to Bugs: "Wet me see the cowor of your spurting bwood" and Bugs goes "My SPURTING BLOOD!?" Does anyone else remember that? Why do I remember this crap in such a savant-like manner? Hells if I know. My point is, that my incredulosity was Bugs-like at that moment. How could I be spurting blood? It wasn't QUITE like those old 60s Japanese tv shows-- oh what the hell are they called---Zatoichi. It wasn't quite like that, where the samurai stab each other and the blood shoots out like Old Faithful. But it was nasty. And so...not ladylike. It hurt like a mothershanker too. So now, even as I type this, it stings me. Ow. See how I commit to this blog? OW. The only upside to this is that it happened on the back of my middle finger, and so when I tell people about it, I show them the bandage and flip them the birdie simultaneously. "Yes, I did hurt my finger," (up goes the birdkins). I take pleasure in this. It's a free bird-flipping pass. For that I will endure the fact that I ginsued myself.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Once Handwritten, Twice Shy

I am a correspondent. Not like a Brit Hume Rita Cosby Nina Totenberg kind of correspondent. I don't rove the globe in a trench coat seeking answers to questions like what brand of fetishy boots does Condie Rice wear or how come Dick Cheney shot his homie in the face. I am a correspondent in the sense that I enjoy corresponding with people. I like emailing, and love IMing, and I write good old fashioned snail mail letters at least once a week.

So as part of my schtick here in Libraryland, sometimes I try to make community contacts a few different ways. Email works for some, but for others an email from me, the librarian they haven't yet met, is something that goes straight to the trash. To them, seeing my name pop up in their inbox in no different than a gem from Hortense Lipschitz with the subject line "pretty baby and nothing hardness?". (That's an actual spam that sits in my inbox right now. That Hortense. Always talking about people's nothing hardness.)

So to combat this, I do a few different things. Sometimes I do what I call a "drive by," where I stop in to the school/community center/organization unannounced with all sorts of library goodies to introduce or re-introduce myself to whoever may be in need of my librarianing services. Sometimes they have time to chat with me, which is great, and other times they don't, but in any case I always leave behind a packet of info and my business card. I figure maybe they will remember me if they've taken a gander at my fancy shoes or my winning ways.

Another thing I sometimes do is write a handwritten note to some contacts, along with sending them whatever information I am peddling that day. I really believe that a personal touch will be noticed, and although I am most likely deluding myself, it makes me feel more optimistic about getting these effers' attention. And I need to keep the faith, because sometimes my relationships with community contacts hearkens me back to the days of Bad Boyfriends for Librarian Girl. I chase them and call them, then wait by the phone, willing it to ring. Do you think he noticed me? Will he call? Only to be disappointed when a local teacher strolls into the library and I excitedly say "hello again," only to be met with a halfhearted "oh, hi. what was your name again?" I swear, all these teachers would have to do is go to third base with some other hoochie at Mike Maverdes' party and I will be convinced that I am in 11th grade again.

So today I sat at my desk and wrote out a few handwritten notes to some area teachers, inviting them and their students to a library program coming up next week. I put the notes in an envelope, along with my business card and a flier, and mailed them off in hopes that they would stir up an audience. "I hope to see you there! Sincerely, Librarian Girl." This was the way I ended each note. After writing this a dozen times, I sealed up all the envelopes. Then, I froze. HAD I written "Sincerely" on each of those notes? Because, you see, I write a lot of cards, notes and letters in my personal life, and I never write "sincerely." I usually write "love." Had I, in my ever-so-personalized-but-yet-absentminded way, accidentally signed my name the way I usually do? Had I said "hope to see you there! Love, Librarian Girl"? Oh good lord. Now that I have had this thought, I am 50% positive that I could have. So do I rip open all these envelopes and check? No, because that would be neurotic and wasteful. Because I didn't write that! I don't think. I pay better attention than that. Don't I? I went ahead and sent the notes, for better or worse, even though I know that the last thing you want to do with a Bad Boyrfriend/School Contact is to ever use the word LOVE with them. Right? And if any of you out there tell me that these contacts are Just Not That Into Me, I will pull a Dick Cheney. Seriously.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

En Garde!

It's fencing time, people!

You may be tired of hearing about my ugly yard, but I am not through yet. Yes, I have only had a house for a couple of months, and you may think I am turning into one of those scary lawn-crazed people, but I swear to Jack Lemmon I'm not. Believe me, I know what a lawn-crazed person looks like. They are people who have pristine lawns, who cut and shape and prune everything to sparkling, trim edges. My neighbor, on the left side of me, is such a person. She's retired, and all she does all day long is sweep her front steps and walkway (at least twice a day), and work on her yard, which looks impossibly lovely. No fallen leaves on the ground, no blades of grass out of place, no flowers unbloomed. She tries to be nice to me, but the state of my yard is just too slovenly for her to completely wipe the disdain off of her face. As I slave away, trying to clean all the crap up, she comes over to say ever-so-helpful things like "you sure do have a lot of cleaning to do, DON'T you." Yes lady. I do. Thank you so much for pointing that out, and wrinkling up your nose at me while making such a pithy observation. I KNOW it's disgusting. I'm the one knee-deep in overgrown shrubbery, wrangling this god damn fern within an inch of its life. I'm the one looking at your yard next door in deep green envy. Some day I will have flowers. And green grass. And fluffy, healthy plants. Just not today, ok? Because I can't work that fast. I'm not the Jolly Green Giant. I have other things to do with my day other than tend to my yard. (I'm not really sure about that Jolly Green Giant reference. Did the Jolly Green Giant have anything to do with plants? Did he grow peas or something? Why was he green again? Didn't he have a toga made of leaves or some shit like that? The librarian in me should look this up, but I'm off duty. So just go with me.)

On the right side of my house, however, is the exact opposite of the Super-Clean-Yard Maven. The right side is trrrrashed. It's a rental house, filled up with college kids (ha ha, look at me calling college students "kids." Ok, grandma!). They are lovely people, who came over the first day and introduced themselves, gave me their phone number, and told me not to hesitate to call them if they ever got too loud. And they never have gotten too loud, which makes me really happy because I don't ever, ever want to turn into that "you rotten kids!" lady. I have a soft spot in my heart for them. They are all gothed out, bless their Robert Smith souls. Why do I start to feel all big sisterly when I see white powder and black eyeliner? I don't know. It just makes me want to bake them all muffins or something. Go ahead and psychoanalyze. I mean, when I first fired up my laptop when I moved in, my wireless connection bled into theirs, and a little message box popped up on my screen asking me if I wanted to join the wireless connection called "Necropolis of Angels." How friggin' cute is THAT? It's better than kittens.

So although I love these kiddies, I don't love looking out my windows into their yard. For all my yard's ugliness, theirs is Quasimodo hideous. They have a big, overstuffed, moldy couch in the backyard, with oodles of beer cans strewn about. The house itself is painted a barn red, and the picture window that faces my house showcases a large skull-and-crossbones flag. Not only that, but on one occasion, I looked out the window from my afternoon tea, and I saw...um...naked nudity. Nude nakedity. One of the kiddies didn't care to be-clothe themselves and walked around doing chores. Sweeping. Wiping off windowsills. Hi. Young one, you're nekkid. Stop that.

So, Nordic Boy built me a fence. He ordered lumber, started work on Friday, and worked on it over the weekend. Now, I am in love with my brand new fence. Look at how pretty.




Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Energize

After a gloriously relaxing vacation, one should feel refreshed and rejuvenated to go back to work, yes? That's how it's supposed to go?

I'm feeling tired, people. I just got back and I am tired. Maybe this is because I was meant to be independently wealthy, luncheoning with those Ladies Who Lunch and taking Creative Macrame classes to pass the time. Or maybe it's because the amount of work I had waiting for me on my desk and email inbox when I returned was wicked retahded. It's the beginning of the school year, where the hordes come swarming through the door once again, all making a beeline for the reference desk, where I sit and wait for them with a horrified, glassy-eyed look on my face. Ha ha. Just kidding. Sort of.

So, in this time of fair-to-middling energy that needs to be pumped up to high-energy, I start to think about the things about my job that would appeal to the ten year old in me, who always had energy. When I was ten, I would fight the idea of going to bed. Now? I am having a love affair with my bed. I am like Ronnie Cammererie from Moonstruck, talking to myself as Loretta. That's right, I'm Nick Cage AND Cher, all in one, having a grand old conversation with myself about my bed. "Everything seems like nothing to me now, 'cause I want you in my bed." These are the things I say to myself. This morning, as Nordic Boy heroically tried to get me to wake up, he resorted to doing his best Barbra imitation by crooning that Yentl song into my ear. "Sweetie can you hear me?" Damn him for always making me laugh when I want to sit in my Grumpster Dumpster.

So when I was ten, I loved stickers. (Follow me on this people, I know I am reaching, but I need to do this right now). My favorite store was Happyland (was it a chain? does anyone out there remember Happyland?) in the mall. It was a whole store of stickers. Rolls and rolls of stickers. I had a little sticker book and I would go to Happyland and fill up my book with crap. Contrary to most little girls of the 70s and 80s, unicorns and rainbows were not my milieu. I was more a hearts and stars and geometric shapes kind of girl. So now, as a librarian, I often get to work with stickers. I stick the spines of every new book in my collection with a sticker. The ten-year-old in me should be ecstatic that I have found a profession in which I am being paid to work with stickers for a few minutes each week. I mean, what's next? Building shelving out of legos? Making displays using Fashion Plates?

Another thing that I used to think was awesome as a ten year old was People Who Were Allowed to Push Buttons. As a child, I had no button-pushing power at all. Children are more often told "don't press that!" when around buttons, and the highlight of my life was getting in an elevator and being told I could press the appropriate button. Children have few button-pressing rights, or at least they did when I was growing up. So, when I would go to the grocery store and watch the cashier press the "total" button after scanning in our groceries, I was rabidly jealous. Look at that cash register, I would think to myself, all those BUTTONS. My fingers would ITCH to push them. And now, here I am, with an entire keyboard ALL TO MYSELF all day long. Pushing buttons. Right now. Look at that. Doing it now. And there again. And now. And again. The inner ten year old is in paroxysms of joy.

Now if only I could find a way to incorporate sucking down pixie sticks, getting my brother in trouble, and singing the "hanker for a hunk of cheese" song into my work day, it would be ideal working conditions. But for now, I'll take the buttons and stickers.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Chip Tip

Do you know someone who seems to be universally loved? Someone who, every time their name is mentioned, the chorus around the room erupts in comments like this: “she’s so great,” and “oh, I love her,” or “she’s the cat’s pajamas with extra chips.” I do, and it’s well deserved. This person IS the cat’s pajamas with extra chips. Then there are other people, who, although maybe not universally loved, are highly thought of amongst a chosen few. I know those types of people as well, as when I name drop them I hear The Love emanating from at least few people around me, without fail.

This got me to thinking-- do the Loved even know about the feelings of the Lovers? Is the Loved walking around in her life, thinking she is just a run-of-the-mill somebody, with no extra chips whatsoever? Perhaps the Loved is YOU. Can you have extra chips this WHOLE TIME and not even know that you have them? I think you definitely can. Check your pockets, immediately. I think it’s a sad, sorry shame if you have surprise chips. Why can we not tell the people who we think are great, how great we think they are? Why just talk about them behind their backs, like a drrrrty secret?

I can understand if you’re too shy to do that--because, let’s face it, it may be kind of awkward and stalkeresque to lean into your friends’ faces and say “you’re so great. You’re a fabulous, gorgeous piece of human, you are”--unless you’re friends with Arthur Fonzerelli, who is used to such adoration and loves it as much as Shirley Feeney loved Boo Boo Kitty. (Hey look at that, a pop culture reference WITHIN a pop culture reference. I’m like layers of a fucked up onion, I tell you). But if you ARE too shy, how about passing along the sentiments of another Lover to the Loved. Be a Messenger of Extra Chips. Just point out that the person is in possession of said chips, vis-a-vis a comment you heard from another. Like this: “hey, I ran into Charo yesterday. Your name came up and she was talking about how lovely you are.” (And, wow, how awesome would it be if CHARO thought you were lovely?) If we all did this a little more, people would become aware of their chips. And you may discover that you have some yourself. So go on, do it. But if Charo does that creepy Cuchi Cuchi thing when you talk to her, keep that part to yourself.

Kiss the rings, I’m out.
Librarian Girl

Never Say Goodbye

After ten glorious days of whooping it up, I woke up at the crack of ass to drive Biology Girl to the airport. As we pulled up to the terminal, a man and a woman stood on the sidewalk, embracing tearfully. I couldn't really tell what the relationship was, but it looked to me like a brother and sister. They stood with their arms around each other, chins resting woefully on each other's shoulders, tears running down their faces. "Oh," said Biology Girl as our car came to a stop, "a tearful goodbye." She turned to unhook her seatbelt, looked me in the eye, and reached for her door handle. "Let's show them how it's done."

You see, Biology Girl and I have gone through many goodbyes together. She lives two states away, but we visit six, seven times a year, and so we're constantly au revoiring ourselves silly. And let me tell you, it SUCKS. Completely. This is because I am in some serious friend-love with Biology Girl. I hate it when she leaves. I want to throw an inner tantrum every time it happens. But I don't. And neither does she. Even though she's one of those Sex in the City friends, the kind where you could hang out all day, every day, and never get sick of each other. Even though we have no problems crying in front of each other-- in fact, if there's any crying happening with either of us, the first thing we'll most likely do is call the other. Even though we tell each other all the most embarrassing truths about ourselves, including the time one of us accidentally left her underwear at work and the time the other one accidentally got her grad school professor to say "I love you" during a meeting. So when she moved down the coast four years ago, I thought I would die. Yes, I said DIE. Dramatic? Yes. But we have it like that.

So, the funny thing about this is, for all the emotion that goes into this relationship, you'd think we'd be one of those tearful-airport-goodbyes people. Au contraire. For some reason, when it comes to goodbyes, she and I are the most stoic mo'effers you'll ever care to meet. In every other part of our relationship, we let it all hang out. She was the first person I called when I found my high school journal so I could read the incredibly cringe-inducing passages aloud to her ("...he was wearing his tight blue jeans today...") and I was the first person she called when she experienced her first "relapse date" (when you re-date someone you thought you were done dating). But with good-byes, we turn into...I don't know...college football players, who downplay emotions into a "bye, dude" even though they just spent the afternoon hitting each other on the ass and intimately rolling around in the dirt. Not that Biology Girl and I have ever hit each other on the ass or rolled around in the dirt, but figuratively speaking, you get what I'm saying. We just give a quick hug, maybe a "seeyalaterbye" and she walks into the terminal and I get into my car. Done. No fuss no muss.

I don't know why we do this. Maybe it's because the goodbyes suck so bad, and we are so overwhelmed with emotion, that we don't want to start up with the waterworks or we'll just be boo-hooing for the rest of the day. Maybe we've said so many goodbyes to each other that they have just gotten easier. We know we'll see each other soon. There's no sense of wistfulness, like you have when you say goodbye to someone and you think you may not talk to them much any more. I know that Biology Girl will most likely call me on her cell phone before I even get back to my house. So I'm not sure why we do this.

So, as Biology Girl said, we did show all the tearful goodbyers on that terminal how it's done. A quick embrace. "See ya." "Yeah. See ya." "Call me later." "Yeah."

See ya.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Beach Trip 2006

No matter how well you know your loved ones, new things continually come up to surprise you. This past week spent at a beach house on the coast with my most cherished ones was no exception.

1. 100% cute and stylish Biology Girl, once a year on this trip, dons a red hat, grabs a book, and turns into a 70 year old grandpa.




2. This book, found in the rec room, garnered hours of hilarity when read aloud, and new vocabulary was gained by all. (I'd never heard of a "man root" nor "love milk" before. And maybe I was better off for the not-knowing).



3. When attempting Lil' John impersonations, Neighbor J and Biology Girl have never sounded more girly nor whitebread. Imagine a high, dainty, Andrews sisters vibrato version of Lil' John. "Hokaaaay. Hokaaaay."

4. My foosball crown was taken away from me by Neighbor B. Taken away! And he got called a "heffer" for doing so. Sorry Neighbor. I likes me my crown.

5. If the point of playing pool was to scratch, I would be the Master Billiarder of the Universe.

Flipped My Lid

All my life, I've found going to the eye doctor kind of creepy. It's the darkened room, the stranger all up in your face. It's weird. I don't know why the eye doctor is the one that specifically wigs me out, since any type of doctor is pretty much inside of one's dancing space. (Remember Johnny in Dirty Dancing? "This is my dance space. This is your dance space. I don't go into yours, you don't go into mine.") Doctors can't heed the sage words of Mr. Castle. They are supposed to get in your space. Dentists are all in your mouth and stuff, but yet, I'm comfortable with that. And other types of doctors, who tend to make you wear those buttless paper outfits (now THAT should be a Project Runway challenge: "make a better looking disposable paper hospital gown. Carry on!"), you'd think that would be the creepiest form of doctory going. But no. For me, it's the eye doctor. Maybe it's the lighting. Other doctors' offices keep the lighting harsh and bright, clinical to the max. Eye doctors, though. They get you with that mood lighting. The lights go down and you half expect a record player to pop out of the wall and a wet bar to flip out of the counter, like Rock Hudson's apartment in Pillow Talk. Or at least that's what you expect if you're me, and you think that life could turn into a Doris Day movie at any moment.

When I was growing up, I had this eye doctor who was perfectly nice, but he used to wear this head gear thing that had a light on it. Like a miner. So there I am, a little kid, sort of scared of strangers, and there's this guy who looks like he's half Borg or something, looming over me. The other thing I remember about him is that when he was up close to me, I could hear him breathing, and he always had a sort of whistling sound that came out of his nose. I almost expected a tumbleweed to drift out of there.

My other memorable eye doctor was one that Neighbor J and I went to, who we dubbed The Lid Flipper. He was a socially awkward man, who made stale jokes and never could pronounce my name right. The awfulness about him was that he would do this thing where he would check the inside of your eyelids. I have never, before or since, had any eye doctor do this. He would take this long Q-Tip, tell you to look down, and press the cotton end of the Q-tip onto your upper eyelid, and FLIP IT INSIDE OUT. Remember how there was always some weird little boy in elementary school who could flip their eyelids inside out? Well, this one grew up to be an eye doctor, and he's doing it to his patients. Lemme tell ya, it don't feel so good. It burns, actually. And of course, when you're at the doctor, you just try to go with whatever hellish thing they are putting you through, instead of yelling out "what the fuck are you doing flipping my eyelids inside out? You getting your jollies offa this, Lid Flipper?"

So, after a few sessions with the Lid Flipper and a change of health insurance, I found a new eye doctor. Just picked his name out of my insurance book (such a great thing, our health care system). Well, people, I hit the jackpot with this one. I now have, what I am sure is THE BEST EYE DOCTOR EVER. I love him. He's nice, he's funny, he makes such lovely, witty conversation. It's like you're hanging out with a friend, only-- oh yeah-- he's checking your eyes too. He's always so pally, asking me about the librarian business, so happy to see me, and we often talk lovingly of Chicago, where we both used to live. We have, like, these real conversations that are actually entertaining. So now, I look forward to going to my eye doctor.

Ok, you got me. I confess. In addition to all of the above, he's also, um, well, how shall I put this...he's hawt. Yes indeedy, I have me some eye candy for my eye doctor. Believe me, there is no impropriety involved, but...sigh...he's foxy. So, there I am, a life-long creeped-out-by-the-eye-doctor girlie, and, well, I'm not minding the dimmed lights quite so much. Sure, go ahead, be all up in my space. I suddenly don't have a problem with that. In fact, I sit there and think up funny things that I could say...

Him: Could you read the last line on this chart please?
Me: U R H-O-T.
Him: What?
Me: Oh. I mean... I M O-V-E-R-H-E-A-T-I-N-G.
Him: Oh no.
Me: Oops, sorry. Did I say that out loud?

Ok, so maybe going to the eye doctor is still creepy. Only now the tables have turned on the source of the creepyness.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl