I saw this book in the library where I work. It's called 97 Things To Do Before You Finish High School.
It got me thinking. How had I spent my youth? Did I measure up? Had I done all the things that the new-fangled youth of today are doing? So I went through the list and made a list of my own. What follows is the list of the things in the book that I didn't do before the tender age of 18. Dig if you will the picture of what this says about me.
1. Join a club.
I was racking my brain on this one. I wasn't anti-club or anything, but I honest to mergatroid can't think of any club that I ever joined. I was a part of the school thespian society, but that was the biggest bullshit club ever. There were no meetings, and all you had to do was be in a lot of plays and you were in the club. I even held an office in that club. "Scribe." Can someone please hold my hand because the sheer theater geekiness of that title is making me a little faint right now. I never scribed anything for anyone in a thespian-related context so I have no idea what the hell that was about. I remember the day I was "elected" scribe. There were four offices. President, Veep, Scribe and Treasurer. None of these people had any responsibilities at all. It was after rehearsal and our teacher was like "who wants to be thespian president?" and someone would say "ok, me." When he said "scribe" I was like "I'll do that." But that's not really a club, is it? You want to know something else bullshizzy about that club? When I was a senior, we had a graduation awards ceremony, where people got called out for best GPA and Most Volunteer Hours and real shit like that. And, for some reason, my name got called that year and I got a thespian award. Like, it was a little trophy and everything. Why I got one and no one else did I never figured out. Weird.
2. Give technology a break
There weren't cell phones or email or PDAs when I was in high school and I was the last kid on earth to even get a VCR player or an answering machine. My technology consisted of tv-watching and...um...yeah. Just tv watching. And, come to think of it, when we spent summers in Fiji, there was no tv there. So I guess I did have a break from technology. Sort of. Does that count?
3. Host a film festival with your friends.
Really? This is what the kids are doing now? FAN-SWAH.
4. Start or join a book club.
Oopsie, future librarian. I didn't even know that book clubs were a thing to like, DO. I never talked about books with my friends, really. Unless it was to tell them that this one or that one was good. But discussing? Nuh-uh.
5. Sing karaoke.
We didn't know nothing from karaoke. But this one kind of counts because we sang in front of each other all the time. Theater geeks do that, you know.
6. Dine high end on a low budget.
Not unless you count the Olive Garden, which I TOTALLY DO.
7. Record an oral history.
Kids today, I tell ya. They are doing fancy things. I didn't know shit about what an oral history was. Although one of my best friends in high school, Mike, made me a present for graduation. It was a multi-page list of every single inside joke we had with our friends. The list was more than a hundred items strong, and I still have that sucker and I love it. One night, for some reason, Mike and I tape recorded ourselves reading out the list to each other and telling the stories behind why each item was so dang funny. I don't give a monkey ball about possessions usually, but that tape was one of the most important things I ever owned. It was crazy, and funny, and nonsensical, and awesome. I lost it somewhere and I can still make myself get a little misty over the fact that I lost it. Sad. Don't you feel so sad for me? I know, my problems are so yooge. I deserve a telethon. It ain't easy being meezy, baby.
8. Spend quality time with your grandparents.
Never got to do that.
9. Learn a martial art.
Only the fine martial art of cutting others with my eyes.
10. Enter a sports competition.
Nope, but I spent much of my youth in dance auditions, and if you want to show me a more cut-throat event, I would love to see it. Maybe cock-fights?
11. Determine your blood type.
Nope.
12. Detox your body.
That would have gotten in the way of my very serious Cool Ranch Dorito and Faygo consumption.
13. Plant an herb garden.
The thought of me doing this NOW is laughable. As a teen? Whatever.
14. Know your silhouette and colors.
I am starting to doubt the validity of this book. Did they really just say that? Am I being punked?
15. Visit your state capital.
I went to the city, but never the actual building. There is nothing at all entertaining about this one.
16. Take a camping trip.
Still have never done this to this day. No one wants to take me, I think. I have asked numerous camping-type friends to let me tag along and no one has ever helped a girl out. What does this say about me that my friends are too scared to take me into the woods with them?
17. Hike to a mountaintop.
We didn't have mountains in the midwest. That's still true, right? Now that they have earthquakes there, who the hell knows.
18. Make a podcast.
Once again I reiterate that I was brought up in the days of yore when we had to do things like order plane tickets over the phone and buy stage makeup because drug store/mall makeup didn't carry brown colors and there was no such thing as a self-service slurpee maker and we played text-based games on our Commodore Vic-20s. So, nope.
19. Keep a scrapbook.
20. Learn to match beats.
Although I did know how to run a sampling machine and a sound board in high school. Do they still even make sampling machines? Or did I basically just say that I know how to work a Victrola?
21. Create a comic strip.
No way. The closest I came was I created a storyboard once for a film class. Sort of the same? Kind of? A little? Ok not really.
22. Paint your room.
23. Write your own manifesto.
Kids are writing their own manifestos these days? NUTS.
24. Contribute to community beautification.
Please. I mowed my parents lawn until I wanted to DIE. That was all I could take.
25. Visit your local officials.
If by this you mean my local McDonald's drive-through officials.
26. Write an op-ed.
Dang, I missed out on that one. I had very strong opinions about Betty versus Veronica.
27. Understand the stock market.
My economics class in high school was an effing joke. As were most of my classes.
28. Learn basic car maintenance.
I still need to get around to that.
29. Learn CPR.
Yeah, that one too. What the hell have I been doing with my life?
30. Ride a horse.
I had never even seen a real horse except but once in 6th grade camp.
31. Bury a time capsule.
What was I going to put in there? My acid washed jeans and my autographed photo of Soupy Sales?
That's it. Out of 97 items, I didn't do a third of them before finishing high school. A FULL THIRD. A sampling of the ones I DID do, however, are: throw a house party, learn about safe sex, take an art class, make your own halloween costume, and go skinny dipping. You know, all the important ones.
I'm out,
Librarian Girl
Young 97s
"Thanks for your support"
There is something about summer that makes me just want to rock out to cheesy music. Even more than usual. I don't know what it is. It's like the sun comes out and fries my brain and all of a sudden you find me driving around town blasting Lady by Styx or Poison by Bel Biv Divoe or Whatever U Like by Nicole Stingzinger. Or whatever her name is. You know what I mean.
Here is something exciting. I got home last night and there was a large, very official-looking envelope in my mail from Stanford University. Ooh la la, Brains R Us. You know what it was? A degree. A Pee Aitch Dee. Ooh la la again!
Ok, so it wasn't mine. The name on the degree was Biology Girl, who had her degree sent to me because I am her in-case-of-emergency person (as Miranda Hobbs would say) or her "constant" (as Desmond Hume would say). When she moves or travels or what have you and she needs a permanent address to give out or whatever, that would be me. Which is awesome because then I get fancy, interesting mail with calligraphy instead of the nine thousand credit card offers that stuff my mailbox on a daily basis.
To celebrate her degree, we went out and had a fancy dinner. This was marred only by the fact that (a) Nordic Boy was tired from a long day at work followed by a long few hours after work ripping off our roof for replacement and so he was almost falling asleep into his Penne Sorrentina; and (b) I was tired and spaced out from a long day where I finished a big job assignment; and (c) Biology Girl was tired from a long day to the point where her ass was sore from writing a long paper that she has submitted for publication just under deadline. But other than that, it was a grand celebratory time.
So during dinner, Bio Girl suggested that we have some sort of ice cream or other such summery dessert after dinner. I thought that I expressed that this was a great idea, but apparently Nordic Boy and I were so tired that we gave a half-hearted response to the whole thing and she thought it was a no go. This was further complicated by the fact that (did I mention that I was tired?) no sooner had we walked out of the restaurant, I totally forgot about the dessert idea. I had a hazy understanding that we were about to go somewhere for something, but I couldn't remember. In the twenty or so paces from the restaurant to the car, I forgot where I was going.
We got in the car.
Me: (driving) Now, wait. Where am I supposed to be going?
Nordic Boy: (silence, barely awake)
BioGirl: Um, I guess you're taking me home?
Me: Oh. Ok.
See, she thought the ice cream idea had been shut down. So she went home. And I took her there, with a vague idea that maybe there was something I was forgetting.
I drove home, walked in the door, and then thought the following: "Man, you know what sounds so good to me right now? Ice crea-- hey! Wait a minute!"
I texted BioGirl to ask her what the hell she let me forget about the ice cream for. She said she thought I didn't want it. I told her I plum forgot. She was polite and didn't tell me that I am clearly a senile old bat.
I got back in my car, went to the store, got us some ice cream, and went over to her place, degree from Stanford in hand.
The best part of the whole night? Was when we were munching on our ice cream, half watching "I Survived a Japanese Game Show."
Her: Well...(munch munch)...you know...(totally unimpressed)...I'm officially done with school now.
Me: Yup (munch munch)...you have your papers to prove it and everything.
Her: Yeah.
Me: Yeah.
Her: (shrug)
(pause, munch, munch)
Her: This ice cream is good. Lots of peanut butter cups in it.
Me: Yeah?
Her: Yeah.
Sometimes I think she and I are the Bartles and James guys. Without the wine coolers. Although perhaps we need to have the wine coolers, just to liven things up.
Yeah?
Yeah.
I'm out,
Librarian Girl
Readership to Librarianship
You know what I heard? I heard it was Take Your Blog Readership to Work Day some time this week. Josh said so. But then, Josh says all sorts of squirrelly things that are not to be trusted because he may be just joshing, so I don't know if this one is for reals.
Hey- Josh could be JUST JOSHING! How could I have never thought to say this before? These are the moments in my life that should be celebrated in some sort of Italian Roast Instant Coffee commercial.
Anyway, I will pretend that Take Your Blog Readership to Work Day is real. To that end, yesterday during a lunch break, I took some half-hearted photos with my craptastic camera phone while on a lunch break to show you, my Readership, how I roll as I work in Librarianship. Because anything that has that many "ship" words in it HAS to be fun, right?
First of all, yesterday was an awesome day on the Librarian Ship because this morning, before we opened, there was a surprise party. And the surprise party was FOR ME. See, I am transferring to another library location next week, and the staff at my current location threw me a party to say "later, gator." It was way awesome.
You want to know something really pathetic about me? (Just add it to the list, yo). I have never had a party thrown for me before. Like, EVER. Except when I was growing up and my parents threw me a birthday wingding. But, as an adult? No parties thrown for me. I have thrown lots of parties for others, lots for myself, and I have attended lots of parties thrown by others for others, and I have always had this secret thought in my head, sort of wistful-like, about how awesome it would be for someone to throw me a party. One where I don't have to organize anything. Because, you know, I am usually that person, who organizes things. And I love doing it, but this? Today? Walking into a room and having the food taken care of, and a cake, and flowers, and a nice card, and everything? And all I had to do was show up and take it all in? LOVED IT.
They even got me flowers, those rascals.
Ok, on to more common work things in the life of me.
Well this first thing isn't very common, but I have to share. People often call and leave me strange messages on voicemail. Like, people who have the wrong number. I don't know what it is, but it happens to me more than the average amount. This morning, I showed up to a voicemail message that went a little something like this:
"Um, hi. I think maybe I have the wrong number. I'm not sure. This is the SeaTac airport cargo department calling, and we have a crate of frogs here for you to pick up. But it doesn't sound like the library would be the right place for this call to go. So, um. If it IS you that is expecting a crate of frogs, then call me back."
A crate of frogs! First a surprise party and now a crate of frogs? This must be my lucky day.
Enough ridiculousness. I have boring photos to share!
The first thing that you are probably thinking of when thinking of a librarian gig is books. And you would be right, there are a lot of books in my life. Stacks and stacks of them that I get to handle and love and care for. But if I were to be perfectly honest with you, the thing I interact with more than books? Would be this.
The daily screen stare down
Usually the computer is turned on though. Obviously.
One thing my building has is an abundance of windows. Even as I sit at my desk, I am bathed in the glow of the Seattle sun, which makes scant appearances like an agoraphobic starlet.
I realize the window panes in this photo look like scary prison bars, but the effect in person is really nice. Really. Trust me.
And by the way, the word agoraphobia? Cracks my shit up. Because see, in Hindi, the word "gora" means "white person." So like, to my ear, it sounds like the word "agoraphobia" means "fear of white people." Which strikes me as hilarious. No offense to white people. Or real agoraphobics. Or people who are afraid of white people.
ANYHOO.
This is my office door. It has a port hole in it! Is that not the best thing ever? So when I am in my office, and my door is shut (not very often, but still), people can come and view me through the port hole. Or I can view the outside world as if it is a wondrous aquatic world that I dare not enter without a wetsuit.
Behold the strange librarian life.
I feel like I am painting a very odd picture with these photos. Prison-like windows, a port hole door...what does this say about my work life? That it may drive me a little crazy?
To keep myself sane, I have a photo stuck on my wall right behind my computer monitor, so that it is in my peripheral vision at all times that I am computing. It's a photo of me and my pals on our annual beach house summer vacation. Looking at it can get me through just about any bad day.
Snapshot sanity.
You may be asking yourself, Librarian, do you sit in your office all day? Why no, dear reader, I don't. Very little time is actually spent in my office. I spend most of my time in the library. But running around there taking photos is sort of unseemly, plus I was on my lunch break and I do most often eat my lunch at my desk (is that bad? It seems bad to say that) so that's the photos that you're getting.
I'll leave you with a photo of the stairs that lead from my office to the library proper. I run up and down these goldarn stairs about a jillion times every day. It is healthy for my ass and a pain in my ass all at the same time.
Upsy downsy upsy downsy
That's all I could muster up, friends. Five minutes of sitting at my desk and taking photos during a lunch break. But that's ok, right? Especially since Josh probably made this whole thing up anyway.
I'm out,
Librarian Girl
Sunshine Shoes
I feel totally high right now. You know why?
IT'S SUMMER, PEOPLE!
We have had two, count 'em TWO, glorious days of sunshine, right in a row. It is too exciting to bear. I am going to make this one quick since I have to clear my schedule for traipsing around in the sunlight and thawing the hell out.
Remember how I told you that my friends, Hopscotch and Rambo, recently got hitched? And how my hiney was in motion on the reception dance floor in celebratory glee? I have a post script to that story.
So picture me, busting a move in the middle of a crowd of wedding guests of all ages. Are you picturing it? I don't feel like you are really picturing it. PICTURE IT.
In the midst of this crowd of dancers, there were these two teeny little girls. They were wee ones after my own heart, as they were dancing it up just as hard as their little legs could go. But then, you know what happened?
They saw my shoes. My lovely, delicious sunshiney shoes.
AND THEY WERE CAPTIVATED.
They both, simultaneously, got down on their little round bellies, crawled toward my dancing feet, and started to worship the shoes.
I had to stop dancing and stand there for a minute. They both just melted there on the floor in front of me. They reached out with both hands, and petted my shoes. For a good long minute. Pet pet. Pretty pretty. Pet pet. Shoooooooz.
Everyone laughed. My friends snapped photos of this. And the kiddies just stared and petted. Not to be interrupted. Eventually, I had to stop the madness and I just sort of gently withdrew from the little hands.
I have been told I have nice shoes before. But this? This is getting ridiculous.
I'm out,
Librarian Girl
You May Call Me Your Highness
Nordic Boy doesn't really have any goopy nicknames for me. There was a phase where he called me Mushmouth because of the way I trip over my words when I am excited about something. And he calls me "Cool Breeze" a lot for some inexplicable reason (as in "what's up, Cool Breeze?") but I couldn't really tell you why. Maybe because I am cold alla time? And he also calls me "Chuckles" a lot, because, you know, I can get the giggles something awful. And the only time he says it is when I am in a fit of laughter, and I can't stop, and he doesn't quite get what the heck is so dang funny (this happens pretty regularly) and he'll just say in a wry sort of way "laugh it up, Chuckles." Oh, and sometimes he calls me birdie, or sweetie. I guess that is a little goopy, but on the scale of disgustingness, that's not so bad, right? No sugarlips, no snookums, no snugglebunny, no nothing like that. And you all know how I feel about the word "poopsie" so that is out.
Well, get this. The other night? Nordic Boy fell asleep as I was reading in bed. I read for about an hour, and then I turned out the light. In his sleep, he turned toward me, put his hand on my hip, and said the following quite clearly.
"Goodnight Candy Princess."
Oh. My. Goodness.
Candy Princess? What the heck is THAT? It's so...I don't know...My Little Pony-esque.
I am sure he would be so overjoyed that I am sharing this with you, by the way. But I can't keep it in. It's too GOOD.
In other news, can I mention to you that my friends and I are friggin' geniuses? We need to be officially designated as a Think Tank. Behold the lively conversation.
Me: I was driving over by Magnuson Park today, and there was pollen flying around over there the size of cotton balls! It was like pollen snow. It was nuts.
Nordic Boy: (doing a weird King Tut head bob)
Me: What is that? A dance?
Nordic Boy: No. I was dodging the pollen. Like, the pollen balls are so big, you have to navigate through them. Like that. (King Tut head again).
Me: That should be, like, the next big thing in video games.
Biology Girl: Yeah, like the Wii. But instead of a hand controller, you put this controller thing on like headgear.
Me: And the screen has pollen coming at you, and you have to not get hit by it!
Nordic Boy: It would be called POLLEN DODGER.
Biology Girl: And the goal of the game would be to get through all the pollen, and at the end, you get to save CANDY PRINCESS.
Me: Ha ha ha!
Her: Ha ha ha!
Nordic Boy: (embarrassed silence)
I'm out,
Candy Princess
Late Night With McFly
I am here today to proclaim something. Ready? This I do proclaimeth to thee:
I will not talk about the rainy weather for the REST OF THE SUMMER.
Because man. Us Seattle people? We can talk about the rainy weather. Especially in June. Constantly. It's like how LA people always talk about traffic and New York people always talk about how New York is better than everywhere else, and how Chicago people talk about where they had their last John Cusack sighting. We have to talk about rain in June! Like we have never seen rain in June before!
The thing is, it rains in June every year. Summer doesn't really start here until late June or early July. And even then it is a mild summer with rainy days thrown in. But yet, every year, we all whip ourselves into a frenzy because OH MY GOD IT IS RAINING IN JUNE. It is June Rain Amnesia. And I am guilty of it and so I shall not mention it on this here blog for the rest of the summer. Deal?
In other news, yesterday I was so tired I felt like I had a hangover. And this time, it wasn't because of insomnia. It was because of Michael J. Fox.
Nordic Boy was out of town and so I had the house to myself on Monday night. And so I did what any former Women's Studies major would do on such an evening alone. I watched the Bachelorette on tv. And it was a two hour episode. The shame! The dirty, disgusting shame. Why do I watch things that are guaranteed to annoy the everloving jeebus out of me? WHY? I think it is maybe because I want someone to talk to, and there is nothing that will get me talking like an episode of the Bachelorette. It is prime talking-back-to-the-tv fodder.
Anyhoo. After that I should have just thrown in the towel and went to bed. But I didn't. Instead, I perused my Tivo Suggestions. And you know what was on there? Teen Wolf, starring Alex P. Keaton and Frances from Pee Wee's Big Adventure! What could I do? It was right there! I had to say YES PLEASE. And I sat there and watched the whole thing. And stayed up way too late. And felt like a zombie for the rest of the next day.
This whole responsible adult thing is such a charade.
Last night, I could have had a repeat performance of the Tivo Suggestions Monster, but I was saved by Hopscotch, who came over and graciously indulged me with actual human conversation. This was lucky, as I had a fresh recording of "Some Like It Hot" simmering in the Tivo box and I could have so easily gone there.
See, when there are other people present, they can lure me away from the Tivo Suggestion Monster. Like last weekend?
Me: (turning on the Tivo) Oh my god.
Nordic Boy: What?
Me: (overcome with excitement) LOOK what is on the Tivo!
NB: The Ghost and Mr. Chicken?
Me: SWEET. Let's watch it!
NB: I'm sorry. I can't.
Me: What, are you busy?
NB: No. I just...can't.
Me: But it's DON KNOTTS! Mr. Furley! Bugging out for two hours straight!
NB: Exactly. I can't do that.
Me: Oh. Really?
NB: Really. I just can't do it.
Me: Aw, fine.
My friends and Nordic Boy help me with these boundaries. It's good, because otherwise, I may never sleep again.
I'm out,
Librarian Girl
Some Teacher
I have a serious case of the Mondays today, people. It happens to the best of us. I think it has something to do with the following facts.
1. Nordic Boy, who returned from a biznazz trip on Friday, just departed this morning for another biznazz trip. Dang job. Making him travel and leave me alone to make dinner for myself. But alas, money must be made for the purchasing of plants to insert into the bald yard. Dolla dolla bills, ya'll.
2. The gods are peeing rain down on us again and this fetish is getting WAY OLD.
3. I have a mountain of TPS reports to do. Ok, maybe not a mountain. More like two. But that is two too many.
4. My pops and his neverending medical issues can wear me out sometimes. You know all this stuff about getting older is getting better and smear on some Oil of Olay and Age Defy yourself and all that? Screw that. Getting old is hard, and your body starts breaking down, and it's scary and mean and sucks major dingus.
Ok, mini-tantrum over. I've been thinking. I should talk about books on here sometimes. You know, me being a librarian and all, you'd think I'd want to talk about books. And by golly I do. And so I shall. Salt and Pepa? Sing us a little intro.
Let's talk about books, babe-ee
Let's talk about you, and me
Let's talk about all the good books
And the bad books that can be!
Too much? I think that was probably too much.
So rather than do a review of a book (because, let's face it, you go to Amazon or to your local library or to Goodreads or to Josh for those), I will do what I do best. Tell a silly story with no real point, but in this case a book will be the fundament to the whole shebang.
That is right. I said FUNDAMENT. I is so smart.
Let's start out with a crowd pleaser. Charlotte's Web. How about Charlotte's Web? That is SOME BOOK. Get it? Like, how Charlotte weaves "some pig" into her web? And I said SOME BOOK? Woo. I exhilarate meself.
I read Charlotte's Web for the first time in 2nd grade. Or rather, it was read to me. In our 2nd grade class, our teacher read aloud to us, a chapter at a time, right before lunch. It was the highlight of my day. Not only because it is a lovely book that teaches little urban kids that pigs are in serious danger of being killed up as soon as they are born and that the pig death could happen at any time after that point, but because my 2nd grade teacher was hella weird and she only stopped being weird when she read us that book.
Miss Tiva was mean. Not a big departure for me in my own personal teacher landscape, really. Not only was she mean though. She was an oddball. First of all, she picked her nose. Didn't even try to hide that shit, either. You'd think that, when teaching kids who are at the age when they need someone to model for them good nose hygiene, that one would refrain from nasal mining. Not Miss Tiva. Not only that, she picked at other things too. Her face, the underwear out of her crack, whatevers. Even as 2nd graders, a peer group where we were still learning basic bodily hygiene ourselves, we were all totally sicked out by Miss Tiva.
The other thing about Miss Tiva was that she was seriously hooked on phonics. Like, addicted to phonics. She would drill us on the goddamn phonics until we wanted to DIE.
Her: "Dog. Dah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ahg. Repeat that please."
Us: "Dog. Dah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah..."
We would always get lost on those phonics things. We could never remember how many "ahs" or whatever to repeat.
Also? Miss Tiva freaked the shit out of me because this one time, I was at the eye doctor with my dad, and I turned the corner in a hallway, and there she was. Seeing a teacher outside of the classroom, just walking around in NORMAL SPACE is freaky enough. But what was even freakier was that there was TWO of her. Miss Tiva had a twin! Meanness times two! A child's worst nightmare! I could never shake this eerie feeling about her after that. In my mind, I was always thinking, she has a SPARE SELF.
But, for one chapter a day, I loved Miss Tiva. She read us that book and I forgot about her, and her scowl and her bad picking habits and her phonics. There is still a part of me that, when I read the words "Templeton" or "goslings" or "Charlotte," still hears those words in her voice.
Goslings. Gah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ahslings.
I'm out,
Librarian Girl
Script This
It has been the rainiest days ever the past couple of days. And not just the regular misty moisty (hey, remember that song?) Seattle style rain. This is more the pouring down rain where you actually need an umbrella ella ella when you go outside. It's serious damp out there.
I had this meeting this morning, where I had to talk almost non-stop for over three hours. There are very, very few people that I would want to listen to for three hours and my name is not on that short list. SHUT UP SHUT THE HELL UP is usually how I feel when there is an overabundance of blah blah blah. And when it's me doing the blah blahing it is no different. So, for the rest of the day, I was craving a nice tall forty ounce of shut up juice.
This week has seemed longer than all get out and my mind is kind of mushy. Not mushy like in smoochy but mushy as in creamed corn. Did I really need to clarify the style of mushy? Was that condescending to you, my darling blog friends, who can surely understand via context what sort of mush was intended? Sorry.
At the risk of sounding Ramtha, I have been surrounded by lots of negative energy lately. I am usually pretty Teflon-ish when it comes to such things because, you know, whatever. But today, it totally made me tired. My Teflon wears a little thin. But what can you do, right? The only thing you can do is make a gansta style statement that is just this side of nonsensical but all the hip hop stars do it so it must mean something right? So, let's try it. Let's make a statement about negative crap.
Yo, I just gotta keep it postive through all the haters, cuz. All this negativity is just a way for the suckas to keep me down and I ain't havin' that. It's all about postivity and that's real, son. As long as I'm keepin' it on the positive tip and keepin the hustle goin then there ain't no room for negativity in my life. Ima just do my thang.
Wow, you know what? That kind of works. Scary.
Is there a script somewhere that hip hop artists follow? Because they all say that. Just like all professional sports coaches say this in the locker room after a game is lost.
Well we went out there and did our best but today the other team just played a better game because you know we started out playing hard but we were down a couple of players and that really hurt us in the end. We're gonna have to regroup and come out fighting next week and I think we're gonna do that because we have a strong team and we're gonna come out on top but we made some mistakes out there today and we're gonna have to deal with that.
REALLY. It's like a SCRIPT. Handed out in coach school.
You know what I think? I think librarians need to have a canned statement to make after a hard days work of librarianing. So when we leave the library each night and the papparazzi stuff their microphones in our faces (as they do) asking us for a statement, we will be prepared.
Ahem.
Well we started out strong today with a string of reference questions answered but then a committee meeting came up and we just lost our footing for a moment but we recovered during lunch when my salad was full of crispy postivity. We dodged some dicey situations in the afterschool hours and could have given up but we came through and finished clean with a batch of new books and some witty repartee. Peace.
I'm out,
Librarian Girl
My Mind Is A Blank
Here's another weird thing about me, and no, the list of weirdiocrity is nowhere near exhausted.
I have a weird aversion to stuff. Things. Possessions. Paraphenalia. I hate stuff. Tchotckes. Home detritus. Accoutrements. Appurtenances. Trappings. GEAR.
You know those people that Oprah likes to parade out for all of us in a 21st century style freak show, the ones with hoarding problems? And that Australian guy who comes on and makes them get rid of all their piles of twenty year old never used wafflemakers and their closets full of brand new clogs? And we all get to say "oh my god, they are SICK!" and feel so good about ourselves because although we may have a display case full of miniature giraffe knickknacks and Thomas Kincaide figurines, at least we aren't LIKE THEM?
I have the opposite illness. I don't like having stuff around me. At all. Blankness, to me, is nice. I love it. Mm, mm, good.
What does this say about me? I feel like a stuff-anorexic. And it's not even like I feel this way for saintly reasons. I am not trying to make a big statement about the Overly Bloated Consumption of Crap in American Society. Although I do think people tend to have too many things, that is pretty much a fringe benefit to my feelings. A bonus. Like I can pretend that it's because of that that I don't like having stuff, but truly, it's an aesthetic thing for me.
I think things look nicer when there isn't a lot of stuff crammed everywhere.
That's right. I just think it looks prettier. How shallow.
So, even though I am a librarian and I likee the booksie, I haven't bought a book in like...years. The sum total of my book ownership is twenty two books. I just counted. I don't have knicks nor do I have knacks, I have one set of mugs (what is with the mugs, people? Everyone I know has a bazillion mugs!), I own less than a dozen movies, I have four canvases on which I paint, and when I am done painting on one, I just paint right over it. And clothes? You think I have a lot of clothes, right? Not true. Whenever I buy something, I give something away. I have four pairs of earrings. I have three necklaces. I have two tubes of lipstick. Not because I am Mother Theresa. Not even close. It's just because if anything in my living space gets complicated, I will seriously lose my shit.
Let's just think about that for a second. If anything in my living space gets complicated, I will SERIOUSLY LOSE MY SHIT.
That just don't seem right, do it? There's a little screw loose somewhere, is what I'm thinking.
The latest thing for me is my mantle. When I moved in, I was excited to have a fireplace. I was not excited, however, for the ugliforousness of the fireplace. Check it.
That's a Pa Ingalls stew-making fireplace if ever I saw one and you know I am right.
So, I started the home improvement whine machine. Here's how it goes. I whine for a day or two. Then Nordic Boy springs into action. A weekend goes by... and voila! I get a new mantle.
Dang I love that dude.
So now, I have a pretty fireplace and a nice big mantle. With nothing on it. What the hell is a mantle for, if not for putting out pictures, and knickknacks, and objects aplenty? THAT'S WHAT IT'S FOR.
But I couldn't do it. It was just so...uncluttered the way it was. And uncluttered floats my boat to an almost sexual degree.
To much information? Sorry.
Someone who was in the home interiors business once said to me that one's home should reflect one's soul. That your outer landscape should reflect your inner landscape. I have always loved that.
But! Then it would follow that I am a vacant person. Do I look dead behind my eyes? Has Elvis left the building? Are the lights on but nobody's home?
Last weekend, Nordic Boy coaxed me into putting stuff out on the mantle. Just try it, he said. You might like it.
So I gathered up a few things. Photos, all the vases I own (three), a decorative bowl that I usually keep fruit in on the kitchen table. I kept it there for a few days, and the whole time, it bugged the everloving shit out of me. I HAVE A MANTLE DISORDER. And as a result, I took it all down after a couple of days of interior design pain. And you know what's even sicker? The only thing I got out of this exercise is my saying to myself "Three vases? THREE? Why the hell do I have three vases? THAT IS TOO MANY VASES!"
Oprah, please help me.
I'm out,
Librarian Girl
Mind Reader
Lately, I have been thinking about what my perfect karaoke song would be. Why am I doing this? Am I going to be karaoke-ing any time soon? No. But I was at a karaoke establishment a few weeks ago, and the indecisiveness of my party (I am including myself here) on what we all wanted to sing was PITIFUL. Pitiful, I tell you. For some, the indecisiveness may have been a red herring. I suspect it may have been a way for some to deflect their fair karaoke turn. Hmmm, I can't be next to get up there and make an ass of myself. I haven't decided on a song. A likely story.
But not me. My indecision was real. I couldn't decide! And ever since then, I have been ruminating on what the perfect choice, for me, would be. It came to me over the weekend, and I was SO EXCITED. Again, why was I excited? I am not planning on going back to karaoke land any time soon. But still. I have to get my jollies somehow, people.
I couldn't wait to tell someone. And in my house, the only other someone is Nordic Boy. Nordic Boy is not a karaoke-er. He is a reserved sort of fellow when it comes to public embarrassment, and to think of him willingly getting up in front of strangers to belt out a tune, or to do anything really, is laughable. It just would. not. happen. He is not a performer. But still, I wanted to tell him of the joy of my choice.
Instead of just blurting it out, I couched it in the guise of wanting to hear something that he had to say. I started it out with posing a question to him. You know you've done this. Asked someone a question not to actually hear what they have to say, but just so's you can tell them what YOU have to say after they're done jibber jabbering. This is what I was doing. I admit it.
Me: So, let's say you were to karaoke.
Him: I wouldn't.
Me: I know. But let's say you were. Like, if it was just us and our friends. Not in front of strangers.
Him: Ok.
Me: What song would you pick?
Him: Probably a Journey song.
Me: WHAT?
Him: Yeah, like "Separate Ways" or "Any Way You Want It."
Me: But... but...
See, you guys, THAT WAS MY PICK. Not only was my pick a Journey song, but it was THOSE TWO SONGS. IN THAT ORDER OF PREFERENCE. It was like he read my mind. It's not like we are playing Journey songs at our house. We haven't even heard a Journey song in years. HOW could he have picked it out of thin air like that? My songs? MY SONGS?
Me: YOU STOLE MY SONGS.
Him: What?
Me: Those were my songs! MINE!
Him: Really? Huh. That's weird.
Me: YOU CAN'T HAVE THEM!
Him: It's not like I'm really going to sing karaoke, you know. You can have the songs.
Me: Well... I don't know if I want them now.
Him: You're a strange, strange girl.
Me: You're a song stealer.
Him: Maybe we should touch and go our separate ways.
Bastard.
I'm out,
Librarian Girl
Flint Pong
I'm back, babies!
The plural of baby just doesn't come out right. Like, if I were to say "I'm back, baby!" that sounds alright. But make it babies? Then it just gets weird.
Anyhoo. I am back on the west coast after a foray to the land of my birthing. It was a rad trip. IT WAS A RAD TRIP, OK?
I'm feeling a little defensive about my trip, as I always do when I go home. Let me let you in on a little something. When I talk about my hometown, people dole out the sympathy. Like it is a town that is worth the same as a dirty tick on the ass of a dirty rat. I HATE THAT. If you want to make me a little teed off, say something to me about how assy my hometown is and then make a face like you are smelling something bad when you say it. I AM SO SORRY THAT MY TOWN DOESN'T HAVE BILL GATES AND RIDE THE DUCKS TOURS AND HIPSTER DOOFUSES ON EVERY LAST STREET CORNER. But lay off. It made me, and I'm pretty cute, right?
I said, RIGHT?
Let's focus on some of the things you might not know about that little place that spawned the crazy black-haired librarian who shoots off at the mouth.
1. Although much of the town looks tired and beat down and busted up, one thing that most people have there is a little patch of yard. Even if your house or trailer or whatevers is saggy, for some reason yards are plentiful. It's the kind of thing that makes you want to lie down in it and roll around. Which is just what I did.
View from mid-roll
2. There's also a lovely destination I like to call I'll Be the Banana For That Hammock, Indeed.
I don't really call it that but I totally could.
3. From which place you can be treated to a view such as this.
And the birdies have never pooped on me once.
4. But get in line because your gentleman friend might hog the snooze bag.
That friggin' Nordic Boy.
5. And you can run through apple orchards that used to scare the jeebus out of you when you were a kid because that's where you'd play Bloody Murder at dusk.
You still couldn't pay me to go in there at night.
See, it looks nice, don't it? It's not all drab gray factories and such like. My town my have eyesores aplenty, but it also has my parents' house. And my parents' house, as you can see from the hammock and grassy photolio, is a getaway to end all getaways. They have always had a heapin' help of hospitality for my whole life, but ever since they had grandkids? It's like a freakin' wonderland of recreational goodness. You've got the picturesque yard with lots of space for running amok, a cool front porch for watching the passersby while sipping a tonic, a crackling fireplace for late night hot chocolate consumption, a basement room with a dart board, a foosball table, and a ping pong table, every board game known to the free world, croquet, lawn bowling, a library room chock full of any kind of book you would care to read, and two refrigerators crammed to the gills with delicious sweets and savories, mostly made with organic ingredients grown in their own goddamn garden.
If I woulda told you that paradise was in Flint, Michigan, you never would have believed me, would you?
Well, maybe it's not your idea of paradise, but it sure as hell is mine.
My favorite cousin and one of my top all time favorite people in the world, Sweetie Pie, came to visit while we were there. Sweetie Pie and I grew up together and I love her to little shiny pieces more than I can really say. When she and I get together, the fun just keeps on coming. And over the years, she and Nordic Boy have gotten ever more sisterly/brotherly towards each other too, which rocks my socks. This time around, the two of them decided to play a friendly game of ping pong.
Before long? It was the most out of control slam fest you have ever seen in your life. Have you ever seen professional ping pong players? You know how they slam the hell out of that little white ball with all the force they can muster? That was Sweetie Pie and Nordic Boy. They were running around the room. As they were playing. I so wish I had a video to show you. It was like they had found their very own kindred ping pong spirit in each other. I have never seen anything like it. It wasn't competetive- they weren't even keeping score. They were just playing ping pong like it was the last day on earth and the minute they stopped playing the core of the planet was going to blow up. It was INTENSE.
It started out normal.
Then they started running after the ball and hitting it back over their shoulders while not even looking.
You know how it all ended? By Sweetie Pie volleying a ball across the table from the back of the room (they weren't even really taking the actual table into account any more) and Nordic Boy diving for it, across the table, and COLLAPSING THE ENTIRE TABLE.
You know how Mary Catherine Gallagher would always fall into tables? It was JUST LIKE THAT. The table was FLATTENED!
Nordic Boy even sliced his arm open. Oh yes. There was PING PONG INJURIOUSNESS.
How hard core is that???
We managed to fix the table, which was almost just like new. Sort of. Kind of.
Let's not mention this to mom and dad, ok guys?
I'm out,
Librarian Girl
Only Got Four Minutes, Four Minutes
Oh my word I am full. I think my mom sees Seattle as some sort of shiny, rainy, starvation camp or something because when I visit her she stuffs me like a...stuffed something.
I am too stuffed to think of the proper stuffed imagery. Just insert your own, if you would.
Either that or she thinks that Nordic Boy and I are hobbits, who have to eat every two hours or so. Or that we're newborns. I have been back in Michigan for four days and I have felt like I'm preggers with a food baby every damn day.
And now, here I am at the Flint Public Library, sitting at a computer with the damn minutes ticking down. It's going to log me off in 24 minutes! Type faster! FASTER!
Now I know what the patrons in my library feel like, and that's good I suppose, but it feels like librarian karma is biting me in the ass region right about now.
Please do not point out that I using my precious twenty four minutes (twenty two now, actually) to talk about food babies and ass-hungry karma, because I have thought of that already. I am one step ahead of you. True story.
Here is the thing, people. The city where I am from? The one that spawned me and made me who I am today, and that I love beyond all rational thought? The one that everyone else wants to feel sorry for me for, and that makes me want to kick them in the face because the pity is so unfounded because this town rocks out with its socks out? It's really...tired looking. Really, really.
Believe it or not, this has never occurred to me before. I have never noticed it. It's just something that...is, like your parents' faces or your best friend's laugh. It's like air. Accepted, completely.
But this year? I am noticing the cracks. Like, oh my sweet rattled brain, the state of the roads here! There are roads here, that if I was honest, don't deserve to be called roads. They are just patched up, ratty pieces of concrete all cobbled together in a post-pothole universe. It would be a much better ride on these roads if they just tore it out and we reverted back to straight up dirt. Nordic Boy and I were driving around the other day, and our teeth almost rattled out of our heads it was so bumpy. I couldn't BELIEVE it. The roads just didn't all the sudden get assy this year. They have always been like that. I just accepted it before. That's what roads are like at home. Whatevs. But now, I am all SHIT you have got to be kidding me.
There are more examples of this, but I only have 14 minutes left and email to check and such and besides that you get the picture. There's something about this train of thought though, that makes me uneasy. It makes me feel a little more distant from this place that means so much to me than I like to feel. It's like I am starting to look at it with the eyes of an outsider, and I don't like that feeling. You know?
Despite the way this post is coming out, I am indeed having a lovely time here. I have many photos to show ya'll when I get back, and tales of thrills and spills (quite literally) to go with them.
Ok, I only have 9 minutes left, and besides that I am sure it's time to strap on the feedbag again soon. Ha. I just said strap on.
I'm out,
Librarian Girl
Reception's Jumpin'
I went and saw my two beloved friends (and superhero librarians), Hopscotch and Rambo get all hitched up and legal-like married this weekend. A grand time was had by all. It was rockin', which was wholly appropriate since that's what they are. I wish I could show you all the photos I took of Hopscotch looking all Grace Kelly hott in her wedding dress, but that would be overstepping her privacy so you all will just have to glean it from this backend photo and then take my word for it. Girl was smokin'.
Rambo was pretty too.
The ceremony was touching, the toasts were full of love, the food was delish, the cake (in this case, a tower of donuts) was loverly, the company was to die for. I could wax poetic about all of them in detail. But what I want to talk about right now? Is the dancing.
I am a BIG FAN of wedding reception dancing. Always have been. It is one of the few things that I immediately list off when asked about what my favorite things are. It is, I am convinced, the best venue for getting your booty in a groove. It's just... awesome. There are a few things that make it particularly sweet.
1. Intergenerational dance moves. Where else in your life are you going to be dancing around with every age demographic? Granny is busting a move! Look at the toddler over there, kicking it pogo style! There were parents with babes in arms, feeling the beat to "PYT" by Michael Jackson. There were preteens learning why "Kiss" by Prince is worth dancing to. Everyone. Together. Acting silly as can be. I love it.
2. Celebrating the cheeze. I love cheezy music. And for some reason, people at weddings let go of all pretentions and let the music play no matter where it falls on the velveeta scale. They don't try to play it cool with only the songs that indie insiders know. They play Heart, and MC Hammer, and Chubby Freakin' Checker. They just put songs on and let it rip. No one rolls their eyes, no one is too cool for skool. (I have to throw in the caveat that Hopscotch and Rambo are not pretentious anyway, in any part of their lives, so this part was kind of moot for them. I'm just speaking in general).
3. All styles of dance welcome. No one cares if you're not looking cool. NO ONE. I busted out the ROGER RABBIT, people. Yes, I did. Multiple times.
4. True testing of universality of music. One thing I love to do at wedding receptions is to see which songs make everyone stop dancing and which songs bring everyone out on the floor. There is always a few clunkers but usually just one mega hit, and you can never tell what it might be. At this wedding? The hit was Bust A Move by Young MC. No one could resist it. NO ONE. Ok smarty, go to a party...
I have a rep in my circle of friends. That rep is that I close down the dance floor at wedding receptions. You know how, at the end of the reception, there are still like, two or three people that REFUSE TO STOP? They dance their hineys off long after everyone else is so over it? I am so that girl. Don't hate. Congratulate.
I'm out,
Librarian Girl
Boo!
Here's what's new with me lately.
People have been saying weird stuff to me this week. Like, on the street. Living in an urban environment, getting weird stuff said to you by strangers is not necessarily a new thing, but the quantity this week? Has been high. For instance, the other day I was walking along with my iPod in my ears. I happened to turn my head to the right, and caught this dude looking at me as he was riding his bike in the bike lane. You know what he says? "BOO!" Like a Casper the Too-Friendly Ghost thing. How is that something that you say? Then, I had a patron who I was doing some lengthy research for thank me by saying "I appreciate it, snickerdoodle." This person had acted totally normal up until that point, and then busts out with snickerdoodle. Who DOES that?
I was flipping channels the other day, and I expended angry emotion at Bret Michaels. And it wasn't for overuse of pancake make-up either. For some reason, in that moment, I was supremely insulted that Bret was trying to convince me that he was really truly LOOKING FOR LOVE. Like he is really looking for love! Come on! Is anyone on earth buying the premise? Jeez. Now why this all of a sudden made me mad I cannot tell you, but what can I say? I'm just feeling my feelings, people.
In other news, my beloved Nordic Boy was sick this week. Selfishly, this was nice for me because he didn't have to go on any biznazz trips. I'm not saying that I want him to be sick, because that would be evil. And you know what else? Nordic Boy, when left to his own devices and in control of the remote, watches Brainy Television. Hours of it. I mean, I watch my share of things that will enrich my brain, but let's face it, lots of times I am watching reruns of the Munsters or something. But this week, every time I turned around it was science and history and shit. Now I feel bad for the hours of Beauty and Geek I have made him watch.
At the library, there are little kid behaviors that I find myself extremely envious of. Like how kids will just lie down on the floor, like, whenever they friggin' feel like it. And how some of them wear capes in public. And how they get transported around in strollers or red wagons. So jealous.
Also! I am going on a trip back to the Midwest next week. I have to get some sun, and this spring has been CRAP on the west coast. Anyone want me to send them a postcard? I totally will. Email me your mailing address and I will try and find the cheeziest Michigan postcard that you can imagine. I don't think they make postcards of my hometown, but I'll come up with something.
I talked to Alli today. She reminded me of this post I wrote a while ago. I cracked myself up with that one. Mainly because I didn't really have to write anything. The photos alone were enough.
That's all that's in my brain today, fellas.
I'm out,
Librarian Girl
Prompty Dance is your chance
Have you ever used a writer's prompt book? I haven't. Sometimes people ask me for them at the reference desk, and I am always curious about them, but very skeptical. I read one once about blog-writing and it really didn't make me think any better of the idea of a prompt book. So today, while at work, I decided to go over to the shelf and pick one out. At random. Just one that looked like it was, you know, on my level.
Here's what I picked.
I know what you are thinking. GRADES 4-6? I am young-ish, yes. But grades 4-6? Is that really on my level?
Come to think of it, if you have ever read this blog before, maybe you're not thinking that at all.
I just liked the title. Write away! So punny! If I do these prompts, will I be punny like that? I also liked the book cover. Look at that kid! He is so obviously expressing his angst over the fact that his parent made him wear that Tommy Bahama getup like he was an Older Dude instead of the young gangsta that he probably really is. I can almost make out the words on the page he is writing. "Moms just don't git it G..."
Ok, so let's try this and see if it yields any results. Because, you know how I like to just spew it forth with no thought at all? I need to branch out from that.
Exercise 1. Freewriting.
Excuse me, but I think I just said that I need to branch out from spewing it out. One thing I do not have a problem with, is freewriting. NEXT.
Exercise 2. Discovery.
This exercise basically says that you should take something that you freewrote and focus on it and keep on freewriting. Is it just me or does that sound like almost the same thing as Exercise 1? NEXT.
Exercise 3. This one says to write a little note to your teacher about something you are having trouble with in school or with learning. Got it.
Dear Writing Prompter, So far I am having difficulty with these exercises as they are telling me to do what I normally do anyway. Could you start expanding a little bit please? I am easily bored and distracted so you might want to hurry up. I'll give you two more chances.
Exercise 4. Choose a picture and write something about it.
I totally already did that! About the kid in the Jimmy Buffet shirt! SO AHEAD OF ALL THE 4-6 GRADERS OUT THERE. In your face!
Exercise 5. My Life So Far.
What? A whole autobiography? As an exercise? What do you think I am? A person who hasn't lived lots of years? Like a ten year old? A fourth through sixth grader or something? Oh. Oops. Yeah.
This writing prompt stuff is just not my thing. Maybe I should try something that is actually for my own age group, but a lot of what I am seeing on the shelf seems to be of the New Age Woman Let Us Journal About Our Moon Cycles or Let's Write a Heartsong to Our Ex-Boyfriend and Then Burn It In Sage Grass type of deal, and I am so not about that.
Oh well. Prompting books. It doesn't make me want to write. It just makes me want to sing the Humpty Dance with the word "prompty" plugged in.
Stop what you're doin' cuz I'm about to ruin, the image and style that you're used to...
I'm out,
Librarian Girl
turn and face the strange
Hmmm, there's something different around here. Have I packed on a couple extra pounds? Is it a new outfit? Have I started using the gradual coloring of Just for Men products? What ever could it be?
Oh, my yes. It's a new look for this little blog of mine, which I am gonna let shine. How nice of you to notice.
You know what I did, after realizing that I wanted a little blog lift? Did I get off my Hillary Duff and do something about it? Brainstorm, make something, start with the re-designing? No I did not. What I did do was whine just a tad about how I wanted my blog to be more a reflection of me, but that I didn't actually want to DO anything about it, and my whining reached the ears of my two lovely and talented friends. I kind of knew this would happen, as all of my friends are lovely and talented, and helpful to boot, and so when talents are needed, I send out the whiny Bat-signal and they come to my rescue.
First of all, Neighbor J mentioned while we were hanging out last weekend that she just might like to design me a header. This made me really ecstatic cuz in my opinion there ain't nobody more genius at illustration and graphic skeelz than Neighbor J, whether I know them personally or not. And, within 24 hours (and that is saying something because she has her own actual paying graphic design to be doing with deadlines and stuff plus oh yeah she is taking care of a teeny tiny cute as a button baby girl so um, she's kind of busy) she had whipped up that hunk of deliciousness up there. And it is so awesome, because it is SO ME, and only someone who knows me the way she does could have come up with such a thing.
Then, my whining beacon reached the ears of my friend Josh over at Berg with Fries. He also had contacted me right away after hearing of my blah-ness and offered to help. So he (within an hour) did the rest for me. He took time, out of his day being the co-boss-man of the most awesome and super Boys from Jupiter (you should totally hire them for all your design needs) to help me out. Because he is a superstar like that.
I realize that what this whole post is revealing to you is that my friends are Class A ridiculous great people who help their friends out no matter how annoying they are and that I am a Class A lazy effer who relies on said great people. But I have to call it what it is. They are awesome and I am lazy. And as you can tell from the beauteousness of this blog, this set up TOTALLY WORKS FOR ME.
Oh, and also? I have another talented and lovely pal, Neighbor B (hubby of Neighbor J) who has started his very own tech blog where he outlines tech DIY type goodness. I will be the first to admit to you that it is a blog that I have very little understanding of, as it goes way over my head with the smartyness, but if you are a tech type and a DIY type, Neighbor B is your type of peeps and you should go read his blog. He's good people, and way brainy.
My friends rock, dude.
I'm out,
Librarian Girl
Taking a Shot
Yesterday, I went to pick up BioGirl from her new work place, and I went in to take a gander at her new office. On her desk, she has photos of her loved ones. "I wanted to bring in a photo of us, but the one photo of us in existence that I had got damaged in the move back to Seattle." I have been friends with her for a decade, people. And yet she used the phrase "the one photo of us in existence." But it's true. Photo taking is not really a part of my life. I always forget to take pictures, and so the only photos I have of myself or any of my loved ones are photos that others have taken and then given to me. Photography is a beautiful thing, but I just haven't done it even with the best of intentions. I often go on picture-taking-appropriate adventures (like vacations, or family events) with no camera at all. And if I do remember to bring my camera, it stays totally forgotten in my purse until I get home. I am just too busy LIVING. I can't be expected to LIVE and TAKE PHOTOS OF IT TOO. That's two things at once and my teeny weeny pea brain can't handle that. I am trying to get better about this. So here I am, pledging it solemnly on my blog. I will take photos of stuff. Then I will post the photos on this here blog. There. Now if I don't do it you can...well, I don't really know what you can do about it, except call me a poopy photo pledger and that will certainly get my goat so that is something. Now I have a camera phone that takes super low-quality crap photos, but they are photos nonetheless so it counts. Do not berate me on quality. I will work up to actually taking my camera out in public and using it, but I shall start with baby steps. This weekend, for instance, was BioGirl's birthday weekend. One of the things that went on for said birthday weekend was that Neighbor J and I took her out for high tea at a local grandmaw establishment. Because, you know, she is one step closer to granny status and so let us all celebrate that. The place we took her was straight up dowdy, people. It was like Laura Ashley and Queen Victoria simultaneously puked out the decor in that place. It was doilies and ruffles and patterns, oh my. And all the servers in there? They all call everyone "dear." As in, "are you all done with that plate, dear?" They are just dearing everyone like crazy with every word they say. It must be company policy or something, because what are the odds that every single person that works there has the same exact verbal tic?
If you must know those are teacups intertwined into the decorative ivy around the windows which is obviously a really wrong thing to do but they went ahead and did it anyway, dear.
That's all of the photos I have from that whole day. Remember, I said baby steps.
How about I just download the last five photos that I have? No matter how unrelated they are? Ready?
This first one? Is of BioGirl's front gate. When we were moving her in, I decided to take photos during her moving day. I started out at her front gate. Why would someone take such a photo? Of all things. The reason I took it is because she lives in the highest security building I think I have ever seen. There are a ridiculous amount of such gates and doors that you have to go through (all locked) in order to get to her apartment. And they all have different keys. Her key chain is like a janitor's at this point.
Lastly, on that same day, there was a strange thing in front of the library here. I never really got the story as to why it was there. But I did get a photo of it.
I think he's pissed about his hairdo.
I'm out, dear,
Librarian Girl
Say My Name Say My Name
Did anyone watch "Girlicious" out there? Anyone at all? Because I watched every single episode, without fail. I liked it, I am not gonna lie. I just feel like I have to confess that. I don't know much about what defines a sin, but liking Girlicious has to rate on that scale somewhere. Ok, now I can move on.
Here's what I'm thinking. Should I change the name of my blog? I am feeling an itch to do it and on many levels, I don't like to itch. I also want to change how it looks. It's time for a new outfit, is what I keep thinking. Maybe. I can't decide.
Here's the thing. I've been writing under this blog shingle for a while now (jeez louise, it's been over two years!), and when I started it, I just did what I typically do with this blog. I blurted it all out. Including the name. I didn't think, I just did. Live in the now, man. That's what I did. Only, you know why I named it what I named it? It was just because I couldn't think of anything else. And you know, is this blog really librarian-ish enough? Or pop culture-ish enough? Or am I just engaging in false advertising? I don't know. It was either that or call it...what? I didn't have any ideas. I still don't, really.
The other thing is, I'm not the only blogger out there who's calling herself the pop culture librarian. There are others. I am not going to say that they are all people who want to emulate yours truly because the name is really too generic to claim ownership, you know? And besides, who knows? There was probably a pop culture librarian before me too so I can't bitch about the people who come after me. It's like, if you're naming your kid John, you can't get mad at other people for naming their kids John too. If you wanted something original, then name your kid Moon Unit or Dweezil or something.
And besides, I have all this fear that if I change my blog name, then all of a sudden people will be incapacitated and not update their readers and links and all such like and I will suddenly lose touch with all my bloggie friends out there. I'm not calling you all a bunch of lazy slobs or anything, but my abandonment issues can get the best of me in almost any situation.
I don't know. I guess since I have no ideas about what to rename myself, then I should just shut up about it. The blog re-design though. I could get behind that I suppose. But again. Do I have any ideas of what I want this thing to look like? Nope. I just want it to be different, and something I like, and enough with this crap blogger template. (Hi Blogger company! Heart you!) Any of you want to give me some suggestions? What do you think a blog like mine should look like? I seriously do have the itch for changing this up, and I need some blog itch ointment, you know what I'm saying?
That was a totally disgusting metaphor.
Shutting up now,
Librarian Girl
Prairie On My Mind
I have a secret arsenal of knowledge, and it is this. Little House on the Prairie. The tv show, not the books. Have I ever outed this about myself on this here blog before? But there. I said it. I am not ashamed!
Chances are, if you are around my age, you may have a part of your brain that is tapped into Little House too. It was a pretty popular show for kiddies back in the day. Not only that, there was a wealth of syndication where the show was played during afterschool hours so in the 80s, if you were watching after school tv, you kind of had to intentionally steer yourself away from that show in order to miss it.
I don't know what it is about certain things that are pop culture-ish, but they stick in my head in a most alarming way. I can quote Little House on the Prairie, chapter and verse. Why can't I have this ability when it comes to scientific and historic events, or even when it comes to remembering my grocery list? For everything else in life, I have to write things down, make lists, look things up. But for certain movies, tv shows, music...it's all right there. RIGHT THERE.
Yesterday, my friend Map sent me an email wherein she explained that she stumbled across a rerun of the Little House movie "The Last Farewell." She didn't even have to go on to explain what that was. She knows that I would know that that was the final episode, where the residents of Walnut Grove blow up their town. (I am not kidding. They end the series by blowing up their own town! TELL ME that isn't awesome). Not only that, she called it "The Last Goodbye" and I knew right away that she meant "The Last Farewell." Sick, right?
Not only that, she emailed me a ton of questions about the show, because, you know, Little House can be kind of fucked up and confusing for the uninitiated. Things like logic and making sense don't sometimes happen on that show. She must have emailed me like fifteen or twenty questions. And I just ripped off all the answers. Like THAT. I kind of spook myself out when I do shit like that, you know?
My relationship with Little House on the Prairie may seem odd to those who knew me growing up and who know me now. I wasn't raised in a farming community, nor do I know anything about rural life in general. I grew up in a factory town, with all the gritty urban ambience of smokestacks and steel. My favorite shows as a child were Fat Albert and Good Times, and I just couldn't relate to Walton's Mountain or the Dukes of Hazzard. None of my friends watched those kinds of shows, and neither did I.
But then, when I was a kid, LHOTP (oh yes! I acronymmed it!) reruns started playing every day after school. I remember my mom started watching them because there were things on that show that, oddly enough, reminded her of her childhood. She grew up on a small island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, and her family used things like hurricane oil lamps and outhouses when she was a child. "Look," she would tell me excitedly during the episode "Sylvia," where Albert apprentices as a blacksmith. "That's the kind of metal work your grandad used to do." "Uh-huh," I would reply absently, too freaked out by the masked mystery man to pay attention to what she was saying. (If you have any idea what I am talking about with that episode, we could SO be bffs).
My mom's love affair with Little House was short-lived. After a few weeks of watching it day after day, my progressive, lefty mom started to grumble. "That Mrs. Oleson is just a reflection of why patriarchy is afraid of strong women who have their own money," she would rail. No response from me, as I was glued to the screen. "That Hester Sue couldn't be any more Aunt Jemima-ish if they tried. Just sickening!" she would say.
It was too late, Mom. I was hooked. I can't even tell you exactly what it was that got me. I just couldn't stop watching, even as I saw every episode and saw them all over again. I watched until my burgeoning adolescent schedule pulled me away from my after-school Walnut Grove visits.
Flash forward twenty years. I had recently moved into a new duplex apartment, which was shared on the other side by Neighbor J. She and I were instantaneously friends as we had so many things in common. We talked incessantly about any topic of interest, and it was only a short time before she mentioned Little House.
"That so-and-so works so hard, it's like he's Pa Ingalls!" was the way it started.
Me: "What did you say?"
Her: "Oh, nothing. It's just that on that show Little House on the Prairie, there were always these episodes where Pa works so hard that he hurts himself. If you watched that show..."
Me: Say no more. I haven't seen that show in years, but I have this uncanny ability of remembering them all.
Her: You're kidding.
Me: Nope. I'll prove it. Ol' Dan Tucker was a fine old man...
Her: ...washed his face in a frying pan...
From that day forward, Neighbor J and I fed off of each other in our love for Little House. It was scary, the things we remembered. We had, it seemed, whole sections of our brains that were solely meant to store LHOTP facts and memories.
Now you guys know me and my friends by now. We are not calico-wearing girlies. We do not harken back to prairie times, we do not eat stew. We are bonafide cutting edge ladies. We eat sushi, we like Jon Stewart, we read Erdrich more than we ever read Wilder. We would rather wear Chanel No. 5 than Lemon Verbena. And yet.
Yet, we have this long-standing, inexplicable, undeniable adoration for Laura, Mary, Nellie, and all the rest (ok, except for Nancy). It's a closeted love that yearns to be free. We have often talked about the fact that there HAS to, there just HAS to be other people our age, in our demographic, who grew up with Walnut Grove and who see it as we do. We know it's cheesy. We know that Pa will well up with emotion in almost every episode. We know that Carrie seems stuck at age three for ten years straight. We know all of this. But we love them anyway. And we have an inkling that there are more like us out there.
Right?
Anyone?
I'm out,
Librarian Girl
Papal Pep Rally
It keeps effin' snowing here, people! It is SO NOT CUTE.
It is not significant. I hail from Michigan so I understand what real snow is. (I just said "hail from Michigan!" Get it? I am so punny). This is flaccid little west coast snow. It is an event just because it sticks and forms a thin layer on the ground. I know this. But here's the thing, friends. If it snows in Michigan, it's because it is SUPPOSED TO. Everyone agrees on it. People have clothing that is appropriate for it, and infrastructure, and most of all they have the outlook for snow. Here? We EXPECT late April to be snow free. We expect it to snow once a year, probably in December or January, stick for one day or maybe two at most, and then be done. It's not supposed to keep coming. All of the people who move to the west coast partially move here for the gol darn weather. We were promised NO SNOW and now we are living here and it is a mild blizzard outside! I want my money back!
Ok, so I didn't really pay money for the weather, but who cares. I demand restitution for my suffering.
In brighter news, I heard something hilarious on NPR the other day. It was about the Pope. (And wow, is that Pope getting media coverage OR WHAT? It's like a 24 hour Pope Watch going on. I bet you Paris Hilton is SO jealous). Anyhow, the other day, there was this story on about the Pope visiting some college, or university, or other such book-learning institute. At the end of the news story, they played a recording of how the Pope was greeted by the student body. The students? Clapped and chanted this: "WE LOVE YOU! WE LOVE YOU! WE LOVE YOU!"
Why was this funny, you ask? Telling the Pope they love him was all fine and dandy, no comedy to the sentiment. But the WAY they did it? It was like a pep rally! In fact, if you weren't quite paying attention, it sounded a lot like a Homer Simpson style "YOU ESS AY! YOU ESS AY!"
Is it just me or is it funny to think that the sentiment towards the Pope was expressed in much the same way as oh, I don't know, the Bulls versus the Knicks game?
I don't know. It just cracked me up.
I think the snow is making me lose my mind a little.
I'm out,
Librarian Girl
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