Obviously

I am having a DOOZY of a fortnight these days. How much of a doozy? Enough of a doozy for me to say "fortnight." And "doozy" too, for that matter.

Ok, now that I have incohered for a few sentences, let's just cut to the chace crawford and let me state some obvious things.

1.It's almost November. How the hell did that happen? Halloween is upon us! And I'm all "Halloween? More like Hallow-whaaat!?" And then I have a good guffaw at my ability to entertain myself.

2. There's an election going on next Tuesday, I'm not sure if you've heard about it.

3. Getting old SUCKS DONKEY BALLS. I don't care what kind of age-defying shit you're trying to sell me. I have loved ones who are bonafide old folks and the shit they go through? Not cool, people. Your body, it starts to break the fuck down. Look, I know there are young people whose bodies also break down for depressing reasons as well. That too sucks donkey balls but I am focusing right now so don't interrupt me. Getting old sucks. Sucks. Sucks. Sucks.

4. You know how people say to you..."if I ever do thus-and-so, please promise me you'll tell me that I am being an idiot." That is so totally such a bad idea and don't you fall for it if someone says such a thing to you. I'm not talking about things like having spinach stuck in your teeth. I'm talking about bigger things. Years ago I had a friend say that she wanted me to tell her something like that, and you know what? I did, and then she wasn't my friend any more. I am telling you I am done being burned on THAT deal. So just for the record, don't say that to me, ok? Because if you turn into an ass, that's your business.

Oh, and now that stating the obvious is done, I have two questions for you.

1. One of the things Nordic Boy got me for my birthday this year was a Flip Video camera. So now, I suppose I could vlog a little if I wanted to. But I haven't been inspired. Any suggestions? Keep it clean, folks.

2. Who's doing NaBloPoMoFo this year? I need to be peer-pressured if I am to endeavor upon it again.

That's all, my sugars.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Mr. Bean Jeans

Nordic Boy and I had never shopped at Eddie Bauer. No offense to Eddie Bauer, just...we never did. Never even went it there. It was never a store that spoke to us (hi marketing, you really do control our minds), even though in some ways that makes no sense at all. I mean, they have t-shirts and hoodies. Nordic Boy is a big fan of t-shirts and hoodies. And they have jeans. And we wear jeans. But all those down vests in the ads? Not for us. And the sweaters with snowflake patterns? No way, Beyonce.

No judgment. Just not our store.

So, my jeans connection, the place where I have bought my jeans for at least the past 5 years or so? DISCONTINUED MY JEANS. Damn Lucky Brand store. No more jeans for me. They no longer love me and so what? I no longer love them. I'm not scared. There are jeans everywhere! I am a consummate fashionista! I can find jeans! NO PROBLEMO.

I know I am not saying anything new here, but DANG. Women's jeans? HARD TO FIND.

What is going on with women's jeans? Every store has jeans and they all have them in multiple cuts and shapes. Curvy! Straight leg! Skinny! Classic! Relaxed!Boyfriend! Loose Fit! Low Rise! Mid Rise! Bell! Essential!

NONE OF THESE FIT ME, PEOPLE.

Am I a freak? No. Because ask any one of my friends, and they shall tell you their own tale of woe about finding jeans that fit them right. It seems we all have them. Are you listening fashion designers of the world? Jean cuts SUCK. Next time you walk down the street? Look around at the denim-clad ladies around you. People are wearing jeans that don't fit them. Like, almost everyone. I spent the weekend a couple of weekends ago jeans shopping, and I was taking note of every ass-in-jeans that passed by and it was pitiful. Pi-tee-full.

This is why, when people find the jean that fits them, they have such loyalty to it. This is also why they sort of lose they motherflippin minds when their jeans connection is taken away.

ANYWHO. This is all to preface the fact that Nordic Boy and I went into an Eddie Bauer for the first time a couple of weeks ago. I had gone to just about every other jeans store I could think of, and this was the last stop. And although I was there, and it was fine, I suppose, I think we may have a block. A mental block. Blocking out Eddie Bauer.

Skip ahead to last week, when Nordic Boy was in Portland on business and he called me up in the evening.

Him: Before I head to dinner, I might go look for some new work shirts.
Me: Where are you going to look?
Him: Maybe I'll stop in to that one place that we went to last week. Mr. Bean.
Me: MR. BEAN?
Him: Yeah, you know. That store.
Me: First of all, I think you mean LL BEAN.
Him: Oh, yeah- right.
Me: Second of all we've never been to an LL Bean. So what I think you mean to say is Eddie Bauer.
Him: Eddie Bauer, LL Bean, it's all the same, right?
Me: Sure. Eddie, LL, Mr. Bean. Whichever.

Then? This weekend? I was going to head over to the local shopping area in my hood.

Me: Yeah, I'm going to go check out those jeans again.
Him: Which ones?
Me: The J Crew ones.
Him: Since when do you shop at J Crew?
Me: Since we went there last week! And you went there in Portland!
Him: That wasn't J Crew! That was LL Bean!
Me: You mean Eddie Bauer!
Him: YOU mean Eddie Bauer!
Me: We BOTH mean Eddie Bauer!
Him: Say hi to Mr. Bean for me.
Me: I will.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Captain Marvel and The Flash Go To Whole Foods

To me, the sign of a true city person is the ability to navigate crowds. Being able to weave in and out of throngs of foot traffic is something that comes very easily to me and this makes my daily treks through life much, much easier. This skill doesn't just help me out in the cityscape either. Put me in the slow cattle herd that is an Ikea superstore and watch me slide through faster than jello slides off a wall when you try and nail it there. (What was it that McCain said during the second debate? Something about nailing jello to a wall? And being slippery? Or something? I'm just trying to keep up with the hip McCainster slang, people).

Put two people who are expert at navigating crowds together and you've got the perfect getaway team. Throw in the fact that those two people have been hanging out together for years on end, able to communicate to each other with a mere nod of the head or a subtle hand signal, their crowd nav skills doubled by two, and you know what you've got?

Fastest. Grocery shopping. Ever.

Nordic Boy and I, during a regular market pit-stop, will take our grocery shopping slow. Chatting, moseying up each aisle, leisurely deciding on what items we're going to choose. But if we're shopping on a Sunday? When everyone else IN THE WORLD is shopping? We kick it into high gear. ZOOM! We get our list on and tag team it. POW!

We are sometimes a two-store grocery shopping pair. First, we go to our neighborhood local food co-op and get all we can there. Because it's a small market, sometimes there are a few items that can't be found at the co-op. On those days, we head over to Whole Foods, which if you have ever been to a Seattle area Whole Foods on a Sunday afternoon, you know that it is not impossible for a person to be crushed by the hordes of humanity that cram themselves in there.

So there we were, game faces on. It's like Pac Man and Ms Pac Man are playing the same board. "You get grapes, oranges, and apple cider, I'll get mushrooms, spinach, and avocado!" I say and we're OFF! Heading away and then back together, away and back together. It's really quite impressive if I do say so myself.

I never thought Nordic Boy really took note of how ridickerous our grocery shopping really is. Until this weekend.

We were in the noodle aisle, and there was a couple in the middle of the aisle, probably younger than us, most certainly not a tag team shopping pair, and clearly uncomfortable in crowds.

Woman: "Oh!" (Trying to reverse her cart but blocking the flow). "I forgot the eggs!"
Man: "Oh, uh...you want me to go get them?"
Woman: "Um. Ok...well, no...we'll just get them after. Now why were we in this aisle?"
Man: "Wait, where's the list?"

Nordic Boy zips through the oh, 72 billion people crunched in this aisle, comes up to me to drop some tomato paste in my basket before taking off to get some olives. As he walks by, he looks at me, laughs and says one word under his breath.

"Amateurs."

Listen, we don't scale mountains or run marathons. Getting through a crowded Whole Foods in under 15 minutes is ALL WE'VE GOT.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Three Scary Things

I usually have a strict policy about not boring other people with my weird dreams, but this one is too good. The other night I dreamt that I was a contestant on America's Next Top Model, and that a fellow competitor was a giant Dorito-like chip, with arms and legs growing out of it. It even had white gloves on, like Mickey Mouse. We found out that our challenge was to pose in the surf at the beach, and I was really happy because I knew I would win because the chip was totally going to GET SOGGY in the water and who thinks a soggy chip is sexy? NO ONE. But before we could start the shoot, Tyra came running down the beach and crashed right into the chip and it shattered! Tyra killed the chip! And then I felt bad for feeling glee at the thought of winning at the expense of the soggy chip.

What does this say about me? Really. I am open to interpretations.

Secondly, I thought the trees were after me again. Have I ever told you that I have a love/fear relationship with trees? I love them, because, well, they are trees and I am a card-carrying tree-hugging pinko so of course I love trees. But I also fear them. You would too if one attacked you. Remember this kamikaze leafster that came after me while I was sleeping?

So the other night, at 4am, as Nordic Boy and I slept soundly in our beds, we were jolted awake by a loud BOOM. As if a large scary item (meteor? dinosaur? TREE?) had fallen right into our house. We got up and were relieved to discover that it was only a large piece of lumber that we had propped up on our porch (leftover from Roof Replacement '08) that had fallen due to the gale force winds that have been happening around here lately. No damage, just a large belly-flop of a sound. But still. I am having tree trauma. Maybe this accounts for the weirdo dreams about Tyra committing chipicide?

Thirdly, my cell phone number? Has a very sketchy past. Ever since I got my new number, I get a voicemail message every day from collection agencies, random gravelly-voiced dudes saying "hon?" instead of "hello" and other such lovliness. I always tell the collection folks that they have the wrong number, and they say sorry and they don't call back, but new ones always start up after that. It's been kind of a pain in the nuts, and always makes me a little sad for whoever "hon" is- all these people chasing after her for her debts and all those craggy sounding dudes calling all the time. Then today, I get a message from a city police department detective asking for her to call back with the information on the "open case we had discussed earlier." Wow. I called the detective to tell him that I was sorry but that person no longer had this phone number, and he sounded absolutely crestfallen. Like, "hon" had the key to crack the case and now she had turned up missing! And now the case will never be solved!

Or perhaps I have seen too many episodes of Murder She Wrote and my imagination is running away with me. It's possible. You should just be thankful that I didn't ask the detective if he had ever heard of chipicide.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

PS- That reference to Murder She Wrote goes straight out to a special someone- you know who you are.

Smiting the Curse

As a couple of you may have noticed, if'n you've been around here long enough, for the past few years (five to be exact), I have had the Birthday Curse. This means that on my birthday, or within a week of my birthday, something stupid happens. This year, BioGirl has moved back home and she has declared herself on a mission to break the Birthday Curse, once and for all. This is a good thing because I had seriously given up hope. I had quietly (ok maybe not so quietly at first) resigned myself to a life full of Eeyore-style birthdays. She, however, was Not Having It. And if there is a hallmark to BioGirl, it is that she can make things happen with sheer force of will and even aggression if she has to. I was going to have a good birthday or she might have to give the birthday gods a knuckle sandwich, dig? It was like everyone, for miles around, had to capitulate to my Birthday. OR ELSE. She was going to boss her way into a good birthday for me and she was not kidding. 90% of me was glad. 10% of me was kind of scared. What if she put in all this effort and then my birthday sucked anyway? Now not only would I have to feel bad about a shitty birthday, but I would have to feel bad for her, that she tried and failed. It was double pressure. My expectations, and now hers. It was as if I had Double Stuff hubris cream in my oreo cookie.

I needn't have worried. She stomped that Birthday Curse right in the face! First, as I told you about before, she corralled my friends and made me up a fancy birthday advent calendar. I have thoroughly been enjoying waking up every morning and opening a gift each and every single day. POW, Birthday Curse! Eat THAT.

Besides the calendar, BioGirl and Nordic Boy also threw me a birthday party over the weekend. And the day of the party, I decided to treat myself. I went and got my hair did. My stylist offered to discount a fancy hairdo for me for my birthday (which, geez, how awesome is that?). So I went and she totally worked some hair magic on me. It was all curls and bounce and shine like I had just come out of the Tresemme Hair Salon and all I had left to do was to make a stop at the Loreal Paris Make Up Room and the Bluefly Accessory Wall, if you know what I'm saying and I think you do. My hair alone could have gotten me a seat on the Pretty Committee. It was hair magic.

And an aside-- I had a book with me during the styling appointment. I was reading this. Which is more geeky than sexy, despite the title, and so I didn't really feel weird reading it in front of my stylist. There aren't nasty illustrations or anything like that. Um, at least I thought there weren't. Until I turned the page and there was a drawing of a man putting his hand...in a pig. And by "in" I mean...IN. Like, in the pig's hoohah. Granted, the chapter was about the research on sow insemination (which did you know that that is often done by hand? I am here to educate, people) and what that reveals about the physiological fertility processes in mammals...but STILL. I closed the book fast and I am not sure if my stylist saw it.

Hi stylist! The librarian readeth the pervy books!

Anyway. My hair looked awesome. The problem? Saturday just happened to be a wind storm. 30-45 mile per hour winds, to be exact, with power outages all over the city. So as I left the salon? Pretty Committee. By the time I walked in the door of my house? Cranial birds' nest. Which I guess could have come out of the Tresemme Hair Salon, since some people who go there end up looking like this.



This may be tragic in terms of hair, but it wasn't bad enough to be Birthday Curse-worthy or anything.

I got my hair looking respectable and went to my party. And, despite my fears, people showed up. Actual people! Not party cyborgs for rent! HUMAN PEOPLE. Nice ones, even! What a relief. I really was convinced that no one would come. I was braced for disappointment. You see what the Curse has done to me?

At any rate, the party was lovely, a total success, and there were cupcakes and I got to show off my horrifying billiards skills and everything.

On Sunday, I had the perfect day with Nordic Boy. We stayed in bed until 10 (which is very, very late in our geriatric world), went out to brunch, stopped off at the bookstore to browse, and then took a two-hour nap until dinner time. Then I got to open presents from him, which were above and beyond the call of duty. Then he made me dinner, we watched old movies, and we ate leftover cupcakes from the night before. We had our phones turned off for the whole day. It was the best.

So it is official. BioGirl, Nordic Boy, and all of my other peeps have successfully browbeaten the Birthday Curse into remission. I didn't believe it could be done, but there you have it.

Birthday Curse, FUCK OFF.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Ahead of his time

You know what's weird? Nordic Boy has no idea how old anyone is. And I mean, ANYONE. Neighbor J's daughter? She just turned one this summer. When we were getting ready to go to her party, Nordic Boy is all..."how old is she turning again?" ONE. She is turning ONE. This is her first birthday; we have never celebrated her birthday ever before, ergo...she is ONE. How hard is that?

The other thing about this is he always inflates birthdays, sometimes by a year, and sometimes by several years. In his mind, people are always older than they actually are. Why this is I can't figure out.

The morning of my birthday, as I am sleeping:
Him: Wake up! It's your birthday! Happy birthday!
Me: Aww, thanks!
Him: So, birthday lady, how does it feel to be THIRTY SEVEN?
(Note to you all out there...I am not 37.)
Me: WHAT? How long was I asleep? What am I, Rip Van Winkle? How am I thirty seven?
Him: Wait...you're not?
Me: No!!!
Him: But...I thought you were turning the same age as I am.
Me: Dude. YOU'RE NOT THIRTY SEVEN EITHER.

No idea how old I am. Or how old he is. I know that this is common (I have brought it up with y'all before and you schooled me on the number of folks that don't know how old you are out there and I get it, it's a lot of you. But still. I think it's weird.)

Sheesh.

In other birthday news. How frickin' cute is THIS? (Thanks Pop Quiz Kid, for finding this).


Little kids celebrate Gandhi's birthday in India.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

If I do say so myself

I raise a glass to who I am on the inside and say...



HAPPY



BIRTHDAY


TO MEEEEEE

Done and Done-er

My mind, she is blank.

BLANK, people. Tabula rasa, wite-out, blank. They say that still waters run deep and my mind is very still these days. What about shallow still water? That's what I think I have. A still puddle, if you will. You will, right?

Maybe it's all this news I have been ingesting. I usually suck up a fair amount of news, and these days I am drowning in it. I think Charlie Rose and Stephen Innskeep and Anderson Cooper and even my beloved Jon Stewart are beating my brain into a soupy pulp. (And can I just tell you that I love the name "Innskeep"? There are so many levels to my loving that name. First of all, the double-double letters. You've got two n's AND two e's. Deelightfful. Plus, I imagine that in high school, his friends probably called him "Skeep" or something. In fact, sometimes when I listen to NPR and he comes on, I say it aloud. "SKEEP!" That's like a bad surfer nickname. Hey Skeep, let's go cut out of a cruncher and then headdip a heavy! Also? Just the etymology. Keeper of an inn. Thus Innskeep. It's kind of cool, in an old-fashioned sort of way. Like, I want a name with "keep" in it. What do I keep, though? Nothing, really. In fact, I am known for my capacity to not keep things. Librarian Girl Nothingskeep? That just doesn't sound as cool.)

Did I mention that my mind is a still puddle lately? Just thought I would recap in case you missed it the first time.

Let's see, I could tell you that last week, when I watched the presidential debate, every time Baracko would make a good point, I would yell out "BadaBING!" and everytime McCain would make a good point I would say "Bah-ZOW!" and that was the extent of my political commentary for the evening. Or I could tell you that I have taken to calling Obama "Baracko" because I saw this interview with Michelle Obama where she said that little kids often think her husband's name is Baracko Bama, and now I just can't say it right because that way is more fun. Or I could tell you that I wish that Tina Fey would do a Sarah Palin skit for me every night before I go to bed because for serious I would not get tired of it. Or I could tell you that I wish that Nordic Boy was into Halloween because I kind of had this genius idea that we should dress up as Heidi Klum (him) and Seal (me) and he is so not doing that in a million years even if it would save us from eyeball eating zombies. Or I could tell you that I am not a fan of the side-hug. You know those people that want to hug you, sort of, so they come at you from the side with one arm? Always awkward. Side-huggers, I demand an explanation. Or I could tell you that I spent a good ten full minutes the other night at dinner boring Nordic Boy and BioGirl almost to the point of tears pontificating on my problems with side-hugging. Or I could tell you about the dream I had last night where Woody Allen asked Nordic Boy to be in a movie and when we went to meet with him I accidentally elbowed Woody in the nuts which obviously ruined the deal for everyone.

Or maybe I should tell you that our roof is done. It was actually done about a week ago, but we have been too busy dancing the lambada of happy time for me to mention it. DONE, people. Dee you enn, done. Crocodile Done Dee. New wood, new decking, new insulation, new air ducts, new wiring, new fascia board (yeah I didn't know what that was either), new waterproofing membrane, new EVERYTHING. Our house has a new 'do up top, y'all, and Nordic Boy did it from start to finish. YEE-FRICKIN-HAW!

Trust me, it's exciting to us.

Bada-BING! Bah-ZOW!

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

2 Good 2 Be 4 Gotten

This is a sad story, involving balls.

You heard me.

When I first moved to Seattle many years ago, Nordic Boy had a job out in the boonies. On the weekends, I would get my ass on a bus and travel out to suburbia to visit him. I know that bus route like the back of my hand. Being in suburbia was like a whole new world to me, and we had a blast discovering things like breakfast at Shari's (where we once saw Ruthanne from Northern Exposure right at the next table) and shopping at a football-field sized Albertson's and going to this winery and pretending like we knew anything about wine.

Since those days, that particular part of our state (Woodinville, Washington) has boomed. Whereas before it was a sort of wannabe suburb, now it's gone full tilt, with its own Target and everything. So if we ever make the drive up there now, it all looks different.

Except for the Balls.

On the way out to Woodinville from Seattle, you pass through a bunch of suburbs. There's Lake Forest Park, and Kenmore, and Bothell, and then Woodinville. I know the succession well, as that dang bus ride I used to take has pounded each of them into my skull.

During this drive, there was one highlight. A place that I would crane my neck to see. As you round the bend and enter the hamlet of Bothell, there is a house, right on the bend. And in front of this house is a quaint little sign. A wooden sign with gold curly lettering.

The sign announces:
"THE BALLS OF BOTHELL"

What the heck does THAT mean, you are probably wondering. Yes, indeed it is a fine question. If you look at the sign, underneath its proclamation it says in smaller letters two names...I can't remember what they are. "John and Mary," let's say. So, there is a family that lives there, and their last name is Balls. And they want to have a quaint sign at the end of their driveway. So what? Why is that funny?

Because I'm me, that's why.

The balls! Of Bothell! What I love so much about it is that geographically, it's actually true. Because Bothell has a main street north of there, which would clearly be the heart of Bothell. And what would be south of the heart of Bothell? The balls! Of course. It's like geographic poetry, really. It's just so fitting that as you drive in from the south, you would have to pass the balls of Bothell to get to the heart of Bothell.

I can't tell you how much I adored that sign. Loved it like an old friend. Looked forward to seeing it any time I had cause to drive by there. There have been many times in the past few years where I thought that I needed to take a photo of that sign, just so I could share the joy with you, my blog friends.

A couple of weekends ago, Nordic Boy and I were meeting friends in Bothell for dinner. We hadn't been by the Balls of Bothell for a while. I was prepared to give it a hearty wave.

Except, sweet friends, the sign. It was GONE.

The Balls! They up and moved! The house is empty, the sign is gone. My sign! My favorite sign! Like Benjy in The Sound and the Fury, I blinked, turned a page, and the balls were missing!

So I thought I would post in honor of the Balls. Wherever they went, they will be missed. Bothell won't be the same without you.

Sigh.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

FAQ Attack

Hey people. I love getting da emailz from alla yous. But there are some things that get asked over and over again, and that are prolly pretty apparent if you've been reading my crap for a while, but if you're new, it's like coming in to the middle of a movie and being all "who was that guy? why is he killing him? why is she chasing her?" Not that there is a lot of killing and chasing going on around here, but you catch my drift. So, for those questions that keep coming up, I am going to attach this to my "about me" page. I think I have all the most-asked questions covered, plus a couple of things I just threw in. If I think of more frequently asked questions, I will add them on. Cool? Cool.

LG's FAQ: answers to stuff readers often ask, especially if you're new around here.

1. Where do you work?

I work for a large urban public library system. I get off on things like Intellectual Freedom. I will defend everyone's right to access information in order to build an informed citizenry. And also everyone's right to read Mary-Kate and Ashley paperbacks.

2. So you check books in and out to people all day long? Or shush people all day long? Or sit in a cardigan and read all day long?

At my job, I help people do research, recommend books to people, answer reference questions, teach people how to find information, run library events and programs, maintain part of the collection, make booklists for people, go out into the community to promote reading, and many other things. As for sitting around and reading books all day long and getting paid for it? I wish.

3. And about that cardigan thing in the last question...

Even though I am a librarian, I do not wear glasses (not even hipster ones), I do not wear my hair in a bun, I do not wear sweater sets or clunky shoes. This means that I also will not be able to whip my glasses off and take my hair down and go wild after dark like a Skinemax movie. Sorry. Also, please stop making jokes to me about how Sarah Palin looks like a "sexy librarian." Every time you say that, a unicorn dies.

4. What's with you and Nordic Boy?

Nordic Boy is my dude. In my objective opinion, I think he is the best person ever made. We have been together for eons and eons, since before the advent of dinosaurs. As of this writing, that means sixteen years. Saying that makes me feel older than dirt. Even though we've known each other for a long time, I do not feel like my relationship is "work" although I hear you're supposed to think that way according to Dr. Phil which totally makes it true. Maybe someday it'll be work, but not so far. Being around him is the easiest, funnest thing I have ever done. I will wait while you finish barfing before I continue.

5. How did you and Nordic Boy meet?

I wrote about that here. Then here. Then here.

6. Are you and Nordic Boy married?

ZZZZZZ. That question bores me. What would change about the way you think of me if I said yes? Or no? Does it matter if I am a Miss or a Mrs.? Not to me it don't.

7. Who is BioGirl? Your sister? Your best friend? Your imaginary soulmate? Your hand twin?

BioGirl is my bff. Many readers seem to think we are related (maybe because we share the last name "Girl"?) but that's ok since she is actually more like a sister than a friend. We are almost telepathic with each other at this point, but we still manage to talk ourselves hoarse anyway. She is a marine biologist but she does not work with whales or dolphins or orcas, which seems to be everyone's only impression of marine biology. I blame Seaworld. Her PhD had to do with barnacles and from her years of study I learned that barnacles have huge penises. Thank you Stanford for allowing her to study well-hung arthropods (is that even right? Are barnacles arthropods?) because it has given us reams of glee.

8. Where are you from? Like, where are you from-from? Like, what is your ethnicity? You are brown and I must know why!

My family is from Fiji. Our ethnicity is Indian, but the transition from India to Fiji happened like, back in the 1800s, so I'm Indian...but islander. It's complicated. Also, I was born in Flint, Michigan. And I lived in Chicagoland, and also Madison, Wisconsin and a few other midwest places. And now Seattle. So I guess I am a midwest-south-pacific-east-indian-pacific-northwesterner. As Gayatri Spivak would say, just call me a hyphenated identitarian. It's easier.

9. Did you just say Gayatri Spivak?

Oh yeah. I am a geek in disguise. Don't tell anyone.

10. What is the story with your past as a ballerina? Do you miss it?

I was a ballet dancer in my youth and went to lots of fancy schools at a wee age and danced alongside famous ballet dancers that you only would care about if you were a ballet dancer yourself which most likely you are not. What this means for me these days is that I have the knowledge in my heart that I peaked at age fifteen in terms of impressive achievements and so I can just coast along for the rest of my life without much ambition because it all burned out a long time ago and now I keep myself busy with hippy new age sounding things like living in the now and being happy. Plus I no longer have to wear leotards every damn day. The biggest lasting remnant of my dance career is the fact that shoes are never uncomfortable to me. Also yes, I do miss it.

11. Siblings?

I have two older brothers and one older sister. They are older than me by kind of a lot. This means that they still say things to me like "you can drive? Weird." Like me, they all seem a lot younger than they actually are. That's true of my parents too. I don't know what that is about my family. It's like our maturity is stunted or we've been sipping a Ponce De Leon Fountain soda or something.

12. You seem to do a lot of work on that house of yours. Can you give me any pointers?

Nordic Boy and I bought a house a couple of years ago, which is exactly what we wanted. Small, mid-century, in a great neighborly neighborhood. Yes, we work on it a lot. By we I mean he. So no, I have no pointers. Other than to get yourself a dude who knows how to build houses.

13. What is your favorite....

Although I love pop culture as if I birthed it from my loins, I do not have favorites. No favorite song, no favorite band, no favorite movie, no favorite book. Everyone is always asking me about favorites and I just don't have one. OK? Stop asking me about favorites! It's too much pressure!

14. I don't like pressure.

15. I love your blog design. Where'd you get it?


The illustration was done by my friend Neighbor J. The layout was pulled together by my other friend Josh. You should hire them to design stuff for you too.

16. I would like to be a librarian. How do you do it? Will you look at my resume?

Get yourself to graduate school. It will be painful. Very, very painful. Like, you-will-curse-the-day-I-was-born-for-telling-you-to-go and shake-your-fist-at-this-blog-screen-in-despair painful. But the rewards are worth it.

Feline Freakout

Ok, so you remember how I said that I had this thing where I didn't throw parties because I was always afraid that no one would come to my party? Well get this. BioGirl and Nordic Boy are throwing me a birthday party. And although I was totally excited when I got the evite, I was FILLED WITH FEAR. Let's list my fears and laugh at them.

1. With the evite, all the names of the guests are listed. (My mind says) that if everyone says no, then everyone else can SEE. Oh the shame!

2. There was a long guest list. (My mind says) that people will look at all the names and feel less obligated to come. Because other people will come. It's like donating blood or giving to charity. Oh, someone else will do that, so I don't have to. Yes, I am equating my party to taking blood out of a human body.

Yeah. I am so warped. Like, more than I thought.

Last night after watching Project Runway (and how assy is Kenley, by the way?) I checked the evite and said, out loud: "oh my god! People said yes! They are actually coming!" To which BioGirl said "You have GOT to shut up. Immediately." Which, granted, was warranted.

That is true friendship. Throwing you a party but also telling you when you need to shut up. That should go on a decorative embroidered pillow or something.

So yes. I am having a party and people are coming. Getting babysitters and marking their calendars and everything. Lookee that.

In other news, I totally fucked up my rug last night. My actual floor rug. Not my toupee. Not that I have a toupee. But you don't know me so you don't know that. First of all I sort of had this weird day at work. It kind of stressed me out a little, or more than a little. And then Nordic Boy and I have been doing all sorts of social plans separately all week and so we have barely seen each other solo. I got home from work at like 8pm last night, and he was leaving at 8:15 to go over to a friend's house, and I was having people over at our house to watch Project Runway, so I knew we were going to have a small window to say hi-bye to each other.

Him: So, your dinner is on the counter in there, ok? I should be home around 10 or 11. I gotta go.
Me: Ok sure but-are-you-LEAVING-RIGHT-NOOOOWWWWW???!!???
Him: Whoa!

I don't know what happened in that moment, but I kind of turned into a weird cat. I started the sentence normal but my voice started to get higher and higher and I started talking fast and by the end of the sentence I was sort of howling in panic. Like oh-my-god-you-can't-leave-I-have-barely-seen-you-this-week-and-I-had-a-really-hard-day-and-I-need-to-relax-and-you-are-my-relaxicab (as Rachel Green would say) and-I-am-this-close-to-losing-it-ooooooooowwwwww!

It was funny. And weird.

Then, as he was getting his shoes on, I brought my plate of food out to the living room and got the tv tray out (oh yes indeed I have a 50s style tv tray, doesn't everyone?), put my food on the tray, put my open bottle of Izze soda on the tray, and then decided that I wanted to pick up the tray, with the food and open beverage on it, and lift it over the couch and take it across the room. And as I did this, here's what I said. Out loud.

"Wow this is a really bad idea what I am doing here I mean this is an accident waiting to happen for reals I can't really believe I would try and lift this tray over the couch because it's a bad idea, bad idea, bad idea! SHIT!"

And then I dropped the whole tray on the floor. On the rug, actually.

Nordic Boy helped me clean it up before he left.

Him: So yeah. You were saying. Bad idea?
Me: Bad idea.

We're hanging out, just the two of us, tonight. If we don't, someone might get hurt.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Move Over Scorsese

It's my dad's birthday today. He is 79. And still rocking the hizzy.

I wish you all could meet my dad. He is awesome and I have yet to meet anyone who has spent any amount of time in conversation with him who was not completely enamored with him. He is one of those people that affects everyone he interacts with in a most beautiful way. It's totally true. There are lots of people I know who didn't have dads around at all growing up, or who had them but had difficult relationships with them. The ones who know my dad often tell me that they think of my dad as their dad, or the best dad figure they ever knew. I dated a guy in high school who was trouble on wheels. My parents always treated him with kindness. My dad would sit on the porch and have long conversations with him sometimes when I was being a slow ass or was late showing up. I never really knew what they talked about. A few years ago, this ex-boyfriend called me to catch up. He asked about my dad, and told me that my family, especially my dad, was the most supportive person he knew of as a kid. And he choked up just remembering it. That made me choke up too. Then we both had to recover from the fact that we were CRYING ON THE PHONE with each other. Yeesh.

I could tell you he is kind, and gentle, and gentlemanly, and thoughtful, and funny, and sweet, and non-judgmental. But if you want to know about his awesomicity, read what I wrote about him here.

I love my dad.

In completely non-gushy, non-dad news, my roof? She is 99% done! Finish! Totalmente kaput! Nordic Boy just has to tape up some seams on the weatherproofing. Or something. This is the biggest thing in my life right now. How sad.

This weekend I went to a party/concert where there was chamber music being played. Like, a live quartet, with a cello and a harpist and everything. Fan-swah, no? I felt very cosmopolitan and also in sheer awe of the gigantic nature of cellos and harps. Those effers are yooge. How are you supposed to go all Pete Townshend with instruments like that? Can you imagine trying to smash one of those suckers? Anyway, while I was there, there were a couple of people who had cameras and who discreetly took photos. Which made me think that I should take a photo too, especially to show you guys so you won't think I am making up going to fancy shindigs like those kids in high school used to do when they would talk about their "girlfriend from Canada." My party was not a fake girlfriend from Canada! I really went! I didn't have my camera with me, but I did have my cell phone. So I took a shitty quality photo with that. And I felt horrible about doing it. Because I was afraid that all the fancy people would think I was the asshole who was messing with their cell phone in the middle of the civilized concert. Like it might have looked like I was texting or something. I wasn't texting! I wouldn't do that! But I fear that I appeared that way. I was That Person. Cell phone person. But at least I got the photo.




Speaking of my cell phone, yesterday I stopped by my neighborhood pizza joint to (duh) get a pizza. As I sat there waiting for it, I futzed around with my phone, sent a couple of texts, looked at the photos I had saved on there. Then, I pressed this mystery button on the phone. I never knew what it was before so I never pressed it in case it was, like, the self destruct button or something. But you know what it was? VIDEO. I can record shit with my phone! I never knew that! So because I didn't know that's what it was doing, I recorded a random few seconds of the pizza joint floor, the window, and part of my skirt. And when I played it back later, it was disturbing. Because of the sound. Listen to this and tell me that this doesn't sound like I am in hell. I swear there are demons or banshees in the background.



Creepy, right?

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

The Statler and Waldorf of Graffiti

Walked by this yesterday, and then noticed something as I got a bit closer.



Everyone's a critic these days.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Sally Field Moment

Hello ladies and germs!

Did comedians really used to say that? And people laughed at it? Comedy is weird.

So I have been feeling kind of disconnected to bloggy land lately, hence the sparse posting. It seems, with all bloggers, that there comes a time when blog-steam gets low, and then there is the obligatory post threatening to cease writing all together. Which I assure you I am not doing right now, because it would be insincere as I do plan on keeping this carcass animated somehow and so to threaten closure would just be a cheap ploy to gather up comments of the "please don't go!" variety. Which I am not above telling you that I did consider writing just to see if anyone would say "please don't go!" but then decided against it not because of any ethical pants-on-fire concerns (I'm totally not quitting) but because I was afraid no one would leave that kind of comment.

Which brings me to a Weird Thing About Me.

I have lots of lovely friends and loved ones, who are awesome and treat me nice and do very cool things for me and are there for me when the chips are down and also when the chips are up which I'm happy to say is most of the time. So why, I ask you, why do I have little-to-no expectations of lovely friendship niceties?

Example 1. Throwing parties. I don't tend to throw parties. Not because I don't want to throw them, but because I don't think anyone will come. Which is ridiculous. I have lots of people to invite and no reason to think that they wouldn't show up. I have thrown parties where guestlists were just fine and have never had one of those awful events where I am sitting there all dressed up with food and beers and no one ever shows. But still. I fear this.

Example 2. That blog comment thing that I just talked about up there. I know there are people reading this. Blogland loves me this I know, for my sitemeter tells me so. But sometimes, I don't believe the sitemeter. Like, I wonder if it's broken or something, or if I have one creepy stalker who is checking my blog hundreds of times a day. I'm not kidding, I've really thought that.

Example 3. When I am invited to other people's things, I often think it is for reasons other than they just wanted to invite me. Like they feel like they should because I invited them to something once and so they have to reciprocate. Or some stupid shit like that. Like, I think this often. OFTEN. I then tell myself that I am being a dumbass and move on from the thought, but just that it pops into my mind at all seems...slightly paranoid.

Example 4. So there are people in my life that do nice things for me all the time and I don't have doubts about them secretly doing so because the mafia has threatened their kneecaps if they don't. Top of that list is my parents and Nordic Boy. Those people just have a machine gun of nice that they let rip constantly in my direction. (Wow, so violent I got there). Also, BioGirl. She is thoughtful and does all sorts of going-out-of-her-way niceness.

So, when she showed up at my house last week and presented me with this:


What the hell this is I shall say in one moment.

I was super surprised, and touched, but honestly...not SHOCKED. Because her doing this sort of thing is just part of who she is and also part of the crazy bff-ness that we share. You are talking about two ladies that used to get each other birthday presents in the quantity of the year we were celebrating. Like, when she turned 25, I got her 25 presents and she did the same for me. (We had to stop that shite when we started to get WAY OLD but it went on for a while). Don't get me wrong, I was surprised and touched, but also...she is part of the army of machine gun niceness so I didn't faint from shock or anything.

Oh and by the way if you're wondering what exactly that photo is supposed to be, it's a birthday countdown giftie extravaganza. So from now until my birthday next month, I get to open a little something every day. Kind of like an advent calendar, except instead of each day getting you closer and closer to the birth of the baby Lordy, this one counts down to the birth of baby me. Which now that I think about it, might just be sacriligious. Any Lordy experts out there (of which I am not one) who are offended by my birthday advent calendar...oops. Sorry about that. See you in hell.

ANYWAY.

So the first day of my birthday calendar, I opened a teeny box, and it had a cute little present in it. Aw, sweet! Then, the second day, I opened up the next box, and there was a present from a TOTALLY DIFFERENT FRIEND. And then next day after that, something from another friend! And so on and so forth, hallelujah, praise my birthday.

See, that BioGirl, she had corralled ALL OF MY PEEPS, and they had each gotten me a little something. I am not talking about huge things. Just little, thoughtful, meaningful things. Many of them are notes that are for time spent with them later-- like one says "I'm taking you to lunch at the Kingfish Cafe" or another one says "I'm taking you to ice cream" or whatever.

And you want to know something nuts? Every night, when I open one of these puppies, and I see yet another lovely name of a lovely friend who has done this? I mist up. Just a little. And I'm not a big crier, really. I just can't get over the fact that people are THIS NICE. For no other reason than to just BE NICE.

Really, I can't get over it. It's so frickin' awesome.

I think I need to throw a party for all these folks. I think they just might come.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

In Your Face!

Weekend tidbits:

1. What the hell is a tid and why does it have bits? Is this a dirty word I am using?

2. On Saturday, I asked Nordic Boy what he was thinking about having for lunch. He said he was going to make a sandwich. And when he went into the kitchen to do so? I heard him bust out into "Oh Sandy" from Grease. Singing to his sandy-wich! "Love has flown! All alone! I sit and wonder why-yi-yi- oh why. You left me... oh Sandyyyyyy." That dude is funny.

3. That dude, while funny, also has taken to telling me romantic things in a very aggressive way. Like, when he leaves for work in the morning, he'll call out from the door: "I LOVE YOU!" and then point at me and say "IN YOUR FACE!!" Is this what happens when you've been together for this long? You get loved and trash-talked simultaneously?

3. I went to a bunch of parties this weekend. And managed to make an ass of myself everywhere I went. Ready? Here we go.

a. At one party, I thought I was going to get out of it without any points of stupid flying forth from my pores. I made it the all way through the whole dang thing and I behaved myself just fine. Then, as I was leaving, I was making the rounds, saying goodbye, shaking hands, hugging where appropriate. I got to one of my friends, who I think was not really thinking I was going to go in for the hug, but then I did a HUG AMBUSH and surprised him. If you are a hug ambush person, you may already know that there might be some weirdness with your victim because they don't know which way you're coming in, and so you have to think on your feet about where your respective faces are going to go, or else the hug ambush could turn into an accidental makeout. Oh, oops, hugging is happening, which way to turn my head, which way, which WAY? Well in this case, we both decided to go the same way. Which resulted in us hugging, and pressing faces. Like the whole side of my face from temple to cheek to chin, was pressed right up against his face. For a kind of long moment. We were there, in tango-ready position, in a full-side-face press. This guy went from thinking he was going to wave goodbye at me all the way to a weirdo face invasion FAST. I'm not sure I can describe how uncomfortable this is if you have never actually been involved in an accidental face press. Next time you try and hug someone, maneuver yourself into a position where you are pressing their face with your face. And then hold it there for a minute. It is weirdly intimate. And mortifying.

b. One of the parties I went to was a wedding, where I did my nuptual duty by dancing my rear off in honor of my friends. On the dance floor, the lovely bride danced over to me for a dancey chat. I thought I would make a lame joke, because you know, hey, it's to be expected from one such as myself. So I said "hey, so are you nervous about having sex tonight for the first time ever?" because ha ha we are all adults and she lives with her honey and so...yeah...I told you it was lame but that's not even the embarrassing part. Somehow, the music swelled in volume right at the moment I said "for the first time ever" and so it just seemed like I said "so are you nervous about having sex tonight?" which...seriously, why would anyone say that to anyone, ever? She sort of looked at me and said "oh, uh, I don't know if we're really going to be having sex tonight, I mean we'll probably be pretty tired..." while all the while I'm sure the end of that thought went unsaid. Why is this crazy bootyshanker asking me about my private sexy bidness? She clearly had no hometraining and was raised by hooligans. Again, sort of mortifying.

Stop judging me. Or I swear to god I will face-press you.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

The Bridge to Bain

First of all, the other day, I was sitting out in public, minding my own business, and this random dude says to me...

Him: What's your name?
Me: (I tell him my first name).
Him: What is that...Indian?
Me: Well, it's Hindi, yes.
Him: I was given the Indian name Suresh.
Me: HA HA HA HA HA HA.
Him: Oh. I guess that means that you don't care.

Isn't that a weird conversation? I am not one to just bust out laughing in people's faces when they are talking to me. Ok maybe I am a little. But especially when it's something like THAT. His Indian name? This ain't no Dances with Wolves, Mister. My kind of Indian? We don't bestow names on people like that. Can you imagine? "Ah, yes Nordic Boy. You have brought my household honor. Henceforth, I shall knight you...Deepak." hahahahahaha. (That, by the way, might only be a joke that's funny if you're Indian. So hi, four Indian readers, that one was for you.) It just don't work that way with us. You have to be born in to get one of our names. Ooh la la, we are so keeping the names behind the velvet rope. And then? The response to the laughing? "I guess that means you don't care." What a funny thing to say. It made me laugh more.

He probably thought I was touched in the head. Which, let's face it.

Second of all, I have been staying up way too late this week, watching tivo'd speeches from the Democratic Convention. What a nerd. A sleepy, sleepy nerd.

Third of all, last weekend I realized that the sunny, warm, perfect Seattle summer days, they are numbered. It is dead summer walking. So BioGirl and I, we decided to get out there and enjoy it goddammit.

We got on a ferry boat and rode a half hour across the Sound to get to an island, just to go somewhere different for lunch. The island we went to was Bainbridge. It's very difficult for me to go to Bainbridge Island without singing the Ben Bridge jingle, by the way. Instead of the "diamond people" I sing the "island people." I is so clever I should have my own reality show, shouldn't I? I could never live on Bainbridge or else I would be singing that jingle all the livelong day. On the way there, we had a serious discussion about how, if you were a doctor like McDreamy, you could really live across the Sound and be expected to get to work if there was a dire emergency. Like you are really going to be hopping the ferry boat back and forth when people need their skullmeats worked on, right? There are lots of islands in the Puget Sound, and Bainbridge is the most accessible by ferry, so we figured of all the places McDreamy supposedly lives, it's got to be Bainbridge. We decided he must have an apartment in town too or something, because it's just not practical. Let's just put aside the fact that he is a fictional character and that we are mainly really annoyed by that show in general for many reasons, too numerous to go into here, and we just may have a point, don't you think?

Anyway. As we wrestled with these great questions of our times, we wandered through the ferry...



and then out on the deck, where we discovered that we were in a ferry Nascar (Nasferry?) race with another boat right next to us...



and we said goodbye to our city...


and hello to an island where fancy people live...


where we ate at a restaurant that was suspiciously full of only women customers...

no dudes allowed?

Walked around, and spent a little money on our respective favorite things (BioGirl got an ice cream cone, and I bought a dress from Sweet Deal).

And then headed home.


And on the way home, we sat in the ferry, and looked out through the window to the deck at the people...



and made up imaginary conversations that these people might have been having with each other. It was like a silent film where we provided the dialogue. A very snarky silent film.

Her: If only we could get paid for this.
Me: What?
Her: Like, I wish it could be our job to sit behind a glass and watch people, and like, make up dialogue for them.
Me: Huh?
Her: We're so good at it. We're funny.
Me: Would it have to be us sitting behind glass?
Her: Well, yeah.
Me: That's the part that I'm not sure about.
Her: I love that THAT'S the part of the plan that you're not sure about.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

confuseybaby

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

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

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

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

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

Forty bucks.

FORTY FRICKIN' BUCKS.

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

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

But really? Does this sound weird to anyone else?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That shit is WEIRD.

Am I wrong?

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Scary Children

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

I am so helpful, giving you advice like that.

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

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

Check this out.



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Hall of Shame

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe I should be the Queen of Ridonkulous after all.

I'm out,
Librarian Girl

Flintoids Forever

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

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

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

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

There are those that celebrate...our population!

This one makes me strangely nostalgic for some reason.

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

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

But a lot of them? Are like this.


Or like this...



And my personal favorite.

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

Flintoids Forever!

I'm out,
Librarian Girl