a week of librarianing

143

Four books were dry-humped to tatters by some randy 2nd grade boys.

The class of 2nd graders was subsequently humiliated and terrified by my surprise visit to explain the consequences of oofing pictures of bikini girls in the Guinness World Records. While I pointed at the cartoon cocks drawn on the Most Downloaded Woman, my son grinned across his desk at his classmate, who was trying to shrink into his own sleeves. 

My co-worker dumped a bag of silicone grains into a vase of water and woke up to a living room full of gel marbles. We now have a giant pretzel jar full of little jiggly blue balls in the staff room, which my teenage shelver and I could not resist digging our arms into and shuddering.

eldritch horror 

Someone asked me to check on a vomiting woman in the public bathroom. I stood in the door and said, "Um, are you alive?" at the arms splayed across the floor under the stall, and received a whargle in reply. Good enough for me. 

At home, I got things in the mail.

future infink quilt for the Bunk Bed of Sadness

because I needed one skein of grey and got this instead

And I made things (hint: DEATHMATCH).

Recognize the homespun, sarahapple? Yours is next, Robotaday!

And the infink danced.

(video broken)

Tomorrow: CHICKEN BALLS! 

The burning of the boyfriend boxes

It was a lighter, as I said. And a damned classy one, too.

The boxes looked innocuous. The most recent one had accumulated detritus, a bit of which I had added as recently as last spring. I packed the tokens and photos into a bag and set them aside. I'm trying to find closure, not death by toxic fumes.

The first to go: the RETURN TO SENDER. Just like the song! Only much, much suckier. It was an act of chivalry which, while appreciated, was nevertheless as effective as turning it on its edge and stabbing it straight into my chest.

At this point I began shaking a bit, so I balled up the bag, tossed the letters back into the box, and looked inside the second one. This box was much older, and fell apart when I rummaged it. Mostly recess notes and complaints about how mean our parents were.There were also assorted photos and remnants from high school jammed in there. It was sad sorting through it; I broke up with this boy very poorly. I was 17, and self-absorbed, and casually cruel. I've been sorry about it for a long time.

The burning spot had grown over, and I needed to pull a lot of wild jungle weeds out of it. Mongooses flew through the brush like popping weasels as I crashed around yanking on vines.

I got the Mormon Lady pot out and filled it with water, in case I started a brush fire. Because a pot of water will totally stop a raging brush fire.

I was scared of the lighter, which didn't have a safety clip. If there is no safety, HOW WILL I NOT BURN OFF MY FACE?! I lit a note, puffed out the lighter, and dropped it. I had to hunt around for it when the first paper died out. It is possible that dropping a hot lighter into the grass and losing it may not be the best way to avoid a brush fire.

Somehow, I did not ignite my pants or hair. I fed the papers in one by one, and only had to put the grass out once. It took a surprisingly long time, and I was alarmed by how hot it was. Obviously, fire is supposed to be hot, but when you watch a movie with a hero on one side of a wall of fire, it's easy to think, oh, just jump through it, you weenie! No. Fire is fucking hot. I'm so sorry, Dennis Quaid.

When I had watched the last one wither to grey ashes, I dumped the pot of water on the pit and went back to the house with the empty boxes.

I don't feel jubilant, or free, or closured (closed? closurated? clostophicated?) but I haven't started crying or scraping all the ashes into an urn to sleep with at night, so that's good. If my motorcycle lessons end in disaster, these old secrets are safe with me. And if that's the last reparation I can make, well, that's something, at least.

burning love

The man likes to order mystery packages from the Something Store. The premise is that you pay $10, and you receive a parcel that may contain anything from a laptop to a deck of cards. The boy and I refer to it as the "something disappointing store", as we have so far opened them up to find luggage tags, a pet brush, and a eye-bleedingly hideous tie. Nevertheless, it is the man's form of gambling, and about two weeks ago he succumbed to the lure of chance again.
At the same time, I was starting to knit the man-sweater. Between sketching out the design and carefully choosing the wool, I got it into my head that the item itself would become a magical love totem - that stitch by stitch, I would bind myself to the man and graft shut the injury to my heart. Since I was a kid, I have suffered from bookish mysticism. I still feel in the backs of wardrobes for snow from time to time.

An idea formed itself in my head as I sat counting stitches and conjuring magic - I needed to burn the boyfriend boxes. As a librarian, the idea of disturbing provenance is bad enough; destroying written material is kind of horrifying. This weekend the man climbed up into the attic space and tossed down the shoe boxes from the trunk in which they were hidden, careful not to look into them. I caught them from the air and did not open them, either. These are love notes I will never again read; the girl in the letters is no longer me. I need to move on, and maybe protect the dignity of the boys who, I think, loved me. The idea of setting fire to them panicked me a bit, so I tucked the boxes under the bed, instead.

Yesterday, the envelope from the Something Store arrived. The boy tore it open, then sagged in disappointment. "Dad, you need to stop ordering things from there. Don't they have a box to check if you're buying something for a kid?" He handed it to the man, who said, "Oh, well," and handed it to me.

It was a lighter.

Mother's Day, 2011

I like to document holidays, so I know how high to pitch my demands in subsequent years.

I do not choose to be disappointed on Mother's Day. Instead of waiting with arched brow for the day to flop weakly into my lap, I look at it as a "buy whatever I want and eat stuff" day. This year, about two weeks ahead of time, I filled 6 carts with small goodies, left them all open on the computer, and said, "Buy one of these or I KEEL YOU." A package arrived a few days later. Now I am wondering how I may apply this arrangement to other areas of life, as well. "You missed the coffee cups beside the couch when you did the dishes; I left an audio book I want up on iTunes." With sufficient abuse, I can destroy all odds of ever receiving gifts in this fantastic manner again.

The kids jumped on me with kisses and a card. The boy had carefully written a letter thanking me for giving birth to him, teaching him to knit and sew, and distracting the infink while he was trying to use the computer. The man gave me a shoebox with a paper-wrapped bundle inside. YAAAARN! I petted my new Shelter, carried it around like a baby, took pictures of it, and put it into my shirt like falsies. A cinnamon bun was placed in my hand, my coffee was refilled, and a little envelope with dangly earrings was presented. "They jingle like wind chimes," the man said sheepishly. I narrowed my eyes at him. "You DID off my bracelet!" He tucked his lips in guiltily. About 14 years ago, I had a little bracelet covered with tiny tinkling bells. Teen-man-person would clap his hands to his ears whenever I walked in the room. "THE BELLS! Make it STOP!" One morning it was simply gone, and I have long suspected foul play. I put the earrings on and watched him smile through clenched jaw as I jingled into the kitchen. Very pleasing.


The ex-father-in-law called to wish me a good morning. "So are you two done having kids, or what? Are there plans for more babies? Going to go for your girl?" I threw the phone at Mike like it was a viper laughed and told him about the unusual weather. "I read my bible, and it talks about the end times. I don't want to think that's what's happening, but it seems to be." "Ah, well, if it weren't for the news, we wouldn't know about all the small disasters that go on from day to day, and it would just look like any other morning from our window." "Yes, you can put your head in the sand, and the worst that could happen is you suffocate," he agreed. At least I think that was an agreement. It made me laugh, anyway.

There was breakfast with my mother on ichat, a margarita for lunch, quiet time to work, a bag of chocolate blueberries, the new Charlaine Harris book, shrimp tempura, strawberry shortcake, and a curlup on the couch in front of the Wire after bedtime. I was only pooped on once while running the infink to the bathroom, and managed to sneak in a hot shower without anyone banging on the door.

A day of miracles!

Queen of the flies!

now with FO action!

This morning I bound off the shoulders on the Blue Bottle Flies cardigan. I put it on with needles and scrap yarn and loose ends dangling, and it FITS. 

Haaha, take that, swatches! 

It doesn't have button bands yet, so I had to hold it shut. 

(Honeybee Cardigan, for you Ravelry hoars)

I am covered in flies.

And I did it in my PAJAMAS.

Also: finished 4 illustrations. Inadvisable productivity for someone who has spent most of the weekend on the Couch of Sickness watching bad detective shows on Netflix with a box of Dayquil. I need to have a bit of a lie-down now.

UPDATE:

After backing over part of the new bunk bed with the car, the man declared, "It was just a safety guard! We don't need it!" and assembled the bed frame in the driveway to use as a ladder

While he was throwing brooms and hoses and his body off the roof ("I jumped on purpose"), I was on the Couch of Sickness adding button bands and little pearl buttons from my crazy lady button box.

DONE.

Now I am a proper lady, with pearls to clutch.