Hand massage

Turned to help C. with a patron. The man over the counter looked like the average Bahai hippie I grew up with on Molokai, so I smiled and gave him my hand when he asked me for it. "I have a gift for you," he said, rubbing my hands vigorously and murmuring about the virtues of meditation and oxygen to counter the toxins in our systems. I humored him and breathed deeply when prompted, with C. only inches away to rescue me if the hobo tried to pull off my arm. "You bless me with your smile, thank you," he said quietly as I took back my hands. C. smirked. Y. came out to check on us, wheeled around on her heel, and called security. "That's the same fucker who has been petting our female workers all week," she hissed at me when I slipped into the back room. That would explain why poor C. was never offered any special hand therapy.

"Don't touch me with your hobo cooties!" Y. said.
"Oh, come on, I've had way skeezier massages than that."

A Story

I was an art model at the university for 5 years. During my first year, nobody thought to ask me how old I was, and I was too dumb to know that 17 was a bit young (read: illegal) for the job. There were about 30 regulars who came to draw every week. As I stiffly unwound myself from an excruciating pose after 25 minutes, one of the the 30-something guys offered to rub out my shoulder. Not wanting to be rude (and unable to escape on my numb legs), I let him, consoled by the crowd of witnesses while I let the blood back into my limbs. He was a bit brisk, and seemed honest enough. So when he offered to give me a better back rub during lunch break, I shrugged and said "ok".

So it was that I found myself in an empty classroom with the fellow. "It would be better if you took off your shirt," he said matter-of-factly. I hesitated, but, well, hadn't I been naked all morning anyway? I pulled off my top and lay on my belly in only a wrap-around skirt. As soon as he straddled my back, I knew that somehow things had gone very wrong. He began stroking my back calmly, then with increasing pressure. Soon he became rough, grunting slightly and breathing heavily. I felt his growing erection through his shorts, and suddenly exclaimed, "My, that feels better! Thanks so much, I have to eat lunch now before it's time to get back to work!" and I forcefully shouldered him off me, grabbing up my shirt. He was flushed and unrepentant, smirking at some goggle-eyed students who had peeked into the room seconds earlier. I went into the bathroom and scratched my back against the wall like a bear on a tree, somehow hoping to scrape off some of his germs.


and so...

Y. made a face. "Don't tell me your gross pervert stories! Hey, did I ever show you that picture of a lady breastfeeding a monkey?"

I swiveled on my seat and watched security haul away the cuddly homeless guy. C. cruised by on his way downstairs, "How are your ankles? Need them rubbed too? I like how he slapped you a bit at the end," he said.

Shut up.

Pas de shitkickers?

I went on a hunt for shoes. Shit-kicker boots, specifically, so that I could ride on the motorcycle without Yuri breaking a vein in her forehead about me getting my feet chewed off. I found boots, yes, but less suited to kicking shit than skewering turds. Who buys boots with pointy heels? If I wore those back on the reservation I would have gotten myself pegged into the mud and been left there to windmill my arms while everyone took pictures. The hunt continues.

Sometimes you hear hilariously tragic stories about sex that required medical separation. This is what happened to my car key as I locked the car last night; the door seized it and refused to let go, stranding Mike at home and costing him $45 in locksmith fees. Meanwhile, in class, I was shaking with silent pink-eared laughter with Yuri prodding me as our professor went on a 15 minute rant about the stupidity of bloggers. "Zese people are sooooo stupid, zey are spending 95 percent of zer time blah-de-blah on zer computer, using it as a surrogate for human interaction, all ze time *mwah mwah mwah* kissing up to eachozzer and writing - with tears in zer eyes - about the latest person to criticize zer blogging." At last he noticed Yuri's grin and my purple face and called for a show of hands to see how many of us had not yet started a blog. All hands shot up but mine and two others (all of us sinking in our seats), and he stared over his glasses at me, a look of evil delight on his face. " 'Sooooo stupid,' " whispered Yuri. Yes, and remorselessly so.

Mike was still stuck at home when we went down to our Scottish dance group. I hit the natural food store while my mother danced, garnering only a few suspicious looks for my fake-leather jacket as picked up tea and chocolate. "Intensely dark chocolate with cocoa nibs", said the wrapper. "Cocoa nibs", as it turned out, are ground up bean hulls that lodge between your teeth, not the sweet little nuggets I had envisioned. Bah. I hope the Amazonian fruit bats appreciate the $2 I threw their way for that lesson in flossing.

dirty laundry

"I feel like we're going backwards pretty fast," said Mike as he drove me to work. I had a lump in my throat as I opened the library, sliding back the rusted glass doors and looking out at the city. I tried not to over analyze it, whatever It was, but the more I tried to shrug it off, the more it felt like impending doom. "Counseling is the most fun you can have on insurance," Yuri insisted. I have a bad attitude about counseling. I don't even know what the problem is. Mike said he wanted to get back to a place where we could just be comfortable around each other again. I didn't even bother asking, You're not comfortable around me?

It is easier to get angry than to feel sad or scared. I'll buy a ticket to Arizona, run away, start over. Screw everyone, I can take care of myself, I don't need to answer to anyone. As if I wouldn't remember, or love, or still have sore joints every morning. Like it would be easier to start a new life than have an uncomfortable conversation.

Besides, dammit, I've actually been happy. Weighed down, under pressure, stressed out, and fighting panic attacks, but I actually love what I do, love my family, and have a few friends. Not too bad, really.

Now if I could just tell that to the lump in my throat and the pain in my heart.

stfu

Hobbled. After 6 hours on my feet, my hip joints turned into nubby balls of pain and I found myself sitting downstairs by myself. Suddenly patrons began setting off my librarian alarms left and right: some asshole yelling into a cellphone got shushed by guard before I could hobble over; 2nd Floor Masturbator crept up the stairs and the guards went missing with me unable to abandon post; same asshole cellphone guy crouched down in front of my counter and whispered into phone until I leaned over and stared at him; man with strange hat slowly fed dollar into card machine, then turned and sprinted across library before I could hobble after him to find out what he was up to; tampon thief headed to women's bathroom, still no guard. Something is on fire. Must limp to the rescue on my own. Goddamn hip!

I hear WD-40 is a good joint remedy.

Brownies of Spite

The funny thing about Brownies of Spite is that they can quickly turn into Brownies of Karma. I thought I would make a lovely pan of Ghirardelli brownies, post pictures, and eat them with the thought, "ha ha, so-and-so can't have a brownie". But I burned the shit out of the brownies - ate them anyway - and sobbed, "wah, so-and-so should be eating these brownies". Serves me right. At first I had dubbed them the Brownies of Despair, because I figured I was so despondent over my online and real-life communities falling apart, but they were, in fact, just me being spiteful. "You wanna hear about real Brownies of Despair?" Yuri said, "I have a recipe for flour-free brownies that are made with black beans and Splenda." Well that does sound worse.

I woke with sleep in my eyes and an uncomfortably fluttering chest. Fighting off light-headedness, I rolled out of bed at 5am to deposit my feverish son on the toilet before he got diarrhea in the bed. This is the start of a long day, I predict. At 7am I sat in the student service center with my mother's computer and drank a cup of chai as I checked my email. Now, organizing my thoughts for my internship work and impending Management of Libraries class, I wish I had brought more to snack on than a burned lump of brownie and a squashed banana.

A long day, I say. Mike at least went to a bar last night with our dance group to enjoy live celtic music, fielding a pass from a drunk girl who wanted to know what was under his kilt. Now he suffers from 4 hours of sleep as he watches a sick baby at home. I feel bad for these long Thursdays.

Off to gaze at my inbox again...


edited to add: My knees are killing me! I'm too damn young to have my arthritis act up every time it rains. Ri-goddam-diculous. Someone fetch me my glucosamine! 

Ice cream social

Still shocked by Mike's sneaky purchase of a more expensive motorcycle than I thought we could afford, I found myself milling through a small crowd of library students with a bowl of melting ice cream. Gavin used Mat as a playground while I chatted with my colleagues. We gathered up the gruesome foursome, grabbed a couple others (we really need to become a fivesome by adding Marie), and headed out for Chinese food. Imagine that - out on a Friday night with a group of friends! The earth will crack in two any time now. We ate, we laughed, we did impersonations, and Adnan promised not to grow a beard.

But the working weekend is here again. Gavin tucked into bed soundly, I tried to read while watching Indonesian soap operas. Oh, Raj, how will you get the girl with a haircut like that? I am mad that Battlestar Galactica isn't on tonight. .

Cheering up.

Cookies of shame

Cookies of shame are better than cookies of revenge. Gavin helped me measure the ingredients (shaving off a few slices of butter for himself), got me an egg, and helped me mix in the chocolate chips (eating a handful). While they baked, we listened to classical music and Mike helped me work on my web design job while Gavin lined up his cars on the rug. This was the perfect batch.

Why did I make these cookies? Well, I applied online for a job as a librarian at an art institute in Arizona - but sent them a cover letter and resume for New Mexico. I quickly sent along a humble-pie email and a new resume with the right state on it. What a great first impression. Very professional. I even signed it:

eek,
Holly McIntosh
 

Maybe I'll win points for trying. Maybe they'll roll their eyes and throw out my resume. Either way, I got cookies out of the deal.

Other news

Mat bravely came out last night, joining us at the cafe with beer. Mike sang better with a slight buzz. Now we know why rock stars are all alcoholics. There was a newbie last night, a local guy with big dark eyes, a buzzed head and armfuls of tattoos. His voice was too soft to hear, but he played his guitar with all the "diddly diddlies" that I like, so he's okay in my book. Mike excited and angered the crowd by starting a System of a Down song, then laughing,"just kidding".

Mike was also very brave this week, going to the DMV and getting both a new Hawaii license and a motorcycle permit, earning the respect/pity of the civil servants for taking two exams at once.

I am getting annoyed about this whole long bike process, but I just remind myself how cool I'll look in leather and shit-kicker boots. Maybe.

Party

I put on the leather jacket that I accidentally stole from my high school boyfriend's sister and discovered that it was like wearing an oversized cardboard tube. Miss December was an Amazon, but just being 6'1" would not make up for the girth of this garment. She must have stolen it from an actual biker herself. At any rate, it is stiff from disuse, and I think I might have to buy myself a graduation present of a nice fitted leather jacket at Christmas and let Mike break in this roll of cardboard.

Speaking of graduation - party! Mat is also graduating, and instead of fighting over our small group of mutual friends, I suggested we have one big party. Must brainstorm venue and theme. The head of the department also told us that celebration would be due to mark the passing of oral exams, so I'm thinking there's a doomed lobster with my name on it come October.

My working weekends are long this semester. Mike has agreed to meet a guy about a motorcycle outside my library this afternoon, and I will be glad to come out on my break to check it out. Maybe make "vroom" noises, because we can't actually test drive it, since neither of us have licenses. Maybe the guy will give us rides.

big plans

We are busy making preparations for our newest addition... a motorcycle. And believe it or not, this was not my idea. We are facing transportation issues between 3 adults with 3 agendas, so I jumped on Mike early yesterday morning and suggested we buy a moped for him (since he doesn't have to use the highway to go to work and it requires no extra licensing). He said that if we're going that direction we might as well do it right the first time and just get a motorcycle. Ok.

Mike has already read the state manual, and is looking to register for a surprisingly inexpensive state-sponsored training program. I have ripped "for sale" flyers off the bulletin boards on campus, and we've circled a few possibilities in the newspaper. We rode around town checking out bike dealers just for fun, and Gavin was so excited. "Oh mom," he says, "I need a motorcycle. We buy one now." He ran around patting all the silver and yellow bikes affectionately. He likes the sporty crotch rockets. He will learn.

Even if we do just get an affordable Honda instead of an Indian, I'm only a few weeks away from busting out my stolen Playboy model's leather jacket. Ha.

And it begins...

The first day of school came down around my ears with a crash. I pushed my way through the crowds of undergrads, looking at all the colorful self-conscious, flirting students. I realized that I was the only person in black and felt weirdly smug.

I bought my overpriced textbooks and tossed a few extra supplies on the counter while the cashier made fun of my last name. With 30 pounds of books hanging off my arm, I walked up to the LIS offices to pick up an application for the state library, as 22 positions have opened up and I am suddenly eligible. This application requires speedy action, lots of paperwork, written consent, arguments with the summer office over a problem with my credits, and the ordering of official transcripts. On top of my first week's worth of homework and 4 meetings for work, oral exams, and internships. Ah, well, armed with my trusty daily planner, I should make it through the semester with most of my remaining hair.

Fresh Meat

Children's lit doesn't attract many men, so we're all waiting to see whether the incoming group of new library students has brought in a new Class Hottie to bump Tim and Mat from their competing positions. Yuri and my mother both have their fingers crossed for an older gentleman to appear. Meanwhile, my obnoxious vegan co-worker has reportedly been replaced by a cute tubby rocker guy. We will see on Friday how he shapes up. If he can take some friendly insults and work 5 minutes without complaining or fucking up, he's gold in my book.