DO NOT WANT

TMI. Men and grandparents should skip ahead.

Sometimes I don't feel like writing because I am tired out from hauling shipment boxes or writing reports or arguing with hobos. Sometimes I am too sad to post anything except song lyrics and poetry about what an asshole the moon is. And sometimes it's because I get back to work after a root canal and flip open my desk calendar and discover that my period is a week late. Then I can't write anything, because it all comes out like, "AAUUGH! AUUGHH! AUUGHHH!" which nobody wants to read unless there are illustrations and someone is getting eaten by something. So I end up driving all over town before work the next day, and neither of the general stores have pregnancy tests because the teenagers keep stealing them, so I buy a chocolate bar instead and eat it all as I am pulling into the health center, where I walk past a bunch of patrons I know, who wave and say, "Hey, Miss Librarian!" and then pretend to be furiously reading magazines while I am forced to yell over the air conditioning to the cute receptionists about my need for a stick to pee on. They give me an appointment for next week, instead. Then I drive back home, anguishing over how I just bought smaller jeans, and how I just had a month filled with enough booze and x-rays and face-numbing drugs and prescription medication to grow a baby with legs instead of arms. Shut self in bathroom and discovered that the public humiliation had been enough to remind my body what it was supposed to be doing. FALSE ALARM. Felt a rush of enchiladas - ok, I was writing 'exhilaration' and that is what came out, so I am leaving it - and vague disappointment as my hypothetical girl-baby disappeared in a wisp. Looked at myself in the mirror, head tilting a bit. Like a dog thinking, "Enchiladas?" I am done thinking for the day. And feeling. And yearning. No more anything. I'm going to play Sea Wolf and go do some mindless barcode beeping for - oh - the next 15 years or so.


Sooo, aside from all that, my normal post for this week should have looked like this:


* Did not get a tooth pulled, as oral surgeon was revealed to be a new-agey tooth-extraction-cures-all man, and root canal dentist was revealed to be an eye-rolling drill-and-ridiculous-goggles man. Man with the drill won.

* Started knitting a child-sized version of the Modern Garden for the girlie on smaller needles.




* Put the girl-child on a plane and returned her to her family, who would poke through her suitcase full of nori snacks and Japanese candies as if she were bringing home a bag of witchetti grubs. Kiddo cried to see her go, while I patted him and chatted with the airport security goon I went to the prom with.

* Bought a nice new pair of boyfriend-cut jeans in a comfy size 8 (cut from real boyfriends, I am assuming).



They look slightly better when I don't have my shirt accidentally tucked into them.

* Got home, took my antibiotics and vicoden, thought grumpy thoughts about the 5 x-rays I've had in the past few weeks. Was feeling like a toxic barrel of toxicness. Made plans to go on a Master Cleanse (for real this time, not substituting Crystal Light and pop tarts for the lemon-cayenne-maple drink).

countdown: 7 days until the big move. Off to find some enchiladas.

still lingers here

Woke up with tear tracks and tiny mouse eyes. Bad dreams, two nights running. The dark things are starting to circle overhead again, time to armor up. Yesterday was a day of shopping and ice cream and organic pizza in Paia, but this morning the children gnashed against each other, until the man stuffed them (along with the kiddo's peace-making best friend) into the car for the beach, and left me with my thoughts. I bent over the sewing machine in the quiet house, combating the mindghosts until I was trembling and sweaty. I'm a person poisoned, and I have put my running shoes by the door in anticipation of my miraculous rejuvenation after the upcoming onslaught of drills and antibiotics.

Angst works for me, productivity-wise:



Ignore that loose thread from when I accidentally stitched the backing to itself.



Ooh, look, I'm so angsty and pale. Sign me up for a case of black eye-liner and a Stephenie Meyer tattoo.



The other thing that helps: happy family; hand-smashed burgers grilled with blue cheese, fresh basil, and tomatoes; mounds of potato salad; music with a good beat; a cold pint. I'm still a fan of summer.

I cause an accident and have exploding teeth

My doctor, in order to figure out my fatigue and mutinous joints, sent me to a dentist. No, not a dentist - an oral surgeon. Way scarier, and sure to validate my insistance that all my problems are NOT due to Splenda. So yesterday I headed to town, playing loud music and weaving along the narrow highway, until suddenly I spotted a big utility truck lumbering toward me and punched the brakes, pulling over until my right wheels were off the road. The truck paused, then slowly eased past, the driver waving. BANGSMASH. Looked back to see that the truck had sideswiped an outcropping of rock while heading into the curve, its brake-lights blaring as it lurched to a stop. Was I supposed to get out? Was this my fault somehow? Do rocks require witnesses? Um... bye, truck driver. I fwooshed away, waving guiltily at two more utility trucks as they scooted past, and gunning it when I saw them brake in my rear-view. The road switched-back, and I averted my eyes, certain they were all lined up on the cliff, pointing accusingly at the car, "Hey, that's her right there! Stop her!" Voom.

Well, if that wasn't wrong, I'm pretty sure driving the wrong way up a one-way street probably is. But I did, and still got to my appointment with time to spare. They put my whole head in a spinning x-ray, like a rotisserie chicken. The dentist, a distinguished man of about 60, ran his pen down my chart, murmuring to himself. "30? She doesn't look 30 yet..." I beamed. "Where did you grow up? These fillings are things I usually only see on people from my generation." I wilted.



So, the long and short of it is that, although I don't have a cavity, there is some painless-yet-horrifying badness going on in my jaw, and it is leeching into my bloodstream and causing me to feel like walking death. To fix this, I get to have a root-canal and a FUCKING TOOTH PULLED OUT. As soon as possible, because, "These are time-bombs. Especially with you out there in Hana, they could blow up in a matter of hours and you'd be in some serious trouble." Well, shit. Took me and my amazing exploding mandible to the mall to buy pants that make my butt look like a cupcake. Work with what you have. Which is not, evidently, teeth. Bright side: this is all the fault of 1980s socialized dentistry - not Splenda! Will carry on shoveling down horse-doses of the sweet stuff.

In the end, there is still a chance I may need that shirtless-man-sedan, but it isn't looking so good. As I was driving home, I crested the cliffs and drove past the Keanae lookout, where a jeep was stopped in the road. I passed it with a wave, rounded the corner, and saw the most extraordinary thing; a shirtless man, running to catch up with his ride, broad-shouldered and cropped-haired and completely covered in tattoos. My shirtless man! And he was getting away! He saw me and grinned as I nearly took off the side mirror. Damn.

I meet Pauly Shore and eat a maggoty corpse

"Look at this asshat." A silver mustang rent-a-car was charging across the new one-lane bridge, despite the fact that we were already on it. Mike stopped, but did not reverse immediately. When the oncoming car irched satisfyingly to a stop, he eased backward to make room for it. The other driver rolled his wrist for us to put down our window, like someone calling for their check by pantomiming a signature. "How far is it to the park?" That poor man looks like Pauly Shore, I thought. The blonde in the passenger seat was shrinking down and looking embarrassed. "About 5 minutes." "Kay, thanks," he drove on, covering his face a bit with a hand. "That was Pauly Shore, you know," Mike said. "What."

motherfucking Pauly Shore!

It was a holiday campout weekend, in celebration of a young friend's birthday. Rampant children, frisbee, volleyball, hiking, fireworks, card-playing! Also rain.

When the sun emerged, we threw the children into the water, to distract them from trying to rescue all the forest critters from themselves and take them home trapped in plastic cups.

motherfucking waterfall!

Not so fun: I plucked a piece of meat out of the serving pan and discovered, on the way to my mouth, that it was covered in spiky little fly eggs. And that all the other pieces of meat were studded with little white clusters, too. And that I had just swallowed a big mouthful of them. Am off meat for the foreseeable future, and surviving on no-bake oreo pie, which I am about to make.

edited to add: I grabbed a spatula from the jar-o-utensils on the counter, and discovered that it was covered in baby cockroaches - just in time for them all to bail onto the pie and blend in with the cookie bits. Am off oreo pie, and now surviving on gummy vitamins.

kam kam

The spare child has arrived. The last time we took care of this kid, we got in trouble for taking her out of her baby bucket and carrying her around, which, as everyone knows, is the quickest way to spoil 6-week-old babies. We won't be doing that again, I tell you what. 

Nope. This time we'll stuff her with coconut candy, throw her in the ocean, and play in waterfalls - but will definitely not be bouncing her on our knees and counting her little toeses. No more coddling for you, girlie. Day 1: a tour of the neighborhood. "EEUURG! BIG FURRY TREE FERRET THING!" "No, no, no, don't worry. It's just a rat." 

We said hi to the neighbor's horse. He wanted treats. We didn't have any. He pooed at us. Day 2: charmed by the local wildlife, the child tried out the beach. Yes, it's shaping up to be a trip she'll never forget.

cleanliness and a peeping spock

Have been preparing for the young houseguest. Without extra hands to help, the morning's cleaning looked like this:

Sprayed out the cat shower (this being the hissing, spitting, unused shower in the small bathroom, which the cats have taken to dropping small animals into as a gladiator arena); Leif dug his hands into the litter box and fished for poo to paint with.

Got up on a stool and swept dust off the ceiling fans, which fell in thick ribbons as if they were being disemboweled; Leif dumped an entire bag of goldfish crackers onto the rug and bashed them into crumbs with a Hess truck.

Washed dishes; Leif emptied the pan cupboard and dumped cat water into them to make soup with a mangled banana.

Determined that in order to save the house, cleaning needed to stop. It is far less messy to do some cookie-baking with the tot, play with blocks, and lay around reading board books in front of Food Network. Maybe I will hide dollars around the house, and make the big kids clean up to find them.

Oh, Nimoy

How have I gone this long without mentioning Spock? He's a daily delight/sensation of lurking horror: a life-sized cutout who lives in the landlord's house, peering out the window to keep vigil over the parking lot and terrorize the smokers on those paranoid days.

See him there, that blue thing?



Someone thought it would be extra fun to put christmas lights in his eyes. That has landed me flailing in the bushes by the car on more than one night. You'd think I would eventually remember that it's just Spock, but no, each time I go a'flailing all over again. Evidently giant men with glowing blue eyes are not something we are naturally equipped to accept.

To-do list, slightly diminished

I have been meaning to re-cover the chair pads for a while. Spurred by the need to impress a 10-year-old, I finally did it.

Before and after:


Oh, look. Spock is happy.

Only now I'm noticing that the pattern looks like a sort of landing strip for the ol' bumoley and hoo-ha. Now I'll never be able to un-see it. Thanks, creepy flowers.

I also managed to start a few blocks for a new couch quilt. I was going to show them off by pretending they were shotgun wounds, but then the infink tried to smother me with a head-shop tapestry.



Two boys and a 10 year-old girl. I am going to need a lot more cherry bourbon.


edited to add: while baking cookies, Leif accidentally smashed a glass. While I was cleaning up the glass, he dumped a bottle of water into the cookie dough. I drained it out and baked it anyway.

Spiders included for free

Yes, I still do stuff.

The spiderweb monstrosity is ready for trimming, binding, and foisting.



Look, an action shot. It's a terrible yoga mat. Which is fine, because it's a baby blanket.

Hearsty Mashup

Today's entry written by guest author William Randolph Hearst


STILL, WARY LIBRARIAN. Her Gaze Passes Over the Hungry Worshippers of Myspace, Alighting on a Stack of Ponderous Tomes Adorned with Scrolling Font, Pugnacious and Alluring. Seized by a Moment of Abandon She Plucks Up a Book of Love Poems, Clutching it with a Silent Plea for Some Piercing Words to Ignite Her Soul. She Opens at Random, With Unruly Hope, and Reads:

Maybe - though I do not bleed - I am wounded,
walking
along one of the rays of your life.
In the middle of the jungle the water stops me,
the rain that falls with its sky.

She Stares Dismayed. The Book Flies Suddenly Across the Desk with Savage Fury, and the Librarian Tosses Her Hair Tempestuously. Oh, Shut Up, Book --- She Thinks to Herself --- For Last Night I Dreamed I Was Cradled in the Protective Embrace of My Long Absent Lover, Come For Me at Last --- Bumblebee the Transformer. Suck it, Pablo Neruda.

Technical difficulties

You know what is more dangerous than having a blog? Just about anything. Especially when you work with the public, and that public doesn't like paying .25 cent late fines or having to actually have a library card to check out books. Summer is the peak of hobo season, and they are all hot and cranky. This morning we had a staff-time sparring session with the lock-down bar, exchanging tips like, "Aim to swing through their head!" and "Jam it in the solar plexus!" Library folk look nice and fluffy, but we'll cut a bitch.*

Melvil Dewey, 1876

Diet update: gained another half a pound. Have begun dumping powdered old-person fiber supplement ("Now without grit!" - must have cut down on the powdered old-person) into, well, everything. Soup, oatmeal, rice, coffee. Turns out that the little note on the side of the jar that says "not recommended for carbonated beverages" actually translates into "will make your soda violently explode". Begs the question: are Mentos made of old-person?

Tuesday is Tuesdaying on.

*Actually, no, probably not.

not going great and am not happy

In which we are all in jr. high school again.



Let's do bullets for this one:

* Noticed last week that Mr. Downstairs, after verbally abusing his pregnant girlfriend and then screaming at their newborn, was having another woman sleep over while girlfriend and baby were out of town. Seemed shady, but could have been his sister or something, right? At least it was quiet for a change.

* Was still punchy on Thurs about Dance Class Girl resurfacing, and heard neighbor return, to minor squabbling. Happened to be on computer, and noted on assfacebook that I hoped she knew about the visitor. Mentioned no names, deleted it about an hour later, but someone had already had a scandalized joyride figuring it out and calling everyone in creation to squee in mock-horror about it, including Ms. Downstairs.

* Received badly structured "don't talk shit about us" message from Ms. Downstairs. Replied with a "sorry about that, and also your boyfriend is an asshole" message. Am a respectably employed knitting-type person who doesn't do drugs, one of the benefits of which is that the cops like me and wave hello. Am not afraid of abusive partying drug addicts who scatter like roaches when they see flashing lights.

*Am, however, afraid of paranoid schizophrenics. Came home after a long day in town to a late-night phone call from the Apocalypse guy. He asked if I had heard anyone talking about him or his kids, I said I had not (which is true, haven't even thought of him myself since the dinner thing a few months ago). He said he had heard someone say that his baby was tiny, and had got on the phone and threatened to kill them and the cops were all over his house because of it. I suggested that was a bad idea, he said, "That's your opinion, people have to be prepared to pay the consequences for what they do". I suggested that was what was happening if you threatened to kill people, he said, "That's your opinion." First clue that rational thinking is not present. He deflected with a question about a library book, which I answered and then said goodnight. He called back immediately to talk to Mike, as "the man", and told him that when I came over for that Dinner of Doom a few months ago, I had called their newborn baby "tiny", and he'd better make sure his woman didn't talk about them anymore (OH NOES I AM TALKING ABOUT IT RIGHT NOW AND I AM A WOMAN HAAALP). Mike suggested that newborn babies are tiny and it's usually a normal observation, but the guy said he would get me fired and went into yell-over-other-person mode and then politely told Mike to have a nice night. Am going to have a nice morning at the police station instead.

* Have not noticed any local readers to my blog, but am shutting it closed for now, just in case. People are too bored out here, and I will turn into the next Us magazine and people will whisper in scandal about my yarn choices.

Ok, so this has all led to some agitation, locked doors, and not a few thoughts about Mike running half-naked out of the bedroom with the broadsword to hack up an intruder, a la Jamie Fraser. (Oo-er) No word on the status of my transfer request, but I may push the notion just a bit.