Saturday, September 30, 2006

I see you on down on the scene..

I do believe we're having company tonight.

Thursday, September 28, 2006


I have two things to tell you people about today.

First, Reed has got a wonderful new skill! He can now reach into his diaper, pull poop out, and rub it on surrounding items, including himself! Ah, they grow so fast. Jason noticed him this morning making the telltale grunting noises that signal a bowel movement while he was sitting in his playpen. A minute later, Jason noticed something on Reed's neck, and he realized that Reed was leaning oddly to the side, and one of his hands was out of sight. He looked closer to discover that, yes, Reed was indeed reaching into his diaper, pulling out poop, and doing with it as he pleased. And he was VERY pleased. Jason said he was really quite excited about the whole thing, and even a little proud of himself. I tell you, he's a FREAKING GENIUS. I wish I could pull poop out of my pants and rub it on stuff. I'd probably start with my boss' keyboard and phone. But that's another story.

Second, one of the CHILDREN who works up front at the circulation desk just came back here, to my desk, and made me unimaginably uncomfortable. I met him last spring; he's a work study student here in the library. When I worked with him on Saturdays, I always got the impression that he thought HE was in charge of ME, instead of the other way around. He bossed me around, and asked a lot of questions that implied that he was checking to make sure I knew what I was doing. I only actually worked WITH him for a total of about an hour; I stayed in the back at my desk, and he covered the circulation desk. I hadn't seen him in a while, until just a few moments ago.

CHILD: Hey! How's it going?

TOTALLY UNCOMFORTABLE BUFFY (from here on out, referred to as TUB): Ah, fine. How are you?

CHILD: Oh, you know, pretty good. I just had some stir fry for lunch, so I figured I needed a mint. (Here, he shows me his mint.)

(He stands there looking at me, as if we are going to have some kind of conversation. I look away and go about my work, all the while begging God to give me a frickin' break. I can feel the people I work with waiting on pins and needles to try and figure out exactly what's going on here. I'd like to tell them to TAKE A FUCKIN' NUMBER 'cause I'd like to know that myself.)

CHILD: So, then it's the same old same old?

TUB: Uh, yes.

(More moments of uncomfortable silence. My face starts to get red. I continue to work and ignore him.)

CHILD: Hey! (He just remembered something.) Are you going to the show? The band? Do you know about the concert?

TUB: (I'm growing more and more scared.) No. I don't know what you're talking about.

CHILD: Pat Green. Have you ever heard of him?

TUB: No, I haven't. I don't know what you're talking about.

CHILD: He's some country singer. I'm not really a fan of country music. (He just stops talking and looks at me.)

TUB: Hm. No, I haven't heard anything about it.

At this point, the director of the library comes back and starts talking loudly about Reese cups or some shit, and it scares the KID away. I sit there and go THANK YOU GOD THANK YOU JESUS WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?

And those are my thoughts for the day.

Friday, September 22, 2006

And you know what they say about men with big feet- they wear big shoes.

My husband has big feet. Seriously, Jason's feet are huge. Big. Very big feet. And while this has some obvious perks for me, his wife, it is a ROYAL PAIN IN MY ASS to find shoes for him.

Most of my shoes come from two places: Target (i.e., the holy land and my second home) or Payless (i.e., a place I try not to go because there are so many things that make me shit with glee). So, most of my shoes cost under $20. I have many pairs of shoes, and I generally don't have any trouble finding shoes that fit and make me happy. Actually, my problem lies in trying NOT to find shoes that fit and make me happy.

Anyway, we honestly have trouble keeping Jason in a pair of shoes that doesn't either have holes where his toes have finally revolted against the tyranny of the uncomfortable, restrictive, positively FASCIST vinyl or otherwise cheap fabric and escaped, or that aren't so terribly uncomfortable that Jason is FORCED by a will normally unknown to him to talk, at great length, loudly and constantly, about how tired and sore and utterly abused his poor tootsies are.

How's THAT for a run-on sentence?!?

SO, I've been spending a lot of time on eBay lately, checking out shoes in the Men's Size 15 (jealous, ladies?) section, and I have to say, there are some interesting finds on there.

I'm so tempted to just go for it and buy some of these wacky shoes, in hopes that I could talk Jason into wearing them. The whole point is that, while we could go out and pay $75 to $100 in town somewhere on a nice pair of New Balance or Nike or whatever, I just can't surrender the fantasy that maybe I'll stumble onto something FANTASTIC for about $1.47 one day.

So I continue to look. And I am constantly amused at my finds, and even more amused imagining Jason walking around in some of these things.

I went through an odd phase that lasted about 17 years in which I was very worried that my feet looked big. I can't possibly explain it to you if you've never endured these feelings personally, but I was just obsessed with the fear that my feet were big, huge boats, and that people were snickering behind my back about my large, oddly proportioned feet. During this time, I was horrified and repelled by shoes that made my feet look any bigger than they actually were (such as Converse, or those little Sam-n-Libby shoes with the bows on them that were so in for quite some time). I haven't had these feelings in quite some time, but I am reminded of them as I look at some of these shoes.

I am getting ready to give up and just spend the hundred bucks, already, because this process is giving me hives.

Wednesday, September 20, 2006


A death in the family is one of the most bizarre, difficult, surreal, humbling experiences that a person can go through, I think.

Candice's goat, Penny, died in our back yard some time Monday night. She stayed with us while Candice and Eric went on vacation. She was the sweetest baby of the three, I think.

I can't imagine how sad, how sad, it must be to come home from a week's vacation to that kind of news, to wake up to a phone call full of "I'm sorry" and "She's gone". There are people who don't own pets, and who just don't understand how fully you come to view them as your children. There are also people who do own pets, but just never seem to get past the it's-just-an-animal, pet/owner kind of relationship. And there's nothing wrong with that. But there is a third breed of person, the pet owner who takes completely seriously her duty to protect, love, and cherish her little friend, who just loves her little beast-child with all her heart, who is totally devastated when that little thing has to go away. I think that Candice and I have in common being that third kind of pet owner, and I am just so completely sorry for what she's having to deal with right now.

After I discovered what had happened, I went inside the house, and I thought, "Okay, we have to sell our goats. And maybe the cats. And probably the kids for good measure." Because how can I do this over and over again? A panic set in that I don't think I can accurately describe, in which I realized that I am no longer the child who comes home from school to bad news; I am the adult now who has to actually deal with the deceased animal, as well as the emotional turmoil of the passing of the loved one. Penny is Candice's child to tend to, but the tragedy made me realize that with Dudley, Pierre, Shu Shu, Ida, and Petey, I will have to bare up and find a box of the appropriate size. And I'm totally not convinced that I am, in any way, prepared to fill that role. As sad as I am over the death of Penny, how will I feel when it's one of my own? How will I take that tiny little body, that innocent little thing that I have fed and cuddled, and bury it away? How will I get rid of this feeling, this ache, these little flashes in my head that read, "Was she scared? I should have been with her. I hope she wasn't scared. I hope she didn't suffer. Even though I know that this is not my fault, I know that this is my fault."

And so, after agonizing over it for most of the night, I have decided to move to Siberia. There's not really anything in Siberia, right? I have to leave everyone that I love behind, because I don't think I can possibly deal with the possibility of losing them in some way. I just really can't be that kind of adult. I am not ready to NOT be the one who hears the news, then throws herself onto her bed and cries the whole afternoon, then lets her momma make her some soup when she manages to get herself under control. Who's going to make my soup? I NEED THE SOUP, PEOPLE!

Thursday, September 14, 2006

Can you tie them in a knot? Can you tie them in a bow?

Reed woke up at 2:30 a.m. for a bottle the other night, as he is wont to do. I sat him in his high chair while I got the bottle ready, and gave him a couple of sweet potato puffs to tide him over.

After a couple of minutes, a moth flew into the kitchen and landed on his tray. He stopped cold, looked at it for a second, and then looked at me and said, "EH!!!" And I knew that what he said was, "What the FUCK is that and can I please eat it???"

Tuesday, September 12, 2006

A Saturday at the Library.

So, Saturdays are sort of a free day for me here at the library. I'm here to supervise the work-study students, and mainly to act as back-up should one of them call in or not show up. I basically spend the day sitting in the back at my desk, internetting and drinking coffee.

Which brings me to my subject today: coffee. Specifically, how the coffee here at work tastes like motor oil. MOTOR OIL, people. This particular brand of coffee-motor oil is so foul it makes my face spontaneously contort into pretzel twists of utter disgust. At first I figured that the taste was the fault of the person making the coffee; after making it myself a few times, I decided that it must the the 1990's appliance-of-death that brewed the coffee that was making it taste so fiercely grody. After a few months of drinking the motor oil and assuming that my face would never regain its once-cute regularity, I started making a pot of coffee at home, and bringing a to-go cup with me. This, besides being a pain in my ass, was irritating for several reasons. First, I really don't need one more thing to carry in the morning. I'm usually running late anyways, what with the 87 ankle-biters whom I have to take care of in the mornings. Second, the coffee was always luke-warm by the time I got to work. Third, I DON'T NEED A THIRD BECAUSE THE FIRST TWO SUCK BADLY ENOUGH TO RUIN MY DAY.

Well, as we all know, my perfect car was wrecked a couple of weeks ago, and my only two to-go cups are in it. At the tow shop. In Vestavia.

SO, I decided to dedicate my Saturday to figuring out how to make a decent pot of coffee in this crappy, old coffee maker, for the love of buddha on a pogo ball.

I started with the two, old, nasty carafes that my boss insists on putting the coffee in. I had noticed that they were moderately to extremely brown and gross looking on the inside, but the hole in the top was too small to fit my hand in (that IS what he said, after all), so I hadn't figured out how to scrub them out. I filled them with soap and hot water and let them sit for a few minutes. It was only after I had done this that I decided to document this whole endeavor with my trusty camera. Witness, the inside of one of the carafes AFTER it has soaked- still partly nasty and brown:

THEN, I discoverd my trusty tools upstairs in the break room- meet brush and rag:

I went to work on those carafes like they have never been worked. I scrubbed and picked and scraped and rinsed, until, OH MY GOD!! They're SILVER on the inside!!!

Next, I laid my wrath upon the coffee pot itself. I scrubbed it, rinsed it, scrubbed it, scrubbed it and rinsed it again.

Then I proceeded to run EIGHT TWELVE-CUP POTS OF WATER through the coffee maker, one right after the other.

After this was done, I figured I should make a tiny, two-cup pot of coffee to relish in my success. Here is the small cup of coffee I poured myself:

And here I am, cursing the coffee gods for forsaking me so. It still tasted like shit. Er, motor oil.

Oh, well. It passed the time.

EDIT: I am posting this with links to the pictures because, for some reason or another, I can't get the pictures uploaded onto the blog. Sorry for the inconvenience. I'll try and fix it in the meantime.

Friday, September 08, 2006

In which I say bad things about my boss.

My boss has the habit of going, "Hhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!" in this very exasperated way, much like Napoleon Dynamite. She does this about 147 times a day.

"Have you seen that woman who comes up here wearing such a short skirt? HHHHHHHHHHH!!"

"That girl STILL hasn't returned all those inter-library loan books. Hhhhhhhhhhhhhh."

"Our neighbor wants us to water her plants again while she's out of town. Hhhhhhhhhhhh."

I don't know how she doesn't hyperventilate and pass out, bumping her head on the way down on one of the MILLION book trucks surrounding my desk filled with rare books or gift books that I'm NOT SUPPOSED TO WORK ON until I'm done with whatever else she deams to be more important than MY JOB that they pay me to do.