Your Neighborhood Librarian Cooks a Meal

My son needs to bake a pie for his 8th grade class's Pie Auction. 

Why this strikes me as like the last and final blow, the pinnacle, the ultimate "we've got to have WHAT by Monday?!" in ten years of "Students must have X by Monday" - paint smocks, comfortably a dozen batches of cookies and cupcakes, multiple tri-fold presentation boards, a clipboard, camping equipment, and costumes representing John Wilkes Booth, Ravi Shankar, a tropical fish, and British composer Henry Purcell - I can't really say.

But it irritates the shit out of me. Maybe it's because I can't bake a piecrust myself.

Anyway, the Pie Auction is described as a hallowed tradition of this private school that the boys have been attending for middle school, middle school representing for me the three years in a young person's life that most closely resemble hell, and so we paid good cash money to put them somewhere with 275 years of experience keeping kids basically on the rails. (*ignoring ignoring ignoring my friends who went there themselves and their fond memories of skipping class to smoke cigarettes at the Dunkin Donuts or pot down at the creek*) (*that was high school anyway, they assure me*)

And the flyer for the Pie Auction allows for "savory pies." Which is good, because my 8th grader is a savory guy. Ha. Ugh. Anyway, he's better with meat than with desserts. Hm. That's also kind of ugh. Here's a story:

We're sitting at dinner one night maybe 6 or 7 years ago, Ez was about 6 and Milo maybe 8. The subject of pie comes up, who knows how. Ezra asks, "What actually IS a pie? How do you make it?"

I start to answer. "You roll out dough flat and put it in a round pan..."

And then Milo chimes in. He's like me - he likes to have the answer to things, and is generally unconcerned with the limits of his own knowledge or authority on the subject at hand. "And then you put in the filling - the meat or jelly - and then more dough on top."

Bob and I looked at him. "Meat and jelly?" Bob asked.

I turned to Ezra. "Please keep in mind that your brother has never made a pie."

"He may have never eaten one," added Bob. "Or seen one on TV," I said.

So this is going to go well.

Your Neighborhood Librarian Makes a List

A long time ago, a woman who had just moved back to Spain from Argentina told me a funny story about getting things done. (Was it Venezuela? One or the other.) We were talking about regional differences in spoken Spanish and she said she once found herself describing her day to a neighbor: "First we'll get the car, then we'll get the laundry and the groceries, and then swing by the school and get the children."

Only - the casual verb form of "get" that she was using to mean "pick up" was actually a profanity in Argentina. So what the aghast neighbor heard was, "First we'll fuck the car, then we'll fuck the laundry and the groceries, and then swing by the school and fuck the children."

And oh, doesn't everybody feel like that sometimes?

Your Neighborhood Librarian Finds Her Level

It's Halloween. I'm driving around. It's overcast, it's not too cold, it's not hot. I've arrived at that - I have this weird perfect-storm confluence of coffee, cloud cover, being awake, free time, and unfamiliar surroundings, that if it combines in just the right proportions, I feel like a genius. I think other people get to this place using meth, and frankly I cannot fault them, because it's a pretty cool feeling. Where is this chilly wind coming from that's blowing air into my brain? Well it's Pulaski Highway in Baltimore, where else?

That's right boys and girls - Your Neighborhood Librarian is going to buy a case of beer

Pulaski Highway, named after Casimir Pulaski of course - I know that off the top of my head (remember I record these blog posts into my phone) - Casimir Pulaski, hero oooofff... the American Revolution I think [YES! I was right!], anyway shit is named after him ALL over the place. Everywhere I've ever lived has had a Pulaski Skyway, a Pulaski Bridge, a Pulaski Square, a Pulaski Shot Tower, Day Care Center, Pulaski Rim and Lube, etc.

Only nickname I ever had was "Sloth" - or, Timothy Olyphant is my other spirit animal

Me neither, Johnny.

I am entirely blocked.

Oh, there's an entertaining first line for ya. Feel free to steal it. "I am entirely blocked. We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold." "I am entirely blocked. Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins." You would read either of those books, wouldn't you?


I am so frickin blocked that, let alone writing,  I haven't even been READING. I have Charlie Higson's new Enemy Novel on my coffee table and I haven't cracked it. I have The Shining Girls, which everyone wants to read, and I have barely read the flap copy. Instead, I've been reading TWOP recaps of Deadwood and Tom & Lorenzo bitching about "ladystars" in spinkly dresses.

Jennifer Lawrence doesn't give a shit that I am in a rut.

That hasn't been a total loss, by the way - I have learned many wonderful uses of the word "clench" and discovered that Naomi Watts is my spirit celebrity. If I could wear a shirtdress the way she can, I would wear nothing but shirtdresses.

It's weird though. This is exactly the opposite of what I expected to happen.

See, I sort of quit my job. I got this job, a little over a year ago, working full-time doing what I'd previously been doing part-time, and although I really enjoyed it - it was in a new part of town for me, and I like having responsibility and agency, and most of all I had great co-workers who were willing to let me crackpot around, from the start it seemed like maybe it was a bad idea. The kids were extremely kerfuffled about it, especially Ezra; it ruined summer, since I didn't have any vacation time accrued; and I was always scrambling to manage rides and supervision when Bob was out of town, which was often. Plus, working part-time for so long, I had encumbered all kinds of additional commitments. Articles to write, reviews, school things.

And yes. I KNOW. I am such a whiner. Everyone deals with this. It's hard, and it's hard for everyone, and nobody told us it would be otherwise.

When I grow up, I'm going to have six kids and a
full-time job and an 87% chance of getting breast cancer.
But right now, I am feeling so sorry for you
that I am going to jam this into my aorta.

So I kept with it until I had this dream that Milo (who is ELEVEN) had a presentation to give in Milwaukee, and he missed his flight, and somehow convinced me to let him drive there. I had to go to work and Bob was in Kansas, and I let him go, and later got a phone call that they'd found him in the car by the side of the road in Indiana and he had alcohol and cake in his system. I woke up in tears, and fired off an email to HR essentially saying "GET ME OUT OF HERE," and four months later, I am back to working part-time.

Which is, like, ideal, right? It's summertime, we can go back to our pajamas-swimsuits-pajamas attire schedule. I can make dinner every night. I can catch up on review assignments that were due I shit you not in APRIL.

But I can't seem to get started on any of it. The few things that people need from me RIGHT NOW, I've done those things. But the stuff that's been hovering - nothing. I have two marvelous books to review for my other blog, but I can't seem to write a word about them.

I think it's not a coincidence that, in addition to me not having to go to work every day, the kids have been off in the Land of Relatives for a week and a half, stomping around in streams in Virginia with aunties and uncles and grandparents. If they don't need to get fed, I don't make food. If they don't want to go to the pool, I don't put my bathing suit on, and so I stay in my pajamas.

Is this what happens when we become parents? And is this why people - some people, not me - have kind of a fearful reaction to adults who choose not to have kids? Is it a universal perception that, absent external demands, we revert to a natural slothful state?

I better get off my ass.

Your Neighborhood Librarian Sorts Your Socks

What I know about housework and what I know about poetry are roughly the same. You mop up tiny shards of glass with a piece of bread. There you go. That's what I know about poetry and what I know about housework in the same sentence. So when I get to talking about either or both subjects, it's a lot like The Drunk History of Stuff Women Do When They're Not Working For a Living or Having Fun.

And that's what I did today on the way to work...

Your Neighborhood Librarian Avoids the Clap

Gracious, looks like I never posted this, despite having written it in about March. It's about a surprising thing:

So, here's a surprising thing. Today's adventure - in our ongoing series of Your Neighborhood Librarian Gets Shit Done - involves something that I was putting off for a reallly long time, and that's buying jeans. My New Year's Resolution was... oh wait, the surprising thing. I don't want to leave anyone in suspense. That shit kills, you know. Nobody needs excess suspense.


Your Neighborhood Librarian Buys Jeans at the Mall

Times when you wish Purell made lube.

The surprising thing I'm talking about, the thing that will shock and alarm you is - I have just spent basically the whole day at the MAAALLLL, and I am in really a ridiculously good mood. Just chew on that for a second.

THE MALL. The place where crowds and perfume samples and overpriced throw pillows and the sinister alleyways of the second floor - I mean, you could get a raging case of genital warts even just from lingering outside Abercrombie and Fitch long enough to tie your shoe. NEVER touch the floor, or god help you the benches, outside of Abercrombie and Fitch.

But I. Prevailed.

Let's backtrack. Let me give you the backstory, the exposition for how I got to the MAALLL in the first place.

Your Neighborhood Librarian Is Giving you a Long Look

So I'm driving to work, and I go east to go to work, here in Baltimore, and it's kind of different over there. So I'm driving to work, and there's this guy in a van, in a white panel van. Econoline. Driving alongside of me, and he gestures to me to roll down my window. So I roll down my window, and he calls out to me. I'm driving my blue minivan, my Honda Odyssey, total soccer mom minivan.

And he says to me, "You sell this van?" And I, of course, say, "What?" because, you know, people say "What?" when someone says something totally random to them. And he says, "You no want sell this van to me?" and I'm like, "Yeah, no. No. I'll just drive it to work instead."

And you know, he kind of shrugged and smiled at me and kept on going, and took the next right. And I'm driving along, as I was before, but completely baffled. I'm sure I had that look on my face, that baffled look.

Alexander the Great doesn't want
to sell his van either.

You know? What would that... how would that play out? You'd say, "Huh. Sure! I'll sell you my van! How much will you give me for this van? You want to give me five thousand dollars for this van? Eight?" I don't know, I would take eight grand for that van.

What's he going to do? Is he going to shell out a whole shitload of cash? Does he have that kind of roll in his pocket? And then he's going to give me a ride to work? And then take off, like, with my van?

Is it a question of... Where? Else? Could he find a van? I mean, all kinds of places, right? Has he checked the Pennysaver?

It's like you see those hand-lettered magic marker signs on the telephone posts, "WE BUY HOUSES." "WE BUY HOUSES - GOOD PRICES." Who does that work for? You have a house, you've been having trouble selling because it's a rough market, finally you're like, man, I'm under water on this house, I'm going to call the number on that sign. I bet they can help!

Who..? does that? There's got to be someone. There's got to be some percent return on that, some success rate of that kind of advertising, or people wouldn't draw up these little signs and staple them to posts. The investment in tagboard alone! And does this just happen in Baltimore? It can't just be Baltimore.

Although I am beginning to think it's just Baltimore where people beg on the street corner with a bucket and call it fundraising. Not kidding. Not even wearing like a vest, or matching t-shirts - I saw ladies wearing t-shirts that somebody had written on them with marker, the name of a daycare center, and they're walking around with spackle buckets at the intersection just asking for money for this daycare center. What? Isn't your daycare center a business? "We're raising money for the God's Little Superstars Daycare..." Really? Are ya? Cause... I'm a little short today. "I'm raising money for the... librarian lunch fund? That's right." I don't know.

Sure. I'll sell you my van.

Your Neighborhood Librarian lies back and tries to relax

Why don't I floss? Why don't I FLOSS?

But I don't. So every couple of years, I end up having to have the roots of my teeth scaled, or planed or whatever they call it - I mean, whatever they do call it it amounts to SCRAPED. SCRAPED UGH ROOTS OF TEETH UGH. And you have to get numbed up for it, and now half of my face looks like I have Bell's Palsy again.

You guessed it. This is:

Your Neighborhood Librarian Goes to the Dentist

I had Bell's Palsy once already and it wasn't pretty, ladies and gentlemen! No. Pretty is a thing it wasn't. I looked like I was having a stroke at all times. They need a new name for that shit, "Bell's Palsy" sounds like something that comes in a little yellow cardboard box that you sprinkle on chicken. If I needed to blink, I had to use my finger to shut my left eye. If I wanted to drink through a straw, I had to endure the ridicule of my children. And if I wanted to sneak outside for a smoke after said children were asleep, I had to actually pinch the left side of my mouth closed around the cigarette.

Kim Mulkey, women's bball coach at Baylor,
would dearly like to be able to keep her left eye open.
I feels ya, jocky lady.

You mighta thought I would have quit smoking at that point, but I DIDN'T. NO. I don't have that many vices left, and so I am keeping it up. Here are my vices: I smoke, and I - well I drink, of course I drink, I have little kids - I watch Justified solely to see Raylan Givens with his shirt off, and I don't floss.

Oh, man! Making the f sound with my mouth all numbed up like this makes me make a little fart sound with my cheek. Work tonight is going to be humiliating.

[Once again, Your Neighborhood Librarian is posting from the highway. You live in Baltimore, you see a blue minivan on the Beltway with a woman in it kind of hollering and visibly complaining into thin air, my advice is, give me a wide berth.]

Your Neighborhood Librarian Has a Monkey on her Back

Oh my god. Here's a saga. The worst kind of saga, really, because a good saga, a really good kind of saga would have some heroes, swords, boats... or maybe it would be a family saga, with adultery and illegitimate children, sweeping landscapes, sunsets, horseback riding, estates handed down.




There would be Kim Cattrall with brown hair (still on her back though I see) and Don Johnson in a ponytail wig. OMG that's who Coach Taylor looks like! Don Johnson! Wow.

But this isn't that kind of saga. No, this story I am sad to say is not the kind of John Jakes melodrama that happens to Randolph Mantooth and Delta Burke, nope. It is instead the kind of saga that happens to you and me, the saga about something that needs to happen but that just... doesn't happen. Something that needs to get done that just... somehow cannot become done.

A thing that is like that square wheel on the wheelbarrow, the worst wheelbarrow ever manufactured - who makes a wheelbarrow with a square wheel I ask you? You push it and push it and it is just never going to roll. It is a story of Fuck You I am Going to Place a Bomb Under You and You Will Move THEN Won't You You Piece of Shit.

Like that.

It's about an old sofabed. Not about Vikings or Forsytes, no, not about bastard children or kidnapped ranis. This is about a bastard couch. One that won't go away.

Your Neighborhood Librarian Goes Out 40

My friend Laurel has so many good ideas she has to dole them out like Communion wafers.

"Body of Christ," she'll murmur. "You should write a picture book biography of Thor Heyerdahl."
Next person walks up. "Sanguinis Christi. You need to open a gelato stand in Collier Heights."

"Mother of God," she said to me one gusty December night getting hammered on tequila on my porch. "You're going to write a series of blog posts about getting shit done."

I had been complaining about having to do jury duty and judge a book award and how difficult it is to slot all this stupid shit in to the crappy December turmoil that is December, and she says, "You really need to make it a thing: Your Neighborhood Librarian Gets Shit Done. Your Neighborhood Librarian Renews Her Driver's License. Your Neighborhood Librarian Gets a Mammogram."

And you know, it's not a bad idea.