SO! And AHA! My internet is still talking to me. Every day I put the baby in her Skinner Box and expect to see my connection dead again. Well met, web of the world.

There were some crazy amounts of librarians in Seattle over the weekend. Apparently the ALA conference was overbooked by something like 7,000 iPerps. This is critical to understand when I tell you the next part.

My old friend, Bean, came into town. She was a year behind me in school and followed me as Vice President of all things Awesome. Bean emailed me before she came but she’s a super-busy academic librarian so we didn’t finalize any plans, but I knew she wanted me to save Thursday for her.

Bean came and had lunch, and we caught up and gabbled about the time before I was an unemployed layabout. She told me a classmate from her cohort, Crimson, who I am slightly acquainted with, offered to put her up in her house for four days. Bean attempted to call Crimson to firm up their meeting time that evening, so Bean could settle in and spend the first night. Crimson said she was terribly, terribly ill, and not much else, and Bean hung up, looking a little puzzled.

Bean attempted to call Crimson back about an hour-and-a-half later, and was unable to reach her. I offered to put Bean up, because I was starting to get a little worried about her sick disappeared host, and I warned her that we’re up pretty early and the girls are on eleven as soon as they wake up. “Well, it’s okay, I have to get going to an early meeting anyway,” Bean said, and thanked me. Bean called a couple of hotels in neighborhoods near downtown, but they were booked solid.

Companion came home and we took Bean and the girls out to dinner. On the way to the superb Taste of India, Crimson called. At this point it’s almost 6:30, which is getting late to head downtown to catch the ferry to the island she lives on. Crimson claimed she went to the doctor and was feeling better, and that was about all she said, from the sound of it. Bean said she was going to take the offer to spend the night with us, since it was getting so late.

The next morning before she left I asked Bean what her plans were. She said she was going to see if she could crash with a colleague from her school who was coming in for one night. “You can come back here, too,” I said. “Keep me in the loop, because I don’t want you wandering around downtown with your luggage.”

Finally, I couldn’t resist and had to ask Bean something that had been nagging me. “Bean, did Crimson apologize for flaking on you last night, and did you guys make plans for your last two nights?” Bean said the answer to both of those questions was no. I told her I was sorry for being nosy, but I was really curious. Bean seemed unflapped, but being the person I am I was pretty irritated on her behalf. We were happy to put up Bean, but we were a little, “Who DOES that?”

On Sunday night, we went to an iJerk alumni reunion. As I threatened, I wore a nametag that read “Nick Belkin.” Almost immediately, a woman came up to me, waggling her finger, and told me she went to school with a Nick Belkin in 1974. I think she was trying to bust a rogue impostor. “He’s quite famous now,” one of my old professors (who I was talking with) said. “Oh reeeally,” the woman said. I had forgotten that he was alumni.

I ran into Bean later who had come down with a nasty cold since I had seen her on Friday morning. “I checked into a hotel in Queen Anne,” she said. “I gave up on Crimson.”

Halo was at the reunion as well, and she and I made plans for Monday night. While we were out on Monday, Halo gave me some scoop. “Friday night was a clusterfuck of Librarians on Capital Hill. You could not get away from them,” she said. “Oh, and check this out. We went into the Six Arms, and guess who was at a table with a bunch of other UW librarians?”

“Who?” I said.

“Crimson. She was sitting there having a beer,” Halo said.

“Oh HELL NO. Did you tell Bean?” I said.

“Well, no, because Bean was really sick. We didn’t want to make her feel worse.”

So there was Crimson, at a bar yucking it up, the very next night after disappearing on Bean, after being the one who extended the invite in the first place. Nice. But hey, Bean and I had more time to catch up this way. Next time I will invite Bean to stay with us again.

I think today is a good day to review the Rules of Being a Grownup, don’t you?

Hi, my internets shit the bed again. Oh Qwest, you are so my nemesis. They came today and fixed it though, after no-showing twice and showing up randomly without being scheduled (of course I was out). I have a super slammed day today, involving seeing some Ye Olde iJerks down at Benaroya Hall tonight, followed by a date with my babydaddy (new one, not the broken one).

I have so much to tell you! I ran into my ex-in-laws (DUN DUN DUNNN)! I dyed my pubes to match my hair! I thought about this one time at band camp!

Say “hi” if you’re an iJerk and you’re there tonight. I’ll be wearing the nametag that says “HELLOOO MY NAME IS Nick Belkin!”

Weird Al “interviews” Kevin Federline. Al is so much fun to watch.

Solid Potato Salad. Let’s see your Pilates do this, EH?

Debbie Reynolds’ Workout. Florence Henderson, is that you? Shelley Winters is fucking losing it. Where is Liza?

And now we know what Jennifer Aniston’s going to be doing in twenty-five years. And I will be there, twirling my moustache and laughing. That’s right, Aniston. I called you Debbie Reynolds.

In Other News: Wisteria Lane Whiplash

I talked to my big kid, Franny, on the phone the other day. I asked her about school and how things have been. She always sounds like the fourth Chipmunk on the phone. She’s moved up to the next level in her school, so she’s the equivalent of a first grader now. Before xmas she was with the leetle kids, and now she’s doing her half-hour of silent reading every day with the big ones, and working on fractions. Fractions! When I was her age, I was learning to set small fires and swear like a syphilitic seaman. I didn’t get to fractions until college.

I got a wild hair and asked her if her dad had gotten a job yet. Franny said, “Nooo, but he has lots of interviews!” Then she let it slip that one of his friends might set him up in bartending.

Which is hilarious, because over the xmas holidays and snowdays Whippet and I were hanging around banging our kids together and trying to stay sane, so we were gabbling about whatever popped into our heads.

“I heard your Ex is graduating from college,” she said.

Could it be true? Five colleges, six aborted attempts on his father’s dime, and fourteen years later? He would have his BFA in…MUSIC? That’s fabulous, now he can march off to cure cancer all the while supporting his family in fine style. Everyone must be so proud.

“He needs a job. He got a babymama to pay for,” I said.

“Well, the word is that he’s got interviews lined up–five or six,” Whippet replied. “You know what he should do? He should bartend. He would be SO GOOD at that. With the schmoozing and all.”

“YES,” I said. “You should totally, totally suggest it to him! Will you?”

A few days later Whippet reported back.

“He was dismissive of the idea,” she said. “I tried to tell him I know people who are union and make fourteen bucks an hour plus tips, but no. He compared it to cab driving.”

“Negatively, I assume?”

“Yep.”

He and I had discussed the possibility of him bartending years ago when we were still together, and his main objection was the smoky environment. Now that it’s illegal to smoke in public places in Washington State, this is no longer an issue.

On one hand, I’m glad to see that the seed has taken a little bit of a root. It could be a viable way for him to support his new family, especially if his babymama is working the dayshift. On the other hand, he stole from every job he had, before and during the time I knew him, so I don’t know if he could keep his hand out of the till. There was no till to steal from while he was driving cab, but I found out later he was cheating on his taxes. Plus the being surrounded by booze all day may be an issue. This could go well…or sideways. He has to know by now he can’t do the nine-to-five. (And in this post you can see the kind of lameass, bullshit excuses I used to make for him.)

I feel sorry for everyone around him. I think his dad’s still supporting him somewhat, and I this summer his babymama said something about tapping out her 401K. That’s some expensive sperm. The good news is that I’ve discovered I enjoy long-distance meddling, especially when there’s no real risk (as big daddy will bail him out).

Franny said she missed me and I could hear a real urgency there. I can tell when she’s just being diplomo-girl and when she means it. She said she keeps aking her dad how many days until she comes back to my house. I thought I was the only one who got that question. I never thought the tables would turn like this. When I walked away from him, I thought there was a real possibility I would lose her as well. I think things are a little rough going there right now. The last time she was over she said that her dad is “sooo poor” which is probably causing a lot of stress. Poor kiddo. I get her in about a week, and she assured me she’s on the countdown.

So, worst flu since Franny was three weeks old, six-plus years ago. Strudel’s got it too, but she’s still running around jibberjabbering incoherently. Because rest is for suckas!

It’s days like this that I really yearn for a real, live television. If I was monkey-less, I would probably just poke the internet all day, but I can’t, of course. So I wish I could just turn on the TV and watch someone carmelize onions for a while.

I suspect I’ll bounce back next week, hit my winter-mania lack-of-sunlight stride and post every day. Because we rock on the feast or famine style round here.

Meanwhile, Halo schemes on how to sneak me into some kind of cocktail party thing for one night of the ALA midwinter meeting. I have pulled out a sensible cardigan and shoes in preparation for this. But under that I’ll be wearing my DEWEY DANGLERS! SHAKE IT BABY!

I haven’t been a room with this many librarians since I graduated. I think I still have my nerd snap rolling, because Halo and I were citing Robert Taylor at the bookstore the other night, making me laugh so hard I peed a little. Which only proves that I was paying attention in the first quarter (about the long and short of it).

I was getting ready to go out after my shower. I have been experiencing extreme stircraziness because of doing a lot of things for Companion and Strudel while he’s had the flu for the past couple of days.

“Oh, man, these pants are too tight already. I just bought them last month.” I tugged and tugged to no avail, hopping around in the hallway while Companion shaved off his three-day growth of beard.

“Hmm,” he said. “Maybe we should go to the salad bar instead of the Chinese buffet.”

“Excuse me?” I said.

Suddenly I could hear the modern Greek chorus calling out in my head: “OH NO HE DIDEN, MAURY!”

“WHAT? Did you just really say that? I’m PMS PUFFY!”

“I’m sorry,” Companion backpedaled. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“Did you just really say ‘Eat some lettuce, fatty?”

“Noooo, I was just trying to make a little joke. I’m sorry.”

“This is like last month when I put on that little nightgown and you told me I looked like I had ‘boob mumps.’ When you say things like that, what I hear is ‘PLEASE UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES SHOULD YOU EVER HAVE SEX WITH ME EVER AGAIN.”

“I’m sorry.”

Poor Companion. He is an adorable, overly-apologetic target for my PMS. I knew it was going to be like this though. He’s always had trouble with the not-enough-lag-between-brain-and-mouth. Sometimes it’s good though, because the first, candid opinion out of his mouth is usually the absolute truth about what he thinks.

I would take this over a vestigial tail any day, I suppose. And now, off to Chinese buffet!

Or, The Poorly-edited Blogstress Bitches About Others

ENTITLED. Guess what? Your story is not “entitled” anything, or to anything. It is TITLED. Stop being FANCY, ya fuckin fancypants. Yeah, I’m talking to YOU, NPR.

Correct: “I am entitled to more pie.”
Correct: “My book is titled, Give Me Some Pie Or I Will Garotte You.”
WHAT THE FUUUUCK?: “This pie is entitled Boston Creme.”

UTILIZE. I know it’s a damn word. Don’t care. Utilize the word “use,” instead. Unless you want people to think you’re an engineer. Do you want people to think you’re an engineer? Then I can’t help you. If you do want help…well, dropping “utilize” from your vocabulary is only one thing on a list of long things you need to do to hide your true identity.

But don’t worry, some people think engineers are hot? Peut-etre?

(ETA: Oh wait, never mind. I just assumed that googling “hot engineers” would turn up a calendar or engineer pron or something. My bads. Engineers, drop the u-bomb all you want.)

AND MYSELF. Just no. The only time this is acceptable is if you are some kind of mafiosio hoity-toitily threatening someone in a nice restaurant with the tinkly piano and the silverware and the murmuring from the other diners, etc. There should be a lady with a wacky hat and a poodle as well.

Correct: “Last week Mariah and I totally got all the hairs ripped off our junk. Now I can completely rock my new mega low-rise Sevens!”
INcorrect: “Tara and myself were mortified to discover that we had perpetrated a nip-slip at the same event. The pavarottis didn’t know if they were coming or going, dog!”
Acceptable: “If you do not come up with the balance my boss is requesting, Vincent and myself will be forced to reupholster your scalp. Which is a shame, because Vince and myself are sympathetic to the rising costs of hair transplants.”

Okay. Air cleared. Carry on.