Sunday, September 26, 2010

Steal This Book!

I spent the day at the library yesterday. It is an amazing place; giant and marble and beautiful, with three floors that I know of, various wings, a parking garage, a café, bookstore, and even a dungeon! Just kidding, there's no dungeon. Yet. The tables have lamps on them, it smells like books, and everything is always orderly. But it was even more amazing than that:

First of all, I got to the library at about 5 minutes til opening. To my surprise, there was a line. A huge line. Of people who wanted to go to the LIBRARY. As is my custom, I enveloped each and every person who was waiting in a long, almost uncomfortably so (for them) hug and gave them a gentle kiss on the cheek. God bless you, library liner-uppers. You just can’t wait to get to those books, can you?

Second of all, the purpose of the library is amazing. It is a place that just wants to give you books. For free. Asking for nothing in return except that maybe you return them after a couple of weeks (if you feel like it, they say gently. If not, you can renew them. That’s okay with us.). And what’s more, they will give you videos, CDs, even computer games and free printouts of articles from the December 29, 1980 issue of the New York Times. They have, like, ten microfiche machines that any bozo can use, and make all the printouts of weird newspaper things that they want. You can literally sit there and print a coupon for $3.00 off of any dinner entrée from The Spaghetti Warehouse that expired in 1992 ALL DAY LONG. Those library people will never be impatient with you the way the baristas at Starbucks are when you ask them repeatedly if they’re sure they put decaf in your cup. They always say “yes” at Starbuck’s but sometimes they look guilty, like they’re not sure. And sometimes the Starbucks people will tell you that you look exactly like someone who wrote a quite popular book, and then you’ll go home and look that author up on the internet, and discover that the author looks like an old, wrinkled lady from Cape Cod. They would never do that at the library. They keep their author/person comparisons private.

Third, the library is like the better version of your friends. Do you know why? Because if the library doesn’t have something, they will order it. And they will send it to wherever it’s convenient for you to pick it up. Say you want a book on how ethnic dress among Africans is a signifier of racial and cultural confidence, even though you think the book will probably end up being a stupid and useless waste of time and not at all help you with your assignment (not that I would ever need such a stupid, ridiculous book, it’s just an example). Well, if the library does not carry that book, you just have to ASK THEM, and they will be all, “Hey, I can totally get that for you. Will Tuesday be too late?” Try that at Barnes and Noble. They will be like, “Yeah, we don’t have it. I guess I can look to see if they have it at Polaris and then you can pick it up there.” Who wants to drive out to Polaris, especially when they’re standing at the cozy Barnes and Noble at Lennox Center drinking their Starbucks which has probably been cruelly spiked with caffeine by an uncaring barista who thinks you look like an old lady from Cape Cod? But, at the library, they will practically drive the thing out to your house, read it to you, tab the relevant pages and tuck you into bed.

Also: the people at the library are really nice! And not one of them has a tip jar out on their desk like the fuckers do at the Starbucks drive through. (Since when do we tip drive through people, by the way? Am I going to have to start tipping the register person at Meijer for putting my spaghetti and pickles in a bag instead of throwing them at my face?) The library people are quiet, and smart, and totally know where all the books are, even if you just give them the first three digits of the Dewey Decimal System. And you know what else? Those library people reshelf books like maniacs. Whenever I need a book, I just go to the clearly-labeled shelf, and, whoomp, there it is. The book isn’t sitting out for people to trip on, like the weights are at my gym, it’s not missing, like the large size boxes of Frosted Flakes that are on sale always are at Meijer, it’s just sitting there, smiling sweetly and cooing, “Please borrow me!” from its perch on the shelf. And then, if I look at the book, and it’s not exactly what I want, there will be a soothing library person standing there, saying, “Don’t trouble yourself, pretty and young-looking lady, let me reshelf that for you. For it’s such a long walk, and you are so smart and weary. Enjoy your day.”

Sunday, September 19, 2010

...but I love you

I just learned about the show Tosh.0 a few months ago, and it made me really sad to realize everything I had been missing. So I’ve DVR’d reruns and have been watching them. Recently, I saw that Daniel Tosh made an “I hate” video, where he just listed everything he hates. He then invited his viewers to respond. I think I’m too late for that, but boy, I can think of a LOT of things I hate. So I’m just going to let my list fly. Here goes:

I hate when people post song lyrics as their status on Facebook
I hate crazy people who approach me on the street but don’t let on that they’re crazy until, like, two minutes in.
I hate the word “classy”.
I hate saltwater taffy. That shit is gross.
I hate when Oates sings. Leave the singing to Hall.
I hate the people who asked me if my son was retarded when they saw him dancing.
I hate tattoos, in case you haven’t heard.
I hate when really fat people send their food back at restaurants.
And speaking of Daniel Tosh, I hate that Tosh has such a cute face, but such a hideous body.
I hate when people say, “Swearing is the tool of the unimaginative”. Fuck you. Swearing is the tool of the awesome.
I hate Schnauzers. They look like Hitler.
I hate every episode of Three’s Company.
I hate when grown men say “panties” or “boner”.
I hate people who say, “You’re so funny, you should do standup.” There’s a difference between being a comedian and just being mean. I’m the mean one.
I hate my mother’s obsession with skinny dipping.
I hate people who read my blog but don’t comment on it. Would it kill you to give it a thumbs up?
I hate men who have beards but not moustaches. Yeah, I’m talking to you, C. Everett Koop.
I hate saying “baby” after “Vegas”.
I hate people who don’t pronounce “especially” correctly.
I hate that arrogant douchebag Curt Schilling. Stop talking and get your ass on a Stairmaster.
I hate people who won’t shut up about how great bacon is.
I hate Goose. He was a terrible wingman.
I hate when people say “Turkey Day.” Is “Thanksgiving” just too complicated for you?
I hate people who take things out of the microwave early and leave the display flashing at :17.
I hate that the kids in Degrassi no longer have Canadian accents.
I hate Lil Wayne’s terrible, monstrous face.
I hate people who say that Ambien is bad for you.
I hate when old people looked shocked that I’m giving them the finger on the highway.
I hate men who say, “We’re pregnant!!!!!”
I hate when my son tells me to lay off the wine. No, you lay off the wine.
I hate Nicholas Sparks.
I hate days that are sunny and windy. It confuses me.
I hate the people who live two houses down from me. They are fucking assholes.
I hate that I can’t figure out a way to say how much I hate people who clasp their hands like they’re praying and bow instead of saying “thank you” because it’s just one of those things that you have to show people. But I really really hate that.
I hate that, the minute I post this list, I’m going to think of ten better things to say. But it’s too late now.

Sunday, September 12, 2010

Mama?

I love my mother. She is smart, wildly creative, has energy like you wouldn’t believe, is happy with her eccentricity (she attributes it to being left-handed) and has interesting hair. However, as much as I like the old lady, there is one thing that I hope she will never say: “My daughter is my best friend.”

There is something so inherently creepy when people say that. “Oh, hello, I am a grown woman, but this person, who is at least twenty years younger than me is my best friend. You know, we go to the mall together, we get pedicures, we get our hair done….” Guess what you probably don’t do together? Pay your taxes. See a doctor about that varicose vein by your ankle. Take calcium supplements. You know why? Because you’re at least twenty years older than your child. Why don’t you have friends your own age?

For children who claim that their moms are their best friends, I give you this general rule: Do not ever be best friends with someone if you came out of their vagina. It’s probably easy to feel close to your parents. If they’re doing everything right, they are loving, nurturing and supporting you at every turn. They are a rock that you can turn to when you don’t know what to do, or when things hurt you, or when you get into trouble that you don’t know how to extract yourself from. That’s totally okay in a parent/child relationship. But here is a fact: that’s not all there is to a parent child relationship.

With my own teenage child, I am about one-half loving support: telling my son that he’s awesome and letting him wear skinny jeans although his frame is not one which is necessarily flattered by that style, and worrying about him when he’s out at night and yelling “WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO” as loud as I can at his sporting events. I suppose that he could be best friends with that part. But the other part of me, the mother part, is a psycho drill-instructor hateful cow who does nothing more than tell him to clean his room and forbids him from going out to a bar (“It’s not really a bar,” he tries to tell me) and screams at him that if he doesn’t start studying for the ACT that he’s going to end up working at Jiffy Lube, and those people only have about twenty teeth between the whole lot of them (I suspect crystal meth). And, if he gets really really mad back, he tells me I’m crazy and all of his friends think I’m a bitch. Or maybe it’s the other way around….that I’m a bitch, and all of his friends think I’m crazy.

In any event, neither of these conversations would happen among real best friends. I can tell you with complete certainty that I have never said to my best friend, “Jesus Christ, you stink like b.o. and your room is disgusting. You are going to stay in your room until it’s clean, and then you’re taking a shower. And how long has it been since you’ve brushed your teeth?” For that matter, I have never changed my best friend’s diaper, asked her if she needed lunch money, written her an excuse to get out of work early for a doctor’s appointment, forced her to practice parallel parking between cones, or called the doctor to see if there was anything we could do about her dry skin.

I’m not quite sure why parents would want to be best friends with their children, or why kids would want to say that their parents are their best friends. I guess I’d have to go ask Dina and Lindsay Lohan. What I know is that, as a parent, it’s absolutely imperative that I draw the boundaries in which my child is allowed to live. I can’t expect him to draw them because he is a child, and is learning the world. And I have to be the person standing a safe distance when he tests those boundaries, so that I can help him get back on track when he discovers, yep, Mom gave me that curfew/speech about drugs/awesome fashion advice/pepper spray for a reason, and is back to being a child who needs his mother. And then I can secretly laugh my ass off when I tell the stories about what he’s done to my real best friends.

I love my mother. She nagged me when I procrastinated, she made me learn how to play the piano (and the trombone, but that’s still a sore spot), and she tells me that my blog is funny, despite all of the coarse languages and use of the word vagina. I am glad that she was never my best friend, because I love having her as my one and only mother.

Sunday, September 5, 2010

HMR 4U

My son and I pay close attention to license plates. Not for smart reasons, mind you, but because we get to hit each other when we see a specialty plate that includes the make of the car, like “MY BUG” or “BEEMER42”. Here’s how it goes: we drive down the street, the first person to see the offending plate screams what it says, (“HLO NEON”!) then yells, “Five points!” (although we have yet to determine how to use, or even cash in our points) and then hits the other person on the arm as hard as possible. It is not abuse because we avoid the face.

So, needless to say, I am alert to specialty plates. One, in particular, got my attention. “GODS VN” it proclaims with confidence. I have no issue with the fact that it is, in fact a van. And not a minivan, mind you, but a full-on, curtains-in-the-window conversion van – the kind that people owned in the 80’s before the advent of the SUV. My issue comes with the other part. The GODS part of GODS VN. So, GODS VN owner, here are my issues:

#1: This is obvious, but it bears mentioning: you’re missing an apostrophe. Judging by your religiously-and politically-oriented bumper stickers, I’m guessing that you meant to say GOD’S VN, meaning, the VN of Our Father who art in heaven. But, absent this bit of punctuation, what you’re actually saying is that you’re driving the VN of the gods, as in multiple. As in polytheism, like what those hippie communists and foreigners do (not the good kind of foreigners, either).

#2: Let’s forgive your grammatical error, and assume that you’re, in fact, driving GOD’S VN: don’t you think that God would drive something a little snazzier? If He had enough wisdom to appoint Bono as his spokesperson on earth, don’t you think he’s hip enough to at least drive a Mercedes Viano? Between you and me, I don’t think God would drive a VN at all. He’s said it himself: he’s jealous of other gods, and I can tell you for damn sure that neither Vishnu nor Vahiguru would be caught dead in a conversion VN. Have you ever seen how many arms Vishnu has? He’d need something custom, for sure.

#3: Even forgiving the egregious grammatical error AND assuming against all reason that God, in fact, would drive a VN, there’s the matter of the message that you are asserting that God is trying to send with this particular VN. I mentioned before the various political stickers all over this VN. They include the likes of: McCain/Palin, Bush/Cheney, Abortion Stops a Beating Heart, My Boss is a Jewish Carpenter, any manner of Jesus Fish, and Send Obama Back to Africa or some other whatnot. Let’s just stop here for a moment. Do you really think that God would get his message out through tacky bumper stickers affixed to a VN with curtains on it? Really? And if that’s the best God could do, do you honestly think that his most pressing matter in the entire world would be making up a bullshit birthplace for our President? Where the hell do you think Jesus was born? Jersey?

So, how about this, GODS VN: instead of wasting the gifts and talents that God gave to you by affixing sanctimonious bumper stickers to your VN like a second-grader, why don’t you show us what it’s like to live in the image of God, Vishnu, Mohammed, or Bono himself. Befriend a Jew. Hug a Democrat. Go sit with an old person. Who knows, it just might get you into heaven.