bookshelf amy

Get that postcard in the mail, yo

2008-10-06T10:35:00.002-05:00

Yes, I know, I'm a terrible, inconsistent blogger. But did we really expect any different from me? No, no we did not.

So I'm breaking my long silence (again) to say that today is the last day for Texas residents to register to vote. If you haven't registered yet, you better get a move on, cowboy. This is quite possibly one of the most important elections in our country's history, and if you don't vote and then McCain dies and Sarah Palin becomes president, I'm blaming you. Personally.

Just in case you don't feel the weight of the issue enough, here are some celebrities telling you to vote:

Maybe we'll start teaching dance & theater at the library?!

2008-07-13T20:09:00.003-05:00

Well folks,
I'm breaking my long silence here in the blogosphere not to tell you about our eventful move to Texas, or my new job, or our spacious new apartment, but to post this lovely video of a lyrical dance from The Southern Strutt, a giant dance studio in South Carolina.

Hopefully, this fall, in addition to my Library Science classes at UNT (which I dread) and my job (which bores me), I'll be taking a lyrical jazz class at Texas Woman's University (which is the only thing in this life really worth doing).

Is it odd that in fewer than twenty posts, I've already mentioned Britney Spears twice?

2008-05-02T10:31:00.003-05:00

My lovely sister sent me a link to this video earlier today, and I like it so much I thought I'd post it here. It's Yael Naim, a Hebrew indie singer living in Paris, performing a remake of Britney Spears' "Toxic".

We All Live in a Yellow Submarine

2008-05-01T22:04:00.008-05:00

So here's the plan:

Luke and I buy this house and remodel it, and the whole thing only takes two months. Out one window is the ocean, out one is a busy pedestrian street in a big city, the kitchen overlooks endless plains of waving grass, and the bathroom has a tiny window that opens to a little European hamlet. The house has beautiful hardwood floors and a dishwasher. The walls are bright, soothing colors and I have suddenly become a good housekeeper.

Because the house will have at least five bedrooms, we invite our friends and family to live with us. The ones who don't fit buy this house next door, and we all have dinner together on the terrace in warm weather. Albert Einstein lives across the street with Regina Spektor and Natalie Portman. We watch them come and go and speculate about their lives. I am pen pals with Sue Monk Kidd. Jesus runs a bakery on the corner.

On Tuesday mornings, Mozart comes to play piano at my library. The kids draw pictures of him in crayon, and he reads them stories with an Austrian accent. The janitor insists on calling him by his full name, Joannes Chrysostomus Wolfgangus Theophilus Mozart, which drives him crazy.

Sunday afternoons, Luke and I go for a stroll in various period costumes. We admire the architecture and stand on bridges staring at our reflections in the water. When the ice cream truck goes past, we wave our arms above our heads and run to meet it.

On my birthday we string up red lanterns across the terrace. We push the tables back and have a square dance, and Louis Armstrong sings me happy birthday. I wear polka dots. My present is a little shed hidden in the back garden, filled with bookshelves and one comfortable armchair under the window. It is a good gift.

And He Rode Off into the Sunset

2008-04-10T11:23:00.004-05:00

While walking home today, I saw an old man in an electric wheely-chair (you know, the kind they advertise on TV for mobility-impaired seniors) cruising down the middle of the street. I did a double-take, thinking maybe he was actually on the sidewalk or against the curb, but no, he was driving down the road--staying in his lane the whole time, of course--at about 3 mph.

I kept walking, not wanting to be rude, but after he passed me I stopped and watched his progress. I wanted to know how his chair would do when he turned into the bumpy driveway or mounted the curb onto the sidewalk. But he never did. He just kept going, straight to the end of the road where he paused at the stop sign and made a right onto one of the busiest streets in town.

I like to think he's made it to the highway by now and has really put on some speed. He's flying across the overpass, skin flapping in the wind, mouth open in a toothless old laugh.

Empty Threats

2008-03-27T11:32:00.003-05:00

Sometimes I like to make really elaborate threats to the Freshmen:

"If you girls don't stop chattering, I'm going to seperate you into hard chairs that face the corner and make you read John Grisham novels until your eyes bleed and you beg for mercy, screaming, 'No more football! Please, no more lawyers!'"

Then they stare at me with their perfect, blank eyes and I am forced to summarize, "No, seriously, stop talking."

March = No Time for Blogging

2008-03-20T10:24:00.003-05:00

This will hopefully be a short post, just to update you all about a few things:

1. I just got my acceptance email to the Youth Librarianship program at the University of North Texas for the fall. So it's official! Also, I think that sending someone an acceptance email is not nearly as exciting as sending them a letter and forcing them to agonize over the thickness of the envelope and whether they should open it themselves or ask their mom to do it.

2. I got back from Texas last night. I spent quite a bit of time with my extended family, and then my mom and I went to Denton to check out the apartments and houses in the area. Turns out most of the places I was considering are in the ghetto, but overall Denton is much cooler than we expected.

3. My boss is finally back at work after a month of pneumonia, conferences, and state tournaments, and Luke is on Spring Break right now, so maybe I'll get an adequate amount of sleep in the next few weeks.

4. I'm rereading Harry Potter. Again.

Why I Don't Read About Britney Spears

2008-02-29T11:22:00.000-06:00

I don't think I should read about depression anymore. I was reading my daily Dooce this morning, feeling all chipper and ready to write—which is fantastic because I have to do my scholarship essays today—and I decided to check up on Dooce's husband over at Blurbomat. He posted recently about deciding to start taking Prozac, and all the comments and links lead me to articles on the BBC and a blog called Walking the Black Dog, all about depression.

I read, earlier this week on the BBC, a new study that shows that anti-depressants actually don't work any better than placebos for most people. Part of me says if I ever feel the need to go on meds, I should just tell them to give me a placebo because I probably don't need the stuff anyway. I just don't want to be one of those people who can't deal with life, you know, because of some imagined evil in the world or because I'm just a weenie. The other part of me says there's no doubt that my mom does need real meds. She was off of them for quite a while last year, and I think it was a really horrible time for her. I should have been a better daughter and sought out her company more. But I've never been as bad as my mom. Maybe because I know what I'm up against, and so does Luke.

Anyway, I finally made myself stop reading and immediately recognized the feeling that my eyes were pulling back inside my head, which has always been the signal for me to either curl up on the couch or take a walk in the sunshine because it's going to be a bad day. Two freshman boys sassed me, and when my immediate reaction was a really strong urge to punch them I thought, "Woah, what happened? I was so happy this morning, I'm wearing my favorite outfit, it's beautiful and sunny outside, and I just wanted to punch someone?" I've known for a long time that reading about depression makes me feel crazy and way too introspective—especially in February—and this reminded me that, at heart, I'm really an over-sensitive three year old. So I've decided to be very careful from now on what I read concerning mental illness. It just freaks me out too much. I've been wanting to reread The Bell Jar, but Sylvia will just have to wait for a sunnier month.

Because They Haven't Perfected Cloning Yet

2008-02-24T08:25:00.003-06:00

I really need to finish my application to the Library Science program. About all I have left to do is my statement of purposes and goals, but I've been putting it off for more than a month because I don't know what my purposes and goals are. Children's library work is fun, but I don't know if I want to do it as a career. The only thing is, what the hell do I want to do?

Luke is in the middle of this big experiment for one of his biology classes, and all of his plants just died. Which is not part of the experiment. Even the control group died. So we spent yesterday afternoon clearing out the tanks (they're aquatic plants) and preparing to replant, and as I was scooping gravel I thought, "You know, I really like doing this. Maybe I should be a research assistant." I also realized that maybe I should give myself a little more credit for being smarter than the average bear. I've decided that resigning myself to a career in public libraries is maybe selling myself a little short.

Unfortunately, my fantasy career changes almost every week. So I'm trying to look at them as a group and figure out what I need to be happy in my job. Here's the list so far:

I need to use my head and my body. Like, come up with an idea and then go do it. No desk jobs, and no jobs (like library work) that are all activity and not much thought.

I'm pretty darned good at problem solving sometimes.

People. Of course. I have to be constantly surrounded by people, or my head will fall off.

I like to feel needed. Which I think ties in to the problem solving. And the people.

I like keeping things organized, as lame as that sounds. Why else would I talk about the Dewey Decimal system this much?

I feel most useful when I work in events. Plan, set up, do your thing, clean. I always felt so fulfilled after a day spent catering or in the theater.

What I really want to do (sometimes) is work on plays or movies that do period work, or be a museum curator or a tour guide. You know, research a period, recreate the period, work with a team, find creative ways to stay in the budget...or maybe I want to open a bookstore and live on the beach.

Any suggestions?

On Being Sick and Tired (and Naked)

2008-02-22T10:58:00.005-06:00

Well, reader(s), sorry for the rather long break, especially on the bookshelf. The flu has been going around at the high school and Luke's been low-level sick since Thanksgiving, so I guess it was only a matter of time before it got me. I've been off work for two days, but even if I weren't feeling better, I would have come back today—my boss has bronchitis and a sinus infection and half the district is out sick, so we couldn't get a sub even if we wanted one. So I'm on my own today, which is fine except that I have to close the library for lunch.

The sad thing about being sick, and the reason I haven't been posting, is that not much happens when you sit in the same chair for two days straight. I watched a lot of Gilmore Girls, which I'm sure has significantly speeded my recovery and made me double-witty, much to Luke's enjoyment. I also discovered this Arrange-A-Room thing on the Better Homes & Gardens site and spent a ridiculous amount of time recreating the floorplans of the apartments we're considering for grad school. Then I filled the rooms with tiny versions of our oddly sized, hand-me-down bookshelves and 200-year-old table (which, by the way, has the exact same dimensions as our little green sofa—strange, huh?). I even e-rearranged our current living room, but didn't have the energy to do it in real life.

I also finally made an appointment to use the gift certificate for a massage that Luke got me for Christmas. Despite the fact that I whined for 6 months about the various parts of my body that get sore (strange bits, too, like my wrists and thumbs from lifting too many books) and that I LOVE being touched, now that I actually have an appointment, I'm a little nervous. I mean, don't you have to be naked for these things? That's weird.

For the last few years, Luke and I have had this ongoing conversation about whether we would pose nude for an artist if we were asked. For some reason, I think it helps us gauge the status of our relationship. I always think, I would probably pose for someone if they asked me. That's the kind of girl I am. But maybe I should survive this massage before I make any definite career plans.

Apartment Therapy

2008-02-18T12:17:00.003-06:00

I linked to this website in my other post, but I thought it merited its own. Especially this page.

And, We Have Normality

2008-02-18T11:30:00.004-06:00

This weekend was very strange. I'm always kind of depressed in February (I blame it on the weather), but I've been feeling better by degrees this past week. Then I got sick on Friday night, and what with the constant heavy rain, the standardized test, and my complete exhaustion on Saturday, I was set to stay miserable for the rest of the month.

I couldn't sleep on Saturday night (probably because I spent the entire day falling asleep on various couches and computer chairs), so after Luke went to bed, I spent a few hours on the IKEA website admiring their clever designs. I also stumbled across this page on the Apartment Therapy site, and then spent about an hour lying in bed desperately wanting a new, sleek home with clean floors and a place for everything.

I'm naturally a packrat, but I've forced myself in the last few years to let go of my need for pointless treasures. Last year, for example, I threw away the leapord fur-covered coke cozy with sequins and feathers hot glued around the edges that was a gift from the mother of a girl I coached at sports camp. Some of you may not understand why I even felt the need to keep it for three years; all I can say is, it was a gift, and it was funny.

I have, however, allowed myself three areas in which I can squirrel away as many posessions as will fit in the apartment:

1. Photographs, awards, keepsakes, plane tickets, and packets of sugar from Parisian cafes
2. Dress-up clothes, including hats, pirate shirts, cowboy boots, and the leg warmers that I bought and wore once before realizing that I probably looked as silly as all the other people wearing leg warmers
3. Craft stuff. This could include anything from paint samples and old Christmas cards to my giant bag of fabric scraps and a pad of finger-painting paper.

Until yesterday morning, my craft supplies lived in a giant cardboard box that was supposed to be perilously perched on a shelf in the closet but was actually at the foot of our bed covered in clothes. When I woke up yesterday, I decided to transfer it all into a big plastic tub we bought for Luke's senior bio project. Somehow, I ended up not only transferring my paint set, but also cleaning the entire house, buying and repotting two plants, and unclogging the bathroom sink. If you know me at all, you know that that this does not happen very often. Luke and I go weeks without cleaning the living room, and in an apartment under 600 square feet, that's a pretty big deal. I don't think we've cleaned the bedroom since we had someone house-sitting for us while we were in Europe in May.

I think I must have gone into a depression for the last two weeks purely to conserve energy for this one day of massive cleaning. There's no other way it would have happened. And I think it's passed now--the sadness and the mania--because today I'm feeling blissfully normal. Thank God.

Now if I could only figure out what to do with the seven boxes of stuff I purged from the bedroom.

On the Bright Side, I Got Some Free Coffee Grounds

2008-02-16T19:15:00.005-06:00

I took the GRE today. It was probably the worst standardized test I've ever taken, in terms of the test design and appearance, but I did really well. I met my goals, anyway, and kicked ass on the Verbal part.

The rest of the day was devoted entirely to sleeping, hunting for some sort of non-repulsive food (the list of which grows smaller and smaller every day), and growling at Luke for not making my life perfect. Oh, and I discovered (as I waded through a giant puddle) that my brand new rainboot has a hole.

I'm ready for February to be over.

If you like Microsoft Sam, you're going to love THIS

2008-02-15T16:05:00.004-06:00

Check this out.

The good folks over at AT&T sure do know how to keep us laughing. The high-schoolers and I had fun for minutes making English Audrey say things like, "A monkey threw some poo at Chuck but Amy tossed the poo back at the monkey and then Michael Jackson appeared and they all did the Thriller." Apparently, Audrey prefers run-on sentences.

Because Every Playground Needs a Toilet

2008-02-15T11:34:00.009-06:00

I hate subs, as a rule. Generally speaking, substitutes just don't get the subtle balance between chaos and boredom that is working in a library. Subs are a new privilege for us (since most people think we just sit around all day), but when my boss tells me she's going to be gone for a day, I almost always beg her not to take advantage of it. Please, no subs.

There is one sub, however, whom I not only tolerate but absolutely adore. She gets library work, and enjoys it, and we always have a good time together. In fact, as much as I like my boss, I sometimes get excited when she's gone because it means I get to play with the sub.

All that to say, The Boss is gone today and the sub and I are not getting much done. This is what we did this morning, on the SMART Board:
(She made the apple tree; I made the banana and egg trees. At one point, there was a giant can of baked beans, but it wouldn't fit in the box, so we got rid of it.)

The Universe Gives Me a Giant Valentine's Day Present Called The Biography Section

2008-02-14T11:21:00.004-06:00

One of the many awesome benefits of cataloguing books (the others being getting to "accidentally" slam my cart into things and developing carpal tunnel syndrome) is discovering really cool books. I mean, nobody ever wanders over to the 300s looking for a good read, or at least I don't ever, but there are some great books to be found in the non-fiction section (like Black Like Me, one of my new favorites (305.8), and The Lady and Her Tiger (791.3)).

Yesterday I finished the 800s (Woot! Goodbye, Shakespeare books from 1882! And good riddance!), so today I got to move on the the biographies. And I had no idea what I was missing.

I have this habit of setting aside books that look interesting while I'm cataloguing. Somedays, I don't get any (like the day I did the sports section), but sometimes I end up with two or three and have to decide which ones to keep. I've only done two shelves of the biographies and my stack is already a foot high. I should have anticipated this: I mean, I love stories, especially true stories about people. And here it is, an entire section devoted to my absolutely favorite thing. It's like I'm sitting in a room full of hippos wearing party hats.
I'm so happy.

Unfortunately, I'm going to have to control myself a little bit. I'm having to make decisions like, "Do I take the book about the guy who feels half American, half Afghani? Or the one about the girl who is half United Statesian, half Latina? Or maybe this one about the half-American, half-Iranian man?" I mean, it's really difficult. And they all have pretty covers.

'Cause I'm Just Awesome like That

2008-02-13T11:15:00.006-06:00

So, I'm at work today and this class is using the computer lab. They're doing group work, and one of the groups is comprised entirely of the most troublesome boys in the class. I walk over to make sure nobody's looking at porn, and notice that these guys are all turned around watching some other kid do his work. So I jokingly tell them to turn around and get to work, complete with little mimes of turning around and typing, and all the boys laugh at my silliness and turn around. Except one. The big one. The one in the middle. The ringleader.

He doesn't move. He just sits there, in exactly the same position, except now he's staring at me. The boys notice, and their faces get eager. The other kids stop working to watch.

Now, the bad-ass librarian part of me knows exactly how to deal with this. It says, "You think you can intimidate me by staring at me? I'm the master starer. I was staring before you were even born. Bring it on." Alas, the high school girl that unfortunately still lives inside me and occasionally tells me to buy things like this goes, "Oh my gosh. A boy is looking at me.
A boy.
A boy.
A boy.
Are my pimples bad today? What am I wearing?" And, because you can take one look at my face and tell everything about me from the health of my kidneys to the fate of my immortal soul, I have to broadcast my feelings to the entire room. Because that's the way I work. So, I suddenly feel a wave of heat descending from the top of my head, like somebody dumped their cup of tea inside my skin. I'm blushing. The fifteen-year-old boy who has a reputation for making suggestive comments to female teachers is staring at me, and I'm blushing! I think maybe it's just heat, because I'm so angry, you know, but one of the other students reads my thoughts and says, matter-of-factly, "You're turning red." Thanks, kid.

Now, the inner librarian says to me, "Self, it's not so bad. You're an adult. You can still come out of this with some dignitiy." Yes, I think. That's true. Dignity. So I take a deep breath, try to find my self-control, and then scream, "Stop staring at me!" and run into my boss's office.

This must be why they call me a para-professional. Because, as all you Greek-speakers know, para- means "outside of," or "defective."

Things That Make War Beautiful: a short list

2008-02-12T11:34:00.001-06:00

Check out this year's prize-winning news photos and series at http://www.worldpressphoto.org/.

Screw you, Punxsutawney Phil

2008-02-12T11:22:00.001-06:00

I hate winter. February should be exiled. She's a pain in my ass.

February knows we're in a fight, too. I was walking home for lunch just now, talking to myself about how February must be a woman because she's so cold and bitter, and all of a sudden, these little pellets of ice started flinging themselves at my face. I was all, "Oh, February, that is it! We are through. Even if it snowed, you couldn't win me back." So February comes back with a big ol' gust of wind that seeps right through my jeans and tights and wool socks and layer of leg hair and chills me straight through.

I was pissed. So I stopped in the middle of the street, turned into the wind, pulled down my pants, and mooned the whole miserable month.

Ha! Eat it, February.

So, umm, hello there.

2008-02-10T13:16:00.000-06:00

So, this is my new blog. It's very much a work in progress. In fact, I don't really know why you're here, since I haven't told anyone but my husband the web address. That's because it will probably be changing soon. But, either way, you're quite welcome to be here.