Just a Lower Case t

I hated my name when I was growing up. It's too weighted for a kid to have, and the teasing started as soon as I entered kindergarten. How kids this young were already familiar enough with Shakespeare to make fun of me still confuses me.

I talked to my parents about the teasing, and they had someone white out my t so that I wasn't harassed every time a substitute teacher took attendance.

I tried to reclaim my name several times before I finally did. I was always accused of being pretentious and having invented my name in an effort to reinvent myself, when all I wanted to do was use my given name.

I have known many people who successfully changed their names to names that had nothing to do with their original name. Often, these names were far more pretentious than mine, but people just went along with the change.

I finally stopped caring and made the switch, though I would never make old friends call me Juliet, though it is s a much better name.

I would, however, really appreciate it if people would stop asking me "wherefore art thou?" It's Juliet who says it to Romeo, not him to her, and I've already heard it a thousand times.

Politically Incorrect

I grew up in a really politically active family.

I was brought to nuclear protests as a child without any idea of what we were protesting. When my parents' friends climbed fences to trespass onto nuclear power plants and were arrested, I thought I would be, too, and this may be the origin of a comparatively politically inactive life.

My sister and brother went onto to get degrees in politics, but I preferred a more escapist degree, opting to study literature at a hideously expensive tiny school.

I admit that I have gone through long periods of not reading the paper. It made me less stressed and angry. I get frustrated by all the canvassers outside of the library who forget they try to get me the sign the same petitions multiple times a day. Once, when I told a man I didn't want to sign his petition, he told me I had issues and yelled at me as I ran down the block. I have no problem admitting I went on to write the organization he was canvassing for an email about the experience and was pleased to observe that particular organization does not canvas near the library anymore.

I am tired of the fur protesters by the library, and don't understand why they aren't tired of chanting the same thing day after day. Plus, I'm annoyed that I'm afraid to wear my new fur coat to work, but I don't want to risk having blood thrown it.

It is older than me, and I feel like That Girl in it. If you also have a fur coat or anything else similarly politically incorrect that you really love, but you are afraid to wear in public, let me know. I will have a party and we can all look fabulous in a safe environment.

Old and Boring?

Do I really have so little going on in my life that I can't think of anything to write about anymore, or am I just lazy?

I turned 40 a couple of weeks ago, only it didn't seem like I did.

I have never identified as an adult, which is probably why I really love being a children's librarian. But also, it didn't seem like I did, because I spent my birthday at a wedding. It feels like I got off the hook from having a birthday this year, which is actually great, because I wasn't wild about turning 40 anyway.

It blows my mind that I was 15 when my parents turned 40. I remember their fortieth birthdays so clearly, and my dad's in particular. I remember the card my grandma sent him, in which she stated: "And son, 40 isn't that old."

Worse was his birthday party, and the belly dancer his staff hired as a surprise present for him. I was horrified to watch her shake her whole body just a couple of inches away from my father and spent the rest of the evening hiding in the basement with my guinea pigs.

My Heart Does the Tango

Sometimes I get depressed by all of the things I can't do.

I blame a lot of these things on being monocular, mainly not driving. Everyone is always quick to point out all of the near-blind, 90 year old people they know who drive. I say: is that a good thing?

Whether or not I might be able to drive if I put my mind to it, which I honestly believe I can't and shouldn't do, I am undeniably uncoordinated.

Besides not driving, I also can't snap.

Although I am flexible, I definitely have two left feet when it comes to dancing. It always made me sad when I was younger and had a new ballet teacher who would see me at the barre, put me in the front row on the floor, and then demote me to the third row by the next class.

I wanted to swing dance before the trend came, and then went, and I love the tango. A few years ago, I met a tango teacher who told me he could teach anyone to tango. I don't know if his ego or mine was more bruised by my inability to learn the most basic steps
.

Forgotten

I pride myself on my memory, but it is now clear to me it is not as good as it used to be, or that I am being a little more honest about its capacity.

Maybe the problem is that it doesn't extend to places that I've literally moved beyond.


I am troubled by all of the college pictures of me that friends have recently sent; I have no memory of posing for them.

I am more troubled by my eyebrows in these pictures. It took me a long time to realize they were bushy, and then when I did I went overboard. I got a more than a little addicted to plucking them in the mid '90's. All pictures during the time I was doing this reveal that I constantly looked shocked or surprised. Why didn't anyone tell me?

Sweet

When I was a kid, my mom made her own bread, mayonnaise and yogurt. My family didn’t eat processed food, any vegetables that weren’t from our own garden, and we definitely weren’t allowed to eat dessert, other than on our birthdays or holidays. Maybe it’s because I didn’t eat much sugar growing up that I eat almost none now, although my sister claims it was the lack of sugar that created her sweet tooth.

I haven’t had a birthday cake in maybe fifteen years. Sometimes I enjoy ice cream, but I almost always have to throw the cartons I buy out before they are empty because I realize they are a year old. I enjoy making desert, though, and sometimes give pies and cakes away that I never even taste.

Maybe it’s because I know I can eat sugar if I want to that I don’t eat much. When I was a kid, and had little control over what I ate, I liked candy as much as any other kid. One Halloween when I was about twelve, I came up with a plan to make my candy last all year long.

I sped trick-or-treated, targeting specific blocks and houses that I remembered to be particularly lucrative. I came home with more candy than I’d ever gathered before, and then began sorting it by type. I then divided the candy into twelve equal piles, and put them in wax paper bags. In retrospect, I wonder if this Halloween pre-dated zip lock bags or if my parents were just being cheap. I labeled each bag for each month of the year, then put them in our extra freezer in the basement, where I thought they would be safe from my family. When I went down to check on my candy a month later, most of it was gone, and I’m not sure if was my siblings or parents who took it.

I’m also not sure why I had more self-discipline as a kid than I do now. I wonder where it went, and if I will ever get it back.

Lucky

I have amazing luck in Portland. Even when bad things happen, I am still lucky. The other day I accidentally left my debit card in an ATM machine. I didn't realize it until the next day, when I tried to pay for the coffee I'd ordered, and discovered I had no cash or debit card. Before I had a chance to figure out how was going to get my coffee, the barista told me it was on her at the exact same time the woman behind me in line insisted on paying for it. The argued for a minute, and I felt like I was being bid on. The woman behind me won; she'd recently had the same thing happen to her, and person behind her in line had paid for her coffee. She felt like it was her turn. I got my coffee, went to work and when my coworker asked me if I wanted to go out to lunch I said sure, if she paid, since I had no money. We had a nice lunch, and then I borrowed some money from J. to tied me over until my new debit card arrived.

The whole situation made me think about how cool people could be, and what an opposite perspective I'd had towards people in Seattle. My expectations for other people and myself were low, and my experiences reflected this, which is probably why I've only spent two days in Seattle since I moved to Portland. I don't really think about my old life at all, other than when I go to the dreaded but convenient Safeway and type in my old phone number. I have been using a Safeway club card based on a phone number I haven't had in three and a half years. The card was under B.'s name, not mine, and every time I use the card and the cashier says "Thank you, Mrs. Bigley" I am pulled momentarily into a past that has so little in common with my present it doesn't seem like I could still be the same person.

Speak, Memory

I remember exactly where I was the moment I learned that Santa Claus wasn’t real. My third grade class had just finished P.E., and we were lined up on the stairs leaving the gym, waiting for our teacher to pick us up. Some ass who had probably just learned the news himself decided to share it with the entire class. I went on to make the usual connections, and discarded my belief in elves, reindeer, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy. Years later, I became the librarian at the same school, and every time I used the stairs to the gym, I remembered how shattered I felt

When I was 21, flying home from Denmark, I was seated next to a woman from Sweden about my age. We drank a lot of champagne, and she made an off hand remark about reindeer. I thought she was joking, and called her on it. She assured me she wasn’t, and when I got home, I announced to my whole family that reindeer were actually real.

Conscious

When I was four, my family moved from Seattle to Bainbridge Island. Regrettably, it has since become a suburb; even ten years ago it was impossible to get a salad for under $10 in one of the numerous restaurants that have sprung up in the town of Winslow.

In the mid ’70’s, Winslow was a tiny town with one traffic light. I loved the Scotch Broom Parade that went down the main street every year, and was really excited the year I got to be part of it, riding in the back of a truck filled with hay and throwing candy at the crowd. There was a little diner my family used to go to occasionally, The Lemon Tree, and I wanted to be a waitress there when I grew up.

The only other restaurant I remember was The Island House. My parents would go there for their anniversary, and it was on one of those anniversary dinners they got the call from my babysitter informing them that I had stuck a peanut up my nose and couldn’t get it out.

The Island House saved buckets of leftovers for our pigs, who always had the same names: Sausage, Bacon, Ham and a name I can’t remember. We got four pigs every year. They were cute when they were young and ran all over the garden, which took up an acre of the property. When they got older, and the garden no longer needed rotatilled, we moved them in to a much smaller pen. Retrospectively, this seems unfair; while they were small they had a ton of room to run around, and when they became bigger, we stuck them in a really confined space.

I didn’t think about this at all at the time. By the time they had been moved to the smaller pen, I hated them. They were much bigger than me, made a lot of noise, and were really intimidating.

I remember the slaughtering days as really exciting. We got to stay home from school and invite a friend over to watch. I have no memories of ever knowing I was eating our own pigs. It was something that if my parents talked about all, they did it when they were alone.

We moved back to Seattle when I was nine and our pigs, chickens, rabbits and horses were replaced by a series of Springer Spaniels, all of whom were named Sam.

I’ve dabbled with becoming a vegetarian for a month or week or day at a time off and on occasionally as adult, but I always come back to meat. I don’t eat a ton of it but sometimes I really love a medium rare steak and there is nothing like the combined smell of bacon and coffee in the morning.

When I was in Vietnam last winter, I had a couple of experiences that made me again question my animal consumption. The first was seeing the baskets of live puppies and rabbits for sale as dinner in the markets in Hanoi. From Hanoi, we headed out to Halong Bay to stay on an island for a couple of nights, and I began to seriously envy my vegetarian brother and mother. We weren’t able to order food, it was all served family style and we were divided into carnivore and vegetarian groups. Each lunch and dinner for the meat eating crowd included whole grilled frogs. Maybe if it had just been the legs it wouldn’t have been a big deal, but I just couldn’t do it, and longed for the greasy vegetarian alternatives being served at the next table.

As soon as I returned to Portland, I dismissed my brief flirtation with becoming a vegetarian. I didn’t even think about it until a couple of weeks ago, when I was in Tillamook and visited a couple of cheese factories that won't stop haunting me and makes me question the orgin of everything that I eat.

The first was the Blue Heron, which I have recently learned is the state bird of Oregon. The Blue Heron has a petting farm of goats and visitors don’t actually go into the cheese factory, just a little store full of seasonal decorations, a deli, and a cheese tasting counter. I really enjoyed their smoked brie.

I headed to the Tillamook Cheese Factory next. I walked into the factory in a great mood that took a nose dive as soon as I started the tour. I was horrified that the workers were entirely visible to the public, that the glass wall that allowed us to observe the cheese making and packaging process put the people who worked in the factory on display, as if they were in a zoo. I was incredibly saddened to be confronted of the full reality that goes into cheese making. It requires the factory workers to spend the whole day on their feet doing monotonous tasks like placing blocks of cheese into slicing machines. I was so depressed by the time I left the factory that I couldn’t even eat the ice cream cone I bought on the way out.

Volume

I can be really loud when I want to be. I developed this skill as a kid; having three siblings forced me to learn to project if I wanted to be heard. Working with large groups of kids makes me practice this skill all of the time. My coworkers are amazed that such a loud voice can come out of my body. I reserve my loudness for the workplace and am on the quieter side in my personal life.

I became really sensitive to noise when I lived with B., who somehow was loud even when he wasn't saying anything at all. I knew the mood he was in by the way he would close the door when he came home. A certain kind of slam would ensure that he would head straight to his office to blast music that I hated, like Melt Banana, Mr. Bungle,and No Means No. When he was in an exceptionally angry mood, he would scream "JOY!"

When I moved out, I lived in almost complete silence. I couldn't really play any music, since almost all the cds had been B.'s. I didn't even have a couch for five months.I spent a lot of time crouched on the floor in front of the heater, holding my own body, trying to get my mind around what I'd just done.

Ironically, during this time, I lived above the most noise sensitive people I've ever encountered. They complained to my landlord about the noise I made multiple times, referencing nights I wasn't even home, saying they could even hear what television show I was watching. I didn't have a television. I became paranoid about even walking around in my apartment. I was overjoyed when they finally moved out. I wondered a little about where they moved to and a shitty part of me that knew they'd never have a quieter neighbor than me hoped their new neighbors were really loud and not as easily intimated by them as I was.

I still live pretty quietly. I know how noise travels in my building, and part of my dislike of the neighbors in apartment four is their noise level. They speak at almost a shouting level. I am constantly overhearing phrases like "DO YOU WANT ANOTHER BURRITO?" spoken so loudly and delivered with such intensity that if I didn't speak English and just heard the sounds, I would think they were fighting.

The Magic Number

I'm intimidated by math, but I have a secret fondness for numbers and patterns.

In 1992, when I moved back to Seattle, I fell in love with my phone number. It took me a full month to realize why, that it was a palindrome: 860-6068

When I moved to a different neighborhood 7 years later, I tried to take my phone number with me. At the time, phone companies didn't provide this type of service. The woman working with me was really understanding of my desire to keep a palindrome number, and did her best to find me a new one. There wasn't one available, but she did find one with a nice rhythm, 721-3121. I wrote her supervisor a letter about the excellent customer service she provided.

Last August, when I was trying desperately to find an apartment in Portland and first saw my building, I took it as a good omen that the number of the building was 1111. A. drove Ray and I down to Portland a coupe of weeks later to get us settled in, and was really excited I was living in apartment #3. She told me it was her favorite number.

I can't believe that next week is my one year anniversary in Portland. It seems both longer and shorter, and I feel like I still have so far to go in terms of acclimating and restructuring my life, and even fully claiming the space in my own apartment. I still need to paint two more rooms.

Before my parents left for Italy last month, they asked me if I wanted them to pick up anything special for me while they were there. I asked for something for my apartment, hoping whatever they picked up would motivate me to put a little more thought and energy into my place.

My mother called the other night to let me know she and my father were back in Seattle, and that they had picked up a hand painted tile with the number four on it in Assisi. When I asked them why the number four, she told me it was for the door to my apartment. Since she is coming down to visit in a few days and will deliver the tile in person, there was no way I could shield her from the fact I live in apartment number three. She felt badly.

I have have no idea what I will do with the number four tile. If liked my neighbor who lives in number four better, maybe I'd give it to her. But I don't, and besides, it was chosen specifically with me in mind. Maybe I should just hang it up in a prominent place in my living room so that people will notice it and wonder about its significance. It will make a good story.

While I Was Sleeping

Despite an ongoing struggle to get a good night's sleep, I often fall asleep in social situations. I can't count the number of times I've had people over for dinner, fallen asleep and woken up a few hours later to find them gone.

I am also skilled in sleeping through concerts. Back in high school, I fell asleep at a Butthole Surfers show and woke up maybe 20 minutes later to find them playing the same chord. More regrettably, I fell asleep when Nivana played my friend's birthday party back in the late 80's. I only woke up once they were done playing, when a friend of mine was taking my shoes off so that I might sleep more comforably.

I once slept through a Primus show. In own defense I will say that I never wanted to go in the first place. It's boy noise; to me, they just sound like a bunch of guys masterbating to the tune of their own egos. My boyfriend at the time was a huge fan of theirs and kept telling me I would change my mind about them if I saw them live. He bought me a ticket without even asking me if I wanted to go. We had several beers before the show, and that kind of sealed the deal. I felt the church nod coming almost as soon as they were on stage. I slept through the entire show, missing the drummer set his own drum kit on fire.

Multi Tasking

Sometimes I think it's taking me longer to grow up than other people. I have been running behind ever since I was in middle school and was still playing with my dollhouse.

I had a nice victorian house and took a lot of pride in aquiring really elegant furniture for it. At some point, I decided I needed some more room, took advantage of my mother's new interest in cabinet making, and asked her to enlarge my dollhouse. She made a simple wooden box the orginal house could sit on. It didn't have any windows, just a wall dividing the two rooms.

I was obsessed with Anne Frank's diary at the time, and my mind took flight. I started playing holocaust with my dollhouse. I got a new set of dolls, moved a bunch of furniture downstairs, and the new rooms became a hidden basement that housed a Jewish family in hiding. I was really focussed on this story for a month or so, but ultimatly became frusterated that I had to focuss either on the family upstairs or the downstairs family. I wanted to advance both plot lines simultaniously.

I put my dollhouse in storage, and gave all the furniture to a younger neighbor.

Give Me A Little Credit

I hate my memory. It tortures me far better than anyone else ever could, constantly replaying situations and conversations, often word for word, that I would rather forget. I can usually remember what I was wearing and what I ate during these situations.

Many of my friends have come to rely on my memory and will call when they need me to remember something they have forgotten. Sometimes it is a shared experience, but usually it’s just something that was going on in their life that I observed or they told me about that I filed away.

When M. was visiting me the other week, we talked about her ex-boyfriend of 20 years. We said a lot of bad things, but she also told me about the time he loaned her a thousand dollars to buy a van before she even learned how to drive.

I was stunned. It was me that loaned her the money. I could have gotten proof, gone back and found it in one of the journals I wrote in 1988, but M. knew my memory well enough to believe me.

We had an interesting talk about why she thought it was her ex who loaned her the money. Did she want to believe that in the spring of their romance, he had done a cool thing? We decided it must have been because he later told her that he did it. Did he himself believe it by then? Maybe. He’s always been good at believing his own lies.

No Fun

The other day, a patron donated some games to my library. I was stunned to see The Ungame. I hadn't seen the game in twenty years and I'd convienantly forgotten it existed.

My mom got The Ungame for my family in the mid seventies and all of us kids hated it. I think my dad did, too. It' a non-competitive game; the cards players draw as they go around the board only pose questions about feelings.

I took the cards home to see if the game was as bad as I remembered. It is, and I am kind of proud of myself for identifying this at such a young age.

Here are some examples of the questions, and I'll even answer them for you, because I made an important discovery. I am too competitive to enjoy non-competitive games, but I kind of like expososing examples of the game's questions and sharing my answers in a bloggable format.


What do you think you'll look like in 10 years? Really good, if my mom at 46 was any kind of indication. I promise not to perm my hair and dye it the wrong color to cover up the gray that is already starting to come in.

Complete the sentence. A time I will never forget is...when my uncle's dog ran up from the basement with one of my guinea pigs, Scarlett O'Hair (a beautiful red head, pink eyed little pig) in his mouth. She died of shock about ten minutes later. Or, how about the time I fell right on my ass when I caught my first glimpse of Anchor Wot? I was so embarrassed I cried.

Complete this sentence: I talk the most when... Oh, this one is almost too easy. I talk the most when I've had a couple of drinks.

Complete this sentence: A recent movie I enjoyed was...Gray Gardens. I liked it because...the two women it profiles made me feel comparatively sane.

What is you favorite day of the week and why? Until recently, it was everybody's favorite day, Friday, but now I work on Saturdays. I haven't figured out if I like Sunday or Monday better yet, since I've only been on this schedule for two weeks. I have a feeling it's going to be Monday, though. I like the idea of not having to share a weekend with other people. I can go out to breakfast without worrying about places being too crowded.

Complete this sentence: something I really like to receive for my birthday is____________ because_____________.

What a timely card! My birthday is coming up in less than a month. I'm a little nervous about it because I don't know a lot of people in Portland yet. No one at work will know it's my birthday, and also, I have to work until 8 that night.

I would like a lot of things. A new hat to replace my favorite hat that I have used in lieu of an umbrella for the past four years and lost last week. I'd like a new Bose, since my brother recently reclaimed the one he loaned me a few years ago. I'd really like some help painting my apartment, since my job is taking up most of my energy these days and also, I'm not able to move the furniture out of the rooms I want to paint by myself. I'd like a couple of new friends here, and maybe they could even help me paint. But mostly, I want to make sure people remember it. It's October 17th, and just a call would be fine.

Outgrown

This morning I went running past Klickitat Street, where Ramona the Pest, Beezus and Henry Huggins all grew up. I’d known Beverly Cleary was from Portland, and I was really excited to be living in the same neighborhood as the characters I’d enjoyed so much as a kid.

I called my niece as soon as I got home. I was sure she would be as excited me, but she didn’t even recognize the name of the street. When I reminded her, there was a long pause on her end, then she told me she was currently reading the twenty third Oz book. I know my niece is not yet old enough to feel nostaliga for books she used to love, but I felt disappointed anyway.

Books_, Remembrance of Things Past_

Origin

I'm sure everyone has been dying to know how I became The Angry Librarian.

It's not based in real life at all. I have a temper that I try keep in check most of the time. The angry librarian actually comes from a dream I had my final semester of library school when I was under a lot of stress. I dreamed I was in a really boring class. I was glad when it was time for a break, and left with a group of people I was working on a project with to go to lunch. I waited in a line to order my sandwich for what seemed like an excessively long period of time. I started reading a book while I waited.

At some point, I became aware that somehow the people behind me in line had been able to order their food. I got the attention of the woman taking orders and told her I'd been waiting for a really long time. She smiled at me in a shitty way and told me she hadn't thought I wanted any food because I was so busy reading Seventeen magazine.

I didn't read Seventeen when I was a teenager, I definitely wasn't reading it in my early thirties, and I let the woman know it. She had already moved on to another person behind me in the line. I started yelling at her, and she ignored me. In a desperate attempt to get her attention, I took a stack of books and started hitting her over the head with them. She began to bleed. It looked pretty bad, but head injuries often seem worse than they really are.

A couple of the people I'd come to the deli with rushed over to help her. They decided to take her to the hospital.

It was at this moment that I realized my whole MLS program had been reality t.v. show on the process of becoming a librarian, and that I would forever be known as The Angry Librarian.

Dream On_, Librarianship_,Remembrance of Things Past_

Rebel

Lately I've been reflecting on the strange period of my life from the ages of one to three or so when my extended family called me Freddy.

I got glasses when I was one. My older sister's first visit to the optometrist alarmed the doctor, and he wanted to see me as well. My eyes were worse than my sister's; besides being extremely far sided and having an astigmatism, I have ambliopia and can't see much out of my right eye when my left one is open.

I have no idea how the doctor was able to figure out my original prescription. My nose wasn't big enough to hold the enormous pair of glasses chosen for me, so my mother invented some sort of device made out of shoelaces to help keep them on. The tie kept getting tangled up in my hair, so my mom cut it all off. To complete my new look, I was dressed almost exclusively in overalls and tee shirts, which I suspect were hand me downs from a male child of one of my parent's friends. One of my aunts renamed the new me Freddy, which was also the name of the stuffed monkey she gave me when I was born.


Is it any wonder that pink became my favorite color, that I grew my hair down to my elbows and I wore only dresses for years?

Remembrance of Things Past_

Imaginary Boyfriend

When I was twenty-two, I had an imaginary boyfriend. He was based on a real guy, a barista that worked next door to my apartment building. I borrowed his image and I invented a relationship.

Like most relationships, things were good in the beginning. Then the trouble started, and this was where things began to differ from a traditional relationship. He began to get younger. One day he was underage. He wanted me to buy beer for his friends, who became increasingly loud and boisterous.

Ultimately, I had to break up with him. I can’t remember the specifics, but my guess is that I became interested in a real person.

This should have been the end of things, but six months later, the guy I’d based the boyfriend on moved into my building with his real life girlfriend, who ended up being the cousin of a friend of mine. This was a little awkward for me at first, but I got used to it. Within a year, they broke up and moved out.

I saw him again one last time maybe five years later. He had lost all of his hair and wasn’t cute anymore.

Remembrance of Things Past_