What you see here is Trouble.  We’re talking Halloween night, freshman year of college, just about to walk across campus in spike heels to view A Clockwork Orange to the great joy of many a slavering college boy kind of Trouble. Or maybe the kind of trouble Hannah and I tended to end up in should have had a better word for it, like Frouble; Trouble with a capital F for Fun.  I can’t tell you how fortunate I feel to have known and loved Hannah through junior high, high school, college, and beyond, and Frouble is only a small part of it.

Hannah is so much better than I am in verbalizing her love for others–passionate and profuse–and if you know her she has no doubt let you know at some time or another.  It’s one of her many warm and wonderful traits.  I used to say she was hard on the outside with a marshmallow heart, and I think it’s still true. You don’t want to mess with the woman; she has a righteous passion that is bigger than life. And if you’re in need, she’ll bring that strength and compassion to help you. She would hold your hair back while you vomited up your sins, I know for a personal fact.  Hannah is a true friend.  (Unlike me, who just accidentally typed “fiend,” got the imp-fire in my eyes for about three seconds, then fixed it, with a little drop of the shoulders..). On the other hand, she can be brought to tears by the beauty of a lovingly cared for classic car, or an innocently placed word in a poem or a song, or a curl of her daughter’s hair. 

A large part of the Hannah-passion is her laughter. She laughs without abandon with her entire body, the laughter somehow reflexively bending her over in half or magnetically pulling her to the floor, or when she is trying to hold it in, (for instance if you might happen to say something that could be possibly perceived as inappropriate, or might plant a potentially dangerous–Froublesome–idea in her young daughter’s presence; playing the bad-yet-fun aunt role, you know?), her chin quivers in the most adorable way. Really, it almost encourages one to make it happen.

Let me tell you about her tremendous love and knowledge of music and books (and thus dancing, reading and libraries/librarians) and her weakness for goofy grinning geeky boy-men and rock stars and dreamy authors, and basketball and soccer, and how proud she is to be the mother of Lily, wife of Andy, member of her neighborhood and beloved Ballard.  How she’s the queen of thank-you notes, and just the perfect gift.  How she’s got a closet full (actually, I’m speculating a bit here) of well-cared-for hip shoes and has the Dietrich legs to go with the boots and heels. How she can make a banana cake or bread that melts in your mouth.

What I’m trying to say, Hannah, is Happy Birthday, dear friend. (Again with the “fiend”…)  I love you.

I just have to tell you about the car show I went to this weekend. Many other wonderful events occurred over the weekend, and even today, but I just have time for the car show recap right now.

On Saturday, I spent hours at the Greenwood Car Show. I’ve been to it before, but this year was the best ever. Lots and lots of muscle cars. Shiny, beautiful muscle cars. Sometimes, when I stumbled upon another amazingly restored GTO, Firebird, or Chevelle, tears would start forming in my eyes. I could have spent the entire day there and not gotten bored. Check out these photos, which include lots of great full-car shots, and these photos, which tend to focus more on small details. 

My favorite parts of the show, other than the muscle cars, included the row of old Mini Coopers in an array of colors, some sweet old VWs, quirky electric cars that had been converted from standard gas guzzlers into all-electric vehicles, and the cars that were straight from my past. There was a Pontiac LeMans just like the one my sister used to own in high school. There were El Caminos that reminded me of all those El Caminos that seemed to dominate the Navy base where my dad worked when I was growing up. There were Mustangs and Cougars from the late 60s that were just like the ones that my first boyfriend used to drive (and still purchases from time to time).

It became clear that almost all of my favorite cars were made between 1967 and 1970. A few had their original window sales stickers, which were fascinating. One had its original 8-track tape player (a $148 upgrade option in the late 60s) and an original price tag of about $3,200.

I first saw this video a few months ago. It seems appropriate to link to it today. I love those Australian library workers.

Rest in peace, Michael Jackson.

A couple months ago we were in a plant nursery and came across a rain chain that we just had to have. Fifteen-freakin’-pounds of iron fish leaping open-mouthed up the links that would go perfect off the porch roof next to our little crop of black bamboo. Plus, it was a great price; much less than the copper rain chains I’d been wistfully passing by for the last couple of years. We made the purchase and toted it home to wait until it was actually nice enough for Joe to go up on the roof to see where he could make a suitable drain hole in the gutter.  Only, when he finally did, he discovered a rotten board above the porch and that the gutter would most likely not support the weight of the fish.  Professional help was required.  We had a roofer friend come out and assess the situation, and he was able to make a brace for the chain, cut a nice hole, replace the board and oh, hey, you’ve got some rotten wood under this other section of your roof, too, because the eejits that made the addition didn’t put any vents in, so no moisture could get out between the old roof and the new roof, blah blah blah $$$$$$$$$$$.  We also had to get a ceramic pot filled with gravel for the chain to flow into.  When all was done, our total cost was about six times our great deal on our weighty-but-cool fish. But they look great, and made me feel a bit of a witch when they were finally hung and I made the comment, “Watch, it will never rain again now we’ve got these up!” and the Seattle area proceeded to have something like 30 days without rain from the moment I uttered the words…I feel grateful my husband was the only witness, and that it wasn’t a couple hundred years ago – “Burn her!!”

I’d thought it had been only a year and a half since I had an annual medical check-up, but turns out it was two and a half. Feeling guilty, (and nauseously nervous, because you just never know, do you?) I made an appointment and went in.  I’m sitting on the exam table in nothing but an open cotton gown, some sweat, and my freshly pointed toenails, and the building’s fire alarm goes off. An alarmingly loud alarm. Loud like the air raid siren in the original movie The Time Machine. My doctor runs out to see if it’s real, comes back and tells me to get dressed quickly.  We’re the last ones out the door, our hands clamped over our ears, and as we stand milling on the sidewalk I’m surreptitiously checking out to see if I’m dressed right–nothing’s missing or inside out or backwards. The nurses all joke that I was lucky I wasn’t in the middle of the physical exam, heh heh.  Always glad to be the butt of the joke, heh heh.  As a result of this appointment, I had to follow up with additional blood work, as my liver count was double what had been higher than normal a couple years ago. Then, a few days ago I found myself in a dimly lit room at the hospital having my belly rubbed with warm lubricant and a sexy wand as I have an abdominal ultrasound.  It’s early, I’ve been fasting, and the machine hums and beeps, so I’m lulled into drowsiness, and as I’m watching the big screen display of my insides I see something shaped like a pork chop, and then later, a Tyrannosaurus Rex. Now, as a result of my guilt-induced physical, I have to have a gall stone removed.  Apparently common in white middle-aged females of the plumper persuasion with a passion for buttery cream sauces.  Oh!  Crap.  It’s funny how one thing leads to another.

I was actually going to write YET ANOTHER post related to the Sounders, but feel shy about doing that after Lori’s last post. I’ll save my latest Sounders blather for later.

Right now, though, I want to write a few words in honor of mentors. If you don’t have one, go get one as soon as possible. I don’t know where I would be without mine. I feel tremendously fortunate to have had three librarian mentors during the past 8 years. And, I feel even more fortunate that I am still learning from those three women today.

Nancy Pearl, of course, is one of those mentors. Long before I took the GRE and enrolled in graduate school, I listened to Nancy on the radio and read as many of her book recommendations as I could. I even called in to KUOW once, during one of those “good books for summer” types of shows they do every year with her, and was immediately spun into orbit when Nancy purred “You have excellent taste in books” in response to my suggestions. Then I knew I HAD to become a librarian! I met her at a couple of book-related events and found her to be even more charming in person than she was on the radio. In grad school, I was one of those lucky MLIS students who got to take her two readers’ advisory classes and got to know her pretty well. I learned more in those two classes than I did in almost all of my other grad school classes combined. She has been a wonderful friend and teacher since then, in so many ways.

Another one of my mentors is someone I met when I was about half-way through grad school. She was a librarian at the Ballard Branch who kindly accepted my request to “shadow” her for four hours so I could write up my observations for a reference class I was taking. I watched her for two two-hour sessions and my brain kind of exploded. I honestly had no clue what librarians really did until I watched her do her job. My grad school program was pathetic about teaching public librarianship (except for Nancy and one or two other instructors) and, really, you don’t get what it’s like to serve people in a public library until you sit on the librarian’s side of the desk, so perhaps a class wouldn’t have helped. I wrote in my school assignment that watching Ellen do her job at the Ballard Library was a revelation and it was. I felt like a giant door opened in my brain as a result of those four hours. Not only did I get to see an outstanding librarian do her job in a calm and quiet way (in other words, pretty much the opposite of my natural inclinations), I made a connection with this woman that to this day I don’t fully understand. You know that scene in The Breakfast Club when Molly Ringwald is fixing Ally Sheedy’s hair and doing her makeup and Ally Sheedy asks Molly Ringwald why she’s being so nice to her? And Molly Ringwald says, “Because you’re letting me”? I feel just like Ally Sheedy. I don’t know why Ellen was so nice to me then and has been unfailingly nice to me and supportive of me since then, but it’s made a world of difference in my life. Now I have the honor of working with Ellen and learning from her every time we’re scheduled together and I really cannot believe my luck.

The other mentor to whom I am greatly indebted is Monica, the librarian at Lily’s former elementary school (there we are, to the right, when we were clearly much younger!). She taught me an amazing amount, and like Nancy and Ellen, always did it with an abundant amount of humor, humility, honesty, and generosity. I volunteered there for years, absorbing everything I could about children’s books, circulation procedures, and how a big, busy library can run so smoothly with just one in-demand librarian. I watched her make powerful connections with young readers that I am certain will fuel a desire to read in those children for many years. She was so very kind to me and so accepting of my schedule needs and limitations (and she tolerated my many, many questions!). Today, just for fun, Lily and I volunteered to help her work on the school library end-of-year inventory and it was a great way to spend a day. We worked hard, got a lot done, and were able to catch up on everything we’ve been through in the past year. It was totally delightful!

So, let’s hear it for mentors. Go get one. Or become one. Or love one. You will be glad you did.

(Ha! Thought it was Hannah, didn’t ya?)  Last night Joe and I infiltrated the soft underbeerbelly of a Seattle Sounders FC fan club (SSFCFC), the Emerald City Supporters, or ECS.  Tickets in pocket, complements of Joe’s season-ticket holder brother, we met a couple of friends, gung-ho Sounders fans, also season-ticket holders and ECS, at the designated pre-match sports bar, Fuel.  We stuck out immediately, as we were scarfless, and soccer shirtless.  I did use our friend James’ large Sounders flag as a sort of pashmina for a while, until he snagged it back later to secure across his shoulders as a cape for the March to the Match. Other than that, my bright green margarita went nicely with my bright blue skirt, and we joined in rowdy song with the 90 percent male fans crowded around us, with the aid of a handily provided song sheet. I did know all the words to Perry Como’s Bluest Skies, embarrassingly enough, though it did have a twist: “Full of hopes an’ full of fears, Full of laughter an’ full of beers…”  While perusing the lyrics to the other songs, I made the mistake of asking ‘Who’s Sigi?” (as in Sigi Sigi Sigi, OI OI OI!) and got a tolerant, and I must say slightly patronizing response; I could feel the words “the coach” literally patting my ignorant little head.

After sufficient spirit-raising at Fuel, we all walked across to Occidental Park  for the start of the March to the Match. Again, the pack being 90 percent testosterone-laden, plus the band leading with tubas, trumpets and trombones, I held Joe’s hand and clung to the end of James’ flag-cape because of the whole five feet tall lost in a sea of green armpits thing, plus Joe and I both stupidly left our cell phones at home. (Apparently, one of the side-lined players, Nate Jaqua, was marching with us, too, but I didn’t know about it until later, and to be honest I could have been holding his hand and not have known it was an official Sounder–I mean come on, everybody around me was wearing a soccer jersey!) It was all fun until we marched up to a group of San Jose fans and tensions rose.  We did an abrupt left-face, halt, and proceeded to boisterously sing them into submission, with the possible threat of a tickle-fight…You don’t mess with the ECS!

Once in the stadium we were on our own, us and a few thousand other people, 28,999 to be exact. This is when my possible attention deficit kicks in, and why we would never pay money for a sporting event (Joe would be perfectly happy with Sounders tickets, though).  There’s just so much to look at, what with the sparkly silver, green and blue rectangles of mylar floating around in shimmering clouds like gnats, the guy with the awesome blue and green mohawk (or rather, whoa-hawk), and the ball’s all over the field anyway, and the permeating smell of garlic fries wafting up from below. And, hey, I like that guy’s shirt, oops, almost missed seeing that first goal. I buckle down and concentrate better for a while, jumping up when we get close to the goal, squealing like a girl (it’s okay when you are one, albeit ‘girl’ is somewhat loosely applied) when we miss. I wonder if they clean up the mylar confetti from the field with a vacuuming Zamboni. Joe gets into a competition with the teenage kid in front of us blowing their green Sounders horns; best $5 he ever spent, he says.  I picture the stadium as one of those paintings of Seattle underwater with dolphins and stuff, and the horns are whale songs.  What a gorgeous sunset! Isn’t Seattle beautiful?  Isn’t my boss in this section, too? Oh yeah, over there, 10 rows in front of us on the aisle, I finally see, with his fists raised in the air as I miss our second goal…

We exit Qwest Field happy with our win, to meet our friends outside the entrance under the Chicago Bears flag. Only for us, it’s one last chance to display our total sports obliviousness, as we wander back and forth looking for a bear, because that big orange C could be for Cincinatti, right?

Thanks to Bob for tipping me to the sublime Raphael Saadiq. I dare you to watch this video of his song 100 Yard Dash and not get up and shake it. I can listen to this song on my car stereo ten times in a row and not get tired of it. I’ll definitely be checking him out at Bumbershoot this year.

I was a last-minute substitute companion to the Pacific Northwest Ballet last night.  One month it’s roller derby, the next it’s the ballet.  Only after this outing I harbored no secret desire to become a ballerina. Joe and I do a good imitation of the hippo and alligator routine from Fantasia, but that’s as close as I’ll ever get. Cartoon hippo dancing. Here’s the night’s recap:

When we take our seats before the performance begins, I warn my friend that I was very nearly kicked out of a ballet once, long ago, or should have been.  My now-former mother-in-law had season’s tickets to the PNB and wasn’t able to attend, so I took Hannah…The seats were fantastic, up on the side balcony, with cushy chairs on their own to sit in. The acoustics were also incredible; you could hear every sniffle and throat-clearer in the audience, so that when the dancers did a little cutesy, ass-patting move, we very clearly heard someone expel a loud, shocked, matronly “Tsk!! Huhhhhh.”  Our heads simultaneously whipped to face each other and that silent-oh-this-is-so-wrong-so-inappropriate-we’re-totally-gonna-die-if-we-don’t-let-it-out laughter welled up inside us, and we knew we had to leave right away.  In our hurry to exit before we became the pariahs of the ballet, we knocked over one of the cushy armchairs, did a quick lunging save before it crashed to the floor, and ran as fast as we could outside the building where we fell about laughing until we cried.  Then we went to the (fabulous) Rainbow Tavern and saw Mondo Vita.  We were so Twenty-something, it was so the Eighties.

The sparkly red curtain rises to an empty wood-floored stage, the background an expanse of blue, lightly clouded sky. The audience hushes to complete silence as a male ballet dancer slowly steps, knees lifting high, toes pointed, calves taut, towards center stage, looking for something.  I resist every impulse in my body to lean over to my friend and whisper in my best Elmer Fudd “You must be vewy, vewy quiet…”

The ballerinas are wearing pastel colored filmy whisp-o-dresses designed for maximum flutter-effect; the males are in blousy, romantic long-sleeved shirts, and tight tight tights. It’s quite obvious there’s absolutely zero percent body fat on the stage for the next hour and a half. I dab my mouth for a drool-check. I pick out a favorite and decide his name is Klaus Assencalves.

There is only a piano accompanying the dancers, and after about an hour I find myself being lulled into a relaxed, sleepy state, thinking maybe that tasty margarita with dinner wasn’t such a good idea. I take slow, deep breaths to mask my yawns.  An apricot colored ballerina floats across the stage and I’m dreamily reminded of the sweet potato fries I grudgingly didn’t order at dinner.  I worry my stomach will growl.

How can they do all that stuff on their toes?  I’m in my seat slowly stretching my leg to avoid a cramp from sitting still and quiet and good (good, good, good, yes I am so good), and here they are twinkle-toeing at cartoon speed across the stage, (looking just like cats crossing the road at night), and then they do it backwards!  What amazing strength!

The performance ends and the entire troupe takes a bow, then they take bows in pairs, then as a group again, then after the curtain goes down it goes back up again and they take another bow, then the curtain’s down again and they all come through it and take another bow in front of the curtain.  I’m worried if I go to the restroom when I come out there’ll be a pair of ballerinas bowed in front of my stall.  Or, when we get to the car, next block over, there’ll be a couple more bowing us into the Prius. I start to think they’re mimes – you just can’t get rid of them.

All in all, it was a lovely, mellow evening, even though I’ve never really been into ballet – when all my friends were taking dance lessons when I was around 11, I took guitar.  I did have a couple black and white postcards of Mikhail Baryshnikov on my dorm room wall, though.  Because I truly appreciate the strength, the beauty, the passion of the human body dancing. Especially in tight tight tights.

One night, when we were having dinner at Lori and Joe’s house, Lori told us this little story that almost made us pee our pants. It’s a classic Lori story — it shows both how insanely naive she is about the world and how much charming ability she has to poke fun at herself. Lori told us that she and Joe had been out driving somewhere and they observed a man walking by the side of the road carrying a shovel. The shovel wasn’t empty. The man was carrying a cat in the shovel. And Lori, who has the kind of disposition that didn’t let her even consider the fact that maybe the cat had been hit by a car and was dead, said to Joe, “Oh look, he’s giving that cat a shovel ride!”

Those are the two funniest words in our house now: shovel ride. They never fail to make us laugh.

Yesterday, Andy drove to Spokane so he could surprise his dad with an unannounced visit. Andy’s dad, Alden, turns 80 tomorrow, so we cooked up a plan that allowed Andy to get out of town for a couple of days and surprise his dad with his presence (my presents were books, of course).

Alden lives in a condo building that has a video camera in the lobby and one of those buzzer intercom things so you can contact the resident and then get buzzed into the elevator area. Andy wanted to keep his identity a secret until he saw Alden face to face so Lily suggested that he pretend that he was delivering a package and hope that Alden didn’t check the video image when Andy rang the intercom buzzer from the lobby. Just to be safe, Andy covered the video camera lens with his hand when he called his dad and used a funny accent to say, “Hello, this is UPS. I have a package for you!” Alden was suspicious and said, “I can’t see you. It looks like something is blocking the camera.” Andy stayed in character and said, “Oh, is there a camera? I don’t see a camera! I have this package for you!” Alden went ahead and buzzed Andy in. When Andy got off the elevator on his dad’s floor, he saw him standing down the hallway. Andy and Alden haven’t seen each other in months. But here’s the first thing Alden said, in all seriousness, ”Hey, did you see a guy down there trying to deliver a package?”

Lily and I both had a good laugh over this story when Andy told it to us over the phone last night. We talked about it one more time before Lily went to bed. Then Lily said, ”Yeah, that’s a funny story, but it’s no shovel ride.”

Several times each day, I realize that I have no idea what day it is. I might guess correctly, I might be close, but I really don’t know. I think it’s because I haven’t adjusted to my new work schedule, which is a wonderful schedule in terms of fitting in with my family’s schedules, but pretty funky when you look at it on paper. I haven’t hit a rhythm yet and somehow, our house and yard are in even worse shape than when I was working full-time. There are piles of stuff that need attention everywhere I look.

But, even though I haven’t been effective in the usual ways, I have given myself permission to do a few non-essential things. As many of you know, I dyed my hair red. I did it a few weeks ago, but it’s still getting lots of comments and, frankly, looks of horror and suppressed nastiness from some people. Whatever. I like it and am already trying to figure out what to do to it next. The only drawback has been that it’s made getting dressed a little more complicated because it clashes so badly with one of my wardrobe staples — fuchsia.

I spent one day shopping for new clothes. That’s another thing I almost never do. I hate shopping, hate it, hate it, hate it, but I do need some new clothes so I actually went to Nordstrom on the first day of their recent sale and bought some stuff. Again, the hair color made it a little challenging, as did the effort involved in trying on dozens of items before finding even a few that fit well. Maybe I’m the most delusional person on the planet, but I am extremely puzzled about why I don’t fit into most Medium-sized women’s clothes. I’m not THAT big, am I? I look at the Larges and think, really? Do I qualify as Large? I suppose I do, but, whoa, what size are the women I know who are much larger than me (and, honestly, look just fine to me)? If I’m Large, what are they?

I’ve read more. I’ve spent time with friends. I’ve spent more time with Lily. I’ve cooked. I’ve baked. I’ve been in much closer contact with my siblings and other relatives. I’ve enjoyed not feeling the work pressure that used to suck the life out of me each day. But, to be honest, I really do need to get a handle on some practical stuff. You know, like what day it is.