« February 2008 | Main | April 2008 »
1. Couldn't find a clean bra so I'm wearing an old sports camisole that fit me 20 pounds ago. It's squeezing me like a boa in love.
2. Rolled my eyes and sighed "I just can't understand the appeal" when a co-worker expressed joy that baseball's started up again.
3. Had a dozen Fig Newtons for breakfast.
4. Wasted my lunch hour dreaming of trips (to Hawaii, to Mexico, to England, to California) I can't afford.
Erika and Paul examine their Snatch tiles. Paul kind of kicked all our asses, but he's a benignant bloke, so s'kay.
Jen and Kara wonder if drinking more Pledge-smelling booze might make them understand or even possibly enjoy the senseless dice game we were playing later on.
Finally, I was introduced to Quiddler, and inspired to make this short documentary:
Just got back from Minneapolis and the Public Library Association’s conference, an every-other-year affair attended by more than 10,000 librarians. No easy gags about bun techniques or shushing seminars, please! It was my first professional out-of-town affair, and I was super-keen. But turns out, I have a lot to learn about how to rock a conference. Note to self: Have a nice outfit. I brought one pair of jeans and several Target tees and—surprise, surprise—felt dumb and dressed way down when my director took me to a nice reception (followed by an even nicer dinner). Why do I still need to remind myself that there’s no honor in dressing like a seventh-grade babysitter?
Do not stop at every other exhibitor’s booth. Not even if they’ve got a bowl of Starbursts and are hawking Chinese-language children's videos. Because you will not make it. There are too many booths.
Make sure you're set up in a nearby hotel. Any hotel room makes me swoon, as long as it’s pleasantly bland and nicely tidy. Ours was actually close to swank, with flat screen tvs and lavender mist for the many pillows. But the hotel itself was an interminable shuttle ride away from the convention center. Being chained to a charter bus schedule is a huge energy and time drain. I think our library will reimburse us for some of the 30-buck taxi rides, but still. By the third night, I was too conked out for anything social.
…which may have been a good thing, since my first night was way too social. Monica introduced a bunch of fabulous Illinois librarians to a half-dozen fabulous Michigan librarians. I celebrated our convergence (which was rilly, rilly fun anyway) with a string of ill-advised cocktails and a pile of over-prized crab cakes. Which meant I attended the conference’s first seminars so hung over I had to wear my prescription sunglasses indoors. Yeah.
It’s disorienting not being plugged in. As I write this, I have no idea what the most salacious sleb scandal of the last 60 hours has been, or whether I've been emailed any love letters, or what anyone's Facebook status is.
I’m on an old Peter Pan bus, clunking along back to Boston. Jen’s in the seat behind me, furled under her coat and mostly asleep. The overhead lights on this thing are barely brighter than Tinkerbell, so I’ve given up reading about the glory of trivia. I will, however, share my favorite trivia (gleaned not from the book but from today's conversation): did you know all the characters from Scooby Doo are stereotypes from five Mass colleges?
We’ve been visiting Allie et al in Easthampton, two hours’ drive west from Beantown. Allie's best friend’s girlfriend’s mom graciously invited us to a wonderful Easter dinner, even though until Sunday we’d never even met the best friend (Emily) or girlfriend (Lori), much less the mom (Chris). The meal was classic American excess and tastiness, and the hospitality unmatched. "Have some chilli-cream cheese dip." "You’re a lovely young lady!" "Come to my house on the cape any time." "Here’s your own Easter basket."
We stuffed ourselves, self-taxidermy-style, and lolled around, watching kids do more active things: finding eggs, playing violin, standing up. I feel indebted to everyone we've met in the last few days—they've been so cool and sweet and generous with both qualities.
For the rest of the evening and the next day, we did our favorite version of not-much: reading and then swapping whatever we’re reading, playing word games, eating cookies, snoozing. We managed to leave the house this afternoon, to walk around the campus of Amherst. (It’s impossible to come to Massachusetts and not visit colleges. They're pretty, historic attractions, and they're everywhere. The students are also impossibly well-dressed.)
I've never been able to spell "Massachusetts" without looking it up, but maybe that was because I've never been here. Now I am, and now I know: two Ss and two Ts. Jen and I are here to visit several friends. Two of them, Erika and Paul, live in a cooperative house in Cambridge. Right now we're all gathered in the co-op's front room, which somehow exudes both coziness and gloominess. This morning, we slept in, tackled the crossword, and then got treated to a swank brunch at Temple Bar, a few blocks away. Yesterday we got pedicures and pancakes and took synchronized afternoon naps. Obviously, this is not a site-seeing trip.
Jen is reading a Runaways comic while I blog. Erika is laying on a tennis ball and instructing us not to buy bridesmaid dresses that cost more than her wedding dress. We won't, we promise.
Jen and I eagerly raid Paul's comix collection whenever we get a chance. Last night I stayed up veddy, veddy late to read some Astro City, Fables: Legends in Exile, and Tales of the Vampires. What?
Oh, but before all that, a bunch of us (including Kara, huzzah!) played a string of uncommon games: Cosmic Wimpout, Set, and Snatch (an awesome, unfettered cousin of Scrabble). I also had my first limoncello last night, and dear reader, it was also my last limoncello.
Maybe I should spend more time musing on the news-ing here on RAWR.
Rising gas costs crimping budgets: to offset gas commuting costs, Americans are cutting back elsewhere. All Americans should ditch their cars for scooters. And then join my scooter gang. As leader of a national scooter gang, I promise to rule with justice and awesomeness. For example, Americans looking to buy this new, tiny-bit-cuter version of my scooter would totally be allowed.
Bottoming process begins with Bear [Stearns], not bear market. Ooo, bottoming: dirty! Why is everyone acting like they'd heard of Bear Stearns before this week? People, please. Also, how come Escape (The Pina Colada Song), one of the worst tunes of 1979, is getting all this heavy radio play right now?
Obama links cost of war to economic hardships. Also, the sky is blue. You're excused.
My new do. Somewhere on the Nazi Ice Skater -- Ramona Quimby continuum.
And then last Saturday night, I went to see The Magnetic Fields at the Old Town School of Folk Music. It’s a swell, small venue. The eight of us had two round tables in the back, seating that felt like something between VIP and detention. I’d seen the Fields before, in London; and another incarnation of theirs, Future Bible Heroes, back here. Stephin Merritt was in good form, forlorn, strumming some instrument I didn’t recognize. But Claudia Gonson was making me feel the agro. She twaddled on and on, forcing all this dumb banter with laconic Stephin. I complained about it afterwards, expecting some shared indignation, but everyone was all, like, “What? She’s funny."
Upon reflection (surely my least favorite prepositional phrase), what I really found irritating was that Claudia was funny. I get pathetically jealous of a funny woman. I want to be the funny woman. It's sexist and useless to think like this. Like there's special lady humor, and it's a limited resource. And what a drag that for all my carping I can't think some amusing way to wrap up this post.
