Twisty

Behind-the-Scenes Look: Friends of the Library Book Sale

A few weeks ago, I joined my town’s newly reinstated Friends of the (Name of Town) Library club.

By “joined” I mean, attended a meeting to see what it was all about and, due to frightfully low turnout, was immediately drafted to help with all nature of activities. However, it turned out to be a blessing in disguise. These ladies (yes, no men yet – any takers?) are highly organized, very committed and pretty darn good company.

This weekend kicks off used book sale season, where we make an appearance at the local church flea market to be followed by a bunch of other, similar engagements.

So, I figure I would give you a behind-the-scenes look at a Friends of the Library book sale prep session…

5:27 p.m. – I arrive first on the scene for the night shift. Very loyal team member and daughter have been there all day doing first round of sorting, finding books that are guaranteed to sell the fastest. (In case you’re curious: titles by James Patterson, Nora Roberts, Stephen King, Johanna Lindsay; cookbooks; and anything about the Kennedy family.)

6:01 p.m. – Two teen library workers come in to help with sorting. Gawky girl teen (who I guarantee within 3 years will bloom into a total bombshell) jokingly orders boy teen around. Totally obvious that girl teen has devastating crush on boy teen. Boy teen is completely oblivious. Considering channeling my inner Yente and making a match.

6:07 p.m. – My two loyal library compadres arrive. I eagerly volunteer to do romance and biographies as they’re the easiest to sort. Biographies: Picture of (usually) famous person (often dead) on spine. Romance: Picture of a flower, Fabio or some heaving bosoms on spine.

6:35 p.m. – The first serious round of sneezing occurs. Books = hella dusty.

6:47 p.m. – The teenagers emerge from the stacks. He’s still ignoring her. Damn, boy! Look past the glasses. That girl is going to be Claudia farookin’ Schiffer. Trust me.

7:15 p.m. – Crap! Why didn’t I think to bring snacks!

8:03 p.m. – Sorted through several thousand books and put them neatly into box tops. Get the special privilege of using those neat stickers only the librarians get to use. Smile smugly to self as I slap on “Sci-Fantasy” label thinking, “Oh yeah. Check me out. I’m the boss. How do you know? I’ve got the stickers to prove it, baby!”

8:17 p.m. – Begin to gossip about potential purchases, so we don’t have a book snatchin' catfight on our hands. Thankfully no overlap. (Heh. I wasn’t worried. For a twenty five cent Alison Weir book, I could totally throw down. Oh yeah, library ladies, you want some uh this?!?)

8:23 p.m. – While compadres are labeling the fiction hard covers, I haul approximately fifty crates of books from one end of the room to the other, as some persnickety art group is using the room the next day, and needs it in perfect order.

8:24 p.m. – Starting to dislike those "art people."

8:37 p.m. – As back begins to ache, now really, really hating the evil "art people." (Smile to self as I think of Bou’s bus post. Muh-ha-ha-ha-ha!)

8:40 p.m. – Library compadre snickers, whilst pointing out dog-eared copy of A Husband in Her Stocking. (Hee!)

8:42 p.m. – Find a book on quotations for curmudgeons. Irrationally think book donor is evil because I have no bleeping’ category for quote books. Try to slip it in the “Free” bin and hope no one notices.

8:47 p.m. – Mr. Surly makes a surprise appearance. I immediately beg him to lift heavy things. We tired ladies swoon. Images of Fabio come to mind.

9:05 p.m. – We lug the last of the boxes to the corner of the room and cover them neatly with Christmas-themed tablecloths.

9:07 p.m. – Head home, tired and sweaty and immediately throw back some Advil. Figuring out what time I have to get up on Saturday a.m. to make it to the library at 7 a.m. sharp (Boing!), carrying donuts and a Box O’ Joe.

Whew!

Q: WWJD? A: Write a Hit Song!

My family and friends are really into karaoke. While Mr. Surly and I could skate by for years on our spirited (all-be-it less-than-good) rendition of the B-52’s “Love Shack,” I’m always on the lookout for boy/girl duets. What makes it even tougher, is that I’m also on the lookout for suitable father/daughter duets.

“Suitable,” you ask?

Remember that scene in "Arrested Development" when Michael Bluth (Uncle) and Maeby (Niece) bust out with “Afternoon Delight” at the office karaoke party?

Rubbin' sticks and stones together makes the sparks ignite

(Office mates clap wildly for the charming Uncle/Niece duet!)

and the thought of rubbin' you is getting so exciting!

(Horrified office mates dry heave their just-consumed cake.)

Yeah. I kinda don’t want something similar to happen.

So, this weekend, I'm in the car, zipping through the FM dial and come across a pretty good song.

There’s a boy. There’s a girl. (Yes! Duet!) And, it’s in our respective key(s). There’s no bump ‘n grind factor. (Bonus!) Overall, I think I’ve stumbled on a winner.

That is, until they hit the chorus.

Sneaky Jesus.

You see, we have a radio station in our area that plays Christian pop music. I understand this is kind of run-of-the mill in other parts of the country, but a rather new thing for New Jersey.  I probably owe this to my beloved state’s reputation as a soulless enclave of surly citizens who regularly eat their young. I get it. I watch The Sopranos.

Nevertheless, a few months ago, a Christian pop station suddenly appeared smack dab in the middle of the FM dial. If I’m driving and flipping, I don’t see the stations. I just stop scrolling when I stumble on something I like.

Yeah, there are a couple of songs that juxtapose heavy back beats and chirpy hooks with uncomfortably graphic descriptions of the crucifixion. However, the majority of songs are surprisingly good and could be heard on any Top 40 radio station.

The funny thing is, I think I’ve accidentally stumbled on the magic formula for Christian pop gold!

Record Company Executive: Hey, we’ve got this new, young artist that needs a hit. What do you have for me?

Songwriter: Well, I was just working on this love ballad this morning. (Plays song.)

Record Company Executive: I love it! But I forgot to mention that this is a Christian artist --

Songwriter: No problem! I’ll just swap out “Baby” and swap in “Jesus.”

Record Company Executive: What about the line “I love when you take me on a date?” I really don’t think that will work –

Songwriter: How about I swap in, “I love when you transubstantiate?” That way, I can keep the rhyme.

Record Company Executive: Excellent!

You’d be surprised at how often this works.

Real Song Lyrics: “So Emotional” / Whitney Houston

I get so emotional, baby, every time I think of you.
I get so emotional, baby. Ain’t it shocking what – love can do?

Christian Radio Redux Lyrics: “So Emotional”

I get so emotional, Jesus, every time I think of you.
I get so emotional, Jesus. Ain’t it shocking what – love can do?

Real Song Lyrics: “Baby I Love Your Way” / Peter Frampton

Ooh baby I love your way every day
Wanna tell you I love your way every day

Christian Radio Redux Lyrics: “Jesus, I Love Your Way”

Ooh Jesus, I love Your way, every day.
Wanna tell You I love Your way, every day.

Neat, huh?

Austin, Baby, Austin!

As I write this, I am inhaling a five-gallon vat of chocolate truffle coffee with vanilla creamer (Ah, dad would be oh-so proud!) to try to wake my mind up after an exhausting but great weekend.

Got in the door at 9:35 p.m. last night, just in time to eat some Taco Bell, watch the last few minutes of The Sopranos and have this exchange…

TJ (Walking into bathroom and talking to dear husband over shoulder): Can’t wait to tell you about this weekend! Hey…no toilet paper? You didn’t see fit to change the roll? In protest, I’m going to the other bathroom. So there! (Stomps over to other bathroom.) WHAT?!?!?! No paper in here either?!?!?! And you wipe with WHAT while I’m gone?!?!?!

Mr. Surly: [Insert hysterical laughter here.]

TJ: (Dejectedly slumps over to linen closet to retrieve missing rolls. Mulls over ways to torture Mr. Surly. Evil sneer creeps across face when toilet papering his car before his a.m. commute comes to mind. Immediately forgets this when taking first, heavenly bite of eagerly awaited burrito. Update: Remembers now, as no longer distracted by melted cheesy goodness. Currently making plans to hatch evil plot! Muh-ha-ha-ha-ha!)

In any case…

I was a first-timer at an out-of-state blogmeet. So, as a public service, I’ve decided to put together some lessons I learned that may aid other blog shindig newbies.

Lesson One: Even if you think you’re too shy, go. Really, I mean it.

If you saw last week’s post, you’ll remember I was shaking in my proverbial boots. Starting from the warm welcome I got from Shoe at the airport (she said “y’all” – my first official “y’all”!), I felt like a member of the family.

Lesson Two: When in Rome…

Apparently the un-official beer of the Blown-Eyed Blodgers is Shiner Bock. I had my first, served in a frosty mug, while having a chat with fellow blog newbie, Walrilla. The beer was cold, but he most certainly was not. A great guy! I look forward to seeing him at another shindig.

Lesson Three: Make sure to bring some party essentials.

With everyone pitching in everything from coolers to key limes to pocket knives (for lime cutting!) to Wasabi peas, we managed to organize one hell of a deck party. Did I mention we even had a band? The guitar and kazoo stylings of Acidman, Jim, Denny, Eric, T1G and Elisson were enjoyed by all.

Lesson Four: If you bring homemade eats, you’ll most definitely be a hit.

I’m embarrassed to say that I must have eaten half a basket of Christina’s amazingly flakey won tons. (I’ve been a Christina reader for a while now,  and I’m delighted to say she’s even better in person. Warm heart, beautiful smile.) And, speaking of food, I’m absolutely kicking myself for not having the opportunity to try Denita TwoDragon’s delicious-looking chess pie or have the opportunity to chat with her more. Next time? I’m thinking blogmeet cookbook.

Lesson Five: Do a cool trick!

RedNeck can open a bottle of beer with a cigarette lighter – and without setting anyone ablaze! I was, and still am, impressed.

Lesson Six: You’ll arrive as (relative) strangers and leave as friends.

Some of my best times there, were just shooting the breeze with folks like El Capitan, Kelley, Walrilla, Zonker, Eric and Leslie. I laughed so hard in a car ride with Tammi, Oddybobo and Bou, that I nearly dislocated my jaw. It’s funny how little you wind up talking about blogging. We covered everything from anesthesia to cooking shows to bedroom redecorating.

I would love to write more but ah, I best be getting to gainful employment. (Cranking out a good blog before work is hard!)

I decided to be cavalier and write this before reading anyone else’s account. I have no doubt that one of the talented folks at the blogmeet will cover this with infinitely more sass, style and well-deserved shout outs. (Admittedly, I’m more than a little psyched to read others’ impressions, secretly hoping they won’t include the sentence, “TJ was such an a-hole!”)

In any case…

Much love to all the attendees of the Austin Blogmeet 2006. I look forward to seeing y’all again soon!

(PS - I promise to update the blogroll later tonight!)

Danielle's Big Day

OK. So, J and I were in the car today and passed a strip club.

Now, here’s what I think is funny. The sign read “Join us for Danielle D’s Birthday, March 9.”

I can safely assume that Danielle is an exotic dancer at said establishment.

Why the heck would Danielle want to spend her special day at work, slithering in the laps of drooly, dollar-waving bar patrons?  Methinks Danielle would much prefer a night off - spending her birthday in sweatpants, swigging some beers with her girlfriends, eating pepperoni pizza and watching Pretty in Pink.

Happy Birthday, Danielle! I hope you’ll score some much-deserved time off.

The Right to Drive a Car

I feel like a horse’s ass.

J: Hey, can list all the rights granted in the first Amendment?

T: 1^st Amendment? Speech and expression.

J: What else?

T: You mean, in the rest of the constitution? Like, 2^nd Amendment, right to bear arms --

J: No. First amendment. There are 5.

T: Uh…freedom from fear?

J: That’s Roosevelt. Four freedoms.

Frankly I’m embarrassed at my lack of knowledge. This was certainly an eye-opener and the impetus for an extended surfing session of www.usconstitution.net.

However, I’m grateful that I’m not one of the 1 in 5 Americans who thinks the first Amendment guarantees them a right to drive a car.

Methinks the blogosphere will be all over this today.

Pan

Don't read this post if you wish to preserve your sense of child-like wonder!

So, tonight Mr. Surly and I wanted a little vacation from life and decided to rent Finding Neverland. (Excellent flick, by the by.)

In case you're wondering, the film focuses on the live of J.M. Barrie and his relationship with the Llewelyn-Davies family, the inspiration for his most famous work, Peter Pan.

WARNING: Spoilers a plenty coming up. Really. I'm warning you. If you care to be surprised step away from the damn computer.

I'll give you a minute.

OK. Are you gone yet?

Really. Don't be kicking my ass if you want to be surprised by this movie.

Good.

OK.

In the end: The already-fatherless children's mother dies. (How uplifting!) However, Mr. Barrie is named co-parent in the will and the children (seemingly) live happily ever after. Yay!

Charmed by the delightful tale and eager for more information, I turned to the trusted Wikipedia.

Bad idea.

Let me give you a few of the strange and/or wildly depressing highlights:

- Most biographers think Barrie was asexual. (I'm pleased to hear he wasn't channeling Michael Jackson.)

- Peter Llewelyn-Davies (aka "Peter Pan") referred to the work as "that terrible masterpiece" and grew to loathe his pseudo-celebrity.

- When Barrie passed away, he gave his fortune to a local hospital, rather than the Llewelyn-Davies boys -- his adopted children! Some speculated that this drove Peter to drink.

- Peter committed suicide in 1960...by throwing himself in front of a train.

- Michael Llewelyn-Davies died at age 21 from a mysterious drowning incident. His hands were found tied to those of his best friend, Rupert Buxton, leading many to think the drowning related to a suicide pact.

I haaaaad to go searching for the truth.

Crap. 

Seen & Heard at the McGuinness Family Homestead

Outside our bedroom 8:08 a.m.

Mr. Surly: I couldn't sleep, so I posted on the Idiom.

Me: So, what did you write about?

Mr. Surly: Something serious. Killer robots.

Me: (Lets out some barks of laughter, then looks at Mr. Surly.) Oh, you were being serious, huh?

Quote of the Day

Here's the quote of the day:

"I promise. You won't grow balls." - Dad

Fatherly advice given to me via phone after I expressed concern about taking doctor-prescribed steriods for my ear infection.

Ha!

Mr. Surly, You Want Some of THIS!?!

A recent Thai food and board games night at my parents’ house had re-kindled my love of Boggle.

For those of you unfamiliar, it’s an old-school word find game. You shake up a special container filled with letter-covered dice. Then, the object of the game is to make as many words as you can out of a series of connecting letters and then tally your points. Big words get mondo points. The person with the highest number of points after a set number of rounds wins.

I’m pretty average at most games. However, I found that I have a goofy talent for Boggle, much the same way my mother does for Scrabble. (When she opens up a game with “Quinine,” you know you’re in for it. Did I mention it involved some triple letter and a triple word score?) At Boggle, I reign supreme! Muh-ha-ha-ha-ha.

However, I must be slipping because Mr. Surly beat me pretty soundly last night. I knew it was bad when I, following him to bed, was shaking the Boggle thing at 12:30 a.m. pleading with him for “just one more round.” I was a woman possessed.

I had the Boggle jones on so bad that when he came home for lunch this afternoon, I made him play me – again. Sandwich be damned, your wife gotta get her game on!

And he won. Again.

Dammit.

Do they offer a detox program for this?

Smelly!

So I’m putting on deodorant this morning and suddenly the name of the scent caught my attention:

Fresh Oxygen

Do they really mean “Fresh Air?” Color me confused.

Curious about what oxygen really smells like, I gave the deodorant container a closer sniff. In case you’re at all interested, oxygen – the fresh kind, mind you –  sort of smells like a mix of baby powder, funeral flowers and salt water.

Maybe I should switch back to Secret’s “Ocean Breeze?”