Will the person who…

…keeps trying to re-set the password on this blog cut it the eff out? It’s mine, not yours, and I intend to keep this space FOREVER!

(even though I am now located at Confessions of a Recovering English Major)

I am petty.

As if you needed more proof. Well, here it is.

[12:38] me: here is what is annoying
[12:38] me: when you are reading a blog by someone anonymous
[12:38] me: and then you realize who it is
[12:38] me: and it is someone you do not like
[12:39] long-suffering husband: i see, wife
[12:39] me: and then you say to yourself: “ugh, i am reading a blog written by PERSON WHO I DO NOT LIKE and i can’t stand her”
[12:40] me: now it is like: do i unsubscribe? or do i keep reading?
[12:41] long-suffering husband: i don’t now…it matters whether you want to read what she has to say
[12:41] me: i was just kind of testing it out…it was a blog about local stuff, but i think it may be too kid-oriented
[12:41] me: (e.g., things to do with your brat)

Also, I have registered a domain name, and I will eventually move over there and perhaps update more often. I will tell you more about that later, once I actually have something there besides the placeholder page that my hosting company puts up.

—

Could someone please tell me why the only people I can find on the internet are people who I no longer care about? I’m talking people from high school who I Google when I am bored. I can always find people I do not give a shit about, but I can’t find the people I want to find.

Granted, I want to find most of these people so I can make fun of them, but still…

—

This came up in conversation with my mom, who still works in my hometown. She told me “so-and-so got married.” And I already knew that, because I had Googled him in a fit of sheer boredom one afternoon. He was this really geeky trombone player from the high school band, and now he is an actor. The girl he married looked trashy-pretty, a la Britney Spears. I did not really give a crap about this person, but I was bored, and I was thinking about band practice and he was someone whose name I thought up.

And I said to my mom, “now why is it that I can find him, but I cannot find Tom Kowalski or Ron Shepard online? They were both kind of geeky, and they damn well should have a presence on the internet. But when I look up Tom Kowalski, all I find is some football player for the Detroit Lions, and that is absolutely not the person I am looking for.”

My mom responds: “so-and-so who comes into the library is still friends with Tom’s stepsister and I will ask her about him.”

Forget the stupid internet–I will use the person-to-person grapevine.

Oh, I forgot to mention.

I finally saw the bad family Christmas card that my in-laws sent out. I wouldn’t say that I’m scowling, but I definitely look vexed. And I probably was, considering that Tim’s aunt went on some kind of freak-rant about how the wine Tim and I brought was dessert wine, which it wasn’t, but since she’s got shitloads of money* it apparently means that she knows EVERYTHING ABOUT WINE.

I’m not sure if the picture is the worst thing about the card, though. I’m not particularly happy having my name associated with a religious holiday card of the “camels visiting the Baby Jesus and have a blessed holiday season” variety. They don’t get that I’m not religious, nor is Tim. I keep getting religious geegaws from them: nativity sets, angel protection charms for my car, that kind of stuff. I have no idea what I’m going to do with it. Anyone want a primitive-style wooden nativity set? Come on! You know you do! The Baby Jesus looks like a peanut!

I am also not happy that the card is (electronically) signed “from the In-Laws Family: Nanette, Tim, [insert in-laws names here].”

Seriously, if I had wanted to send out holiday cards, I would have sent out my own damn holiday cards. I did not ask my in-laws to send holiday greetings on my behalf.

My 81-year-old grandmother was right, though: they do look like a bunch of dorks in the photo, what with the grinning and the festive holiday-wear. I swear I will never, ever let those people near me with a camera ever again.

—

*She also has a house that looks like a Miami drug lord’s hangout, circa 1983. The wallpaper in their downstairs bathroom kills me. It’s teal and magenta paintbrush swishes. I feel like people should be snorting coke off the top of her toilet tank. Someday I shall brave her and her stockbrokerbankerdude husband who refuses to acknowledge my presence and take a picture for posterity.

Kidz Rap.

Okay, so I know I’ve written about the Kidz Bop series of CDs before. They’re these awful compilations of kiddie cover versions of popular songs that are insanely popular with the elementary-school aged youth of College Town. These things are so evil that they make me want to have my ovaries removed to prevent me from ever having a child so I will never have to purchase such a ridiculous thing, ever.

It gets better, though.

Today, I received a copy of Kidz Rap Radio, which is apparently the rap music version of Kidz Bop. If you thought a kiddie version of “Take Me Out” was nutty, wait until you hear the kiddie version of The Ying Yang Twins’ “Wait (The Whisper Song.” You know, the song with these lyrics, which are so not safe for work that they may set your computer aflame with their straight-up dirtiness.

Needless to say, the sanitized version is only 2 minutes and 30 seconds long, and features the refrain “Wait ’till you see my kicks.” The Ying Yang Twins did not mention shoes at all in the original version. As a matter of fact, I’m sure that all shoes had already been removed. As well as pants. And underpants.

There’s also a version of “Laffy Taffy,” another song I’ve blogged about before, but I can’t bring myself to listen to it.

—

Also, I would love it if someone would tell some of the folks on Newlib-L to shut up. Seriously. This argument about whether or not MLS holders are entitled to a job is getting stupid. It’s the same five people going “yes it is!” “no it’s not!” over and over and over.

I can’t believe some of the people out there who consistently make asses of themselves online and then wonder why they can’t find a job.

Fun with Wikipedia.

So I was screwing around on Wikipedia, and I somehow got the idea that I should look up my hometown. I guess I’ve got Sauk Village on the brain these days–my parents are moving out of my childhood home this week and I am both relieved that they are leaving and a little sad that my parents’ house is no longer “home.”

Anyhow, I come across this little gem on the Sauk Village Wikipedia page:

“Prominent native sons of Sauk Village include Francoix Gueffier, Jon Ciaponi and Kenny “The Stilp” Stilp.”

Three things:

1. These guys all graduated from high school in 1991 with me.

2. I don’t think any of them are doing anything interesting with their lives.

3. John Ciapponi’s name is spelled incorrectly.

Seriously. If you’re going to put a shoutout to your friends on Wikipedia, can’t you at least spell their names correctly?

I used to call Francoix “marshmallow head” because his head was square. His retort, “nullified Nanette,” was not only lame, but it also did not make sense. Francoix and I were both double-promoted in elementary school, thus ensuring that we had a built-in rivalry until high school, when both of us stopped giving a shit.

John Ciapponi was the most popular boy in junior high, and we all know what happens to people who peak in junior high: they spend the rest of their lives trying to relive the glory of being twelve years old. I think he played drums in the band or something. My overarching memory of him is that there was a boy in junior high who said that he wanted to have a sex-change operation so they could date. The boy who said this is now out and proud and apparently a very successful interior designer, which means that he has probably done more in the last five minutes of his life that Mr. Ciapponi has done since eighth grade.

The only thing I remember about Kenny Stilp is that he had a really big nose. Apparently, he also had the World’s Lamest Nickname. Recipe for instant lame nickname: take last name, add “The.” Colin, you’re “The Brady” now. Tim? “The Donohue.” I guess this makes me “The Donohue” as well, so please don’t call my house and ask for “The Donohue.” It will only confuse everyone.

Besides, everyone knows that I am Sauk Village’s most prominent native. And I am totally willing to throw down and defend that title. To the death!

—

My parents are moving to Dyer, Indiana, which also has a Wikipedia page. And an awful motto: “Striving higher in Dyer.” I do believe that’s the community motto equivalent of “The Stilp.”

It is one of the “100 Best Places to Live in the U.S.,” according to Money Magazine. I find it hard to believe that something situated next to Sauk Village could kick that much ass, but I guess I’ll find out when I visit their new house.

Cute kid.

I am normally not the sort of person who is into kids. I do not generally think that kids are cute once they are older than, say, 18 months. As a matter of fact, kids tend to annoy me, and things that kid-lovers find cute, I find irritating. I do not coo and swoon every time a preschooler says something “clever.”

However, one of my co-workers has a 3-going-on-4 year old daughter who is really sharp, and she comes in every Wednesday for storytime. They always visit our department so she can see where Mommy works.

Today, we were talking about cats, and Rebecca was looking at the cat calendar that Tim made for me as a Christmas present. The calendar contains photos of our two cats* in various stages of mischief, repose, or cuteness. Cat people think it’s great and the most thoughtful gift ever; non-cat people vomit at the sight of it. She came across a particularly cute photo of our Lilycat, all wide eyes and blotchy calico fur, and she petted it and said “ooh, pretty!”

I thought that was the cutest thing. I guess I am getting soft in my old age.

—

*all taken by Tim, who has earned the title “noted Cat Photographer,” which I always pronounce in my Tyra-hosting-America’s-Next-Top-Model voice. We were talking about creating a mashup of the cats posing plus soundbites from ANTM, but we haven’t done that yet, so you can steal the idea if it amuses you as much as it amuses us.

Obsessions.

I have been obsessively listening to Boys and Girls in America by the Hold Steady. As in, the CD ends, and I press play again for the tenth time today. I have not been this obsessive about a CD since about a year ago, when My Morning Jacket’s Z didn’t leave the CD player for a month or two.

***

I have joined the local community concert band. I am last chair in the flute section. In case you were wondering, flute players are still the bitchiest people in the whole band, and trombone players are still weird. I sit right in front of the trombone section. I live in fear of valve oil and weirdness being applied to my person.

***

I am very irritated with my in-laws for sending out a holiday photo card featuring a “family” photo containing me, scowling. I did not want my picture taken. I REALLY did not want the picture that I did not want taken sent out far and wide. Holiday photo cards are great if you have kids and you want to distribute photos of your kids. I got several of those and they are hanging on my fridge. But who the shit wants to see pictures of adults? Nobody does, unless they are very attractive and naked, and this card (obviously, and quite thankfully) fit neither of these criteria. Not that I have seen it. My parents have seen it, though, since my in-laws were kind enough to send them a copy. It was postmarked December 26, which makes me question their reasons behind sending my parents a copy. Were they sincerely sending holiday greetings to my parents, or were they hoping that my mommy would scold me for sullying their precious family moment with my scowly-face? Well, she didn’t. She just laughed at me and called it “the dorkiest thing she’s seen in a long time.”

Rule #1 of holiday photo cards: Nobody wants to see a holiday picture of you with your ADULT CHILDREN who DO NOT EVEN LIVE AT HOME. Your opportunity for this kind of crap passed you by in, say, 1987.

I swear those people bring out the sullen teen in me. And I am NEVER posing for a “family photo” with them again.

***

I am likely the only person who is amused by my biennial posting schedule–right before ALA, twice a year. It’s not like I have nothing entertaining going on. I just forget about this thing.

Off to ALA.

Tim and I leave tomorrow morning for New Orleans to attend ALA. I have my busiest schedule yet this year, due to my involvement with various committees and roundtables. I suspect it's only going to get busier and crazier over the next few years, as I've been elected Vice President-President Elect of NMRT. With that position comes a whole slew of new committments, including the mysterious Roundtable Coordinating Assembly. 

 Then, two days after we return from NOLA, we're closing on our brand new house. And then we're moving.

 Hectic? Definitely.

I Love the 90s.

Today, on my way to and from work, I was listening to the best CD compilation ever. It's called Precious, and it's a benefit compilation of all kinds of early 1990s Britpop/alternative music, with only a clunker or two in the bunch. (Spaghetti Head, anyone? Remember them? I don't, and I'm a freakin' encyclopedia of early 1990s alternative music.) Look at that playlist! It's like a "Nanette's favorite songs of 1994" mix CD!

Listening to this comp brings me back to the days when Champaign was the place down I-72 where Robin and I would go to party on Friday nights–not the place where I live and work and have settled down with my loving husband.

This morning, I also saw a total shitcan of a Honda scooter in the library staff parking lot, which reminded me of the total shitcan/deathtrap of a Honda scooter that one of my boyfriends in college used to tool around on. Seriously, the thing was all wrecked-looking and beat-up, just like the ex's scooter. The only thing that was missing to complete the picture was a crappy gray milk crate duct-taped to the back of the thing. I rode that stupid scooter once and screamed the entire way down Springfield Avenue (or wherever we were going at the time). I think he (or his brother–they shared it during the summers) finally trashed that thing for good the summer after we broke up the first time. 

Kids these days.

I admit that I am, occasionally, jealous of kids these days. (By “kids,” I mean “youth in their late teens and early twenties,” not “small children.”) They have so many things that would have made my life a heck of a lot easier back in the early 1990s when I was in college. Things like cell phones with cheap unlimited minutes (the better to call one’s long-distance boyfriend in St. Louis or Country Club Hills or Champaign or Ottawa or Bloomington, Indiana without racking up $300 in dorm room telephone bills), instant messaging (see “cell phones”), and MySpace (the better to meet more long-distance boyfriends with which to communicate). The internet could have opened up a whole new world of trouble for 19-year-old me. I could have had six boyfriends in six different cities instead of just three boyfriends in three different cities!

Then I catalog the new CD by Hawthorne Heights, and I remember one thing that we old farts in our 30s have on kids these days: our music was better. Record labels might have pulled some gimmicky shit on us back then, but they never released the same album with “boy” and “girl” cover art. At least, I don’t think they did, unless it was some kind of riot grrrl trickery, like how Huggy Bear would play girls-only shows.

So do I catalog them separately? The content is the same, other than the stupid promotional “bonus CD” that Victory Records threw in for the sole purpose of vexing me greatly. The bonus CD in the “girl” version features Silverstein and June, two bands which I suspect are very earnest but not very talented. The artwork on the bonus CD is, ostensibly, kinda girly, and the bands pictured are cute in that Seth Cohen/sensitive girlyboy kind of way. The “J” in June is dotted with a plus sign, a clever typographical conceit that, okay, I kind of like in a sick way. The bonus CD in the “boy” version features some band called Atreyu, which may be a bastardized version of the word “atrium,” or it could just be something they thought sounded cool while they were really, really high. The cover art is distinctively more masculine, with the band employing a stereotypical “death metal” typeface for its logo and photos of a young man squinting and holding his temples, as if someone is forcing him to listen to, say, Hawthorne Heights. The band members pictured look like that ugly guy who hangs out in the corner of the goth club who everyone, even the goths who are fangs-and-all into the whole scene, thinks is really, really creepy. Or like a low-budget Gerard Way–same pudgy face, same raccoonish eye makeup, but something’s just…off. I suspect that I could technically throw out the bonus CD and just catalog the album, but someone might be interested in the bonus CD, and I generally prefer to keep them. The problem is that keeping the bonus CD means that the content between the two albums is different, and my CatalogerSense tells me that I’ll need two records to account for the difference in content.

Hold up! I just discovered another difference in the two versions, albeit not one that would justify separate records for the two versions. On the CD art of the “girl” version, there’s a photo of a young girl (made up and dressed to look really, really underage, I’m talking eleven-year-old underage) holding a bouquet of flowers. She’s gazing straight at the camera, with a defiant-ish look on her face, probably thinking something like “Chad gave me this bouquet of daisies and carnations, and that’s cool and all, but I’m still…sad. Empty. You know how it is, girls. I think I am going to smash his heart into teeny-tiny bits now. He’ll never recover. Muahahahahahaha!” On the “boy” version, it’s the same girl and the same flowers, but her head is tilted downward, she has a half-smile on her face, and she’s smelling the flowers. She’s content. She’s pleased with her emoboy’s offering.

If this album had been released prior to fall of 2002, it would have made for a great microanalysis project for my Feminist Media Studies class. It certainly would have made for better conversation than the chick-lit book cover that I analyzed.