Is Your Mom Named Dogwood?

Tonight at a friend's house I met a bellydancer named Apsen. She has a sister named Willo and their dad is named Redwood. Her mom was named something Shirley or something like that. I wonder if she felt left out.

Shred!

Like most people, I tend to collect documents. Okay, I don't know if that is like most people, but it is like most of my family. I had shredder, but I just used it as a place to store the documents that needed to be shredded. And then never shred them.

Two weeks ago I killed my last shredder. I was using it on the mound of documents I had sitting around, and it started to smell. I turned the shredding thing over, and I could see sparks coming from the motor. So last weekend I borrowed one from a colleague.

You wouldn't believe the stuff I found in these bags of documents. Well, yes, you probably would. Most of it consisted of bills and whatnot. But as I dug through it I found things from when I lived in Madison. Four-and-a-half years ago. I keep this crap in plastic bags--like Wal-Mart bags. So, tell me, how did stuff from Madison get mixed in with stuff from two years ago. I don't know. I mean, I must have put it all in these bags. And even more bizarre--this means I actually moved it from Madison to here. And then from my first place to where I live now.

But even worse? Upstairs in a closet I found bank statements, canceled checks, and check carbons from 1999 and 2000. That may not be strange to some people, but nine years ago I wasn't even in Madison yet. And I wouldn't move there for another year and a half. So, this means I willingly moved these stupid checks downstate to Madison, and then from my apartment to my friends' garage, and from there to Mississippi, and then from my first place to where I live now. This is somewhat understandable since I found the checks in a box that was in a plastic Rubbermaid containers in the closet. But, why, why, did I think I needed to keep them in the first place?

This is when I say, "I'll be more careful next time. No longer will I wait four years to shred documents. No longer will I move useless financial documents across the country." But I know that won't happen. A few yeas from now when I am getting ready to move from point A to Point B, how much you want to bet I find a credit card bill from Mississippi?

I am Lazy

Yes I am.

Yesterday morning I dragged my tired ass downtown for the annual art/craft/music festival. I don't think I went last year. Honestly, I can't remember. These things all blend together, and I can rarely tell one year from the other.

See, I don't like crowds. I'm not agoraphobic or anything. Maybe I should say I don't like crowds at this specific gathering. I have a serious problem with people who stop in the middle of the flow of festival traffic to talk. This happens a lot around here, and when it happens it is often difficult to get around these people. Sometimes when I get stuck behind some almost-retiree who has to stop and ask someone how their momma is, I want to tell them that the rest of us backed up behind them don't give a flying fuck how their momma is. Now, I will admit that some of the problem is me. I tend to space off and not notice what it directly in front of me. When that happens I usually run into the person in front of me--the one who stopped to talk about her momma.

So, yesterday I went in the morning to miss some of the crowd. I ran into some friends on the way, so I hung with them while their kids played in the kiddie area of the whole shebang. A bit later I ran into some other friends and wandered off with them. It was the same thing it has been every year: the people with the wooden spoons, the guy with the pan flute, paintings, photographers, etc. Maybe this is why I didn't go last year: I feel like I've seen it all before.

I did buy some sock yarn and double-pointed needles. As God as my witness, I'm going to learn to make socks.

At some point I was with Sweet Pickles trying to make our way to the booth with the wooden spoons and bowls. This group of six or seven college-aged boys had gathered in the middle of foot traffic. I got stuck and finally made my way around them, all the while muttering about how they needed to move. As Sweet Pickles and I made our way to the booth I told him I was surprised that people here would just stop in the middled of foot traffic to chat. Or just stand, Or whatever. I was surprised because Southerners were supposed to be so polite and blocking traffic is not polite. Sweet Pickles said something along the lines of, "Well, we may be polite, but some of us are just plain dumb." He said it, not me.

So, why am I lazy? I came home yesterday and fell asleep--for like two hours. I eventually made my way to a friend's birthday party. So far today I have made breakfast, napped, and well, that's it. I am completely unmotivated. So what do I do while I sit on the couch? I think about what I need to do over the next four weeks before I move. Do I do any of them? No. Because that would take motivation. And I don't have any.

Moving On

I'm moving. Yes I am. Moving. I'm leaving the South and heading back up North.

When I started looking for a job my goal was to be within one day's drive of my family. Currently, I am one day's drive, but it's a nine-hour drive (and a drive I will be making in a few weeks--with two cats). But instead of going due north back to the Midwest, I will be going northwest. I'm moving to the state of Washington. I'll be in an academic library in the Pacific Northwest.

Ahhh... the Pacific Northwest. Oregon, Washington... Areas I have been obsessed with for a long time. I think it started when I found out several of my high school friends ended up in either Seattle, Washington or Eugene, Oregon. I didn't know why. Looking back, I know now it was probably the music. This was before Nirvana hit the big-time--this was when Seattle was still just a dreary, wet town in the Northwest. But my friends knew to head out there.

Then there was Twin Peaks. What an awesome show. My obsession may have started in earnest with that show. Odd that a show about a murder and the odd characters in a small town would make me want to move somewhere. If you knew me, maybe it probably wouldn't seem so odd.

As time went on, I still held this romanticized view of the Northwest. My former boss interviewed for a job in Seattle. She wanted to buy me a snowglobe, but couldn't because she couldn't tell me she'd interviewed. A couple years later, our summer intern gave everyone a present when he left. Everyone except me. He told me to wait, he had something special. A few weeks later I received a box containing two snowglobes: one from Wall Drug and one from the Corn Palace (both in South Dakota). His family drove to Seattle that summer and he bought them for me on the way. His intention was to buy me a Seattle snowglobe, but he liked these better (they are awesome). So began my obsession with Seattle snowglobes (now I have two).

When I graduated from library school I wanted to move to either Seattle or Portland. Well, me and everyone else I knew wanted to move to either Seattle or Portland. I had one friend who quit his job, rented an SUV, packed up his apartment and cat and drove to Seattle. And then spent a year looking for a job. I thought about doing the same thing, but I am one of those people who needs a plan and a back-up plan and possibly a safety net if the other plans don't work... Going someplace without income, etc., was something I could not do. But in the back of my mind, I figured someday... Yet, I hadn't even visited the area.

In the last four years I have been to the Pacific Northwest four times. Each time reinforced my idea that this was the place for me. So, finally, finally, after four and a half years in the deep south and pretty hardcore job search, I landed a job in the Pacific Northwest. And I'm psyched. I'm also freaked out, terrified, worried, and all those other things. But I know the next five weeks of hand wringing (not to mention the previous three weeks of hand wringing) will all be worth it. I will trade in my rented townhouse for a rented apartment that will probably be the size of a shoebox. But it will be a cool shoebox. In a place I think I am going to really like.

A couple of people asked me if I was going to change the title of my blog. I don't think so. A friend of mine here (Sweet Pickles) called me "that Yankee Librarian" for the first six months I lived here. It didn't really stick, so to speak. He stopped calling me that and no one else picked it up, but it still fit. And as he said to me once, "You are the Yankee-ist Yankee I have ever met." And, you know, I am. So, the name stays.

Still Life with Woodpecker

I love this book, Still Life with Woodpecker. I read it while I was in college. I think the summer between my sophomore and junior year. I think that is when everyone first reads Tom Robbins. I started the book while I was at my mom's during break. I remember I couldn't sleep so I went downstairs to watch TV, and I found it tucked into the side of the chair. So I read. And read. I don't think I finished it while I was there. Surprising, too. I'm a fast reader. I don't think I did because I remember lying in The Apartment (so-called because it eventually became the social center of my group of college friends) reading this. And I remember buying a copy of it at the local used bookstore. It cost $3. It's still written on the inside cover.

I was fascinated by this book. I may have read it several times in a row. I was fascinated because part of the book focused on redheads (and I am one) and a pack of Camels (I smoked them at the time). Now, I am not a natural redhead, but as a friend once told me, "When God was handing out hair color, he just forgot yours. Because if anyone is a true redhead, it's you." Tom Robbins is a redhead. The main characters in the book are redheads. I loved it.

Looking back, I can't remember everything that is covered in the book. I do know the thing that struck me was when Robbins wrote that all smokers are closet pyromaniacs. I'm not sure why that never struck me before, but it was so true. Everyone I knew who smoked burned things--including me. Paper, clothing, whatever. I used to sit on the front porch and singe the fringe on my jean shorts with my cigarette. Or sometimes I would burn holes in my shorts. It was a way to pass the time.

But this book... I'm not sure I could say it changed my life, but I know it made me look at things differently. I loaned the book to a friend--I thought she would love it. She hated it. I loaned it to another, Kelley, and she loved it. But she also loves JD Salinger and John Irving--two of my other favorite authors. Kelley used to write her name in the covers of books she read, but she didn't do it with this one, I don't know why.

I've read some of Robbins other books, like Even Cowgirls Get the Blues and Another Roadside Attraction, but Still Life is my favorite. probably because it was the first one of his I read.

Several years ago, Robbins was in Madison. He was doing a reading and signing for his new book. I forget the title. I showed up and the place was packed. I was in the last group to get my book signed. I bought two copies of the new book--one for me and one for my mom. Before I went I tried to find my copy of Still Life, but I couldn't. I bought a new one (I found my original copy a few months later). Robbins read. I couldn't see him, I could only hear him. I waited. I sat on the floor and read. There was a tornado warning. Store management made an announcement. Some people looked up, most just ignored it. I was in that store until almost 10:30 pm, waiting to get my books signed.

I stepped up to the table. Wow. Robbins looked old. And he was wearing these thick, black-rimmed, old man glasses. Hipster glasses, really. And he would only sign his name, nothing more. He didn't talk much. I had just colored my hair so it was a vivid red. I got up there and he smiled. I mean in kind of a knowing, secret handshake kind of way. I associated it with the red hair. He isn't a particularly good looking guy, but when he shook my hand, I blushed about five shades of red. I don't think he said anything other than "Hi," but he one of those people with that charisma that makes you the only person in the room when he speaks to you.

Still Life With Woodpecker is set in the suburbs of Seattle. Robbins lives halfway between Seattle and Bellingham. I found my old copy of Still Life while I was going through some stuff in my spare room. I decided it was time to reread it. I don't know what it will be like reading it so many years after I first read it. But it should be interesting.