Singlehandedly raising the average patron age at Piercing Pagoda by at least 25 years, we have...

...your Catholic Librarian, at your service.

Sooooooo, I'm not exactly what you would call an adventurous person. ;-) But every once in a while, I like to mix it up and pretend that I wouldn't spend the rest of my life holed away in a hermitage wearing sackcloth and ashes (so long as I had WIFI and could still communicate with everyone via social media) if I could. Occasionally, I get bold. Or, at least my version of Introvert Bold. And so, over the weekend, it occurred to me that I'd like to get my ears pierced.

Granted, my ears are ALREADY pierced. I had a main lobe piercing done when I was about 8 years old, the way everybody did back in the 80's: at the mall, sitting in a chair in the window at our closest Claire's boutique store, with 2 teenage girls pointing piercing guns at my ears. Yes, that's the way they did it back then, both ears at the same time! I guess it helped with little girls deciding they didn't really want the second ear pierced after getting a load of the first one. :0

And it wasn't that bad. I remember a few tears, but on the whole I braved it pretty well, and I loved having pierced ears. The piercing held up well, too. Before I was a performer, I'd go months without wearing earrings, and my holes have never closed. I never really thought much about it until this weekend. A friend got her nose pierced, and it looks BEAUTIFUL, and I'm all: "maybe I should get a solidarity piercing?!" Because that's what friends do. ;-)

The idea gained steam as the weekend wore on, and like the true librarian that I am, I buried my nose in a little research. It seems that many people, when they get, you know, OLDER, tend to skirt away from the Claire's piercing gun and instead go to a tattoo and piercing shop, where there are experienced piercers on staff. Indeed, a tattoo place did sound infinitely more appealing to me than navigating the prom and Sweet 16 displays at Claire's, until I read that at a tattoo shop they use a needle to pierce your body part. Excuse me while I continue to live in denial, but NO THANK YOU. I choose to pretend that the piercing gun merely has a cupid's arrow inside of it, and not an actual needle.

*shudders*

I only wanted a second ear piercing. A piercing gun sounded just fine to me, even if it does have some drawbacks. I braced myself to be accosted by spinning racks of rhinestones and Justin Bieber posters at Claire's. Then I remembered Piercing Pagoda. A staple kiosk at malls everywhere, they offer more piercing services than Claire's, and I felt somewhat less conspicuous going there. Granted, I'm certain that their usual clientele is much *somewhat* younger than myself. But it seemed less teeny bopperish. AND they use an old fashioned piercing gun. And by old fashioned I mean newer and not nearly as scary as the 80's version. :0

Yesterday, I left work a tad early to head to the mall and Piercing Pagoda. The girl who was working wasn't a teenager, which I considered a bonus. PLUS, she had all sorts of awesome piercings and thus seemed super experienced. 😰 She was very pleasant and helped me pick out simple piercing earrings. Then she got ready while I sat in The Chair and contemplated whether this was all part of a midlife crisis for really boring people. Before I could determine an answer, she was ready, and carefully did some measurements. Soon, she was all set to go and so was I. They no longer do both ears at the same time (big surprise :0) so I was ready for it to feel like I was getting a vaccination. Except in my ear.

But really? It didn't feel like that. It didn't hurt AT ALL. :0 I'm certain other piercings do (that would be those that I can't even think about lest I faint dead away), but ear lobes are much less tear worthy than when I was 8. She did the second ear, and I was good to go, my cute little pink studs a badge of midlife honor. And here they are:

Not everyday that you get EAR PICTURES here at Life of a Catholic Librarian, but there you have it! I have to say: I LOVE THEM. I'm so glad that I got it done! So now every morning and evening I'm busily applying this little solution she gave me and twirling my earrings so that they'll heal properly. Yes, I do feel a little old to be doing such things, but you know what the good thing is about reaching a certain milestone age?

You don't care anymore. 😂

I love my little pink studs. They make me feel young and sassy. ;-) All right, this isn't typically how we close out a post, but here we go: do you have any piercings (that you feel comfortable talking about :0)? Are you hankering to get anymore? I'd love to hear from you!

Adventures in Ophthalmology, take 2!

As promised, today's post is devoted to my adventures Monday afternoon at the eye doctor, an installment in a special series about aging young women in America. :0 I wrote about my appointment last year, and I thought it would be fun to make this a yearly event since it seems to bring out the humorous part of something that we all dread but that *will* happen to all of us - noticing the physical effects of getting older. Last year, I left feeling like I may need a walker to get out to my car, it was so depressing, and I'm pleased to report that this year went much better. Let us discuss!

I arrived just as the snowstorm was kicking up, and so I was feeling kind of rushed and punchy. A good start, no?! I wanted to get in and out as quickly as possible so that I could get home. I rushed through my paperwork and anxiously read my Kindle while I waited to be called back, already detailing in my mind how I would refuse the eye drops this time since I do want to be able to drive home, and you know, arrive in one piece.

#CantankerousTiffany

I'm called back and I hurriedly sit down for the initial "stuff." Review of personal medical history, reading of chart. I do as best I can, but I do have one very weak eye due to a birth defect in my macula muscle, hence my yearly forays to the ophthalmologist.

"How old are you?"

Ugh.

"38."

"Really? You don't look 38."

I LOVE THIS NURSE. I may bring her a gift next year. I may knit her something.

That done, the nurse turns to me:

"This doctor doesn't do drops, so we don't have to worry about those."

*angels sing*

 "But now it's time for the pressure gauge."

*communal groan*

I *can't stand* the pressure gauge, wherein you're supposed to "relax" while a steel instrument is shoved up against your eyeball, but I did what I could.

"Ok, let's move over here for the clicker test."

A test? I perk up. I am an overachiever and aim to do well on any and all tests.

"Ok, You'll need to look through here, and we'll test your right eye, then the left. Every time you see a squiggle move on the screen you press this clicker."

A clicker? I have power. This gets better and better.

"Start...NOW."

*squiggle moves across screen*

*WHAM!*

"Was that another one? I think..."

*CLICK!!!*

I was a little bit of an eager beaver, but I gave that clicker a workout and I'm pretty sure I got 100% correct.

*gold star*

"Here's the doctor. He'll take it from here."

We then move on to the...

"Is A clearer, or B? A? Ok. A...or C? About the same? Hum. C or...D? Anything? They can't be the same, let's look again. Here's C...Then D!"

...part of the exam.

Verdict?

"Well, your prescription went up a bit, but not bad. Your vision is 20/20 in your right eye, and 20/30 in the left."

Now see? There was no Doomsday predictions of failing vision and buzzards coming to peck my eyeballs out the instant I turn 40. I like this guy.

I'm ushered to an optician named Sandy to procure my new glasses. Sandy is clearly worried about the storm outside and isn't in too great of a mood, but I give her a pass because I too am worried about the storm.

"Do you want bifocal lenses or just reading ones?"

"Oh." Thankfully the "B" word had gone as yet unmentioned. "Well, can you tell me about the bifocals?"

I joke about them, but someday I really will need them. I can't keep taking my glasses off to segue between my computer screen and a human face forever. She spends about 10 minutes telling me minutiae about bifocals lenses.

"Ok, thanks. I'm not ready. Let's just do reading."

Sandy does not look amused.

"All right. The frames covered by your insurance are over there on that rack."

I head over, thrilled that I can actually SEE the frames to choose this year, and immediately hone in on two that are identical aside from the color. I really like the shape and thickness. One pair is brown with blue on the side, and the other pair is black with pink. I model both for Sandy.

"I really like this pair, but what about...this one? You know, A, or...B!"

Sandy does not seem to think that this is nearly as funny as I do, but she does gamely play along and examines both frames on my face. She says she likes both of them.

#nothelpful

I go back and forth in the mirror while Sandy's son texts her with foreboding highway closures. Finally, I pick one.

"Ok! These ones!"

"Ok great. They'll be ready in 2 weeks."

Clearly, Sandy is ready to move on from my visit. And I'll unveil my new frames, and their color, two weeks hence!

So, this year was better. I didn't leave nearly as traumatized and needing liquor the way I did last year. I will seek out this particular ophthalmologist again. Anybody else have adventures in aging? Leave me a comment!

All right, tomorrow I have a book review to post on an Amish compilation I read over the holiday break. It was *lovely* and fun, and if you are at all interested in Amish fiction or in trying it, please do check back tomorrow!

My newspaper debut...

I was just interviewed and photographed for the college newspaper. To prepare, I may or may not have:

(1) Plucked gray hairs out of my own scalp in an effort to conceal my graying situation between colors. It's not as easy to isolate and eliminate those little parasites as it may seem. And it #@!% hurts.

(2) Applied lipstick, which I NEVER do unless I'm getting married or performing in a belly dance show. I may have also done this before my drivers license photo was taken, but I'm admitting to nothing.

(3) Put a swirly barrette in my hair in an effort to appear cuter and younger than I actually am.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

The paper wanted to interview someone about how to become a librarian and why I chose librarianship as a career. She made me happy by mentioning that the reason she chose me is that a friend of hers said that I had come to one of her classes. She remembered me! *beams*

I was reluctant to do it, but my boss asked me to, so it's not like I could really say no. :) I actually enjoyed it, I just hope the interview translates well into article format and that my photo doesn't leave me looking paranoid and stressed, an expression that I somehow seem to have mastered. 

Oh sigh.

*bones creak*

Lately, I've been feeling...a bit, ah hem, *older*. Granted, my birthday was recently, but like I said, I'm in my 30's, and that's YOUNG! I mean, it really is. I'm not delusional. Or defensive.

But I'm definitely noticing some changes...

Exhibit A: My skin, for one thing. I notice it the most in my hands. The skin is thinner. It doesn't help that it's winter and everyone's skin gets drier in the winter, but my hands look older, definitely. I've been applying more lotion, which I really hate, because to apply lotion I have to take off my wedding rings, and I never take my wedding rings off. I'm too paranoid about losing them. But lotion + rings = gross, greasy mess, so I have to take them off.

(Side note: remember that episode of Friends when Ross was trying to impress that girl and he wore leather pants? I promise, this is relevant, stay with me. He goes into the bathroom because he's so nervous that he's sweating and the pants are chafing him. Well, the pants are so tight he can't get them back up. So, he calls Joey, who advises that he use lotion on his legs to try and get them back up. Well, as you can imagine, he uses the lotion, but this does nothing to aid his re-panting efforts. Then, Joey tells him to try baby powder to soak up some of the lotion. One of my favorite lines on that show, ever: "Joey, the lotion and powder have now combined together to make a PASTE!" Ah, good times.)

Ok, anyway. My skin. I've been noticing this for awhile, but I've been exercising a Herculean effort to ignore it. I apply a moisturizer in the morning under the light makeup that I wear, and call that my anti-aging routine. But after this most recent birthday (closer to 40 than I like to dwell on) I thought that *maybe* I should break down and buy a night cream. I hated to do that, because that just smacked of giving in to me, but I told myself that the next time I had to go to the drug store, I'd do it.

That day arrived earlier this week. I needed what we'll delicately call a feminine care product, and so off to the drug store I trotted. I was at work, and there is a CVS on campus. I hated venturing into the aisle with the Oil of Olay, but what can a girl do? Luckily, this being a college campus, there was no one in that aisle but me. I chose one, grabbed the other thing that I needed, and quickly headed to the checkout line. And do you know what I did?

I hid the night cream. Maxi pads were out there for the world to see, but the night cream? I just couldn't handle it. The kid texting behind me just didn't need to see that.

I used it last night, and I have to grudgingly admit that I liked it. It smelled good. And it's probably all in my head, but my skin felt smoother and looked younger. Moving on.

Exhibit B: My hair. Oh, this one hurts. Quite literally.

Ok, so I just had a baby within the past year. And all of you ladies that have had babies know what I'm about to say, right? Not to scare anybody who hasn't yet delivered a baby, but, well. Your hair falls out.

Not *totally* out or anything. But what happens is that while you're pregnant, your new cocktail of hormones holds on to normal hair shed that would ordinarily occur. I looked like Evangeline Lilly's Pantene commercial right before I delivered Anne. Big old belly, and from what other people felt free to tell me, with a fuller face, but my hair looked great.

*After* you deliver, and your hormone levels drop like a stone, that hair that was held over instead of shedding will begin to shed. And it's a 9 month accumulation, so it comes out in such quantities that it does appear that you may go bald.

For me, it was much, much worse this time than after I delivered Henry. The bathroom trash can would be absolutely FULL of hair because I'd run my fingers through it so that it wouldn't fall out all over the place. It was quite horrifying, actually.

But eventually, it stops, and your normal rate of shed comes back. So what does this have to do with aging, Tiffany? I'm getting there. I'm really tired, cut me some slack. Because of the pregnancy thing, I now have new hair growth in the worst spot possible, which is right in the front of my hairline, near my part. I'm constantly smoothing it over so that it doesn't stick up until it gets longer. Attractive.

So, this morning, I was having what we will breezily call a bad hair day. I had a bad night with Anne (more on that in a minute) and I was exhausted this morning. I didn't get out of bed until ten til 7, and thus had to rush around to get ready. The result? I pulled my hair back into a fetching and smooth ponytail, parting my hair carefully so as not to disturb the shorter strands.

That sounds all chic and everything, but when I got to work, I stopped off in the ladies room on my way down to a 9 am meeting. What did I see as I blearily washed my hands?

Gray hairs. MANY GRAY HAIRS.

Now, I've seen a gray hair before. For a couple of years, actually. But it's just been a single hair, up near my part. That I can live with. Thus, I let him live. I do get my hair colored every 3 months or so, so no big deal. I mean, my hair is BROWN, so there's not much one can do with a color, but a sheen of mahogany every 12 weeks is a real picker upper. And plus it took care of that single gray hair. I'd usually see him again in the month leading up to my next appointment, but I didn't mind that.

But this morning, my friends, I saw that gray hair plus at *least* a half dozen of his closest friends. Now *that*, I can't live with.

I guess it was because of the pulled back ponytail, but there they were, front and center, and *very* noticeable. For a moment, I panicked. I looked at the time. 8:59. Hence, I acted all rationally and immediately isolated the gray hairs, trapped them, and attempted to pull them right out of my scalp.

Five minutes later, I arrived at my meeting, late and with a headache. And still a few gray hairs that were able to escape my extermination efforts.

I'm very, *very* unhappy about this. I'm willing to accept a lot of things about aging in a graceful manner, but gray hair is not one of those things. My next appointment isn't until St. Patrick's day and I feel quite panicky about this. You'd better believe that my next appointment will be scheduled less than 12 weeks away.

*pouts*

Exhibit C: My memory. Ugh. This one *really* makes me feel like I'm going to start calling the college students here "sonny" any minute now. My memory has really taken a hit. My short term memory isn't anywhere near as good as it once was, that goes without saying. What did we have for dinner 3 nights ago? Right. No idea.

Even more insidious is that so often now, something very, very obvious will be on the tip of my tongue, and I simply can't think of the word. What's that thing, you know? You put bread in it, it goes in, it gets darker? Um, um...A TOASTER! Yes, that's it. A toaster. It's not AT ALL strange that I couldn't think of that word.

*sobs*

And so, as if all of this wasn't bad enough, last night my old self was on the couch with Anne at 3 am, who was refusing to sleep. Hence, we went downstairs so that at least I can watch Frasier while I hold her and try to soothe her to sleep. So, we're lying on the sofa, and I'm subjected to the short nighttime infomercials that now invade our lives.

Misery-Inducing Infomercial Contender #1:

"Are you tired of not getting a good nights sleep?"

Why yes.

"Can you hardly keep your eyes open at meetings because you're so tired and you're not getting proper rest?"

YES.

"Then you need (insert name of some allegedly perfect mattress)!"

Great. Just what I need to see when I'm on my ancient sofa with my infant daughter elbowing me in the chest, and my head is propped up at an unnatural angle to facilitate *her* comfort. People sleeping. Some special foam base contouring to their very bodies. There are practically angel wings wrapped around them. I would go outside and sleep on a pile of rocks so long as nobody was crying and pulling at my breasts.

And THEN. OH baby, and then. As if to pour salt *right* into my granny wound, what do I hear next?

Misery-Inducing Infomercial Contender #2:

"Are you over 40?"

Well no, not yet. But I will be in the not-too-distant future. Thanks for reminding me.

"Do you have unwanted fat around your middle?"

No, so at least that's one happy thing I can cling to.

"WELL, once you turn 40, your changing metabolism will cause this stubborn belly fat to accumulate underneath your muscles. Even diet and exercise will not work to melt it away!"

!

"You need...LIPOZINE! This simple capsule will melt away that belly fat that even diet and exercise cannot touch!"

Oh fabulous. So not only do I have thinning skin, freakish gray hair, and memory loss, and am racking up a stiff neck sleeping on my sofa, but I'm doomed to be struck down with stubborn belly fat in a few short years?

Is this the beginning of a mid-life crisis? Well no, because I'M NOT AT MID-LIFE!!

And anybody who insinuates otherwise is going to get a crocheted granny square afghan for their next birthday gift, all in 70's oranges and browns. THEN, who's going to feel old, hum?!

Of cheese fondue and sick babies...

Photo courtesy of LOLSaints. :)

It was an interesting weekend, and one that unfortunately involved me getting older. Let's begin our chronicle on Friday evening...

Anne was coughing. This is going to be a theme, just you wait and see. I was worried about her, but it seemed to be a simple case of the common cold. She wasn't running a fever or showing any other distressing symptoms, so we just kept an eye on her. My in-laws came over so that Mike and I could go to dinner for my birthday. (I'm not saying how old anymore. :) I'm saying "mid-thirties" and I'm sticking to that regardless of how far from "mid" I may actually be. So there).

Hence, Mike and I traveled to our local Melting Pot. Oh happy sigh. I just love it there, site of my last birthday dinner. We each get to pick on our own birthday (we have to come to a happy consensus for anniversaries and other romantic milestones) and I'd picked Melting Pot months ago. I'm a sucker for a pot of hot cheese sitting on my tabletop.

Fact that our waiter walked up to our table and announced:

"Hi folks! Happy birthday! I see it's been a little while since you were here last, about a year. Do you have any questions about our new menu items?"

...excellent customer service, or just plain creepy? Inquiring minds want to know...

So, we ordered a cheddar cheese fondue, plus our entrees with a vegetable broth to cook them in. Mike chose a seafood trio with sesame encrusted tuna, shrimp, and salmon, and I picked the awesome vegetarian plate which had asparagus, artichoke hearts, glazed tofu, spinach and cheese stuffed pasta, and mushrooms. AWESOME. You also get dipping sauces to dip everything in. Dipping = best dining experience EVER, in my opinion. Add wine into the equation, and you have one very happy Catholic Librarian.

Mike calls the Melting Pot the epitomy of a child-free dining experience. Every table has a vat of scalding hot liquid on it. This makes for a bad toddler takealong dinner.

So, that was very, very nice. Saturday morning, we woke up to a very miserable looking Anne. To say that we haven't had a good night in a long time would be an understatement. Sleep has been tough for months now, but I knew to expect this. She's still a baby. Plus she's teething. She just cut that new tooth, but her drooling is working overtime so I wonder if yet another tooth is coming in.

I mean, seriously. Does she really need more than 4 teeth?! I think God should consider my baby redesign suggestion. Additional teeth come in only when the person is a teenager and can assist themselves in the middle of the night. It would have the added benefit of humbling them during a tumultuous age. Do they really think that waiting until they're at school to apply a multitude of makeup in the girls bathroom and rolling up their skirt at the waist is going to go unchallenged? Do they really think their mother doesn't know that they do this? SHE DOES. BECAUSE SHE ALMOST CERTAINLY DID THE SAME THING HERSELF. And then a new tooth would arrive, making it hard for them to apply their lipstick when they think their parents aren't watching. See? Brilliant idea.

So anyway, Anne woke up on Saturday morning coughing and wheezing. Necessitating a trip to the pediatrician. Diagnosis: bronchiolitis and an ear infection. He gave us an antibiotic for the ears, but obviously there's nothing you can do for the virus but wait it out. He told us that she's right in the worst part of it.

Ain't that the truth. Mike commented that she looked like she'd spent the night in a crack house. Eyes glassy. Face wet from drool and snot. Aforementioned drool and snot rubbed crankily into hair that was standing up in spikes. Nose red. Expression VERY ANGRY.

Ever try to wipe a child's nose anywhere from age newborn through, I don't know, eternity?

Approach with tissue. Child moves headtoside!! Approach on other side. Child moves...headtoside!! Quick change hands with tissue!! Child...movesheadtoside!!!!!

A very frustrating endeavor. And it's what we did for 3 full days. Saturday, she enacted what is now her patented 20 Minute Nap Technique:

Nurse Anne. Lots of coughing ensues involving milk being sprayed onto both Anne and Mommy. Nurse lots more. Anne dozes off. Mommy sets Anne in crib. Anne sleeps. Mommy just starts on a chore when...Anne wakes up. Repeat process. 20 minutes later...Anne is crying. Repeat for rest of day.

And then the night comes. And well, as you would expect, it doesn't go any better.

Sunday, she woke up looking 90% better. The antibiotics are clearly working on her ear. She seemed almost herself, although still coughing. And last night...

She slept for 8 hours. Woke to nurse. Then slept until 7 am.

*ANGELS SING*

It was like a little slice of heaven.

So, she's doing better. Still on the antibiotic, and we're just keeping her in until she feels better. Hope for another good night tonight. Hope does spring eternal, after all...

Aging reference librarian on the loose

The other day I was on the reference desk for a busy afternoon shift. I'm usually on in the mornings, when it is very quiet, so I suppose I'm often shielded from interactions like the following which are, quite frankly, annoying.

I don't like to be annoyed easily. It makes me feel old. I live in fear of becoming crotchedy. Curmudgeonly, even. I don't want to become all decrepit and frown-faced while using words like "newfangled" and "whippersnapper." I like to be seen of as kind and nice, and you know, sweet and helpful. But sometimes, it's tough.

While on the desk on the day in question, a student approaches.

"Hi. I have a paper due tonight..."

...let me interject here that it was approximately 4:30 pm. Ok, we continue...

"...and I just don't understand what my teacher wants. Can you look at my assignment?"

Now, this is becoming a disturbing trend. I mean, what do you all think that librarians do? I think they help others find information. I do not think that they can channel instructors and read their minds to figure out what they want. And for some reason, more and more students *really* think that librarians have these powers.

"I think you should ask your instructor personally. I won't be able to interpret the assignment any better than you could yourself."

*distinctive whine tone inserted into already attitudey voice* "Well, I just don't know what the heck she wants, and I just really feel it's unfair. I've already talked to her and she isn't helpful. I really want you to look at it."

I was already feeling annoyed by this student's attitude, but one of my colleagues was on the desk with me, and I really didn't want *her* to think that I'm crotchedy. So I agreed.

I expected him to pull his syllabus out of his backpack. Oh no, old fogey one. He slaps his laptop down onto the reference desk and opens up an email to show me.

I had to smirk to myself at the fact that the email was from his instructor, and based on what I was reading, she too was annoyed by this student's attitude. The message stated that she expected him to act like a college student, do actual work, and follow directions. That she expected him to review the relevant literature and cite it in his paper. Let's be curmudgeons together, you and I...

I cleared my throat and told him that it looked like he needed to find some sources.

"I HAVE. I have these books here. But I haven't read them, I mean, I DON'T HAVE TIME."

Well, yes. That's because it's now 7 hours before your paper is due. Did you just find out about the assignment now? No, I didn't think so. That's what I was thinking, although that's not what I said. That crotchedy thing again.

"Well, you can skim the table of contents and the index to find the relevant parts, and just read those. We can also look for articles, and those have the benefit of being shorter."

"Ok, but again, I don't understand what she's looking for. I mean, she says we have to do "research." But I don't understand what the heck does she wants. I don't have time for this!"

By this point, I was really wanting to give this guy the boot. His whole demeanor and what he was saying conveyed that he considered this a gigantic inconvenience. I mean, imagine that, his instructor actually expecting him to WRITE A PAPER and READ LITERATURE IN HIS FIELD in order to earn his degree! The INHUMANITY!

It's this sense of entitlement that really turns me off to some of our students here. They seem to think that if they are breathing and show up to class 50% of the time, they're entitled to get a degree when they've done this for 4 years. Not so, my friend. And I too procrastinated when writing papers in college, I'm very familiar with this quandary. But I TOOK RESPONSIBILITY for my poor time management skills, and stayed up until my paper was done. It was NOBODY'S FAULT BUT MY OWN that I CHOSE to wait until the last minute.

I see that I'm using caps a lot in this post. It's because my eyebrows are furrowed so tightly together right now recounting all of this.

I finally sent him away unhappily to a nearby computer to get started skimming his sources and writing. Before him, I had a very nice, but *very needy* guy who came to the reference desk no less than 4 times asking for help with his World Civilizations paper. He kept asking me if I thought his topic was ok. I can't tell him that, he simply HAS to speak with his instructor about the parameters of the assignment. He wanted me to tell him *what he should write in the introduction to his paper* and he didn't know how to navigate the Library of Congress call number system. The latter part I still find somewhat shocking (for native U.S. students, which he clearly was) but I try to be understanding that maybe their high school library failed them. But writing a paper? Yes, college is the place to fine tune that, but the librarian can't help you, sir. GO TO THE WRITING CENTER. He was very sweet, so I helped him readily, but it just saddens me to see the state that our incoming students have deteriorated to. They *really* want someone else to do their work for them, in many cases.

By the time my shift was done, I was dying to go home and have a glass of wine. When I was in elementary school, we all learned how to use the big card catalogs by our scary librarian. AND how to navigate the Dewey Decimal System. Henry actually knows how to use a library better than some of the students I see here. UGH.

But I don't want to be the next scary librarian, so I'll try to put on my smiley face again. And act younger.

Lots of knitting, and I AM NOT OLD...

Today, I had my yearly visit to my general practitioner, whom I like very much. Everything is well under control, including my pinched nerve, aside from me needing to add a calcium and vitamin D supplement to my daily regimen. Inevitably, came the question:

"Do you want to have more children?"

And I think for the majority of the population, this is a very cut and dry issue. "We want 2 children, so yes 1 more" or "No, we're definitely finished." My answer has always been, and will always continue to be:

"Yeah, sure. You never know."

This always earns me an arched eyebrow. The way I feel about it, even if we never *plan* to have anymore at some point, it could still happen, right? We're open to life.

"Oh. So you think you want to have another one?"

"Yeah, sure."

*checks chart* "Hum. Well, you'd better get right on that."

Sigh.

The only thing I can really say on this is that, especially over the course of the next year, this will be a high priority on my prayer list. And so, moving on from my depleting egg suppy (oh eggs! please hang in there, I love you so!)...

On a happier note, my knitting has been going very well. I'm actually starting to miss crochet, and happily, the next 2 items in my craft queue are crochet projects. I'm nearly done with Christina's lap afghan; that should be finished by the conclusion of the weekend. After that, I will work on a scarf for one of my sister's friends, and a pair of socks for my mother-in-law. Then I have some baby projects to complete for a few friends of ours who are expecting. I'm thinking booties and blankets, although a crocheted teddy bear has really captured my imagination...

But, relatedly, I was looking for a quick distraction this morning, and went over to JoAnn's site to see if their new class schedule is up. It is. I took a Knitting 101 class there that I really got a lot out of. Since I've gotten a bit more comfortable with my knitting, I've been in the market for a sock knitting class. For the past several months, they have not offered one. And well, the new schedule doesn't include one either. However, they are offering a baby hat class, Knitting 102 - moving up in the world! Importantly, the class will include instruction in using double pointed needles, which is really what I was looking for. They have an open house on Saturday, and if you come during that 2 hour window, classes are 50% off. Eureka. This doesn't make up for the fact that my doctor thinks I'm old, but it did perk me a bit.

I'm officially old

Well, not really, but you know what I mean. It's my birthday, and I wish I could say that I was happy about it. I'm at an age when birthdays aren't really exciting anymore; they just make you a year older. I've been dreading this birthday for a while. It's a little too close to another age that I will not mention for comfort. That unmentionable age is one that will put me into another box when I fill out surveys; you know what I'm talking about. *shudders* I'm so not ready to go there yet. But I feel older. All of a sudden I'm noticing heretofore unseen lines around my eyes. I'm most displeased about this. But it's not like I'm going to start buying expensive Oil of Olay products to try to prevent any of this, so alas. I'll survive. But I'm ignoring those survey boxes; we shouldn't have to box ourselves in anyways :)

"I feel old" moment of the weekend...

Chris takes out his portable CD player with speakers to try and entice a Pileated Woodpecker to humor us and show itself. He has a CD of relevant bird calls. (The woodpecker didn't end up taking the bait - he was probably watching us from a nearby tree, positively snorting with bemusement).One of his students looks at the CD player, absolutely befuddled, and asks "they still make those things?!" Oh man.

I remember the days of making mix tapes for your friends. So, when I was in high school, this meant dance mixes such as "Groove is in the Heart"and "Macarena." Good heavens.