who dem dogs?, originally uploaded by EllenJo.

ready for Halloween. I just thought you guys needed to see this to brighten your day. These two give Hazel and Rude a run for their money (who am I kidding, they win).

Hazel is going to be a banana for Halloween.

I found this photograph, as-is,  in one of my library books last week. I was charmed.

"It's the cutest thing I've ever found in a library book," I told Christina a few days later. Just saying that made me pause, though, as I realized that the list of things that I have found inside library books is an extremely short list: 

1.) The Guinea Pig Croissant picture
2.) Other people's boogers

So to be more accurate I should've said, "This picture is the only cute thing I've ever found in a library book," or maybe "Hey, guess what? I found something that wasn't a booger, I am dialing the media as we speak," etc, etc.

Ever since I've begun my quest to check out every book in the entire southeastern Pennsylvania library system, I find boogers fairly regularly. I would blame my love for YA fiction as the reason, but most often the offending smears are in adult fantasy novels - Stardust had one, and all three of the Mercedes Lackey's Herald Mage books that I read in February. Robin McKinley's Rose Daughter and Beauty were both defiled.

What's with people? Why do they feel the need to do something so disgusting? Is it like a compulsion, or are they just being lazy pigs?

Admittedly, I'm probably a little fussy about books. I never highlighted passages or wrote in the margins of my textbooks in college, even if the book had already had someone's brilliant notes jotted in it. I'm even more careful with books in my permanent collection - no corner-folding, or leaving them face-down with their spines splayed out, etc. I mean, I have a habit of using whatever is handy as a bookmark (right now my current book has a receipt for a bookmark) and I do read books in the bath, so I'm not a book saint.

However, I don't use books in place of tissues, and I can't imagine why someone would, (especially!!) in a book that a lot of people have to share.

"I found a slice of salami in a library book once," Christina tells me mournfully. "It fell out on my chest."
There's a horrified pause while this sinks in, then I howl with laughter.
"Now I never read with the book upside down, ever," Christina continues.

What is with people?

Bee on Scarlet Milkweed, originally uploaded by BillyCrafton.

Amy and I are discussing a garden behind the office. Amy becomes a little impatient at my list, which is filled with plants that are only there to entice butterflies, and bees, and hummingbirds. I like the idea of feeding things in my garden, and I have honestly never recovered from having an enormous Tiger Swallowtail zip past my head one day while I was pulling weeds (it was so great). I've written down the Latin family names of my plants because it's easier to remember than the silly names the seed companies invent, like "Fascination" or "Jacob Cline" or "Butterfly Sparkles". Buddleia, asclepias, agastache, monarda. I have them written on a Post-It with a diagram of the proposed raised garden.

Amy glances at the garden diagram a little suspiciously. "No milkweed," she insists, pronouncing the word with utter loathing.

The red-orange milkweed I planted a few years ago was the first thing I'd ever really grown on my own, and it was wonderful - gorgeously bright and covered over with tiny blossoms, it grew eagerly and constantly and everything came to feast on it: butterflies, moths, ten kinds of bee, gnats, fireflies, wasps and aphids. The milkweed was a joy until I realized that having it on the patio was too close for bee-phobic Amy - it was the kind of plant she'd like to admire at a safe distance. With high-powered binoculars. Through a window.

All that summer, opening or closing the front door meant sending clouds of drunken bees and satiated wasps fluttering from all of those juicy red-orange blossoms (and hearing Amy scream in terror). We were never stung, but we were constantly dive-bombed. By the time the weather turned colder and all but the hardiest of bees had left off nectar-gathering, the milkweed grew fat green pods. I was fascinated with the pods and watching with interest as they swelled up.


...and then they exploded.

I don't mean they gently burst or anything. I've found that Nature isn't quite as cutesy as I keep expecting it to be. One minute, there's a fat green pod on my milkweed plant, and I'm thinking something soppy like, "These look like something a fairy would eat, teehee!" and the next minute POP! BOOM! SPLOP! the pods are violently bursting open and covering everything in sight in sticky white fluff. The courtyard grass, the neighbor's topiaries, our patio and the walkway, the first row of cars in the parking lot. "I really hate that goddamned milkweed," Amy swore. "It's like dryer lint."

It really was like dryer lint, but I figure that I will know better this time, and that I can snip the pods off before they go all adult film star on everything. Plus, this year I've found plants that humans and flying creatures both like: dill is a good one, and so are lavender and thyme, and probably oregano and basil and cilantro and rosemary, all of which Amy wants to plant. Then there are the sweet red peppers and the tomatoes and strawberries.

I hope it all gets planted, but I would be happy with just herbs. Of course check back with me in July, when I'm being dive-bombed by bees, as I curse and sweat and pull weeds and accidentally shake aphids into my hair.

St Patricks Dogs 014, originally uploaded by glowbot.

"Rudy's not photogenic anymore," Amy said today. "I need to use Hazel and Bella." He's old now, she says, and he's just not as cute as he once was. She tells me about her plans for photographing Hazel and Bella, who still have that fresh-faced look.

You're fired, you're all washed up in this town, Rude. Don't let the door hitcha on the way out.

Obviously Amy is tewtally wrong because Rude's never looked more stunningly handsome. Terror and confusion and little plastic novelty hats just suit him. So what if he's a little gray?

St Patricks Dogs 009, originally uploaded by glowbot.

Amy bought a plastic Leprechaun hat at the craft store a few weeks ago, and I've been nagging her to take pictures of the dogs wearing it. I just checked her Flickr and ... yes!

Jodie doesn't even seem to realize when she's wearing something humiliating.

My brother buys me color slides now, when he can find them at the fleamarket. I love scanning the slides and seeing the details appear, they are even better to me than old albums or antique photographs. Maybe because it's always interesting to see exactly what details will appear in the slide, you never quite know, and then there are the round edges and the dusty scratches. My brother brought me a batch of slides today, and they turned out to be really great, even better than I thought they'd be.


Judging by several pictures of this Little Mermaid statue, I'm assuming the slides were taken in Denmark.
So, are the slides from Americans on vacation in Copenhagen? Maybe.


But would an American wear those fabulous blue socks with the equally fabulous underwear?
I think not. This is August of 1972, and no American male was that fabulous yet.


Also, would an American get so jazzed about being in Denmark that he'd strip down to his underwear on a guano-splattered rock and do a jazzy little dance?
No, I think not. This is 100% crazy European dude behavior.

Or maybe they'd just escaped the Iron Curtain - they look really gleeful. My mother was friends with Soviet ex-pats for many years and one of my favorite anecdotes (there were plenty of hilarious anecdotes, mind you) involved toilet paper in a Paris hotel room. Apparently toilet paper was the most expensive of luxuries in Russia, and my mother's friend was so overcome with the luxury of having an entire ROLL of toilet paper in their hotel room that they took pictures of themselves draped in toilet paper. Before cramming a dozen rolls into their suitcase.

If you can't tell, these slides were awesome. I knew something vaguely beachy was going on in these pictures when I held them up and glanced at them against the light, but I had no idea that it was a crazy underpants dance. So the moral is, if you are a thrift store and find a box of slides, buy them for me! I will scan them, and I will love you so much.

MCCALL STYLE & BEAUTY, originally uploaded by George Eastman House.

We found a book, a naughty book, in the office the other day. It's called Love's Madness, a title in the "Candlelight Ecstasy Romance" line at Dell. It was jammed into the magazine rack.

Amy accused me of leaving dirty books in the office, but I showed her that the book had a sticker inside the front cover from BookCrossing.com, urging whoever found it to read it and drop it off somewhere else. On the BookCrossing website I typed in the book's code and saw which of Amy's customers had dirty-booked our office.

(So awesome.)

Without further ado, here is a random selection from Love's Madness:

...

"You're very alluring."

Raising her eyes tentatively she realized that his gaze was focused on the full swell of her breasts. She felt herself blushing as to her horror she watched her nipples, even through the fabric of her shirt, harden and rise. The flimsy bra she wore did little to hide the effect her was having on her.

"And more vulnerable than you let on," he added.

With his hand he tilted her chin upward. Her eyes remained wide with disbelief as his lips brushed hers. It took a few seconds but when she pulled away her voice was rasping. "Don't ever do that again!"

"I get the impression that you like it." His eyes seemed flecked with bits of steel. "You're not nearly so indifferent as you pretend."

...

Seriously, what's with those nipples? She should have those looked at.

Amy & Lori at the Zoo 1977, originally uploaded by glowbot.

Amy uploaded some of the other reclaimed slides to her Flickr, check us out!

I am in awe that my mother put me in a sickeningly sweet dress and little frilly white socks for a trip to the zoo. Maybe she knew that my chances of shimmying up a fence and falling into the tiger pit were much less likely if my hoyden instincts were dulled by a dress and slippy maryjanes.

This image came from a 16mm slide, so the quality isn't as good as the 35mm slides.

The Bronto Bone, originally uploaded by lori fury.

because Aine and I are having a duel, we are dueling crazy Pug ladies showing off our dogs, oh my stars and garters are we ever.

I haven't seen Tim or Herman in AGES, some people need to get with it because they are losing the Crazy Pug Lady races, sad but true.

(I hereby apologize to all dog-haters).

The Bronto Bone, originally uploaded by lori fury.

Check out these eyeballs.

That's right, look who is being all sassy while she's eating her rawhide bronto bone.

(It's Hazel).

this cat is a whore, originally uploaded by lori fury.

My mother took me on a "spree" today, which is her verb for going to a bunch of thrift stores, she hits all of 'em on a spree and basically buys the hell out of whatever is in her way.

Anyway, I saw this cat and it had to be immortalized. I think it's a Bratz version of a cat, but it looks like a goddamned slut, is what it looks like.

I know toys change and there's obviously some sort of generational gap going on. I remember my mother thinking Barbie was a huge slut and she only ever bought me one Barbie (the French Barbie from Mattel's original Dolls of the World - I named her Babette and guarded her fiercely) but come on. There's slightly tarty Barbies, and there's this thing.

Which needs to be set on fire.

There are three little boys out in the main office right now, and they're having a conversation while one of them plays an education video game that is beeping a little 8-bit tune. "Less talking, more learning," their mother says wearily when the talk becomes too loud, and they pretend to be interested in the game (a Leapfrog?) for a few seconds before starting up again about school and monsters and which flavor of Jolly Rancher is the best.

In between answering phones I pick up snippets of their chatter and make mental notes, because I love little kids being random and crazy. The first snippet is them trying to figure out how to define something bad that a friend did.

That's crap.
No, it's wack.
No, it's cold!
Yeah, it's cold.
That's cold.
Cold.

...

Nobody can do that.
Well, how come Freddy Koogah can?
Freddy Koogah can't do that.
Oh yes he can. Freddy Koogah can do that.
Freddy Koogah can do anything he want.
I know something he can't do.
What?
[Lowers voice, shifty tone] Smokin' weed.

...

Mom, is Michael Meyers real?
No, now hush.

[all children completely unphased by this]

Well, I saw Chainsaw Massacre in Texas yesterday.
Michael Meyers isn't in Chainsaw Massacre.
This was Chainsaw Massacre in Texas.

...

Oh man. I'm not sure they're old enough to be watching a Chainsaw Massacre from any state if they're still asking if Michael Meyers is real, but it's so awesome to listen to them talk about it, I'm undecided. Also I would've loved to have gone out there and asked them why they didn't think Freddy Krueger could smoke weed.

Amy just asked "Does anyone want a sparkly pen?" and that killed the conversations because they all do want sparkly pens, and they're all using their sparkly pens. Hopefully scribbling something crazy on the walls of the office.