Nnekay.com

For some inane reason, I’m scared of birds. Not all birds- I can handle a sparrow here and there and yes, I do like artistic renderings of owls. Yet, the bigger, lumbering, stupid variety freak me the fuck out. I don’t know… there is something about an animal with a teenie tiny head and a gigantamous bottom, that makes me wake up at night in a cold sweat. I’m not trying to be funny either… I was probably attacked by a ravenous goose in a past life. Now, I’m sure if these giant assed foul had jolly dispositions I would probably love them, but that’s the problem, birds are either blank or angry.

A long time ago, I used to have a pet cockatiel- Tweety. My mom loved the pickles out of that thing, and would spend hours cooing and petting it-it was even on our answering machine. After singing with Tweety, my mom would exclaim how happy he seemed- to me he just had a blank stupid expression and sometimes would hiss if I got near the cage.

I’ve written several posts about my hatred of birds- but this is mostly because I am just as scared as I am fascinated with them. So, as with a terrible car crash- I stare in horror as I drive or walk past large crowds of cantankerous monster geese. I may cross the street, but I still observe the weirdly erotic mating habits of pigeons, and every blue moon, I get a wild hair and actually conduct research on a given bird- to you know… get to know the enemy or more accurately work myself up into a tizzy for no good reason.

Which I managed to do just a few hours ago.

I was calmly writing a post about Freemasons (soon to come)- and was wondering about some of  the secrets they house in their freaky society of old men. Going on one of my notorious tangent, I wondered to myself if they could possible have a living Dodo and use it in one of their various kooked out ceremonies. This got me to thinking about the extinct bird. I took a break from the post and decided to use my two years of Librarian Research Education as to Google “dodo bird” and read what it had to say on Wikipedia.

HOLY SHIT.

This bird will now haunt my dreams. As much as I love animals and think that all creatures on this earth deserve to coexist together- Man, I am so glad that shit ass animal is extinct.

Being a proper librarian- I decided to back up some of this scary information on a legitimate database and found an article in The New Yorker- which justified my fear even more. Why are you afraid of this seemingly silly now extinct creature, Nnekay? Oh, let me count the ways…

The first recorded named of this horrid animal was, “repulsive bird” because it tasted nasty and ate everything.

They were incredibly stupid… like magically stupid “they just remained sitting, allowing us to beat it to death.”

It was about 3 feet tall, flightless, weighed 50 pounds, had ten inch wings, and a 9 inch beak. How does that even work?!

Their walk was described as “jaunty and audacious.” Meaning they waddled up to your face.

The name “dodo” is from the dutch word, “dodaersen” or Fat Ass in English.

After some DNA work on a skeleton in 2001, it was discovered this montrosity was in the Dove family making it, in the words of British Scientist Julian Hume-

“A bloody big pigeon”

I just about fainted after reading this.

The Dodo is the complete realization of everything I hate about birds. Everything.

Tonight I will go home, light a candle, and thank whatever higher power is out there, because I wouldn’t have been able to exist if this jiggly freak show was still inhabiting this earth.

OLD MEN PLEASE STOP HITTING ON YOUNGER LADIES.

It’s just plain gross and weird.

Lately, I’ve been noticing an influx in the old man stares, old man pick up lines, and finally the uber annoying old man who wont go away because he seriously thinks he has a chance with me. Go Away Old Man!

Let me clarify some things- When I say old I don’t mean a general “Oh Sally’s boyfriend is 35- he’s hecka old” type of statement- no. I’m talking OLD- 60 plus, and you know what? I don’t care if 45 is new 16- once you reach 65, you are old. You maybe an energetic, sexy, fuckn’ sprite ass 67… but you are still 67. Meaning you have been around 67 years- which is a long time, Grandpa.

But that’s chill, I’m sure you have plenty of wisdom to instill in my future generation…to stop us from making the mistakes that you once did in your youth, to be a pillar of nobility and respect because of the vast amount of experiences you have learned through the vast amount of years you have lived.  

WRONG.

Unfortunately, I am quickly learning that being an ass in your youth means being an ass in your golden years. Apparently, I attract all age brackets of Ass-dom.

I recently has an incident, that still grosses me out to my center core. I was minding my own business with a group of girl friends and happened to notice a cluster of old men gathered at the end of the bar. They were behaving like old men- hunched over, slapping each other on the back, laughing great gufahs, and dabbing at their watery old man eyes. I didn’t think anything of it until one old man, in a particularly fuddy-duddy hat (wide brim, safari type brown-mess) looked at me with his bloodshot eyes, whispered to his buddy, then both checked me out.

They smiled- I shuttered.

I quickly looked away, and busied myself with my friends. I pleaded with the heavenly gods above that they wouldn’t come near… in most cases this is where it would end. Not this Pepaw, he decided to get bold, because you know, when a lady makes and ugly face at you, then looks away- that means she’s totally into it.

When Gramps and his BFF shuffled over to my direction, I turned my body to avoid any possible eye contact. There was a tap tap tap on my shoulder- I turned around, Poppy pull me close and whispered, “Hey beauty queen” in my ear. My eyes almost crossed from the overwhelming old man funk. It’s an unspoken truth, but the elderly have a certain smell. I chuckled and turned… but he wasn’t about to let me get away that easy. He kept haggling me, until I couldn’t handle it anymore and move my friends to a distant table. From the distant table, I could still see he kept on staring with his droopy eyes- until finally his bed time must have rolled around and they schlepped out the door around 10.

It was nasty and annoying, but I shook it off and moved on that night, but as the days progressed… this experience slowly started to get under my skin. First was the obvious… I was a good 40 years younger than him. I don’t care if I’m of legal age… I still felt like I was about to be lured into a white van with chocolate… that fool had been old my whole damn life! I should have been viewed as a baby to him! I look at teenagers (who are only 10 years younger) and I see weirdly dressed uncomfortable babies. Second… what kind of old timey pick up line did he use?! “hey beauty queen”?!?!?! It sounded like something he probably used on Gertie when he returned from the war, and he actually thought my young ass would respond to that!? NO!

I should have said something to him, but he was old. I once witnessed a fight on BART, where an old man in a bike spandy suit beat up a young Raiders fan, and when the old man fled out the door the young guy said, rather dazed, “I didn’t know what to do because he was old.” I felt like the Raiders fan, I was blindsided by this guy’s age! Those of us, that have been taught to treat our elders with respect are now finding that some of these elders don’t deserve it, and it’s a weird harsh truth that I can’t seem to grapple. I know I might have seemed like a silly young thing to him, because I’m sure he wouldn’t have treated a woman his age with such disrespect. It’s bad enough the men our own age treat us like objects, and now this?!

So watch out old guys… the next one to creep me out will be in for a surprise- If I have to deal with you making me feel uncomfortable… expect to be called Poppy, Gramps, Grandaddy, Pepaw, Pops, and Pop-Pop. I wont punch an old man but I sure will give him a verbal lashing with my beauty queen smile.  

Today was (and still is) a very hot day.

Lucky for me , I don’t have to be at work until 4 in the afternoon on Thursdays, which is awesome on many levels. The obviously reason is, I get to sleep in; the not so obvious reason- I work in a city that must be situated on top of Satan’s asshole. This place gets so incredibly mind melting hot- I literally have to sit and prepare myself before leaving any air conditioned zone. Before I leave my city,  I can usually guesstimate how hot it will be in the “devil zone” by adding about 15 to 20 degrees to the current temperature. Anyway- today was pretty damn hot at home- so needless to say it was probably horrid during peak hours at the college. Thank the lord, by the time it reaches 4pm the weather begins to cool. Since it was pretty hot in my hometown I decided it would be a wonderful time to rejoice in a Slurpee. Like an idiot, I bought an giant cherry slurp, hoped in my car and began the 40 minute ride to work. About three long and tasty slurps in, I decided to take a quick peak in my rear view mirror and was met with a giant red mouth. I smiled, my gums looked like a murder scene, I stuck out my tongue- I half expected a tiny moses to emerge from my tonsils and try to part it (I know the Red Sea isn’t really red). I had made the deadly mistake of drinking/eating something with Red dye number 40. You can only really get away with doing that if you’re 1. under fifteen 2. alone 3. half retarded; and here I was about to go to my authoritarian job where I constantly complain that I’m not seen as a faculty member with a giant red mouth that screamed, “I STILL LIKE SPONGE BOB SQUARE PANTS”. As soon as I sat down at the desk a small student ambled up and whispered in an almost inaudible voice “can you help me?”

Working as a librarian has caused me to develop some rather weird pet peeves- one being the range of voice control people use in a library. Obviously, you can’t talk using your regular voice in the library or people with think you’re a simpleton… and by “people” I mean me. Then there are the folks that take it to the other extreme, by practically mouthing their question… I mean- come on…. you really think I have sonar bat hearing because I work in a quiet place all day? You don’t have to whisper in a library, just speak low- but I digress.

So after responding to the mute in a regular voice,  we embarked on our reference journey- which lead to me showing her where all the STD and AIDS related books were located. Gloomy. After I was done helping her, she said,

 ”Thank you, Ma’am.”

I guess Red 40 mouth and all, I now and forever will be a Ma’am.

Last night, I was in a very darkly lit bar fumbling with a drippy beer. For some reason, I thought it would be a good idea to hold the beer close to my face as I fumbled with the slipperiness of the glass. Some of the content splashed and entered my nose, causing me to sneeze, I placed the glass down and began to fumble with my nostrils, which strangely resulted in the loss of my nose ring.

For a minute I was mildly panicked. I felt around my scarf, checked my boobs, and dragged my foot around the ground to see if I could feel the tiny Claire’s accessory on the sticky floor. Now that it’s the next day, this last option seemed semi-insane. 1. I was too squeamish to put my hand on the sticky bar floor, so I dragged my booted foot around- because, as everyone knows, a booted foot and finger tips have the same sense of feel. 2. What if I did find my nose ring on the ground of the bar- with my foot? Would I have then put the bar-floor-stepped-on jewelry back into my awaiting hole? Yes, and this why I’m happy that I never did find my nose ring in that bar.

After my half assed attempts to find the jewel, I shrugged gave up and went back to fumbling with my beer. Yet, something was off- I had a normal nose again. I placed the beer back down, and began twittering with my now naked nose, and realized how much that tiny piece of crap affected my day to day interactions with my face.

I proclaimed to my friends, “I have a normal nose!” To which I was greeted with a rousing set of grunts and sideways glances. I proceeded to drink more and eventually found my way into my bed and fell asleep with a face full of makeup.

The next morning, after a satisfying face wash, nose blow, and a full blown pick- I decided that even though it was a pain in the ass, I wanted my nose ring back. Why? Well, after inspecting my face in the mirror I realized, the previous night I had managed to fumble one of my few edgy qualities onto the bar floor. I know, nose rings are about as edgy as the Jonas Brothers… but the nose that stared back at me from the mirror looked, well… I’m just gonna come out and say it: cute as a button.

It’s not a sexy nose, or tiny nose, or interesting (ugly) nose- it’s cute- like a little girl’s. And just like how grown women with little girl voices tend to creep me out - so do grown women with little girl noses.

This is why I wanted nose hardware for so long. It would make my pinch-able nose a little less friendly and a lot more cool, like a baby with a knife or a kitten smoking a cigarette.

Of course both my parents didn’t want me to do it. It would be like having their only daughter dying her Shirley Temple cutey-pie curls a Gothic blue. But, you know… less drastic.

Unlike normal teenagers, my geeky ass didn’t want to rebel agaist my parents… so I waiting until one day I couldn’t handle it any more, I made an unexpected exit off the freeway, plopped down in front of some tattooed asshole piercer and proceeded to jam a giant needle into my face. For all of you who say nose piercings don’t hurt– you can shove that statement back up your ass.

After the swelling, the pain, and the scabs, I loved my piercing. 

I loved it for the two years leading up to last night- when it was suddenly ripped away from me.

Now, as I sit here with my button nose, I swear, when I shove another piece of metal though it, it will be the last time I fumble with it ever again.

Not to toot my own horn, but on surface levels I would be a fuckin’ awesome candidate for the President of the United States.

I’m a young black woman, who earned her master’s degree before she turned 25 (ten days before 25, but we’re gonna ignore the details). I can speak in front of a crowd, and sometimes I even get a laugh here and there. I even sorta rock the whole librarian sexy wave Palin seems to be riding…yet, there is one snag to this awesome Oprah-like readiness I have for the presidency, beyond surface levels… I’m a regular person.

I know, I know… shock, right?! Let’s take a little walk down imagination road, and say by some freak-o chance Oprah runs for president in 2012 and picks me for Veep, because I’m such a charming Maverick. She gets elected, then the very next day gets hit by a bus.

Damn, I’m President now.

Since I’m a regular person, I’m semi-self involved- I’m gonna push my platform through and say a big “screw you!” to other people’s needs and perspectives. This means the United States will now be called Nnekay’s Awesome Land of Awesomeness or N.A.L.A for short. Everyone will have great hair, belly chains will be outlawed, Canadian Geese will be sent back to their name sake, and MTV will play videos again. I think war is stupid, so we wont get involved in anything…. therefore becoming the weenies of the world. Because of my love of fashion the army will have a kick ass uniform, but totally impractical because maroon and brown- though a lovely combination in parades, becomes bright bulleyes when in combat. Our international relations will suffer because, I’ll only talk to world leaders who offer fancy dinners or seem nice.

Our country will fall into a deep depression, because of my terrible budget plan to eradicate all pigeons. Everyone will loose their homes and jobs, but for some reason I’ll still be liked, because I’m really friendly and say silly things from time to time. People will say, while they heat their hands on their cooking tins of beans, “man, I really like that that President Nnekay, she’s so normal. Just like you and me, if I could afford a beer I’d love to have one with her, and just shoot the shit.”

WAKE UP PEOPLE. NORMAL EVERYDAY FOLK CAN’T RUN THE COUNTRY.

I am so sick of hearing the media spew the notion of being an “everyman/everywoman” as a selling point. When George W. ran for president he was billed as being a “good ole’ boy” and the public ate that shit up. Look where we are now!!!! Kerry, Obama, and McCain have all been blasted on the fact that they weren’t relatable to the public… who the hell cares about THAT. The presidency is not a normal job- so why do we want a normal person to fill that position? I want a selfless, geeky, health nut… someone who will seek the best interest for the needs of our country as a whole… all races, all religions, etc. Not someone who is only interested in maintaining the values of their own family, and limiting the rights of others by doing so. Seriously, we need to stop our obsession with who the people are that are running our country, and direct the attention to what they will do when elected.

I’ve noticed recently, that dumbass Sarah Palin has been calling herself “just an average hockey mom”- I guess that’s Alaska’s backwards ass version of a soccer mom. I don’t want a soccer mom president! Those ladies are bitches… always cutting me off on the highway in their 4×4s with the dumb stickers of their stick figure families on the back window mocking me as she whips by getting her bratty youngest to ballet lessons, but I digress…

All I’m saying is don’t look at who’s running, listen to their platform. It doesn’t matter if they are stiff, wealthy, use poor diction, or smell bad- if they wanna pass laws that support Americans as a whole, then that’s a reason to vote for a candidate, not because they name their kids funky names and shuttle them from hockey game to hockey game.

My soap box is starting to strain, I think I’ll get off now.

After spending much time drinking and smoking pot in college, my memory has become less like a sharp image and more of a grease smudge. Yet, there are moments that still remain as clear as the time it happened- one of which was the first day of middle school. Now, I don’t recall what I was wearing or what the heat index of the day was, but I do remember sitting quietly in the passenger seat of my mother’s car as she pulled into the school’s driveway. I was nervous, but an excited nervous- I just completed a wonderful 6 years of school, had good friends, and was ready to conquer another three years of what I thought would be the same. True, indicators of the contrary had already begun to pop-up (”Did you get heat rash on your forehead? oh no… those are pimples! Damn, and you had such great complexion…”), but I was still confident that nothing could falter my general likability to my awaiting peers. The day was gray, and I watched- almost a little too eagerly- other kids get out of their respective cars and walk up to the drab 3 story building, right before I joined them, my mother stopped me and said, rather matter of fact, “Nnekay, good luck, because for the next three years, you’re going to be retarded.”

I know she’ll probably deny that she said this, but she did. At the time I remember thinking it was funny, “Ha! My mom said ‘retarded’…” but little did I know how true this statement was. As I left her car that morning, I leaped almost immediately from childhood into a hormonal beast… a cocoon stage that isn’t pretty for anyone. You’ll note most child stars disappear between the ages of 12-14. I only realized the pinpointed truth of her statement until I was far away from the trenches of middle school- while I was a senior in high school, I remember casually thinking, “man, I was retarded.” Boy, am I glad that I was- most of the kids that peaked during middle school, went crashing down hill shortly thereafter.

Being cool in Middle School meant being mean, this held over into high school, but by that point I had learned to let things roll off my back and stay secluded in my circle of friends. It was a defense mechanism I wish I had adopted the previous three years, instead of being the blubbery mess that would tear up and flip out on the drop of a dime. This just provoked, and I’m sure I helped propel various kids into popularity, due to my eagerness to be a target of harassment. Since I wasn’t popular and had no interest in sex, booze, or drugs… I did the next best thing- studied and ate candy. This got me into a four year university where I became hot shit on campus, and proceeded to loose brain cells doing stuff I missed out on my previous years in education. The kids who destroyed my life in middle school- went to the J.C.  and I never heard from them again.

Until now.

Due of my experience in Middle School, my stomach gurgles, my armpits sweat, and my ass cheeks clench when a crowd of slow roving loud young adults meander through the library. Flashbacks of name calling, pushing, sneering, jokes, and laughter at my expense come tumbling back, yet this time I am the one who has to go and tell them to shut up. Instead of running to the nearest bathroom to shit myself and cry, I have to casually stride up and say, “hey guys, you’re being kinda loud… and maybe looking at MySpace and talking on your cell phone isn’t a good idea in the library.” With all rowdy YAs the response is always the same- One girl will say “yeeaa, ok”, the fat girl will roll her eyes, and the guys will check me out or say something lewd. Then they will all resume doing what they were doing before I walked over.

FUN.

This isn’t what I signed up for. Both of my parents are highly respected educators, understandly when I announced that I wanted to be an archaeologist they said “be a teacher”, when I said I wanted to be an actress they responded with, “be a teacher”, when I finally settled on being a librarian they said, “well that sounds like a good idea”- because being a librarian is basically being the lazy man’s teacher. No lesson plans, no classrooms, no students throwing shit at your head… you just sit at the reference desk and let them come to you. Well, this is what I thought being a Librarian would entail. Nope- yes, I do spend a huge amount of time sitting at the reference desk, but sometimes I wonder if I’ve been plopped in the center of the library for educational needs or for policing needs. I shush rowdy athletes, I pick up discarded papers and silk-ish do-rags, and I reprimanding certain students for doing things they should know better than to do (talking on the cell phone, eating, playing hand clap games)… I am basically the nerdy big sister of the library.

No longer am I the friendly source of information here to solve you educational queries… no, I’m that “dumb-ass bitch that wont let you talk to Chico about goin’ to the club this Saturday,” Believe me, I don’t want to be a pest… I just wish that they would understand that there are certain things you can’t do in a college library… but I guess you have to learn the etiquette… and I guess I’m one of the few who have to teach this. So BLAM! Just like that I’m a teacher… and not just any teacher… one that doles out life lessons… once again… did not sign up for this.

Yet, somewhere in-between all the scolding and the shushing, I started to get a few thank yous, and a few smiles, and a few, “Man, Nnekay, you really helped me out,” and you know, that makes it all worth while.

Lately, I’ve been having stomach trouble… the gurgles, the groans, and the determined search for the nearest toilet. Because of this new affliction, I’ve been spending a lot of time in public bathrooms. There is an art to doing your business in public- don’t linger, don’t look at other people, and don’t stand in front of other ladies when in the mirror. Of course this all changes when in the bathroom of club or bar, you can easily linger because everyone is drunk, and trust me you’ll hear some juicy tid-bits of all the drama that is peppered though out the institution. I’ll return to that subject in another post, for now let’s keep it to day light. So when you’re having (ahem) stomach issues- going to the bathroom in the public becomes an even trickier beast. There is of course the noise issue, the people issue, and well depending on the venue… if you can hear outside of the bathroom issue. Working in a community college library presents a problem in all three arenas. Driving back from the Olive Garden, my stomach decided it would be a proper time to start to gurgle and complain like an impatient child. Acting the part of frazzled soccer mom, I began to frantically figure out ways to calm my finicky stomach- the only option was to find the nearest lavatory… I wasn’t going back to the O.G., because the 12 over eager wait staff already thought I was a weirdo for requesting a table for one (”Really? One? You’re not waiting for anyone?”), no way was I going to go bum rushing back into the joint to explode in their grape encrusted bathroom. I had only one other option- the college library bathroom. Pulling into the parking lot, I patiently waited as a portly student in white jeans shorts yelled on her cell phone, and tumbled across my path.

comeon comeon comeon comeon comeon comeon

When she was partially out of my way- I curved and slid into a parking spot. Frantically, I clawed out of the car and waddled into the library- cheeks clenched. Now, there are two bathrooms: Option A: downstairs in the lobby… away from the “studying” students, yet over populated with primping 19 year olds or Option B: Second floor and directly in the quiet zone of the library. The door always remained half ajar, yet this bathroom is disguised so well, students don’t use it. I took my chance and opted for B. Lucky for me it was empty… as I deflated on the porcelain- I realized, the door was ajar and yes, there were plenty of students sitting outside of this half open door. I washed my hands took a deep breath and marched out into the common area. No giggles- good, but definitely a large number of look and look-aways… meaning- they heard my butt’s cry of sorrow.  I sighed and resigned that what was done was done, and I didn’t really interact with the students who where up here anyway.

I went back down stairs and resumed my post at the reference desk- I looked over and saw my father walking over to the desk. My father is a instructor at the college where I am a librarian, and as nepotism-y as it sounds- I actually got my job pretty fair and square. Now there are some issues with working at the same institution as your parent, the most obvious is a little game my other co-workers and students like to play called, “let’s guess who she’s related too!!” This usually doesn’t last too long considering me and my father have the same face. The other issue is, as much as I love it when my father comes to visit me at the library, sometimes “At Home Dad” comes out to pay a visit. Case in point the following conversation:

Me: Hey Dad!

Dad: Hey Nnekay! How’s it going?

Me: Alright… I’m actually not feeling too well…

Dad: You mean you have DIARRHEA?!

Me: oh… um… dad…

Dad: Well, you need to start eating three fruits a day, young lady… I know a lot of people who don’t eat fruit and they get diarrhea too… so you need to take better care of yourself.

By this point various students have now diverted their attention from the YouTube back yard fights and MySpace to watch the Librarian get scolded for not eating enough fruit and having diarrhea as a result.

I quickly change the subject, but unfortunately, I’m now the DoDo Librarian on both the second and first floor.

 I suppose it could be worse.

Nah.

Hey thought I’d share this little awesome bit of information… because it relates to the previous post!

 When television producer William Dozier sought to renew the Batman program for a third season, he asked Schwartz for a new female character to be introduced in the comic book medium, which could be adapted into the television series in order to attract a female audience.^[1] The new version of Batgirl was written as an adult, having earned a doctorate in library science and maintaining a career as head of Gotham City Public Library.^[7]

There you have it- Batgirl was a Librarian!