And all this time I though Christy was so wholesome...

Actual conversation with DJ Smith and me right before bed the other night:

DJS: What is that trash you are reading?

Me: TRASH? Christy by Catherine Marshall is NOT trash! 

DJS: It looks like trash. What's it about?

Me: It's about a girl who goes to teach poor children in Southern Appalachia, BENNY. 

DJS: You're making that up. It looks a 1920's version of 50 Shades of Grey.

Me: Well it's not. And I don't know that for sure because I certainly never read them. Ahem. 

DJS: You read 50 Shades of Grey?

Me: Yes, all three of them. SHUT UP. In any event, Christy is not even remotely like that dumb Anastasia Steele. Here, let me read you the summary. "In the year 1912, nineteen-year-old Christy Huddleston leaves home to teach school in the Smoky Mountains -- and comes to know and love the resilient people of the region, with their fierce pride, their dark superstitions, their terrible poverty, and their yearning for beauty and truth. But her faith will be severely challenged by trial and tragedy, by the needs and unique strengths of two remarkable young men, and by a heart torn between true love and unwavering devotion." 

DJS: I rest my case.

Me: Huh. That does make her sound kinda trampy. 

In other news, I work with a librarian who told me I could blog about this, but not to use her real name. She wanted me to make an alias for her and I just realized if I add one itty bitty extra vowel to her last name you get the word "Ruffian." So, Ruffian, this one's for you:

I got this disturbing text from a colleague yesterday: "I have knives for you. They are in my new office in a blue bag hanging. This is not some weird stalker thing."

After a confused exchange I figured out that she had remembered I needed new knives and had come into a Scrooge McDuck-esque knife fortune recently and was happy to share. Sure enough, a few hours later a blue bag full of knives made their way to my desk. 

She was not fooling around.

i have an assortment of murder weapons. it was megan, in the loft with one of of her 11 new knives. 

man, i really can't wait to cleave something.

Here's the conversation that occurred when I was in her office returning the bag:

Me: Here's your bag back. I tried to think of something to put in it to give to you when I returned it but all I could think to put in it was like shotgun shells or broken glass or something and I didn't have any of those things so I left it empty. Emily Post fail. 

R: No problem! 

Me: How come you have so many new knives by the way? 

R: I didn't tell you this? They were in a box on my front porch one day. 

Me:.....um, excuse me?

R: Yeah, I know, right? It's a bit strange.

Me: STRANGE? I quite possibly am officially in possession of murder weapons!!! Who leaves boxes of knives on random people's door steps? 

R: Calm down! They're new!

Me: A MURDERER WOULD HAVE BEEN PREPARED AND MADE THOSE BLOODY KNIVES LOOK NEW. Great. I'm an accomplice to murder. Potentially. 

Actually, wait. The more I think about it, the very first text I ever got from the Ruffian FREAKED ME RIGHT ON OUT. I had called her and asked her to stop by my office the next day and never heard from her. The next day, having forgotten I'd called her, and forgotten I'd given her my cell phone number I got a text from a strange number that just said: Are u in your office? I panicked for about an hour before I finally remembered I was trying to reach her and finally texted her back that I was not. But from now on I put NAMES with numbers in my phone immediately. 

Ruffian, I get it. You're officially out to get me. Message. Received. You earned your nickname. 

All I got for today. Over and out.