Catching Up

Tonight I think I invented one of my favorite foods I’ve tried in a while. I’m calling them guacamole bison balls. (They’re smaller than the name would make you think.)

1 lb. of ground bison
1 lb. of fresh guacamole (the chunkier the better)
¼ - ⅓ cup of Parmesan cheese
1 egg
2 handfuls (or to taste) of crumbled tortilla chips

I mixed it by hand, rolled the mix into one-inch balls, placed them in a pan (coated with olive oil), baked them at 375º for about 20 minutes, and then added them to my pasta and marinara sauce. Dude, this is my new favorite meal. I never knew guac and chips belonged so naturally in meatballs, added to pasta. I am a happy, happy girl tonight. And very full.

* * * * *

A patron approached me the other day, and now I’m starting to think I’m being baited or set up, because what she said to me was completely unbelievable.

“I was just over there and found this book called Grey’s Anatomy, and you know, it doesn’t have anything to do with the show. It’s all like body parts and your insides and stuff.”

Is someone sending these people to me? Is she the second installment after the guy who wanted the Yellow Pages with the White Pages and then didn’t know which ones were the White Pages until I pointed out the actual color of the pages. I’m being tested, right?

* * * * *

Although I said my blog color should match my hair color, I have dyed my hair a reddish-purple color and am too lazy to find a blog template I like that matches my hair, so you’re stuck with the same old template. Likely, I’ll go back to purple after this because I don’t think red suits me, so it’s for the best.

* * * * *

For Summer Reading Club, we have adopted a fishing theme, created a fishing hut, and borrowed Briana’s mannequin, Britney, which we dressed up in waders, a flannel shirt, a fishing hat, and affixed a large fishing pole to her manicured hand. To register, patrons must fill out a fishing license, which is based on the actual Illinois DNR logo, and I tweaked it to say the Department of Natural Reading, with a little stack of books on the grass next to the stream. We are giving away gummy worms (lures) and Goldfish crackers (fish) for signing up, as well as other prizes, and more fishing goodies will follow. It’s a grand display of our creativity.

Tuesday afternoon a rather rambunctious pair of sisters accompanied their mother in to the library, and while Mom was registering and collecting her first round of prizes, the two girls, about 8 and 12 years old, stood around debating whether Britney, dressed as a fisherperson, was a male or female, so one girl put her hand down front of the waders of the mannequin to determine gender. I did not see the molestation. Later on, someone else informed me of this violation and I was horrified.

Me being me, I went straight to the director with my shock and concern.

Me: Do you have a minute? I need to ask you a serious question.

Director: Yeah, sure. What’s up?

Me: If something happens to a staff member, like if a patron does something bad to that staff member, and that staff member doesn’t report it, can I report it on behalf of the staff member?

You could see from his face that this was not the kind of question he needed right now.

Director: Yes, I mean, I would hope that staff member would come to me, but if it has to come from someone else, then yes, I would like you to tell me what happened.

I took a deep breath and buried my smile deep inside me.

Me: Well, there were some patrons being…well, idiots…and there was some talk about whether this staff member was a male or female, so one of the patrons approached and she stuck her hand down the pants of this staff member.

All the blood drained from his face. He assumed the “staff member” was a male, and he did a mental inventory of the males present in the building at that moment, and I’m guessing he was kissing his ass goodbye, because if this happened on his watch, there would be police and lawsuits and all kind of nonsense that likely wouldn’t look good in his first few months in charge. That’s a guess, because what I saw was him standing there speechless, not breathing, mouth slightly agape, turning whiter and whiter by the second. He later told me he was concerned about whoever the victim was here, but I’m guessing there was a bit of terror for his own future.

Before he could ask who the staff member involved was, I let him off the hook.

Me: Britney, the mannequin, counts as a staff member, right?

It took a moment, but he realized what I’d done and he started cracking up laughing.

Director: That mannequin is very naughty and needs a spanking!

This was when I backed up, so that I was in view of Arms, and I informed him that Arms had already spanked her good.

Which was true. I told Arms the story of the mannequin being molested and he said she was a bad girl and smacked her on the ass.

We all had a hearty laugh at our dear leader’s expense, and it was not lost on me that our poor mannequin was molested and both our director and the security guy chose to punish her as the naughty one who invited it. Hopefully they were just trying to be funny.

It’s good to have a director who can take a joke like that. He did punish me by telling me I had to buy him ice cream after work that night, but I ordered my own quickly, before everyone else (funnel cake sundae with strawberry topping), and he had to pay his own way when he finally got to place his order. Some might say I got him twice that night. I’m just glad I have a director who will not only tolerate my stupid pranks, but will go out for ice cream with the Kool Kids after work.

* * * * *

A couple weeks ago, I sold my soul. The weird thing is, no one has noticed its absence but me. What’s that say?

After a two-month long battle with an incessant cough, having exhausted one doctor’s ideas about the cause, and moving on to my other doctor for some relief, he determined I had a lingering sinus infection and prescribed a 40-day course of antibiotics, to make sure we beat it this time. Since I’ve been on steroids for nearly a year now, I am guessing my immune system is on permanent vacation, and a month and a half of antibiotics sounded harsh, yet reasonable.

My pharmacy dispensed the medication to me, not only with the fold-in-half page of information on the medication, but inside the bag was two full pages, small print, containing warnings about the medication I was about to start, and all the terrible side effects it could cause, including the sudden rupture of a tendon. It was recommended I refrain from any exercise or doing most activities, and it warned that this tendon rupture could occur anytime between the first dose and six months after the last dose. Skeptical of the seriousness of a stupid antibiotic, I did some online research and sure enough, there were warnings everywhere about Achilles tendons spontaneously tearing, and the class action lawsuit in the works against the makers and the company promoting it.

In addition, I set pill bottle up on my counter to join the others.

Prednisone 1 mg, Prednisone 5 mg, Prednisone 10 mg, HCTZ, Bumex, Allegra, Astelin, Tessalon, Benadryl, Melatonin and the toxic antibiotic made it 11 medications I take regularly. This does not include the occasional aspirin or other over-the-counter analgesic, nor does it even allude to the enormous amounts of potassium I have to consume to counter the effects of the HCTZ and Bumex, which are to counter the effects of the Prednisone.

So, I woke up the next morning and said enough was enough, and I stopped taking everything. (Boys and girls, do not try this at home. I do not promote stopping your therapy without speaking with your doctor first. I just had a total meltdown.)

That day I continued to cough, but I could feel my energy increasing, my spirits rising, and by the next day, I felt like a whole new person.

This was when I entered into the deal that clearly I had not thought through, because while I wasn’t cognizant of the fact that I’d just given my soul to the devil, I have since come to accept this barter for what it really was.

With my new-found energy, I joined a gym.

EGAD, you say! Whatever were you thinking, girl?!

I know, I know. It sounded so simple in the beginning, like it would actually benefit me in some way, but I see now that my life may never be the same again.

I go now at least three times a week, and I have had to dig out workout clothes from my closet and wear them in a public setting. This should have been the first clue that either the world was coming to an end, or I had bartered away the very essence of me.

AND, I had to go out and buy new gym shoes, because your friend Happy Villain has only silly shoes, pretty shoes, and heavy-duty hiking boots. There was no place at the gym for my red leather pumps with kitten heels, or my librarian brown loafers, or my leather ankle boots, or my little black ballet slippers, or my gladiator sandals. I had to leave my comfort zone and go to a sporting good store to purchase shoes. SHOES? IN A SPORTING GOODS STORE?! It seemed unimaginable! It turns out my teenage love of Nike shoes has matured, and now New Balance are the shoes for me. Go figure. And also, someone should look into whether New Balance is doing Satan’s recruitment, because they seemed to be in on my little deal with the devil with their cute, comfortable shoes with pink trim. SATAN’S SHOES, I tell you! But they feel so good.

So, I work out, and while I’m there, I’ve turned into some alternative universe, opposite reciprocal, evil twin of myself. For some reason, I’m fucking perky. I mean, incessantly chatty, telling all my secrets, happy to be alive, fucking perky. The kind of perk that makes you think that pesky perker is either on some major psychotropic drugs, or she’s getting porked every morning by a porn star. I am neither, and it’s not fair. Where the hell were the warnings in the contract I signed that said I was going to turn into my antithesis? You know, I may need to spend some time in a gym, but my personality isn’t in need of a make-over as far as I’m concerned. Perk wasn’t part of the package. Yet, there I am, doing squats until my legs are on fire, and gleefully telling the owner about how wonderful it feels to be in such agony, to be eating whole grains again, to be spending a bloody fortune on fresh produce, and to be pooping some of the best turds this body has ever made. Someone fucking knock me on my ass, tell me to put on some pants not made of jersey cotton, and shoes that pinch my toes! Dammit, what the hell is wrong with me?! I’m not goddamn perky!

I suspected I’d sold my soul not long after joining the gym, but my suspicions were confirmed when one of our most dreaded patrons called up while I was at the reference desk. In the past, I have described her as soul-suckingly needy, and that’s probably an understatement. This is the single loneliest woman on the planet, and when you pick up the phone, you don’t get another word in edgewise until she dies. Which she refuses to do. Her requests from us are always way out of left field, and when she isn’t asking for us to find a place to recycle her kitty litter, she’s telling us her horrible life story again, about her impending divorce, her ungrateful adult children (one of whom is married, and the wife has a restraining order against her because she shows up at her doctor’s office and wants to go into the exam room with her, or she harasses the daughter-in-law’s doctors, demanding to know why she’s being seen and how she’s being treated for her ailments), and you almost end up wishing she’d just ask you more ridiculous questions about how to contact Matt Lauer, so he can tell President Obama that she wants him to get a labradoodle.

Anyway, she called up one day not long after I started my soulless existence, and I did something I never, ever should have done. It was so foolish and self-sacrificing that I marvel to this day that I managed to accomplish it.

I was…nice to her. And I let her…talk…for over a half-hour, without cutting her off and telling her I had patrons to help.

Now she calls everyday, sometimes multiple times a day, and asks for me. I’m her favorite.

Who knew that when you sell your soul, your eternity in hell begins right then, on earth, for you to begin your penance? I certainly did not.

When I returned to see my doctor and told her what I’d done, I fully expected her to put me over her knee and spank me raw for disobeying her medical orders, but instead, she was happy that I’m better, and she said I was glowing. Glowing? Like, someone added radium to my cran-grape juice?? No, she said I’m utterly transformed, and she was so excited for me, she said we had to go out and celebrate. Huh? Like, me and my doctor, having a drink together? Who DOES that? My soul must have been huge if I could sell it off and it would throw the planets completely out of alignment like this.

For hellish reasons I can’t begin to understand, I wake up early every single day, without an alarm clock (for the first time in my life), as if depriving me of my beloved sleep was somehow part of the bargain. And then I put my red hair back, eat the same damn breakfast of two hard-boiled eggs and two pieces of rye bread toast that I eat every damn day, and head straight to the gym. At the gym, I talk and I talk and I talk about NOTHING and EVERYTHING, like I have stepped into a competitive chat contest that I’m determined to win. And I work out until I’m dehydrated, whereupon I drive to work and am nice to people I should never be nice to.

Except the director. Who, it seems, no matter who owns the title to my soul, I can still torture with my dumb pranks, and he will not fire me.

So far.