Thursday, December 3, 2009

Prolapsed Psyche

There is a limited amount of talk about female reproductive organs I can take upon returning from an epic adventure that left me feeling happy and open to the human race again.

Needy Betty came in and was interested in finding a doctor to help her with her prolapsed uterus and bladder.

First she wanted an expert on prolapsed reproductive organs. I asked what geographic area she was willing to travel to and she said anywhere. I asked what hospital she was interested in her doctor being associated with, and she said any one where they don’t murder people.

Darn. Foiled again.

My coworker started searching a nearby hospital’s listing of specialists and I heard the following conversation:

Betty: What’s that one’s last name?

Coworker: Miller.

Betty: Okay, that I can pronounce. Is there a picture of him?

Coworker: Yes, here.

Betty: Oh no! He looks like his hands would be way too big. Can you search for someone with smaller hands?

Coughing can sometimes cover up spontaneous and inappropriate laughter. Sometimes.

Coworker: No, they don’t sort doctors by hand size.

Betty: Well, they should. You know, my prolapsed uterus isn’t that severe, but there was a lady whose uterus was hanging out of her vagina!

Coworker: Oh, I don’t think I want to hear about this.

Betty: I know! Can you imagine?

Coworker: I don’t want to. No.

Sometimes I just want to run when I see her. Other times I can’t hold back the sarcasm.

Her husband recently retired and sold his business, which, since they’re getting divorced, he hasn’t included her much in the decision, so she’s gone completely nuts and is asking us to conduct what amounts to character investigations into the woman who bought the business. This is not unusual for her. Before she’ll commit to a divorce attorney, she wants us to dig up dirt on each attorney so she knows if this is someone she might want to use. We do no such things, but she continues to ask. Today, when she asked me to find all kinds of background information on the father of the woman who bought her husband’s business, but she knew only that he had a medical degree and what his last name is, I told her I’d need more information. She said he got on Rt. 12 and drove south, so he must live somewhere around Rt. 12, south of here.

Really? Seriously? This is what I have to go on?

So I said to her, flat out, “Betty, you should have your own private investigator who works for you 24/7 so they can dig up the information on people you’re always asking about, because there’s only so much I can do for you.”

She didn’t get the snark but instead agreed and said she thought I was right, that a private investigator would be able to follow people and get the kind of dirty laundry she was looking for.

I wonder how long it would take her to have us investigated because we know so much about her.

She got derailed, as she often does, down a path where she began telling me about a chair given to her by a friend of hers, on which she found the seat stained.

Betty: You know, he uses a computer all the time. What if this was his computer chair? What if he sat there for hours everyday and looked at porn on his computer? What if the stain on the chair was years worth of him watching porn and making icky-poo all over the cushion?

Hard to believe I longed for the prolapsed uterus conversation again, isn’t it?

It took over an hour for her to finally leave, and when she did, we breathed a sigh of relief that she was gone and we wouldn’t have to investigate the father of the woman who bought the business formerly owned by her soon-to-be ex-husband, or have to hear about how a difficult childbirth led to her uterus falling out, or the suspicious stains on a chair someone gave her.

This must have put us in a weird frame of mind for the remainder of the evening because things just got punchy.

Sergeant had a problem whereby someone on staff gave him a movie to watch and told him to just return it when he came in next, but he was out for a week sick, and then forgot it when he returned this week. The item was an ILL movie and the person who ordered it for a program accidentally checked it out to an in-house card, which gave it a due date two months out. When the owning library figured this out, they got angry, which made our Circ department angry and a harsh email went out globally chastising everyone for this honest mistake. So, when they got to the bottom of the mess and poor Sarge was discovered to have the movie, given to him by another staff member, all the blame came down on him, even though he had no idea what was going on or that anything done was wrong.

One of our irrational department heads cornered him and asked him to leave work and go home to get the movie. Sarge lives 50 miles away and he said no. She told him that he’d have to bring it in tomorrow then, a day when he’s not scheduled to work. Yeah, drive 50 miles to our library to drop off the movie, and then drive another 50 home. It couldn’t wait until he returned on Monday. It was THAT important.

I get a little bent out of shape when a bully picks on someone innocent, so I told Sarge to go to the director about it, but the director was already gone for the day. I suggested he call him at home, but Sarge didn’t want to disturb him. Sarge is a big boy. He did three tours in Iraq and other tours around Europe before that, so I know the guy can handle one rabid little librarian hell-bent on trying to blame someone not in her department for the mix-up, and he’s mellow enough to shake it off and let her turn him into the guilty party if it keeps someone else from getting in trouble. Well, that’s noble but it really ticked me off, so I offered to meet him halfway and get the movie from him tomorrow afternoon, and I’d return it to the library for him. As we were making arrangements about where to meet, my coworker pointed out that she works practically next door to him and could pick up the movie herself and return it for him. Once they worked out all the details, I was relieved not to have to drive so far to help him out, but I would’ve gladly done it.

Coworker: So, I’ll meet you at The Diner at noon then.

Sarge: Yep. I’ll be there.

Me: Oooh, a nooner!

Coworker: Yeah, and I’m bringing my friend with.

Sarge: Oh, that’s even better!

Me: That’s twice the work for you, Sarge. You sure you can handle the two of them?

Sarge: Yeah, I can handle it.

Coworker: I doubt that.

Me: Just so long as I don’t have to hear about prolapses afterward.

Collective ewwws were moaned.

Hopefully Betty’s private investigator isn’t following them to their meeting tomorrow.


Anonymous said...

Patrons have to leave eventually but how come libraries seem to be magnets for rabid, power freak, employees? Are many of them, guys included, suffering from prolapsed innards? I use to work in the real world and many of the crazed managers, paranoid clerks, pages with delusions of MLS's, and other assorted jerks wouldn't last a week outside of the protective library bubble. Is Hitlerian library staff created or grown in test tubes somewhere? Just asking in case you knew.

Shy said...

There's been a Betty (or two!) at every library I've worked at. Some evil part of me wants to turn all their "investigating" back on them. You know they'd go bananas if you hinted that someone was investigating them

Leelu said...

I suspect there's a brain prolapse or two involved in this situation.

Lummox said...

Anyone else find it funny that Sarge got sick with an ILL movie? Anyone?