I’ve been on vacation for a while, and it was difficult to transition back into the workforce this week, but I somehow survived remembering how to do my job, having to present the library board with our shiny new website, and the end of science fair season. I still have 6 weeks of vacation left (nope, not a typo -- I rolled some over and get 5 big, fat weeks a year now, and I’m the fourth most senior person on staff…I feel old) and with those 6 weeks I have no clue what to do. In early October I’m taking two weeks, I’ll probably take a week or two over the summer and then roll two more weeks into next year so I’ll have 7 again next year! YEAH! But until the next vacation, I have to re-acclimate myself to working. Ick.
Our director and Christi were enthusiastic in welcoming me back, saying they forgot I was gone and went looking for me for some friendly relief from the daily grind, not to find me around, which saddened them. I wish I could say I missed them that much, but my nose would grow so long that birds would begin to perch upon it. Honestly, I didn’t think about work or even the entire state of Illinois all that much. It was great.
Back at work tonight, Arms approached us and asked what we thought of his new shoes, which are the first pair he’s purchased in four years.
My impression was that they were plain and comfortable men’s working shoes: dark brown boat shoes made of soft rather than hard leather. Meh.
Me: Snazzy. You know what you look like now?
Arms: What?
Me: A total librarian. Those are librarian shoes.
Arms: I know! Aren’t they cool? They’re so comfortable!
Me: If you buy a men’s cardigan, I will laugh-laugh-laugh at you.
Arms: No, I only wear polos. Even when it’s cold.
Me: Oh, a polo and a cardigan?
Arms: No, no cardigan. I just put a tee-shirt underneath, but always polos.
Me: And a sweater vest.
Arms: NOOOOOOOO, never!
Me: You say that now, but you’ll be knitting your own soon. Big library nerd.
I’ll say this: he has a good sense of humor to put up with me. He even laughed.
Arms: Seriously, they look weird, though, don’t they?
Me: Um, what do you mean?
Arms: My feet look so small. Like tiny little elf feet.
Me: I was thinking that myself, but I figured you just had small feet.
Arms: These shoes make me look like an elf! I don’t think I’ll be wearing them anymore. My feet aren’t that small!
Me: You know, Arms, it’s not the size of the shoe that matters.
Red. That boy turned bright red. And all of a sudden he had to be somewhere else. He walked away laughing, red as a baboon’s ass and made a motion with his hand.
No, not that motion!
He made an L with his thumb and index finger.
NO, not calling me a loser.
He was indicating the distance between.
Arms: That’s what matters, right? That size?
I just laughed. I thought, only if that’s supposed to represent the length of your tongue, then that matters. I didn’t say it. That’s the kind of really dirty thing I can only say to the director. And Leelu.
Later, having not been teased enough by me, Arms made his way back and boasted about all the Spanish he was speaking, despite being out of practice. I suggested he join our language club, and he asked what it was, so I started explaining.
Arms: THAT is totally library geek right there. Tsk, tsk. Nothing geekier.
He walked away, looking at me sideways and shaking his head. Thankfully, we were closing and there were only two patrons left at opposite sides of the building, so I shouted to him my retort.
Me: OH, IS THAT SO, SMALL-FOOT?!
I’m back.
The game is on.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Thursday, April 9, 2009
I Need a Vacation
Patron: Do you have a phone book? I need the Yellow Pages one with the White Pages in it.
Me: Sure.
I handed it to him.
He began thumbing through it.
Patron: Which ones are the White Pages?
Me: The...[pause to see if he's joking] ones... [still waiting] that are white.
Patron: Oh, okay.
Me: *blink* *blink, blink* *look around to see if I was just set up* *blink, blink*
* * *
Today, Arms totally got me!
All night he'd been walking by and asking if we were okay and if we needed anything. I tend to state that I need a nap, a frozen strawberry daiquiri or something else he consistently refuses to give me. He thinks I'm making a bad joke, but I'm dead serious. It's pissing me off. He's not bringing me anything.
At the end of the night, he swept past the desk.
Arms: Do you ladies need anything?
Me: No, but I think the more important question is, what can WE do for YOU?
Arms: I need you to not say that again to your security!
I was puzzled, said okay, and furrowed my brow.
Arms: Well, you can say it, but don't say it in THAT WAY again!
My coworker busted out laughing, and I sat there trying hard to figure out how I had offended him. It was really bothering me. And it wasn't until I noticed my coworker had turned bright red that I realized something dirty was said, and it was said by me.
UNINTENTIONALLY!
He walked away cracking up and I sat there red-faced.
Arms is my new nemesis.
Me: Sure.
I handed it to him.
He began thumbing through it.
Patron: Which ones are the White Pages?
Me: The...[pause to see if he's joking] ones... [still waiting] that are white.
Patron: Oh, okay.
Me: *blink* *blink, blink* *look around to see if I was just set up* *blink, blink*
* * *
Today, Arms totally got me!
All night he'd been walking by and asking if we were okay and if we needed anything. I tend to state that I need a nap, a frozen strawberry daiquiri or something else he consistently refuses to give me. He thinks I'm making a bad joke, but I'm dead serious. It's pissing me off. He's not bringing me anything.
At the end of the night, he swept past the desk.
Arms: Do you ladies need anything?
Me: No, but I think the more important question is, what can WE do for YOU?
Arms: I need you to not say that again to your security!
I was puzzled, said okay, and furrowed my brow.
Arms: Well, you can say it, but don't say it in THAT WAY again!
My coworker busted out laughing, and I sat there trying hard to figure out how I had offended him. It was really bothering me. And it wasn't until I noticed my coworker had turned bright red that I realized something dirty was said, and it was said by me.
UNINTENTIONALLY!
He walked away cracking up and I sat there red-faced.
Arms is my new nemesis.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Come, Be Our Minions
My library has cleverly and wickedly devised a way to punish the public. It’s so cunning and brilliantly disguised as a service to the community that no one suspects a thing. But I’m going to tell you the secret right now, and if you choose to use it against your own community, I would not feel a bit guilty.
It’s no secret that we have large Hispanic population, and because we are trying very hard to embrace the Latinos and ingratiate our services with them, we have incorporated a Spanish translation into all signs and documents we offer the public, as well as offering numerous services and a large collection of materials. But it’s the Spanish translations that have led to our evilness.
At the end of the day, various staff members are charged with making announcements of the approaching closing, starting a half-hour before, then fifteen minutes, ten, five and a final one at closing. As an equal opportunity entity, we make the announcements in English and Spanish. But here’s the rub: sometimes, when a Spanish speaker isn’t around to do the closing announcements, someone who doesn’t speak Spanish must stumble through reading the Spanish words. Without fail, the only two people on staff willing to inflict this pain upon our ears are the people equipped with the mad skillz to impose the most emotional damage. That’s right, the crackers do it. The whitest cracker-ass-crackers to ever work in our building are the ones who stumble through reading the Spanish announcements, with their brutal, obtuse English pronunciations, ending their long and agonizing announcement with a very American accent of “poor favor”. FSM help us, it’s fucking painful.
This is one of those situations that could very well be more distressing to the English speakers than the Spanish speakers. Not only is the Spanish translation of everything seemingly twice as long as the English version, but our crackers can’t get the entire sentence out in one breath, and the hesitation to inhale causes doubt, which sometimes makes them backtrack and re-butcher the words already sufficiently slain.
I may never be able to hear the word “ahora” again without hearing one of our crackers in my head pronounce it “ay-whore-uh”.
A fair estimate would be that only about once a week a cracker is called upon to make an announcement in Spanish, and yet, they have not picked up a single bit of the correct way to pronounce Spanish words from the Spanish speakers who make the announcements in their presence all the rest of the time. Each time it’s like an introduction to a whole new paragraph in a whole new language they are asked to read aloud, and often times they employ pronunciation which doesn’t even get used in English, in any dialect. It’s as if their brains shut down completely and they just start saying the letters out loud, one after another.
One particular reader is the worst, and often, when it’s over, I will turn to anyone near me and ask if my ears are bleeding. If not, I ask that someone please stab them so that I never have to hear that again.
People of all walks of life listen to this booming, ominous, bodyless voice take perfectly reasonable Spanish words and phrases that everyone should know, like “de nada,” instead it is pronounced “dee nay-day”, and the cringing and wincing can be seen all around. Our library clears out by the second announcement, and I can’t help but wonder if it is to avoid having to hear the remaining three. I certainly would if I had the opportunity.
While this act of evil is meted out to staff and patrons alike, you have to admire the balls of the person who decided that this was to be done. I mean, aside from raining acid down from the sprinklers, I can’t think of anything more simultaneously painful to a building full of people. And like many situations in my life, I’m left wondering if the crackers who do this bidding are part evil too, and participate knowingly, perhaps even embellishing their part, or if they’re just the clueless crackers who they usually are, finding humor in their own shortcomings and assuming others might chuckle as well. Either way, it’s a marvelous blueprint of malevolence. Despite being a victim, I have to sit back and admire the absolute model of iniquity we have created. If it had a scent, it would reek of sulfur, smoldering flesh and rancid bile. It is crystal clear that in putting our worst translators on the job to read in another language, through a microphone, broadcast to every nook and cranny of the building, we have carved our niche in history as one of the cruelest institutions known to man.
Though I now plug my ears when I hear those familiar cracker voices start to make the announcements, I take a bit of pride in knowing that there are handfuls of people in the building wishing someone would also stab them in the ears.
And no one would ever suspect we’d do that on purpose.
It’s no secret that we have large Hispanic population, and because we are trying very hard to embrace the Latinos and ingratiate our services with them, we have incorporated a Spanish translation into all signs and documents we offer the public, as well as offering numerous services and a large collection of materials. But it’s the Spanish translations that have led to our evilness.
At the end of the day, various staff members are charged with making announcements of the approaching closing, starting a half-hour before, then fifteen minutes, ten, five and a final one at closing. As an equal opportunity entity, we make the announcements in English and Spanish. But here’s the rub: sometimes, when a Spanish speaker isn’t around to do the closing announcements, someone who doesn’t speak Spanish must stumble through reading the Spanish words. Without fail, the only two people on staff willing to inflict this pain upon our ears are the people equipped with the mad skillz to impose the most emotional damage. That’s right, the crackers do it. The whitest cracker-ass-crackers to ever work in our building are the ones who stumble through reading the Spanish announcements, with their brutal, obtuse English pronunciations, ending their long and agonizing announcement with a very American accent of “poor favor”. FSM help us, it’s fucking painful.
This is one of those situations that could very well be more distressing to the English speakers than the Spanish speakers. Not only is the Spanish translation of everything seemingly twice as long as the English version, but our crackers can’t get the entire sentence out in one breath, and the hesitation to inhale causes doubt, which sometimes makes them backtrack and re-butcher the words already sufficiently slain.
- We are gathered here today to celebrate the lives of some very useful and beloved Spanish words, slaughtered senselessly by a vicious cracker at the local library, who had no idea how to pronounce them.
I may never be able to hear the word “ahora” again without hearing one of our crackers in my head pronounce it “ay-whore-uh”.
A fair estimate would be that only about once a week a cracker is called upon to make an announcement in Spanish, and yet, they have not picked up a single bit of the correct way to pronounce Spanish words from the Spanish speakers who make the announcements in their presence all the rest of the time. Each time it’s like an introduction to a whole new paragraph in a whole new language they are asked to read aloud, and often times they employ pronunciation which doesn’t even get used in English, in any dialect. It’s as if their brains shut down completely and they just start saying the letters out loud, one after another.
One particular reader is the worst, and often, when it’s over, I will turn to anyone near me and ask if my ears are bleeding. If not, I ask that someone please stab them so that I never have to hear that again.
People of all walks of life listen to this booming, ominous, bodyless voice take perfectly reasonable Spanish words and phrases that everyone should know, like “de nada,” instead it is pronounced “dee nay-day”, and the cringing and wincing can be seen all around. Our library clears out by the second announcement, and I can’t help but wonder if it is to avoid having to hear the remaining three. I certainly would if I had the opportunity.
While this act of evil is meted out to staff and patrons alike, you have to admire the balls of the person who decided that this was to be done. I mean, aside from raining acid down from the sprinklers, I can’t think of anything more simultaneously painful to a building full of people. And like many situations in my life, I’m left wondering if the crackers who do this bidding are part evil too, and participate knowingly, perhaps even embellishing their part, or if they’re just the clueless crackers who they usually are, finding humor in their own shortcomings and assuming others might chuckle as well. Either way, it’s a marvelous blueprint of malevolence. Despite being a victim, I have to sit back and admire the absolute model of iniquity we have created. If it had a scent, it would reek of sulfur, smoldering flesh and rancid bile. It is crystal clear that in putting our worst translators on the job to read in another language, through a microphone, broadcast to every nook and cranny of the building, we have carved our niche in history as one of the cruelest institutions known to man.
Though I now plug my ears when I hear those familiar cracker voices start to make the announcements, I take a bit of pride in knowing that there are handfuls of people in the building wishing someone would also stab them in the ears.
And no one would ever suspect we’d do that on purpose.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
PSA
Dear Bill,
Since we have no real written policy on acceptable patron behavior other than violent and threatening actions, I am sending you this letter to iron out the finer details, which you clearly are unaware of. I understand that male-female interactions in a public setting are full of nuances and body language and vibes and signals that we may not even be aware we’re communicating to one another, but if you read on, I would like to clarify things and explain the unwritten rules of dealing with your librarian.
You may…
Ask the librarian a question pertaining to the location of a desired piece of material. You may even ask the librarian a few questions about a few items. When the librarian walks you over to the section you are looking for and cannot find the specific image you request, she may suggest you look downstairs in the Youth Department, where books have more pictures that are less complicated, which fit your need.
You may…
Joke with said librarian and look at her skeptically, as if your silver fox look was indicative enough that you should never have to venture into the Youth Department again. She will insist she is correct and perhaps, if she’s in a good mood, might bet you that you find it downstairs.
You may…
Place a pinky bet with said librarian if she is the one who initiated the bet.
You may…
Return to the librarian after finding the image downstairs and thank her.
You may…
Ask the librarian more questions about movies you might also like to check out.
However!
You may NOT…
Suggest to the librarian that you have more “interesting” movies at home, if she would care to join you some evening.
You may NOT…
Return the following afternoon and sneak up on the librarian, shocking her senseless when you place a hand on her shoulder to say hello.
You may NOT…
Touch! The! Librarian!
You may NOT…
Then ask the librarian when she’s available to take a lunch break so you can take her out.
You may NOT…
Leer at her as she stands uncomfortably at the Reference Desk, wishing you’d go away and quit humiliating her in front of Marina.
You may NOT…
Try to draw Marina into your stupid joke world by saying Marina told you that she has a problem getting to work on time. That’s not funny. You’re not cute. And now Marina is uncomfortably involved in this ridiculous conversation.
You may NOT…
Hang around outside the librarian’s office, pretending to browse the CDs and movies while she is holed up inside, not wanting to leave and suffer another encounter with you.
You may NOT…
Realize this, but you are not making a love connection here and you are moving quickly into harassment territory, which, if brought to the attention of my manager, he will be forced to take it to the director, and the director will quickly turn it into a gigantic issue that could involve the police, the mayor, the governor, a team of attorneys, your mother, your primary care doctor, your uncle’s firstborn child, a holographic rendering of yourself, synovial fluid, a hair from the decomposing corpse of your childhood dog, and possibly the NSA. So, don’t make me take this to my boss. None of us needs the headache of me filing a report. Reports are not good. Just move on.
Oh, and Bill, just keep in mind that people who are nice to you, like I was, are paid to be that way.
Have a nice day – elsewhere.
Oh-so Sincerely,
Me
Since we have no real written policy on acceptable patron behavior other than violent and threatening actions, I am sending you this letter to iron out the finer details, which you clearly are unaware of. I understand that male-female interactions in a public setting are full of nuances and body language and vibes and signals that we may not even be aware we’re communicating to one another, but if you read on, I would like to clarify things and explain the unwritten rules of dealing with your librarian.
You may…
Ask the librarian a question pertaining to the location of a desired piece of material. You may even ask the librarian a few questions about a few items. When the librarian walks you over to the section you are looking for and cannot find the specific image you request, she may suggest you look downstairs in the Youth Department, where books have more pictures that are less complicated, which fit your need.
You may…
Joke with said librarian and look at her skeptically, as if your silver fox look was indicative enough that you should never have to venture into the Youth Department again. She will insist she is correct and perhaps, if she’s in a good mood, might bet you that you find it downstairs.
You may…
Place a pinky bet with said librarian if she is the one who initiated the bet.
You may…
Return to the librarian after finding the image downstairs and thank her.
You may…
Ask the librarian more questions about movies you might also like to check out.
However!
You may NOT…
Suggest to the librarian that you have more “interesting” movies at home, if she would care to join you some evening.
You may NOT…
Return the following afternoon and sneak up on the librarian, shocking her senseless when you place a hand on her shoulder to say hello.
You may NOT…
Touch! The! Librarian!
You may NOT…
Then ask the librarian when she’s available to take a lunch break so you can take her out.
You may NOT…
Leer at her as she stands uncomfortably at the Reference Desk, wishing you’d go away and quit humiliating her in front of Marina.
You may NOT…
Try to draw Marina into your stupid joke world by saying Marina told you that she has a problem getting to work on time. That’s not funny. You’re not cute. And now Marina is uncomfortably involved in this ridiculous conversation.
You may NOT…
Hang around outside the librarian’s office, pretending to browse the CDs and movies while she is holed up inside, not wanting to leave and suffer another encounter with you.
You may NOT…
Realize this, but you are not making a love connection here and you are moving quickly into harassment territory, which, if brought to the attention of my manager, he will be forced to take it to the director, and the director will quickly turn it into a gigantic issue that could involve the police, the mayor, the governor, a team of attorneys, your mother, your primary care doctor, your uncle’s firstborn child, a holographic rendering of yourself, synovial fluid, a hair from the decomposing corpse of your childhood dog, and possibly the NSA. So, don’t make me take this to my boss. None of us needs the headache of me filing a report. Reports are not good. Just move on.
Oh, and Bill, just keep in mind that people who are nice to you, like I was, are paid to be that way.
Have a nice day – elsewhere.
Oh-so Sincerely,
Me
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Guess What I Found
Today, one of my coworkers cleaned beneath the reference desk, and judging by the size of the dust bunnies, this probably hasn’t been done since our renovations, which were so long ago, we need more renovations.
Stowed away where our legs usually crash painfully into things that we don’t even question, she found some expected items. Among them were empty hand sanitizer containers, discarded scraps of paper, a receipt, a Yalsa poster from three years ago, and a cool pen that someone likely hid for their own personal use and forgot about. None of this amazed us. In fact, I expected more.
There were a few mild surprises like the Easter basket, a sticky and decomposing stress ball made to look like the earth, and a movie poster for Talladega Nights. At one point she found a peanut and threw it in the trash, so I spent a while singing the song. Go ahead and sing it. I’ll wait.
…
Okay, that’s enough.
Then my brave coworker, who was down on her hands and knees, so far under the desk that I could only see her bottom half, whipped out the thing that had me in stitches for the rest of the night.
Covered in filth, barely recognizable, she slammed a small, hairy thing onto the desktop and demanded to know what the hell it was.
I turned it around in my hands and immediately started laughing. She found a beaver.
We had a hand-sized, stuffed beaver beneath our desk.
And it was so filthy! Clearly, someone was neglecting their beaver.
I started laughing like a schoolgirl and I could not stop. However, since the only other person on staff who I can count on to laugh at stupid dirty jokes with me is our director, and he was long gone for the day, it was just me, bouncing up and down in my chair, laughing about a dirty beaver being found by my coworker.
Our new security guy, Arms, walked over and I was squirming in my seat, trying to control the laugh and said, “Look! Look what she found! A beaver. A poor, neglected beaver,” and I burst into laughter.
Without missing a beat he said, “Come again?”
With that I was grabbing my guts and falling out of my chair.
I looked at him hopefully and said, “There are so many jokes! So many! And I can’t say any of them!”
He just looked at me with sympathy and nodded.
One of the high-school-aged shelvers was standing there the entire time and she said, “I don’t get it. It’s a beaver. So what?”
Arms said, “You’re too young.”
I said, “This is something you’re better off not getting.”
Arms agreed and walked away.
For the remainder of the night, whenever Arms saw me, he would grab the nearest staff member and say, “You know what they have hidden over at the Adult Reference Desk? A BEAVER!” I would bust out laughing, he would smile and walk away, and the poor, unsuspecting coworker would stand there looking irritated and ignorant.
That’s right, folks. An unfortunate librarian who had to have preceded us, lost her unloved and unused beaver. It’s been collecting dust and cobwebs, buried beneath many layers of protective stuff, only to be discovered many years later. We can’t possibly know who this beaver belongs to, but for sure I have my theories. Which I shall not share. And given that this beaver has likely spent her life unused, unloved and so far from the light of day that we feared for her stability under the fluorescents, we felt that a fitting place for her, to balance out her life, was to proudly sit upon the shelf above our desk as the Mascot of the Month. Finally, this beaver is going to be appreciated as she should have been.
And I swear, the first person who walks up to my desk and says, “Nice beaver,” will have to call 9-1-1, for I will be dead from laughter.
Stowed away where our legs usually crash painfully into things that we don’t even question, she found some expected items. Among them were empty hand sanitizer containers, discarded scraps of paper, a receipt, a Yalsa poster from three years ago, and a cool pen that someone likely hid for their own personal use and forgot about. None of this amazed us. In fact, I expected more.
There were a few mild surprises like the Easter basket, a sticky and decomposing stress ball made to look like the earth, and a movie poster for Talladega Nights. At one point she found a peanut and threw it in the trash, so I spent a while singing the song. Go ahead and sing it. I’ll wait.
…
Okay, that’s enough.
Then my brave coworker, who was down on her hands and knees, so far under the desk that I could only see her bottom half, whipped out the thing that had me in stitches for the rest of the night.
Covered in filth, barely recognizable, she slammed a small, hairy thing onto the desktop and demanded to know what the hell it was.
I turned it around in my hands and immediately started laughing. She found a beaver.
We had a hand-sized, stuffed beaver beneath our desk.
And it was so filthy! Clearly, someone was neglecting their beaver.
I started laughing like a schoolgirl and I could not stop. However, since the only other person on staff who I can count on to laugh at stupid dirty jokes with me is our director, and he was long gone for the day, it was just me, bouncing up and down in my chair, laughing about a dirty beaver being found by my coworker.
Our new security guy, Arms, walked over and I was squirming in my seat, trying to control the laugh and said, “Look! Look what she found! A beaver. A poor, neglected beaver,” and I burst into laughter.
Without missing a beat he said, “Come again?”
With that I was grabbing my guts and falling out of my chair.
I looked at him hopefully and said, “There are so many jokes! So many! And I can’t say any of them!”
He just looked at me with sympathy and nodded.
One of the high-school-aged shelvers was standing there the entire time and she said, “I don’t get it. It’s a beaver. So what?”
Arms said, “You’re too young.”
I said, “This is something you’re better off not getting.”
Arms agreed and walked away.
For the remainder of the night, whenever Arms saw me, he would grab the nearest staff member and say, “You know what they have hidden over at the Adult Reference Desk? A BEAVER!” I would bust out laughing, he would smile and walk away, and the poor, unsuspecting coworker would stand there looking irritated and ignorant.
That’s right, folks. An unfortunate librarian who had to have preceded us, lost her unloved and unused beaver. It’s been collecting dust and cobwebs, buried beneath many layers of protective stuff, only to be discovered many years later. We can’t possibly know who this beaver belongs to, but for sure I have my theories. Which I shall not share. And given that this beaver has likely spent her life unused, unloved and so far from the light of day that we feared for her stability under the fluorescents, we felt that a fitting place for her, to balance out her life, was to proudly sit upon the shelf above our desk as the Mascot of the Month. Finally, this beaver is going to be appreciated as she should have been.
And I swear, the first person who walks up to my desk and says, “Nice beaver,” will have to call 9-1-1, for I will be dead from laughter.
More Snips
Okay, people, if you haven’t been watching South Park lately, well, you probably have better taste than I do. Also, you’re missing out. Let me just say that Martha Stewart…no, I can’t say it. I’ll never look at her the same again. Did anyone else see the queef episode???
Only at my library would some moron pry the lock out of the tampon machine and rob it of its quarters. Tampons remained. This has to be the funniest crime I’ve seen in my career here. Count yourself lucky you weren’t part of my conversation with Leelu and our painful tampon puns about the string of tampon robberies, and the contemplation about whether it was a rash of crime or a yeast infection of crime. Somewhere nearby, there is a heavy pocket, weighed down with an unknown number of quarters that belong to our tampon machine, and that person made my night far more entertaining than it should have been.
I spent two weeks with a virus that caused me to have all-over aches, high fevers and debilitating headaches. Fucker. My doctor said to take Mucinex and Tylenol and hope for a quick recovery. Viruses suck. Viruses suck almost as much as malware, which kicked the ass of one of my computer’s hard drives. I switched over and used the other for a time, until Windows just simply disappeared from that drive one day and I was screwed. How sad is it in this day and age that I would prefer to have a meningitis-like virus running rampant in my body than any kind of problem with my computer? Things run now that I reformatted the malware-infected, but I’m still scared.
Yesterday I was having a conversation with my brother about global warming and he mentioned a fellow named Dyson, to which I asked, “The vacuum guy?” This was when my brother went totally off on Dyson, the Vacuum Guy. “That guy needs to die! What the fuck kind of pompous, snotty, European fucktard can’t turn his fucking vacuum like the rest of the world, so he needs to put his on a ball?! Just lift it up and pivot like everyone else, you fucking loser! Only some bald, rich, idiot would do something like that. I hate that guy!” This was when I realized I didn’t have an opinion of Dyson, the Vacuum Guy, and his vacuums did not spark any kind of cynicism in me that made me think less of him. What’s wrong with me? I’ve always been the type of person who would look at people like Dyson, the Vacuum Guy and think likewise thoughts, that the world didn’t need a vacuum with a ball, accompanied by some self-patronizing commercials pointing out how one inventor can make a fortune on his own laziness. Something is wrong with me. I’m slipping. I’m losing it. My edge is dull. I don’t even know what to do but apologize to the universe and promise to try to be more aware of the idiots I have been accepting.
Many people despise Google and all its Googley goodness, like Google Docs, Gmail, and my new, personal favorite, iGoogle. However, there are people out there like me, who are prepared to worship at the foot of Google and pledge undying allegiance. For example, I am leaving on a short, cheap vacation in a week, to visit Grand Rapids, Michigan, which is a city I knew nothing about except that they have butterflies. Upon discovering how very many people live in Grand Rapids, I realized it’s much like Rockford, Illinois, and that meant just because I found a hotel room for $40/night, does not mean I should stay there. So what did I do? First I Googled all the hotels in Grand Rapids and did rate comparisons in a Google spreadsheet. Once I found 10 hotels with rooms under $50/night, I checked out Google Maps to see where they were located, in relation to the places I plan to visit. Then I Googled the crime rates in and around Grand Rapids, to see what areas I wanted to avoid. Once I narrowed my search down to just a couple, I used Google Street View to check out the hotels and investigate their neighborhoods. Dude! How did I plan vacations before this? Not only did I find a chain hotel with all the amenities we require, it’s in a nice-looking nearby suburb, and they were having an internet special: three nights for the price of two. Google, I am yours.
I declare, I am a big, huge, geeky library nerd. Earlier in the week I asked my boss if there was any room in the budget for some pamphlet holders that would attach to our slat walls. He told me he’d see what he could do. Today, a gigantic box arrived with four beautiful acrylic pamphlet holders for me, and I nearly peed my pants with glee. I have big plans for these pamphlet holders! They are so gorgeous and perfect, though, that I’m not sure they should go out in the public. However, that is what they are for, so yes, I will use them. As Leelu was the only one who seemed to understand my ecstasy, she pointed out that it’s like Christmas, except that I got exactly what I wanted because I picked them out. And she was right! I petted them for a bit, spoke lovingly, promised to never take them for granted, and I slatted them on a display with some pamphlets that needed a home. I admired the way everything fell into place so perfectly. And I felt complete. Which is when I realized I am a big, huge, geeky library nerd. And that's...okay.
Only at my library would some moron pry the lock out of the tampon machine and rob it of its quarters. Tampons remained. This has to be the funniest crime I’ve seen in my career here. Count yourself lucky you weren’t part of my conversation with Leelu and our painful tampon puns about the string of tampon robberies, and the contemplation about whether it was a rash of crime or a yeast infection of crime. Somewhere nearby, there is a heavy pocket, weighed down with an unknown number of quarters that belong to our tampon machine, and that person made my night far more entertaining than it should have been.
I spent two weeks with a virus that caused me to have all-over aches, high fevers and debilitating headaches. Fucker. My doctor said to take Mucinex and Tylenol and hope for a quick recovery. Viruses suck. Viruses suck almost as much as malware, which kicked the ass of one of my computer’s hard drives. I switched over and used the other for a time, until Windows just simply disappeared from that drive one day and I was screwed. How sad is it in this day and age that I would prefer to have a meningitis-like virus running rampant in my body than any kind of problem with my computer? Things run now that I reformatted the malware-infected, but I’m still scared.
Yesterday I was having a conversation with my brother about global warming and he mentioned a fellow named Dyson, to which I asked, “The vacuum guy?” This was when my brother went totally off on Dyson, the Vacuum Guy. “That guy needs to die! What the fuck kind of pompous, snotty, European fucktard can’t turn his fucking vacuum like the rest of the world, so he needs to put his on a ball?! Just lift it up and pivot like everyone else, you fucking loser! Only some bald, rich, idiot would do something like that. I hate that guy!” This was when I realized I didn’t have an opinion of Dyson, the Vacuum Guy, and his vacuums did not spark any kind of cynicism in me that made me think less of him. What’s wrong with me? I’ve always been the type of person who would look at people like Dyson, the Vacuum Guy and think likewise thoughts, that the world didn’t need a vacuum with a ball, accompanied by some self-patronizing commercials pointing out how one inventor can make a fortune on his own laziness. Something is wrong with me. I’m slipping. I’m losing it. My edge is dull. I don’t even know what to do but apologize to the universe and promise to try to be more aware of the idiots I have been accepting.
Many people despise Google and all its Googley goodness, like Google Docs, Gmail, and my new, personal favorite, iGoogle. However, there are people out there like me, who are prepared to worship at the foot of Google and pledge undying allegiance. For example, I am leaving on a short, cheap vacation in a week, to visit Grand Rapids, Michigan, which is a city I knew nothing about except that they have butterflies. Upon discovering how very many people live in Grand Rapids, I realized it’s much like Rockford, Illinois, and that meant just because I found a hotel room for $40/night, does not mean I should stay there. So what did I do? First I Googled all the hotels in Grand Rapids and did rate comparisons in a Google spreadsheet. Once I found 10 hotels with rooms under $50/night, I checked out Google Maps to see where they were located, in relation to the places I plan to visit. Then I Googled the crime rates in and around Grand Rapids, to see what areas I wanted to avoid. Once I narrowed my search down to just a couple, I used Google Street View to check out the hotels and investigate their neighborhoods. Dude! How did I plan vacations before this? Not only did I find a chain hotel with all the amenities we require, it’s in a nice-looking nearby suburb, and they were having an internet special: three nights for the price of two. Google, I am yours.
I declare, I am a big, huge, geeky library nerd. Earlier in the week I asked my boss if there was any room in the budget for some pamphlet holders that would attach to our slat walls. He told me he’d see what he could do. Today, a gigantic box arrived with four beautiful acrylic pamphlet holders for me, and I nearly peed my pants with glee. I have big plans for these pamphlet holders! They are so gorgeous and perfect, though, that I’m not sure they should go out in the public. However, that is what they are for, so yes, I will use them. As Leelu was the only one who seemed to understand my ecstasy, she pointed out that it’s like Christmas, except that I got exactly what I wanted because I picked them out. And she was right! I petted them for a bit, spoke lovingly, promised to never take them for granted, and I slatted them on a display with some pamphlets that needed a home. I admired the way everything fell into place so perfectly. And I felt complete. Which is when I realized I am a big, huge, geeky library nerd. And that's...okay.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Awwwwwesome!
Eeeeeeeeeeeeeee! An Eric Carle Google! It's BEEEE-YOU-TEEEE-FUL!
I would like to make an official request of Google to let Davie Wiesner do a Google next Tuesday, complete with flying lily pads and frogs!
And then Hans de Beer!
And then Janell Cannon!
Just please no David Shannon. That's like Trilogy of Terror for kids.
I will be Googling a lot today.
I <3 Google!
I would like to make an official request of Google to let Davie Wiesner do a Google next Tuesday, complete with flying lily pads and frogs!
And then Hans de Beer!
And then Janell Cannon!
Just please no David Shannon. That's like Trilogy of Terror for kids.
I will be Googling a lot today.
I <3 Google!
Why I Will Remain Childless
She’s five years old.
I know because she likes to tell people. As if they cared.
Her mom is a slime-bag and the mere sight of her makes my stomach churn. She will bitch about anything she can think of, no matter how ridiculous, and while she’s busy telling everyone else how they are a failure at their calling in life, her daughter is gleefully vandalizing walls and climbing furniture.
And she’s one of THOSE moms who will rip you a new one if you so much as whisper to her daughter that she shouldn’t eat the plants.
A responsible adult will look at this difficult child and not hate the child, but blame the parent for neglecting doing any parenting.
I must not be a responsible adult because I hate this kid. And here’s why.
She walks up to my desk and watches me cautiously and challengingly as she rips a poster taped to my desk. There is no indication on her face that she’s startled by this or that it was an accident. Nope, quite the opposite. Her eyes get bigger and she leans in closer, watching me watching her, as I hear the poster tearing in her hands.
On another occasion, she walks over to the paperback spinners and begins spinning them so fast and so hard that I’m waiting for the sonic boom. Normal children will stop and look embarrassed if I look at them with that stern look that says “stop!” without actually uttering it. Not so for this child. Prepare to be engaged in a stare down as she violently hurls the spinner faster and faster. Books fling off, shooting in all directions, and it seems the only person unaware of the behavior is the mother, two mere feet away. The girl looks at me with intensity as she continues whirling the books, harder and harder. I know better than to discipline the child because that will bring about a whole plethora of insanity from the mother. Instead I shake my head in disgust and look away. She stops when it isn’t a battle between us anymore.
Each visit goes this way. She either follows her mother up and down the aisles, pulling a book off of every shelf and flinging it behind her on the floor, or she deviously seeks to break or maim things.
Yes, I hate the mother. Yes, I wish she’d move somewhere far away, and take with her every family member or friend she’s ever had so that there are no ties left in our area and she has no reason to return, even for a brief visit. I hate her that much.
But I have come to hate her daughter more. If I believed in Satan, I would check her head for some numbers. Maybe not 666, but probably 664 or 665. She may not be The One, but she’s not off by much.
Any kid who looks at me as she does something bad, knowing her mother won’t allow anyone to stop her, is aware of right and wrong, is using it to infuriate others, and prefers negative attention to positive. A better person than I might attempt to engage the child and entertain her for the time her mother is schlepping up and down the aisles, looking for the next trashy novel to befoul with her cigarette smoke and filth, but I am not, nor do I pretend to be, a better person. I settle for my mediocre self and grit my teeth until they leave. What if I’m busy one day and can’t entertain the imp? Would she somehow have gleaned a respect for the library because I spent her last two visits trying to talk to her and getting her to focus her destructive energy on something creative? Remember, we’re dealing with a child who is only one number off of being Satan’s spawn. If my back is turned and she thinks she has gained my trust, who knows what kind of havoc she would wreak? No, mutual dislike and distrust are key to maintaining this plateau of manageable devastation in her wake. If she ups the ante because she thinks she can, I could end up needing to call the fire department or something equally frightening.
Of course I’m aware that if I had a child, I would not allow her to act like 665 does. However, I can’t help but wonder if it’s genetic. You know? Did she inherit her mother’s absolute irreverence for other humans inhabiting the planet and a passion for picking fights where they don’t even exist? I think babies are born with certain proclivities, among them, evil. Maybe I don’t think of myself as evil, so perhaps I wouldn’t have an evil child, but 665 has reminded me that all my flaws concentrated into a tiny human would be too much for me to handle, and I don’t think I could unleash that on the world.
Maybe 665’s mother should have thought about that, too.
Until then, I will have to invest in a mouth-guard to protect my teeth from obliteration during their weekly visits.
And I’ll spend all my energy fighting off would-be fertilizers from coming anywhere near my single remaining ovary. A fight to the death, if need be. She will be my inspiration to remain childless. I will bellow with all my air, “SIX-SIX-FIIIIIIIIVE!” from the darkened bedroom on snuggly nights, or the steamy bathroom after a hot shower, or curiously-lit kitchen while stealing down for a midnight snack, or wherever the mood happens to strike.
Six. Six. Five. May I be forever barren.
I know because she likes to tell people. As if they cared.
Her mom is a slime-bag and the mere sight of her makes my stomach churn. She will bitch about anything she can think of, no matter how ridiculous, and while she’s busy telling everyone else how they are a failure at their calling in life, her daughter is gleefully vandalizing walls and climbing furniture.
And she’s one of THOSE moms who will rip you a new one if you so much as whisper to her daughter that she shouldn’t eat the plants.
A responsible adult will look at this difficult child and not hate the child, but blame the parent for neglecting doing any parenting.
I must not be a responsible adult because I hate this kid. And here’s why.
She walks up to my desk and watches me cautiously and challengingly as she rips a poster taped to my desk. There is no indication on her face that she’s startled by this or that it was an accident. Nope, quite the opposite. Her eyes get bigger and she leans in closer, watching me watching her, as I hear the poster tearing in her hands.
On another occasion, she walks over to the paperback spinners and begins spinning them so fast and so hard that I’m waiting for the sonic boom. Normal children will stop and look embarrassed if I look at them with that stern look that says “stop!” without actually uttering it. Not so for this child. Prepare to be engaged in a stare down as she violently hurls the spinner faster and faster. Books fling off, shooting in all directions, and it seems the only person unaware of the behavior is the mother, two mere feet away. The girl looks at me with intensity as she continues whirling the books, harder and harder. I know better than to discipline the child because that will bring about a whole plethora of insanity from the mother. Instead I shake my head in disgust and look away. She stops when it isn’t a battle between us anymore.
Each visit goes this way. She either follows her mother up and down the aisles, pulling a book off of every shelf and flinging it behind her on the floor, or she deviously seeks to break or maim things.
Yes, I hate the mother. Yes, I wish she’d move somewhere far away, and take with her every family member or friend she’s ever had so that there are no ties left in our area and she has no reason to return, even for a brief visit. I hate her that much.
But I have come to hate her daughter more. If I believed in Satan, I would check her head for some numbers. Maybe not 666, but probably 664 or 665. She may not be The One, but she’s not off by much.
Any kid who looks at me as she does something bad, knowing her mother won’t allow anyone to stop her, is aware of right and wrong, is using it to infuriate others, and prefers negative attention to positive. A better person than I might attempt to engage the child and entertain her for the time her mother is schlepping up and down the aisles, looking for the next trashy novel to befoul with her cigarette smoke and filth, but I am not, nor do I pretend to be, a better person. I settle for my mediocre self and grit my teeth until they leave. What if I’m busy one day and can’t entertain the imp? Would she somehow have gleaned a respect for the library because I spent her last two visits trying to talk to her and getting her to focus her destructive energy on something creative? Remember, we’re dealing with a child who is only one number off of being Satan’s spawn. If my back is turned and she thinks she has gained my trust, who knows what kind of havoc she would wreak? No, mutual dislike and distrust are key to maintaining this plateau of manageable devastation in her wake. If she ups the ante because she thinks she can, I could end up needing to call the fire department or something equally frightening.
Of course I’m aware that if I had a child, I would not allow her to act like 665 does. However, I can’t help but wonder if it’s genetic. You know? Did she inherit her mother’s absolute irreverence for other humans inhabiting the planet and a passion for picking fights where they don’t even exist? I think babies are born with certain proclivities, among them, evil. Maybe I don’t think of myself as evil, so perhaps I wouldn’t have an evil child, but 665 has reminded me that all my flaws concentrated into a tiny human would be too much for me to handle, and I don’t think I could unleash that on the world.
Maybe 665’s mother should have thought about that, too.
Until then, I will have to invest in a mouth-guard to protect my teeth from obliteration during their weekly visits.
And I’ll spend all my energy fighting off would-be fertilizers from coming anywhere near my single remaining ovary. A fight to the death, if need be. She will be my inspiration to remain childless. I will bellow with all my air, “SIX-SIX-FIIIIIIIIVE!” from the darkened bedroom on snuggly nights, or the steamy bathroom after a hot shower, or curiously-lit kitchen while stealing down for a midnight snack, or wherever the mood happens to strike.
Six. Six. Five. May I be forever barren.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Celebration
Something vaguely heartbreaking that I’ve learned these recent years is that as you get older, birthdays stop being special and turn into thorny experiences we must survive in order to carry on. Yet, for some reason, we still hope for more.
For Ann’s 27th birthday, we planned an entire day out to celebrate. First we were to hit the mall for Build-A-Bear, some shopping, and a cheap fast-food lunch at the food court. And second, a fun Irish bar nearby for birthday and St. Patrick’s Day drinks.
We drove to the mall together on Sunday afternoon, eager to begin our adventures. The weather was nice, our spirits were up, and we were all expectantly jazzed about what the day held for us.
Each of us was a Build-A-Bear virgin and it took a little of coaxing from the employees to move us along the bear-building process, as we were just standing there holding these limp bear bodies and looking around self-consciously. Marina chose a scruffy dog, Ann chose a fluffy lamb, I chose a black bear cub, and Christi begged out of the experience. Her reasoning was astute. She knew that if she brought home a new stuffed animal that she helped make, she’d pay more attention to it than her other stuffed animals, and in order to keep the others from growing jealous, she’d have to spend equal amounts of time with them, and frankly, she didn’t have enough individual time to spend with all her stuffed animals. We all nodded and accepted this as a reasonable excuse not to participate.
Typical of Ann, she gave her lamb a roar, which is quite funny if you don’t know her well, but fairly classic if you do. Marina had her heart on giving her dog a beefeater uniform, which they didn’t have, and I too was disappointed not to find the RCMP uniform for my bear, so we decided to get naked stuffed animals and order clothes for them online. We left feeling quite proud of our new pets and spent the rest of the afternoon doting on them.
Cheap fast-food isn’t so cheap anymore. A loaded baked potato and a drink cost me $7. What a ripoff.
The mall had little we were interested in other than the bookstore, which we attacked with vigor, all the while scolding ourselves for not ordering books through work at a discount.
There is something magical about a bookstore. Each and every tome, no matter the subject or author, seems to have a stronger gravitational pull than the exact same copy at the library. There’s just something delectable and decadent about buying a book for myself. The heft of it, the feel of the glossy cover, the smell of the ink on paper, and the illusion that this book has not touched a human hand other than my own, and it picked me as surely as every dog in a shelter would. It’s undeniable that bookstores are like whorehouses for book-lovers. I buy books and don’t even read half of them, but the privilege of being able to buy it, to own something so spectacular, so promising, it’s an irresistible draw. Bookstore books call to me like sirens, and I seldom escape without a purchase. But knowing I own that book is a tiny bit of pride. In future conversations, people will discuss this book and I will try not to sound as smug as I feel when I point out that I own this particular book before I go on to share lesser shards of information, such as my opinion of the book. Books, to me, still have regal bearing.
Whereas only 3 out of 4 of us participated in building a bear, each one of us bought a book at the bookstore. And we loved and doted on our books just as much as our bears.
By 5:00, the mall was emptying and we grew restless for our alcoholic beverages. Off to the Irish bar we went.
I was the only one of us who had been to this bar before, and though it had been many years, I had very fond memories. It had been packed with like-aged folks ordering pitchers of beer while playing darts or pool, or singing along merrily with the fellow on guitar, belting out dirty limericks from a small stage. Impossible not to have fun. Or so it seemed.
Fast forward to Sunday, many years later, and the four of us had a much different experience.
Illinois passed a law making it illegal to smoke in a public building. Now, I know many smokers are furious about it, but for non-smokers like myself, bars and restaurants are actually places I can go again, without having to leave after 45 minutes from the pollution. While this does make many places more inviting, this was not the case at our Irish bar.
It reeked of old cigarette smoke and mold. Or was that mildew? Probably both. Without the actual smoke to blame, you could feel the dinginess of the building without touching a thing. There were maybe five other visitors to the bar, all guys, all watching the television at the bar. The stage was empty, the tables were empty, the dart boards barren, and the entire place seemed to be illuminated by the sickly color of neon beer signs. All of the kitschy Irish décor plastered over almost every inch of the walls seemed less of a tribute and more of a lonely and desperate cry for remembrance. The whole bar felt dismal.
We chose a table in the back.
Picture, if you will, four young-ish librarians, fresh off of making their own stuffed animals, carrying loudly-colored gift bags for the birthday girl, excited and happy to be in one another’s company, and contrast that with the dull, dispassionate faces of middle-aged men, hunched over their beers at a sad bar on a Sunday afternoon.
We’re lucky they didn’t kick us out for being too cheery.
Before we could determine if we should go to the bar for drinks or if someone would come to us, we were greeted by the bartender who will go down in history as the most miserable bartender in the history of our bar experiences.
First impression: a 28-year-old woman trying to look like she’s 12. From the bleached blonde hair pulled tightly back in a pony tail, to the blue eye shadow and mascara, she looked like someone whose mother had died before her daughter hit puberty, and everything this girl learned about looking like a woman, she learned from the wrong sources. Her jeans were way too tight, the heels on her boots were way too high, and the fake fur stole broke its promise of lending the wearer some class. When she spoke, her very strong Eastern European accent came through, and it was a struggle to understand her. The irony was not lost, of sitting in an Irish bar, being served by a Slavic immigrant just as down-and-out as some of the folks in the photographs on the walls, who had immigrated to the US 150 years ago. We were submerged in the modern result of a lineage of broken dreams and smiles left behind in a forgotten youth in the motherland, so far away.
Ann ordered an amaretto sour, Marina a white Russian, me a Coke, and Christi asked our hostess if she could recommend something.
The woman, with eyes as cold and unblinking as a dead fish, simply said, “No.”
We all looked away uncomfortably, and Christi said, “Ooooh-kaaaaaay, I’ll just have an amaretto sour, too, then.”
The rest of the evening went on like this, with our perky selves giggling and opening presents, and a dour bartender bringing us drinks. Each visit by her brought the mood down for a bit, as we all felt the cloud of melancholy loom near us before dissipating, though not entirely, like the smoke from the cigarettes long-ago banned.
At one point Christi and Ann noticed that our gloomy bartender was joined at the bar by a woman who had to have been an older relative. Mother? Aunt? Madam? Who knows. She had the same bleached hair, bad make-up, inappropriate dress, and a look that said she had seen better days, perhaps in a past life. Yet, she had a chihuahua in her purse, which seemed almost too pleasant a thing for her to have. It was distracting. The dog did not belong.
The atmosphere of the Irish bar was enough to bring us all down a few pegs, and before we knew it, we were exhausted and ready to go home.
It wasn’t even dark outside.
We drove home and parted ways. Hopefully Ann had a good time, despite the dreariness at the end of our day together.
Perhaps we should stick to stuffed animals and books from now on.
For Ann’s 27th birthday, we planned an entire day out to celebrate. First we were to hit the mall for Build-A-Bear, some shopping, and a cheap fast-food lunch at the food court. And second, a fun Irish bar nearby for birthday and St. Patrick’s Day drinks.
We drove to the mall together on Sunday afternoon, eager to begin our adventures. The weather was nice, our spirits were up, and we were all expectantly jazzed about what the day held for us.
Each of us was a Build-A-Bear virgin and it took a little of coaxing from the employees to move us along the bear-building process, as we were just standing there holding these limp bear bodies and looking around self-consciously. Marina chose a scruffy dog, Ann chose a fluffy lamb, I chose a black bear cub, and Christi begged out of the experience. Her reasoning was astute. She knew that if she brought home a new stuffed animal that she helped make, she’d pay more attention to it than her other stuffed animals, and in order to keep the others from growing jealous, she’d have to spend equal amounts of time with them, and frankly, she didn’t have enough individual time to spend with all her stuffed animals. We all nodded and accepted this as a reasonable excuse not to participate.
Typical of Ann, she gave her lamb a roar, which is quite funny if you don’t know her well, but fairly classic if you do. Marina had her heart on giving her dog a beefeater uniform, which they didn’t have, and I too was disappointed not to find the RCMP uniform for my bear, so we decided to get naked stuffed animals and order clothes for them online. We left feeling quite proud of our new pets and spent the rest of the afternoon doting on them.
Cheap fast-food isn’t so cheap anymore. A loaded baked potato and a drink cost me $7. What a ripoff.
The mall had little we were interested in other than the bookstore, which we attacked with vigor, all the while scolding ourselves for not ordering books through work at a discount.
There is something magical about a bookstore. Each and every tome, no matter the subject or author, seems to have a stronger gravitational pull than the exact same copy at the library. There’s just something delectable and decadent about buying a book for myself. The heft of it, the feel of the glossy cover, the smell of the ink on paper, and the illusion that this book has not touched a human hand other than my own, and it picked me as surely as every dog in a shelter would. It’s undeniable that bookstores are like whorehouses for book-lovers. I buy books and don’t even read half of them, but the privilege of being able to buy it, to own something so spectacular, so promising, it’s an irresistible draw. Bookstore books call to me like sirens, and I seldom escape without a purchase. But knowing I own that book is a tiny bit of pride. In future conversations, people will discuss this book and I will try not to sound as smug as I feel when I point out that I own this particular book before I go on to share lesser shards of information, such as my opinion of the book. Books, to me, still have regal bearing.
Whereas only 3 out of 4 of us participated in building a bear, each one of us bought a book at the bookstore. And we loved and doted on our books just as much as our bears.
By 5:00, the mall was emptying and we grew restless for our alcoholic beverages. Off to the Irish bar we went.
I was the only one of us who had been to this bar before, and though it had been many years, I had very fond memories. It had been packed with like-aged folks ordering pitchers of beer while playing darts or pool, or singing along merrily with the fellow on guitar, belting out dirty limericks from a small stage. Impossible not to have fun. Or so it seemed.
Fast forward to Sunday, many years later, and the four of us had a much different experience.
Illinois passed a law making it illegal to smoke in a public building. Now, I know many smokers are furious about it, but for non-smokers like myself, bars and restaurants are actually places I can go again, without having to leave after 45 minutes from the pollution. While this does make many places more inviting, this was not the case at our Irish bar.
It reeked of old cigarette smoke and mold. Or was that mildew? Probably both. Without the actual smoke to blame, you could feel the dinginess of the building without touching a thing. There were maybe five other visitors to the bar, all guys, all watching the television at the bar. The stage was empty, the tables were empty, the dart boards barren, and the entire place seemed to be illuminated by the sickly color of neon beer signs. All of the kitschy Irish décor plastered over almost every inch of the walls seemed less of a tribute and more of a lonely and desperate cry for remembrance. The whole bar felt dismal.
We chose a table in the back.
Picture, if you will, four young-ish librarians, fresh off of making their own stuffed animals, carrying loudly-colored gift bags for the birthday girl, excited and happy to be in one another’s company, and contrast that with the dull, dispassionate faces of middle-aged men, hunched over their beers at a sad bar on a Sunday afternoon.
We’re lucky they didn’t kick us out for being too cheery.
Before we could determine if we should go to the bar for drinks or if someone would come to us, we were greeted by the bartender who will go down in history as the most miserable bartender in the history of our bar experiences.
First impression: a 28-year-old woman trying to look like she’s 12. From the bleached blonde hair pulled tightly back in a pony tail, to the blue eye shadow and mascara, she looked like someone whose mother had died before her daughter hit puberty, and everything this girl learned about looking like a woman, she learned from the wrong sources. Her jeans were way too tight, the heels on her boots were way too high, and the fake fur stole broke its promise of lending the wearer some class. When she spoke, her very strong Eastern European accent came through, and it was a struggle to understand her. The irony was not lost, of sitting in an Irish bar, being served by a Slavic immigrant just as down-and-out as some of the folks in the photographs on the walls, who had immigrated to the US 150 years ago. We were submerged in the modern result of a lineage of broken dreams and smiles left behind in a forgotten youth in the motherland, so far away.
Ann ordered an amaretto sour, Marina a white Russian, me a Coke, and Christi asked our hostess if she could recommend something.
The woman, with eyes as cold and unblinking as a dead fish, simply said, “No.”
We all looked away uncomfortably, and Christi said, “Ooooh-kaaaaaay, I’ll just have an amaretto sour, too, then.”
The rest of the evening went on like this, with our perky selves giggling and opening presents, and a dour bartender bringing us drinks. Each visit by her brought the mood down for a bit, as we all felt the cloud of melancholy loom near us before dissipating, though not entirely, like the smoke from the cigarettes long-ago banned.
At one point Christi and Ann noticed that our gloomy bartender was joined at the bar by a woman who had to have been an older relative. Mother? Aunt? Madam? Who knows. She had the same bleached hair, bad make-up, inappropriate dress, and a look that said she had seen better days, perhaps in a past life. Yet, she had a chihuahua in her purse, which seemed almost too pleasant a thing for her to have. It was distracting. The dog did not belong.
The atmosphere of the Irish bar was enough to bring us all down a few pegs, and before we knew it, we were exhausted and ready to go home.
It wasn’t even dark outside.
We drove home and parted ways. Hopefully Ann had a good time, despite the dreariness at the end of our day together.
Perhaps we should stick to stuffed animals and books from now on.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
When You're a Tree Hugger...
Sometimes the trees hug you back.
I took this shot this weekend at a State Park, while watching some deer munching in the background.
I'd so much rather be stomping in the woods on a warm winter day than just about anything else.
I took this shot this weekend at a State Park, while watching some deer munching in the background.
I'd so much rather be stomping in the woods on a warm winter day than just about anything else.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Questions
Why is it so pathetically amusing to me when I see someone with a band-aid on her face? Our faces are so visible, somewhat fragile, wholly us, and yet, if a woman slaps a band-aid (not a bandage) over her cheek, I will expend all my effort trying not to let my face make that look that says OMG-WTF-Loser! And, of course, I laugh when the person is out of sight. It makes little sense to me, but it is something I’ll never overcome. No band-aids on the face.
What do you do when, right before your eyes, a patron signs his own name and then forges a signature of someone else on a document, and then asks you to fax it? AND, what if you happen to see that it is a power of attorney document that you are faxing to an attorney? I did nothing, but it bothers me. Part of me thinks that documents like that should be notarized, but if the person you need power of attorney over is non-ambulatory, then what? The whole thing reeks. And now, when he comes into the library, I think he’s scummy and don’t give him any genuine smiles or laughs. Not much of a punishment for forgery, but it’s all I got.
Why don’t they write rock songs that about having a bood-sucking mother? If Theory of a Deadman could edit this song and add that little complaint to their long list, it would be my new theme song. I had a particularly bad week this week and found myself humming this song on numerous occasions. Every time someone pissed me off, which was fairly constant, my brain would sing to me, “So if you're pissed like me/Bitches, here's what you gotta do/Put your middle fingers up in the air/Go on and say ‘Fuck you!’” Let me tell you, I sat quietly at my desk a number of times, fists balled up in my lap with one finger protruding in passionate defiance. At home, that finger came flying up each time my mom’s back was turned. It’s gotten a lot of use this week.
Why is nothing ever as good as it is in the salon? I visited Megan recently for another haircut (with the secondary intention of mentioning many times that I have a boyfriend and am not in love with her) and she used a new product on my hair that smelled so good, I spent the day trying to sniff my hair as often as possible. I already use the expensive salon shampoo she uses, so when she added this mousse, I thought I could get my hair to smell like that all the time if I just use that mousse as well. So not the case. $20 and 10 days later, my mousse arrived, but it doesn’t have the same intoxicating smell as it did in the salon. So if you see me sniffing my hair and frowning, this is why.
How is it the South Park guys get away with what they do? Tonight I watched an episode about the Jonas Brothers and I laughed so hard I almost threw up. It was so crass and so hilarious, and yet so poignant, as always. Part of me is amazed this is on television and the other part thinks they should be sweeping the Emmys. Did anyone else see that episode? I’d just had a conversation with my brother about how they can’t shock us when they make movies anymore, and then I watched little a girl pull down her pants and hump the arm of the chair while watching the Jonas boys perform, later to be outdone by another concert scene where…never mind. I can’t even say. GO WATCH IT!
Why am I still awake? It’s 1 a.m. and I have an 8-hour all-staff meeting at work tomorrow, where I will need a decent night of sleep behind me to keep from dozing off in the world’s most uncomfortable chairs. This is punishment, surely, but I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve it.
What do you do when, right before your eyes, a patron signs his own name and then forges a signature of someone else on a document, and then asks you to fax it? AND, what if you happen to see that it is a power of attorney document that you are faxing to an attorney? I did nothing, but it bothers me. Part of me thinks that documents like that should be notarized, but if the person you need power of attorney over is non-ambulatory, then what? The whole thing reeks. And now, when he comes into the library, I think he’s scummy and don’t give him any genuine smiles or laughs. Not much of a punishment for forgery, but it’s all I got.
Why don’t they write rock songs that about having a bood-sucking mother? If Theory of a Deadman could edit this song and add that little complaint to their long list, it would be my new theme song. I had a particularly bad week this week and found myself humming this song on numerous occasions. Every time someone pissed me off, which was fairly constant, my brain would sing to me, “So if you're pissed like me/Bitches, here's what you gotta do/Put your middle fingers up in the air/Go on and say ‘Fuck you!’” Let me tell you, I sat quietly at my desk a number of times, fists balled up in my lap with one finger protruding in passionate defiance. At home, that finger came flying up each time my mom’s back was turned. It’s gotten a lot of use this week.
Why is nothing ever as good as it is in the salon? I visited Megan recently for another haircut (with the secondary intention of mentioning many times that I have a boyfriend and am not in love with her) and she used a new product on my hair that smelled so good, I spent the day trying to sniff my hair as often as possible. I already use the expensive salon shampoo she uses, so when she added this mousse, I thought I could get my hair to smell like that all the time if I just use that mousse as well. So not the case. $20 and 10 days later, my mousse arrived, but it doesn’t have the same intoxicating smell as it did in the salon. So if you see me sniffing my hair and frowning, this is why.
How is it the South Park guys get away with what they do? Tonight I watched an episode about the Jonas Brothers and I laughed so hard I almost threw up. It was so crass and so hilarious, and yet so poignant, as always. Part of me is amazed this is on television and the other part thinks they should be sweeping the Emmys. Did anyone else see that episode? I’d just had a conversation with my brother about how they can’t shock us when they make movies anymore, and then I watched little a girl pull down her pants and hump the arm of the chair while watching the Jonas boys perform, later to be outdone by another concert scene where…never mind. I can’t even say. GO WATCH IT!
Why am I still awake? It’s 1 a.m. and I have an 8-hour all-staff meeting at work tomorrow, where I will need a decent night of sleep behind me to keep from dozing off in the world’s most uncomfortable chairs. This is punishment, surely, but I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve it.
Friday, March 6, 2009
Snippits
It’s all I have time for.
Last week was my birthday and no one ruined it for the first time in many years. I don’t ask for much, just don’t make me cry on my birthday. It’s been a long time since my boyfriend, friends and family could accomplish this, and I’m thinking this was a total fluke, which I am very grateful for.
Boyfriend Extraordinaire sent me a package of stuff to grow my own cucumbers. I should probably mention that I have been making my own pickles. For eating. Get your heads out of the gutter. Or leave them there. Keep me company.
Briana and I are building a new website for our library from the ground up. A year ago I was offered this job with a raise, and I turned it down. Here I am a year later, doing it for nothing more than my usual pay. Feel free to call me an idiot.
At least I have cucumbers.
I bought a slow-cooker. It’s really great to defrost meat overnight and spend my mornings chopping vegetables so they can cook for 9 hours. Are my slow-cooked stews any better than those I make on the stovetop in a fraction of the time? Um, no, definitely not. Am I going to stop slow-cooking everything I possibly can anytime soon? Uh, no, I don’t think so.
Our new director hired two new security guards at our library and they are both totally hot. I haven’t seen this much blushing or heard this much giggling in our building since…ever. Mini-meetings are held to discuss how nice the arms of one looks or how much we support the idea of forcing them to wear tighter pants. We have to be very careful because it would be quite embarrassing for a bunch of librarians to be busted for sexually harassing the handsome, younger men on staff.
At least I have cucumbers.
Ann’s birthday is coming up and we’re going to Build-A-Bear to celebrate, which is going to be a nightmare because we will want to be quite silly and yet serious about building our bears, and surely the place will be overrun with misbehaved, irritating children. That’s the problem with being single, childless librarians: we like the kids’ stuff, but don’t like the kids so much. Alcohol will follow, and that’s going to have to get us through.
Tonight one of our maintenance guys found a copy of Maxim magazine in the men’s washroom. It wasn’t our copy. Someone actually bought this copy, brought it into the library’s washroom, and left it behind. Hopefully he finished his business with the magazine or else he went home tonight and was gravely disappointed to find that he had only his imagination to get him through. So sad.
At least I have cucumbers.
Last week was my birthday and no one ruined it for the first time in many years. I don’t ask for much, just don’t make me cry on my birthday. It’s been a long time since my boyfriend, friends and family could accomplish this, and I’m thinking this was a total fluke, which I am very grateful for.
Boyfriend Extraordinaire sent me a package of stuff to grow my own cucumbers. I should probably mention that I have been making my own pickles. For eating. Get your heads out of the gutter. Or leave them there. Keep me company.
Briana and I are building a new website for our library from the ground up. A year ago I was offered this job with a raise, and I turned it down. Here I am a year later, doing it for nothing more than my usual pay. Feel free to call me an idiot.
At least I have cucumbers.
I bought a slow-cooker. It’s really great to defrost meat overnight and spend my mornings chopping vegetables so they can cook for 9 hours. Are my slow-cooked stews any better than those I make on the stovetop in a fraction of the time? Um, no, definitely not. Am I going to stop slow-cooking everything I possibly can anytime soon? Uh, no, I don’t think so.
Our new director hired two new security guards at our library and they are both totally hot. I haven’t seen this much blushing or heard this much giggling in our building since…ever. Mini-meetings are held to discuss how nice the arms of one looks or how much we support the idea of forcing them to wear tighter pants. We have to be very careful because it would be quite embarrassing for a bunch of librarians to be busted for sexually harassing the handsome, younger men on staff.
At least I have cucumbers.
Ann’s birthday is coming up and we’re going to Build-A-Bear to celebrate, which is going to be a nightmare because we will want to be quite silly and yet serious about building our bears, and surely the place will be overrun with misbehaved, irritating children. That’s the problem with being single, childless librarians: we like the kids’ stuff, but don’t like the kids so much. Alcohol will follow, and that’s going to have to get us through.
Tonight one of our maintenance guys found a copy of Maxim magazine in the men’s washroom. It wasn’t our copy. Someone actually bought this copy, brought it into the library’s washroom, and left it behind. Hopefully he finished his business with the magazine or else he went home tonight and was gravely disappointed to find that he had only his imagination to get him through. So sad.
At least I have cucumbers.
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