It's been one of THOSE weekends.
It began on Saturday morning with a man who reeked so badly that I thought I'd pass out from oxygen deprivation before I finished helping him. He was looking for a repair manual for his old snowmobile, which he'd asked someone at the reference desk to interlibrary-loan about two months ago, and he thought we would still have it waiting for him.
Me: Um, no, we can't keep another library's book indefinitely. We have to return it to them if you don't pick it up in a week.
Dork: Oh. Well they told me it would be waiting for me.
Me: It was. For a week. And then we had to send it back when you didn't pick it up. I can try to order it again for you, if you'd like.
Dork: But I need it right now.
Me: Well, we don't have it here, but I can look it up and see what library nearby has it in.
Dork: Okay.
Me: Ah, it looks like [Neighboring] Library has it on the shelf, if you want to drive over there and get it.
Dork: All the way to [Neighboring] Library?
Me: Yeah. It's about 10 miles away.
Dork: Can someone meet me halfway?
Me: *blink* [pause] You mean...you want someone from that library to meet you somewhere and deliver it?
Dork: Yeah.
Me: *blink* [pause] No, they don't do that.
Dork: So I have to drive all the way over there for this book?
Me: If you want it right now, yes, that's your only option.
Dork: Damn, I don't want to drive over there.
Me: Then I could order it for you again, but it will be a bit before we would get it.
Dork: How long?
Me: Maybe by the end of the week, given that it's the weekend and it has to come from outside of our system.
Dork: But they're only 10 miles away!
Me: I know, but there's a process, and we're lucky that they're close enough to be on the pickup route, otherwise we'd have to wait for it to arrive in the mail, so aside from GOING THERE YOURSELF, this is the way it has to go.
Dork: Okay, never mind then.
Me: Soooooo, you don't want me to order it for you?
Dork: No, that's okay. I'll try to get over there sometime.
Uh-huh. In the next month or so. Even though you said you need it today.
Though we were sitting next to one another, I opted to be discreet and IM'd Marina to ask if it was just me, or was it totally nuts to ask someone to meet him halfway with a book he wanted? She agreed he was delusional and was glad he was gone.
Almost immediately afterward, a very scary looking man-woman, who also smelled like old sewage on an searing summer day, asked me for something weird.
Woman: I need books on subliminal stuff. And self help. On tape or CD or video. No books.
Me: Uh, what kind of self help? And information on subliminal messages, like how they do it, or like self help tapes that deliver subliminal messages?
Woman: Yeah.
Me: But, what kind of self help? Inspirational? Motivational? Kick a habit? What kind of self help?
Woman: Yeah.
Sometimes you get a patron and just know that you've pried as much intelligence out of them as you're going to get. There is no more. You've hit the bottom of the well and must make do with what they've given you.
I gave her Tony Robbins. She seemed happy.
When I got back to the desk, I informed Marina that she had to take the remaining freaks for the rest of the day, to which she nodded and said she deserved them, given what I'd already dealt with.
As if the Forces of the Universe heard this, two women, probably in their late 20s, approached the desk. One came to me, one went to Marina. The one who came to me wanted to start reading again after not reading anything at all since high school, and she wanted me to recommend something she could read. When I asked what she was interested in, she said anything. When I asked what she'd read in the past that she liked, she said nothing. I asked for some kind of hint as to what she might like to read, she said she didn't know. So, I started throwing genres out to her and she eventually said she was interested in mysteries and crime novels. My immediate reaction was to say, "Oh, the Kay Scarpetta books are good," but then I realized I was looking at someone who probably was reading at a 5th grade level, and even if she made it through high school, her aversion to reading made me think she probably cheated and bullshitted her way to a diploma and hadn't read a book since The Outsiders, if not something by Judy Blume. So, I made the obvious recommendation.
"You might like James Patterson. I'll show you where those books are."
The woman who went to Marina was a little more informed, but she was talking as loud as her voice would go, and I cringed at the abuse my eardrums were taking. Marina blinked, as if the volume came out in wind and was drying out her eyes. The non-reader friend I had been helping yelled at her to shut the hell up, demanded to know what was wrong with her, and didn't she feel stupid for talking so loudly in a library. She swore they weren't together and smiled. Momentarily, she was redeemed. Momentarily.
And so it went for the remainder of the day. We'd hit a lull and get to talk about how health insurance rapes its clients, or recipes that get us excited, or ideas for future displays, and then the next freak would come to us.
There was always a next freak.
Toward the end of the afternoon, when we both had sprained our eyeballs from rolling them all day, a middle-aged woman came in and required me to show her no fewer than eight times how to copy and paste an email address from an online ad to the email she was composing. By the third time it became a script. By the seventh time, the woman across from her had memorized the script and mouthed the words I spoke: "Highlight the email address. Now click Edit, then Copy...."
The only thing worse than someone asking the same question over and over, is asking the question over and over, and belittling yourself in the process.
She'd say repeatedly, "I know I just asked you this, but I'm REALLY STUPID -- I'm sorry. Like, even my own family has given up on me! Can you show me again?" Twice she used the heel of her hand and slammed it into her head, telling everyone she was dumb.
When they do this, the self denigration, it says to me that they are looking for coddling and fishing for me to tell them they are in fact NOT stupid, and EVERYONE asks this question 100 times before they get it, so they are right on track with the rest of the human race and they should not feel badly for not getting it.
It's easy enough to say this. They're just words. It doesn't cause me any pain to utter them.
Yet, I cannot. I feel I'm in the business of providing people as much information as I can, as accurately as I can, and lying about this would be against some imagined code of ethics I hold myself to.
Or I'm just a bitch.
Usually, my answer is something about how we thrive on questions because it gives us job security. This is also what I say when people can't navigate the printing software, or when they wonder why Dewey is so complicated. I say that we do it intentionally to secure our positions, or to confuse everyone just so they'll talk to us to keep us from being lonely. That's the best I can do. I'm not going to pat them on the head and tell them they're not the mutants they fear they might be. They're being introspective and feel self aware of their shortcomings, and I'm certainly not going to tell them they're wonderful, dandy people when the self awareness might actually cause them to improve the situation. Nope. I'm-a-gonna smile and tell them they give me job security.
Today was no different except that I didn't have Marina to split the freaks with.
Our job applicant from the other day was in and wanted books on guns -- on collecting, identifying and studying guns.
Help.
Sometimes I would like to be able to decline to answer questions. His creepy obsession that I mentioned was with serial killers and mass murderers, and on a previous visit he had requested books on designing costumes to look like official uniforms. With a big and hopeful smile, I asked him if he was making a costume for a costume party, and he said no. My only relief is that I know his face and if I saw him dressed as a policeman, I would not let him in my house, and I might let my dog eat his crotch off.
Thankfully Arms was in and he chased many of the freaks away from my desk today. Though he's not normal by my standards, he is a freak repellent on steroids, and that makes my job much easier.
When I got home from work, I was greeted with my energetic dog and my hungry brother, both milling about the kitchen aimlessly.
Bro: The dog locked himself in the bathroom again today. He was probably only in there a few minutes, but he was totally panicked.
Me: I don't get how he does this. He pushes the door open, but he closes it behind himself? How is that happening? And why?
Bro: Who knows with him! It's like that Fail Blog thing with the woman who thought she was locked in her car. Did you catch that one?
Me: No. Do tell.
Bro: It was a recording from OnStar or one of those types of services, and this woman called in a panic and said she'd gotten in her car without her keys, and the doors were locked. She couldn't get out of her car now to get the keys. The OnStar person asked if she had tried to open the door and the woman yelled that she had and couldn't get out. Then they were like, uh, why don't you try pushing the button thing and unlocking the door manually, so she did and she got the door open, and was screaming how thankful she was that they saved her. Oh my god, it was scary how stupid this woman was.
Me: Wow, that's a lot of stupid.
Bro: There's a whole lot of it going on there. First there's the panic--
Me: Which makes us all stupid.
Bro: Yeah, and she obviously had to have been born pretty stupid, too. Then you add that she's probably young and has always had the remote button unlock on the keys and has no idea that the car doors have the buttons to lock and unlock, and it's like all this stupid came together to create a Perfect Storm of stupidity.
Me: HAHAHAHA! YES! Like genetic stupid, plus environmental stupid, plus panic stupid, equals the Triumvirate of Stupid!
Bro: HAHA, the Holy Trinity of Stupid!
Me: And thank god for OnStar who had to save this woman from this Holy Trinity of Stupidity! Imagine if they hadn't. She'd have died slowly of starvation, trapped in her locked car.
Bro: OH SHIT, that might have been a favor to mankind.
Me: Yeah, you're right. Damn OnStar could've increased the collective IQ of the human race right there, but no, they couldn't do the right thing.
Bro: More stupid.
Me: Sheesh.
So, despite having one of THOSE weekends, at least I don't work at OnStar and have the fate of humanity's IQ on my shoulders.
Then again, I found Job-Applicant-Guy a book on guns. Maybe he'll just mass-murder the stupid people he hates so much. Dude, I hope the thinks I'm bright. I'm going to have to start wearing my glasses again.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Séances
From: Happy Villain
To: Bro
Subject: Author Visit
I know I'm a liberry-ian and all, but I'm having a brain fart. We have a budget of $8 [typo] to have an author come to our library for a visit and we're supposed to make suggestions, to be voted upon by the patrons, and I can't come up with anyone good. Can you think of an author (seriously, anyone) who would be cool to have come to this area? Anyone you'd like to see? They're tossing around names like Dan Brown, Neil Gaiman, Janet Evanovich, etc. All bestselling authors. Think of anybody, let me know.
From: Bro
To: Happy Villain
Subject: Re: Author Visit
8 WHOLE DOLLARS! Damn library must be selling drugs out the back door or something. With that you can buy an ouija board and have any of the dead authors speak there. Well, that is if you have anything left in the budget for candles. The creepy teens will just appear though. You don't have to buy those.
When I got home, we continued the conversation.
Me: That was hilarious. We SHOULD do an author séance and save the money!
Bro: So many more authors to choose from! And you could do a bunch. Make it a series.
Me: And I’m sure we have the requisite amount of emo kids to make it look legit. Wait! Are you a real emo kid or an impostor with your hair all covering your face like that? There’s something off about you!
Bro: C’mere! Is that hair, or is that a wig!? WAIT A MINUTE! That’s a MOP! We won’t take any fake emo kids at our séance!
Me: We’d only be able to communicate with fake authors then! Who would the Milli Vanilli of dead authors be?
Bro: Hmmm, I don’t know. That is why you cannot have any fake emo kids.
And thus, another important discussion in my family goes the way of complete delirium. We blame it on my mom’s mental health issues and what that’s done to us.
To: Bro
Subject: Author Visit
I know I'm a liberry-ian and all, but I'm having a brain fart. We have a budget of $8 [typo] to have an author come to our library for a visit and we're supposed to make suggestions, to be voted upon by the patrons, and I can't come up with anyone good. Can you think of an author (seriously, anyone) who would be cool to have come to this area? Anyone you'd like to see? They're tossing around names like Dan Brown, Neil Gaiman, Janet Evanovich, etc. All bestselling authors. Think of anybody, let me know.
From: Bro
To: Happy Villain
Subject: Re: Author Visit
8 WHOLE DOLLARS! Damn library must be selling drugs out the back door or something. With that you can buy an ouija board and have any of the dead authors speak there. Well, that is if you have anything left in the budget for candles. The creepy teens will just appear though. You don't have to buy those.
When I got home, we continued the conversation.
Me: That was hilarious. We SHOULD do an author séance and save the money!
Bro: So many more authors to choose from! And you could do a bunch. Make it a series.
Me: And I’m sure we have the requisite amount of emo kids to make it look legit. Wait! Are you a real emo kid or an impostor with your hair all covering your face like that? There’s something off about you!
Bro: C’mere! Is that hair, or is that a wig!? WAIT A MINUTE! That’s a MOP! We won’t take any fake emo kids at our séance!
Me: We’d only be able to communicate with fake authors then! Who would the Milli Vanilli of dead authors be?
Bro: Hmmm, I don’t know. That is why you cannot have any fake emo kids.
And thus, another important discussion in my family goes the way of complete delirium. We blame it on my mom’s mental health issues and what that’s done to us.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Letter of Recommendation
Dear Library Job-Seeker:
While it is a noble endeavor for you to seek out a position at the local public library, which you find to be an environment befitting your high intellectual standards, with complete disregard for your future financial viability, it behooves me to illustrate the many reasons why you would be better suited to seek a job elsewhere. Let me count the ways.
1. You have, as you pointed out, six years of experience in the US military, which can be excellent training for someone like yourself in fields perhaps not available to you as a civilian. In addition to the excellent discipline the Army taught you, evident in your sloppy appearance, poor posture, and long, shaggy locks, it seems your training is so specialized that it is not even applicable to any commercial field in the country you defended. The irony isn't amusing, is it? We didn't think so either. So all this experience you have really doesn't translate into any value I see before me, and that's only going to hurt you, I'm afraid.
2. You're tall. You're almost too tall. It's painful to speak with you because my neck hurts trying to make eye contact, and if I look straight ahead to give my neck a break, I find myself staring at the bottom of the obnoxious, silk-screened logo on your dirty T-shirt, right where the brown stain is that clearly won't come out in 20-30 washes. Unpleasant for me. Again, your loss.
3. The last time you were in, you requested books that were not only creepy, but you confessed a strange fascination with this creepy subject. This frightened me. There are enough frightening people in the world who I experience with a reference desk between us, but if you were to be sitting alongside me, I would have to cry. Often. And hard. And I'd have to carry a weapon. And that would lead to biological messes, which I want no part of, so, though it bears repeating, this isn't working out in your favor.
4. Remember the "monkeys" you referred to who install cable, who you felt might make you miserable to work with, what with your dazzling intelligence being so wasted upon such neanderthals? Those "monkeys" are precisely the people you would be dealing with at the library, in larger quantities. Instead of working mostly alone doing cable installation, having to check in or work occasionally in teams with the people you are so much better than, you'd be working mostly alone at a desk in a library, far away from the people you might regard as more your equals, and the "monkeys" will be counting on your help day in and day out, questions and services demanded of you numbering well into the tens, if not near one hundred in a given day. If you're trying to escape the working class, the blue collar folks, the ones without degrees, the people who don't think you're as superior as you seem to think you are, then this library is not the place for you. You would be surprised how many of us identify more with the "monkeys" than the self-proclaimed elitist numbskulls like yourself. While that sucks for you, I think it's probably to the benefit of not only the staff I speak for, but the community I am here to help.
Surprisingly, the number of reasons to reject you as a potential coworker number only four, but what they lack in quantity they more than make up for in quality, and qualities are precisely what you are blindingly lacking yourself. You, sir, are a pompous punk, and not only would you not fit in at our library, but you haven't the constitution to do a job like ours, and assuming you do proves how dumb you really are.
Keep on walking, Mr. Job-Seeker. We are sorry you don't want to disgrace yourself by attempting a laborious job that would pair you with someone you feel is beneath you, but perhaps that's exactly the type of job that would give you the skills you need to function in the real world. Confidence is dandy, but you have to have substance to back it up, and that is not something the Army was able to provide to you. Good luck finding a way to support yourself.
Though I have no say in the hiring of any applicant for any position at my library, you asked me, a total stranger, to put in a good word for you, and I feel that this letter is about as good as it will ever get. Do with it as you wish.
Sincerely,
Happy Villain
While it is a noble endeavor for you to seek out a position at the local public library, which you find to be an environment befitting your high intellectual standards, with complete disregard for your future financial viability, it behooves me to illustrate the many reasons why you would be better suited to seek a job elsewhere. Let me count the ways.
1. You have, as you pointed out, six years of experience in the US military, which can be excellent training for someone like yourself in fields perhaps not available to you as a civilian. In addition to the excellent discipline the Army taught you, evident in your sloppy appearance, poor posture, and long, shaggy locks, it seems your training is so specialized that it is not even applicable to any commercial field in the country you defended. The irony isn't amusing, is it? We didn't think so either. So all this experience you have really doesn't translate into any value I see before me, and that's only going to hurt you, I'm afraid.
2. You're tall. You're almost too tall. It's painful to speak with you because my neck hurts trying to make eye contact, and if I look straight ahead to give my neck a break, I find myself staring at the bottom of the obnoxious, silk-screened logo on your dirty T-shirt, right where the brown stain is that clearly won't come out in 20-30 washes. Unpleasant for me. Again, your loss.
3. The last time you were in, you requested books that were not only creepy, but you confessed a strange fascination with this creepy subject. This frightened me. There are enough frightening people in the world who I experience with a reference desk between us, but if you were to be sitting alongside me, I would have to cry. Often. And hard. And I'd have to carry a weapon. And that would lead to biological messes, which I want no part of, so, though it bears repeating, this isn't working out in your favor.
4. Remember the "monkeys" you referred to who install cable, who you felt might make you miserable to work with, what with your dazzling intelligence being so wasted upon such neanderthals? Those "monkeys" are precisely the people you would be dealing with at the library, in larger quantities. Instead of working mostly alone doing cable installation, having to check in or work occasionally in teams with the people you are so much better than, you'd be working mostly alone at a desk in a library, far away from the people you might regard as more your equals, and the "monkeys" will be counting on your help day in and day out, questions and services demanded of you numbering well into the tens, if not near one hundred in a given day. If you're trying to escape the working class, the blue collar folks, the ones without degrees, the people who don't think you're as superior as you seem to think you are, then this library is not the place for you. You would be surprised how many of us identify more with the "monkeys" than the self-proclaimed elitist numbskulls like yourself. While that sucks for you, I think it's probably to the benefit of not only the staff I speak for, but the community I am here to help.
Surprisingly, the number of reasons to reject you as a potential coworker number only four, but what they lack in quantity they more than make up for in quality, and qualities are precisely what you are blindingly lacking yourself. You, sir, are a pompous punk, and not only would you not fit in at our library, but you haven't the constitution to do a job like ours, and assuming you do proves how dumb you really are.
Keep on walking, Mr. Job-Seeker. We are sorry you don't want to disgrace yourself by attempting a laborious job that would pair you with someone you feel is beneath you, but perhaps that's exactly the type of job that would give you the skills you need to function in the real world. Confidence is dandy, but you have to have substance to back it up, and that is not something the Army was able to provide to you. Good luck finding a way to support yourself.
Though I have no say in the hiring of any applicant for any position at my library, you asked me, a total stranger, to put in a good word for you, and I feel that this letter is about as good as it will ever get. Do with it as you wish.
Sincerely,
Happy Villain
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Mars Or Bust
Bro: Do you have to work today?
Me: Yeah, I’m delaying going in, hoping they’ll close for the weather.
Bro: Do they close for the weather often? We only have a few inches so far.
Me: Damn, is that all? No, we don’t close often, but more than we used to. Back with our OLD director, it was like the building needed to be more than 75% aflame to close. Any less was not enough. And for snow, what she’d do is send home everyone who lived more than 20 minutes away, so all the people like me who live close had to work all day and drive home at closing when the weather was its worst, risking our lives because we LIVED CLOSE.
Bro (laughing): That makes…no sense.
Me: I know. I was pretty vocal about how unfair that was. People who live far, their lives were worth more, apparently. I thought about telling her I moved to Nebraska just so I’d get to leave with the people who commute 20 minutes. Nebraska is far! I should get to leave first! In fact, I shouldn’t have to even come in. EVER!
Bro: I live on Mars now. In fact, in order to get to work today, I had to leave three months ago.
Me: Hahahahaha!
Bro: You think the weather is bad? Try re-entering Earth’s atmosphere!
And thus, I am off to work, which hopefully will close immediately after I arrive so that I can come home and shovel the driveway I stomped through and drove over, which will probably require strength I don’t have to chisel through the packed stuff and clear a place to park. Gee, suddenly working during a snowstorm sounds like a better option.
We don’t get this kind of bullshit on Mars. I should look for a more local job. But then, during those vicious red dust storms, I’d still have to work because I would be the local schmoe. Oh wait, no, I wouldn’t work for her again so it’s safe.
Me: Yeah, I’m delaying going in, hoping they’ll close for the weather.
Bro: Do they close for the weather often? We only have a few inches so far.
Me: Damn, is that all? No, we don’t close often, but more than we used to. Back with our OLD director, it was like the building needed to be more than 75% aflame to close. Any less was not enough. And for snow, what she’d do is send home everyone who lived more than 20 minutes away, so all the people like me who live close had to work all day and drive home at closing when the weather was its worst, risking our lives because we LIVED CLOSE.
Bro (laughing): That makes…no sense.
Me: I know. I was pretty vocal about how unfair that was. People who live far, their lives were worth more, apparently. I thought about telling her I moved to Nebraska just so I’d get to leave with the people who commute 20 minutes. Nebraska is far! I should get to leave first! In fact, I shouldn’t have to even come in. EVER!
Bro: I live on Mars now. In fact, in order to get to work today, I had to leave three months ago.
Me: Hahahahaha!
Bro: You think the weather is bad? Try re-entering Earth’s atmosphere!
And thus, I am off to work, which hopefully will close immediately after I arrive so that I can come home and shovel the driveway I stomped through and drove over, which will probably require strength I don’t have to chisel through the packed stuff and clear a place to park. Gee, suddenly working during a snowstorm sounds like a better option.
We don’t get this kind of bullshit on Mars. I should look for a more local job. But then, during those vicious red dust storms, I’d still have to work because I would be the local schmoe. Oh wait, no, I wouldn’t work for her again so it’s safe.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Hand Sanitizer Necessary
While I was walking over to the stacks to retrieve a book for someone, I spied something on the floor that was grossly out of place, with emphasis on grossly. I thought to myself that I should pick it up, lest some small child find it and eat it, but the idea of picking it up bare-handed was too heinous to consider, and I made a mental note to get some napkins or tissues to pick it up. However, as is fairly typical, by the time I completed the task I was working on, the alien item sitting on the floor had slipped my mind and I went back to another project.
Later, I was helping a patron at the desk when my boss wandered out of the office, saw the foreign item on the floor, and automatically picked it up and set it on the desk next to me.
Me: Blah, I was going to get that, but I forgot about it. Did you just pick that up with your bare hands?
Boss (looking concerned): Yeah.
Me: OHGOD, hand sanitizer!
Patron: Do you even know what that is?
Boss (looking more concerned): No.
Me: YOU DON’T WANT TO KNOW. Wash your hands. You’re better off not knowing.
He began squirting a single pump of hand sanitizer onto his hand, looking worried and staring at the item.
Okay, yes, I am a germ phobe, and I have a hypersensitive creep-out nerve, as well as a delicate gag reflex, so one must temper my heaving with a bit of reality. Yet the look of disgust on my face must have given him an indication that he really needed to disinfect.
Patron: That’s a toe separator! Women put it between their toes when they paint their nails.
He went straight from worried to panicked and gave himself a few more squirts of hand sanitizer before scurrying off with a full-body case of the heebie-jeebies. A brave soul picked it up off the desk with some tissues and threw it away.
Laughs were had, but no one even bothered asking what the hell a toe separator was doing on the floor of the public library. I work in that kind of library. It’s amazing I haven’t contracted some rare, incurable disease yet.
Oh wait, I have. Never mind.
Later, I was helping a patron at the desk when my boss wandered out of the office, saw the foreign item on the floor, and automatically picked it up and set it on the desk next to me.
Me: Blah, I was going to get that, but I forgot about it. Did you just pick that up with your bare hands?
Boss (looking concerned): Yeah.
Me: OHGOD, hand sanitizer!
Patron: Do you even know what that is?
Boss (looking more concerned): No.
Me: YOU DON’T WANT TO KNOW. Wash your hands. You’re better off not knowing.
He began squirting a single pump of hand sanitizer onto his hand, looking worried and staring at the item.
Okay, yes, I am a germ phobe, and I have a hypersensitive creep-out nerve, as well as a delicate gag reflex, so one must temper my heaving with a bit of reality. Yet the look of disgust on my face must have given him an indication that he really needed to disinfect.
Patron: That’s a toe separator! Women put it between their toes when they paint their nails.
He went straight from worried to panicked and gave himself a few more squirts of hand sanitizer before scurrying off with a full-body case of the heebie-jeebies. A brave soul picked it up off the desk with some tissues and threw it away.
Laughs were had, but no one even bothered asking what the hell a toe separator was doing on the floor of the public library. I work in that kind of library. It’s amazing I haven’t contracted some rare, incurable disease yet.
Oh wait, I have. Never mind.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
The List
For my entire life, I've wondered what it is about changing a calendar that gets people so worked up. Why does a year ending make such an impact on the world? Shouldn't, by extrapolation, a month ending hold at least 1/12 the excitement, yet we completely ignore the new month. Only when a particular day is monumental do we actually celebrate the beginning or end of it. Why is a year such a magical period of time? We reflect on what we've done, we plan for the year ahead, and there is a sense of closure and beginning that we all seem to feel. I've never understood this and I try not to get carried away with the sentimentality of a passing year and the start of a new one. It's just a year. It's just a number. Right?
How could I be so different from everyone else? Maybe I should try to join the sheep, make it meaningful, review my year, resolve to make the next one better, and stay up late celebrating the changing of the calendar.
Okay, let's give this a try.
I keep saying that 2009 was a bad year, and mostly it was for me, but there were some highlights that were truly special and they are as follows:
That's my year of highlights. As for resolutions, I can't do it. I'd like to meet more of my goals from this list, continue with my highlights from this year, and just live life to the best of my ability, which are neither new or inspired by the calendar year.
Happy New Year. Happy New Month. Happy New Day. We should celebrate them all.
How could I be so different from everyone else? Maybe I should try to join the sheep, make it meaningful, review my year, resolve to make the next one better, and stay up late celebrating the changing of the calendar.
Okay, let's give this a try.
I keep saying that 2009 was a bad year, and mostly it was for me, but there were some highlights that were truly special and they are as follows:
- Hair is purple. Purple is good.
We have a new director at the library and peace has finally settled upon us in a way I haven't experienced in this building in 17 years. For me, work is the one place I go where I feel I'm at the top of my game, where I am my most confident, and where I feel most in control of myself and my destiny. To have peace there has been a blessing and a salvation for me.
I've cultivated a very special relationship with one of our new security guards, Sarge, who is feeding me stories of his career in the army, opening my eyes to things I didn't want to see, and giving me a greater understanding of military life, and the war. This has fostered a fierce hunger to read more about it, and I'm currently looking into doing volunteer work that's supportive to the soldiers deployed. Now I understand how war can be regarded as "romantic" by some, if just because of the passion involved that motivates someone to risk their life for things I take for granted everyday. Heroes are romantic. And I see the heroes among us more clearly now. This has changed the way I look at soldiers and veterans.
In April, I went somewhere new and did something I've wanted to do for many years. I was surrounded by heaps and heaps of some of the most beautiful creatures this planet is fortunate enough to host: butterflies!
Ann and I have grown quite close, and in her I see parts of myself that have long been buried. Together we've grown into a friendship that has more unconditional and unwavering support, compassion and understanding than I ever thought possible. The only person I understand better is my brother.
Someone who challenges me constantly threw me a safety net and I've been able to go farther, do more, and trust more than I ever have before.
Friends I had let go of have found their way back to me and we are rebuilding stronger, better relationships than before. But it's going to take a long time to get there.
I learned that there are very few things in life that we have any control over. Life, health, success, etc., all illusions of control. Yet, I woke up one day in May and decided not to let the aforementioned obstacles dictate the shape of me, and have lost 52 of the unhealthy pounds that years of steroids and depression from being sick gave me. It was slow going, and people who frequently see me don't realize the difference until I whip out the picture of myself taken one year ago, which I always carry in my purse, and then it's obvious. Watching my body transform has been awesome.
I've spend one solid year not speaking to my mother and it's been delightful.
My brother is the only family I feel I have left, and our relationship has strengthened to a point where we can rely on one another more than anyone else.
I've gone mostly organic, and though it costs me a fortune, I feel like I'm fighting death and cancer with every use, which is empowering.
I took a wild trip, alone, to a place most people begged me not to go, and it changed me in ways I still struggle to articulate. It's one of the few things I've done recently that I am fiercely proud of.
I fell deeply, madly, wholly in love with a burro named Javier, and I would've given up everything in my world to be with him if I thought for one second that he felt half of what I did. This is how I fall in love. Frequently with animals. Rarely with people.
Cell phones: they got me! *falls down dead* Not a highlight, but a monumental event worthy of The List.
That's my year of highlights. As for resolutions, I can't do it. I'd like to meet more of my goals from this list, continue with my highlights from this year, and just live life to the best of my ability, which are neither new or inspired by the calendar year.
Happy New Year. Happy New Month. Happy New Day. We should celebrate them all.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Happy Holidays
Already this year's holiday is shaping up better than I thought, and B.E. has given me really neat gifts, making my fleece, furry pants with fish on them seem like a lame gift to him. *sigh* Hopefully the remaining gifts will redeem me. Then again, I got him sea monkeys, another travel mug, and various other toys the two of us can play with (clothes on, not THOSE kinds of toys) that will keep us entertained for the next 10 days. And I'll still feel guilty while I'm wearing the ring he gave me and playing with the laptop. Eeesh. I'm the lame one this year and that feels weird.
I hope you all have a wonderful holiday, whatever you celebrate, and that it surprises you with how nice it can be, after the stress and disappointment finally wear off.
If I don't jump online again until after January, I also hope you all have a wonderful New Year. Have a drink for me because I'm not allowed any alcohol and I'm feeling like an addict in withdrawal, even though I don't drink much at all. Forbidden fruit always tastes the sweetest.
Happy Holidays!
I hope you all have a wonderful holiday, whatever you celebrate, and that it surprises you with how nice it can be, after the stress and disappointment finally wear off.
If I don't jump online again until after January, I also hope you all have a wonderful New Year. Have a drink for me because I'm not allowed any alcohol and I'm feeling like an addict in withdrawal, even though I don't drink much at all. Forbidden fruit always tastes the sweetest.
Happy Holidays!
Monday, December 21, 2009
Braised Uteri
It’s always interesting to me when there’s a crisis or problem in my life, how few people I consider close to me will actually check on me. I don’t mean stopping by my house with flowers and baked goods. I mean, simply, when they see me, ask me how I’m doing.
You don’t just start taking a medication that scares the bejesus out of you, one related to others that killed a loved one, without major trepidation. And I could tell by the looks on the faces of my friends when I told them about starting this that they knew how serious and frightening this therapy was to me. They were nearly as frightened as I was. So, when, five weeks later, hardly a one of them has even asked in passing how I’m doing, and no one even peeps when I’m in the bathroom every half-hour at work dealing with one gastro-intestinal problem or another, it kinda makes me wonder.
Have they forgotten? Have they been wrapped up in their own little world and don’t notice that I’m spiking a fever everyday, have dime-sized bruises all over my body, am popping pills, constantly eating to fight the nausea, and walking funny because the diarrhea is making my guts ache and leach blood? Are they afraid to ask because they don’t actually want to know?
It’s not like I’m depressed about it. It’s not like they have to worry I’m going to start bawling on their shoulder and tell them I’m afraid of dying. The worst that’s going to happen is I’ll say, “I feel shitty. I’m nauseated a lot, spend a lot of time in the bathroom, feel tired, feel weak, and evidently my hormones are going to get all fucked-up because it blocks estrogen production, or something like that, and I do not play nicely with progesterone, so things are going to be ugly for one week of the month, but overall, it could be worse.” There. Was that so bad?
But a few people have asked me how things are going. And those people are privy to my usual technique of trying to find the humor in the humorless. Like Leelu, bless her soul, will IM me nearly everyday and ask how it’s going. She’s such a gem.
Me: Ooooh, guess what?!
Me: My chemo med, methotrexate, is an abortion pill. I'm giving myself an abortion once a week.
Leelu: Hah!
Me: You know, all these abortions and no sex is just cruel.
Leelu: Does that mean it'll no longer be legal under the health care plan that's going through?
Me: Ugh, well, my diagnosis isn't pregnancy so thankfully the med is approved for other things.
Me: (thankfully?)
Me: (as if I'm happy to be taking it)
Leelu: I'm sure that people who genuinely need chemo are happy about it.
Leelu: You...I'm not so sure about. Your medical problems are a huge mess.
Me: Uh huh. And with a little more reading I found out that it's going to totally disrupt my menstrual cycle, which it did because this last one was enough to make me want to rip out my uterus and eat it raw.
Me: And the type of cancer my med treats is usually leukemia.
Me: Don't know how that makes me feel, but at least I won't be getting leukemia now.
Leelu: ...You'd better not. Or I'll have to do something drastic.
Me: What? Eat my uterus or get leukemia?
Me: Uterus might be good.
Me: You don't know.
Leelu: But raw?
Me: How many uteri have you had?
Me: I would imagine cooking would make it tough.
Leelu: Very few things are not improved by cooking. I would suggest braising for uteri, though.
Leelu: It's very fibrous to begin with, so you'll need a long, slow, moisture-rich cooking to bring out the best.
Leelu: Even if you do it tartare, you'd still want to dice it fine and season.
Me: See? What on earth would I do without you?
Leelu: Eat raw uterus, apparently.
Me: I go see doctors and they tell me, "You'll be fine, you won't have side effects, just take all these supplements so you don't die while on the meds and see me in 4 weeks so we can make sure your liver didn't die, but you'll be just fine." Pharmacist says, "Just take some imodium and an antacid regularly and it will be okay." This is no good to me. I need to know what to do when they're all wrong, because they always are, and how to properly prepare uterus!
Leelu: Is it any wonder that we hate the medical profession?
Me: Not for me it isn't.
Leelu: Not a decent cook in the lot of them.
Me: Right! I know. You know why? Because none of them have actually taken the meds they prescribe, so they have no idea that methotrexate + Triphasil = angry enough to eat uterus.
Me: And if you don't know that you can get to that point, how would you know the proper cooking techniques to satisfy this new chemically induced urge?
Leelu: It's a sad state of affairs. *shakes head*
Me: Yep.
Chickenshits who aren’t asking how I’m doing are missing out on delightful braised uteri conversations, I think.
You don’t just start taking a medication that scares the bejesus out of you, one related to others that killed a loved one, without major trepidation. And I could tell by the looks on the faces of my friends when I told them about starting this that they knew how serious and frightening this therapy was to me. They were nearly as frightened as I was. So, when, five weeks later, hardly a one of them has even asked in passing how I’m doing, and no one even peeps when I’m in the bathroom every half-hour at work dealing with one gastro-intestinal problem or another, it kinda makes me wonder.
Have they forgotten? Have they been wrapped up in their own little world and don’t notice that I’m spiking a fever everyday, have dime-sized bruises all over my body, am popping pills, constantly eating to fight the nausea, and walking funny because the diarrhea is making my guts ache and leach blood? Are they afraid to ask because they don’t actually want to know?
It’s not like I’m depressed about it. It’s not like they have to worry I’m going to start bawling on their shoulder and tell them I’m afraid of dying. The worst that’s going to happen is I’ll say, “I feel shitty. I’m nauseated a lot, spend a lot of time in the bathroom, feel tired, feel weak, and evidently my hormones are going to get all fucked-up because it blocks estrogen production, or something like that, and I do not play nicely with progesterone, so things are going to be ugly for one week of the month, but overall, it could be worse.” There. Was that so bad?
But a few people have asked me how things are going. And those people are privy to my usual technique of trying to find the humor in the humorless. Like Leelu, bless her soul, will IM me nearly everyday and ask how it’s going. She’s such a gem.
Me: Ooooh, guess what?!
Me: My chemo med, methotrexate, is an abortion pill. I'm giving myself an abortion once a week.
Leelu: Hah!
Me: You know, all these abortions and no sex is just cruel.
Leelu: Does that mean it'll no longer be legal under the health care plan that's going through?
Me: Ugh, well, my diagnosis isn't pregnancy so thankfully the med is approved for other things.
Me: (thankfully?)
Me: (as if I'm happy to be taking it)
Leelu: I'm sure that people who genuinely need chemo are happy about it.
Leelu: You...I'm not so sure about. Your medical problems are a huge mess.
Me: Uh huh. And with a little more reading I found out that it's going to totally disrupt my menstrual cycle, which it did because this last one was enough to make me want to rip out my uterus and eat it raw.
Me: And the type of cancer my med treats is usually leukemia.
Me: Don't know how that makes me feel, but at least I won't be getting leukemia now.
Leelu: ...You'd better not. Or I'll have to do something drastic.
Me: What? Eat my uterus or get leukemia?
Me: Uterus might be good.
Me: You don't know.
Leelu: But raw?
Me: How many uteri have you had?
Me: I would imagine cooking would make it tough.
Leelu: Very few things are not improved by cooking. I would suggest braising for uteri, though.
Leelu: It's very fibrous to begin with, so you'll need a long, slow, moisture-rich cooking to bring out the best.
Leelu: Even if you do it tartare, you'd still want to dice it fine and season.
Me: See? What on earth would I do without you?
Leelu: Eat raw uterus, apparently.
Me: I go see doctors and they tell me, "You'll be fine, you won't have side effects, just take all these supplements so you don't die while on the meds and see me in 4 weeks so we can make sure your liver didn't die, but you'll be just fine." Pharmacist says, "Just take some imodium and an antacid regularly and it will be okay." This is no good to me. I need to know what to do when they're all wrong, because they always are, and how to properly prepare uterus!
Leelu: Is it any wonder that we hate the medical profession?
Me: Not for me it isn't.
Leelu: Not a decent cook in the lot of them.
Me: Right! I know. You know why? Because none of them have actually taken the meds they prescribe, so they have no idea that methotrexate + Triphasil = angry enough to eat uterus.
Me: And if you don't know that you can get to that point, how would you know the proper cooking techniques to satisfy this new chemically induced urge?
Leelu: It's a sad state of affairs. *shakes head*
Me: Yep.
Chickenshits who aren’t asking how I’m doing are missing out on delightful braised uteri conversations, I think.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Giving & Receiving
Do you ever feel like YOU should be sporting a sign that warns the public that you are not yourself, and perhaps a little generosity should be given to you in your time of weakness? I need one of those signs right now.
Yesterday at work, it was nothing but the bullshit of patron after patron offending me on one or more levels. It would seem to be appropriate that those with the foulest attitudes also had the foulest odors because if you care nothing about rubbing someone the wrong way, why would you care if you stink too? I realize that I’m ultra, super-sensitive right now, with nerves crawling around outside my skin, so my thought is that I’ll just warn people so that they can use their humanity to perhaps cause less offense.
The chemo medicine is kicking my ass this week, beating me down with nausea and diarrhea, the likes of which I have not experienced in many years. I was thinking it was due to having my period, which is also worse this week than it has been in years, and nothing over-the-counter can combat the cramps that are keeping me doubled over most of the day. Add to that the delightful bug Sergeant shared with me, one which sent him to the VA hospital earlier this week begging for relief, and then he came into work and followed me around like a puppy, as well as used my computer. Dude, let me tell you one more time that I’m on a medication that SHUTS OFF my immune system, so while you’re sitting at my computer, sniffling and rubbing your runny nose on your hand, mousing and keying on my equipment, you’re going to kill me with strep, you greedy bastard.
I have had PMS. I have cried everyday for a week straight, for no good reason. I have not had a decent night of sleep. I have snapped at the people I care about more often than I can count, and in order not to continue doing this, I’ve also let them use me as a doormat and punching bag out of fear that if I speak up, I’m going to tell them to go fuck off and die, and that wouldn’t be nice.
So, when I showed up to work yesterday weak, tired, hungry, nauseated, crampy, bloody, angry, sad, feverish and with a raging sore throat, I should’ve made up that sign and hung it around my neck.
A dickhead at a computer was blasting some Lady GaGa music, so I told him he had to turn the volume off or use headphones. He looked at me with a puzzled expression, so I asked if he knew how to turn the volume off, and he said no. We had an interaction that went like this:
Me (pointing to the minimize button): Click to minimize and I'll show you the volume control.
Dickhead (ignoring my instructions): Wait, I'll take care of it.
Meanwhile, he's sending messages to people on Facebook. One message asks if anyone wants to dance.
Me (rolling my eyes): No, if you'll just minimize your screen, I'll show you how to turn off the volume now.
Dickhead: Okaaay, I'll do it.
Again, he clicks somewhere else to engage more "friends" in inane online flirting.
People, if you could see or smell this guy, you'd give up social networking entirely.
Me (pointing again to the minimize button): I need you to click here and turn off the volume.
Dickhead: I'll just close it out!
Me: That's fine, but the next video you pull up is going to blast more music, so I'm trying to show you how to turn off the volume so it doesn't happen.
Dickhead: I don't need to do that! It's done. It's fine. You can go now.
I turned around, walked back to my desk, and promptly put a reservation on his computer so he couldn't extend his time. He left shortly thereafter.
Another lady and her husband walked in reeking of stale smoke and a lack of toothpaste. That's always charming. That always makes me want to spend large amounts of time helping them. Closely. While breathing.
First she didn’t understand the reservation system, and after I explained it she yanked the reservation slip out of my hand and then held it as far away from her as she could, struggling to read it. She threw the slip of paper at her husband and told him to read it because she didn’t bring her glasses. I offered to help her and she stormed off in a huff. I’d been nothing but nice to her up to that point, but she crossed a line I don’t remember drawing and it was all downhill from there.
I returned to my perch and soon the husband was asking me to help her at the computer.
Husband: She wants to get on the website for The Newspaper.
Me: Oh, wait, you’ll want to type it into the search bar here and not the address bar.
Yesterday at work, it was nothing but the bullshit of patron after patron offending me on one or more levels. It would seem to be appropriate that those with the foulest attitudes also had the foulest odors because if you care nothing about rubbing someone the wrong way, why would you care if you stink too? I realize that I’m ultra, super-sensitive right now, with nerves crawling around outside my skin, so my thought is that I’ll just warn people so that they can use their humanity to perhaps cause less offense.
The chemo medicine is kicking my ass this week, beating me down with nausea and diarrhea, the likes of which I have not experienced in many years. I was thinking it was due to having my period, which is also worse this week than it has been in years, and nothing over-the-counter can combat the cramps that are keeping me doubled over most of the day. Add to that the delightful bug Sergeant shared with me, one which sent him to the VA hospital earlier this week begging for relief, and then he came into work and followed me around like a puppy, as well as used my computer. Dude, let me tell you one more time that I’m on a medication that SHUTS OFF my immune system, so while you’re sitting at my computer, sniffling and rubbing your runny nose on your hand, mousing and keying on my equipment, you’re going to kill me with strep, you greedy bastard.
I have had PMS. I have cried everyday for a week straight, for no good reason. I have not had a decent night of sleep. I have snapped at the people I care about more often than I can count, and in order not to continue doing this, I’ve also let them use me as a doormat and punching bag out of fear that if I speak up, I’m going to tell them to go fuck off and die, and that wouldn’t be nice.
So, when I showed up to work yesterday weak, tired, hungry, nauseated, crampy, bloody, angry, sad, feverish and with a raging sore throat, I should’ve made up that sign and hung it around my neck.
A dickhead at a computer was blasting some Lady GaGa music, so I told him he had to turn the volume off or use headphones. He looked at me with a puzzled expression, so I asked if he knew how to turn the volume off, and he said no. We had an interaction that went like this:
Me (pointing to the minimize button): Click to minimize and I'll show you the volume control.
Dickhead (ignoring my instructions): Wait, I'll take care of it.
Meanwhile, he's sending messages to people on Facebook. One message asks if anyone wants to dance.
Me (rolling my eyes): No, if you'll just minimize your screen, I'll show you how to turn off the volume now.
Dickhead: Okaaay, I'll do it.
Again, he clicks somewhere else to engage more "friends" in inane online flirting.
People, if you could see or smell this guy, you'd give up social networking entirely.
Me (pointing again to the minimize button): I need you to click here and turn off the volume.
Dickhead: I'll just close it out!
Me: That's fine, but the next video you pull up is going to blast more music, so I'm trying to show you how to turn off the volume so it doesn't happen.
Dickhead: I don't need to do that! It's done. It's fine. You can go now.
I turned around, walked back to my desk, and promptly put a reservation on his computer so he couldn't extend his time. He left shortly thereafter.
Another lady and her husband walked in reeking of stale smoke and a lack of toothpaste. That's always charming. That always makes me want to spend large amounts of time helping them. Closely. While breathing.
First she didn’t understand the reservation system, and after I explained it she yanked the reservation slip out of my hand and then held it as far away from her as she could, struggling to read it. She threw the slip of paper at her husband and told him to read it because she didn’t bring her glasses. I offered to help her and she stormed off in a huff. I’d been nothing but nice to her up to that point, but she crossed a line I don’t remember drawing and it was all downhill from there.
I returned to my perch and soon the husband was asking me to help her at the computer.
Husband: She wants to get on the website for The Newspaper.
Me: Okay, I don’t know the web address offhand, so if you just type it into the search screen, we can find it.
Me: Oh, wait, you’ll want to type it into the search bar here and not the address bar.
Bitch: WHY?!
Me: Because we don’t know the address and need to search for it.
She sighed heavily and typed into the search bar “thenewspaperillinois”.
Me: You will probably want to put in spaces so it can search more accurately.
Bitch: WHY?!
She was like a fucking two-year-old with the demanding whys, but she didn’t want me to answer – that was just her way of saying she disagreed.
Me: Because you’re not going to find the site as easily if you…
At this point she started clicking on all the hits that Google presented her, none of which were the website she was looking for, and each misdirected hit frustrated her more.
Me: If you just put the spaces in—
Bitch: I can do this!
Me: Okay, great. Good luck with that.
Husband (apologetically): Thank you.
Me: You’re welcome.
Not a full minute later they left, and she seemed even more irritated than I was, which was quite a lot. I guess she wasn’t able to find the website after all.
Then the phone rang.
Caller: I’m looking for an adult movie, but not that kind of adult movie, just a movie for mature viewers.
Me: Okay, what are you looking for?
Caller: Because, you know, I told the lady who answered the phone that I wanted an adult movie and she said, “We don’t have those kinds of movies here,” and I laughed, so I felt like I had to tell you that I’m not looking for that.
Yeah, liar, that conversation didn’t take place because we don’t tell people we don’t have those kinds of movies here. Seriously. Get to the fucking point.
Me: Okay, what are you looking for?
Caller: Regular adult movies. Not porn.
Me: Yes, but WHAT MOVIE are you looking for?
Caller: Oh, yeah, sorry, I just thought that was funny…
Well, you thought wrong. You think you’re the only person ever to make the connection between “adult movies” and porn? Wow, how clever you think you are! That’s so original. I’ve never heard that one before. Perhaps you know some why’d-the-chicken-cross-the-road jokes too. Let’s just get totally silly here. It’s not like I have anything better to do than to listen to you make vague references to porn while pretending to be above it. What a blitzkrieg of laughs will be had with the like-minded librarians when you tell us about the “adult movie” you’re looking for! Hardy-har-har. That was such a knee-slapper.
Gag.
If you want porn, just ask for it. If you don’t want porn, don’t ask for it. Don’t call me up and joke about porn, pretending like you’re funny. You’re not. Move on.
The only thing good about that phone call was the lack of odor. Although it did stink, it did not stink in my nose.
Is it because it’s the weekend, or because it’s the weekend before the holiday, or because of something else entirely, that people collectively decided to not shower and to show up at the library? And on the ride over, they smoked 8 cigarettes with the windows closed and drank coffee that was rancid, flavored with ass. I told Marina and Leelu that we needed something stronger than Febreeze to hose off most of our patrons as they entered the building. It was suggested that even that wouldn’t help.
Then my salvation walked in the door: Mitch. No matter what kind of hideous mood I’m in, no matter what kind of abuse I’ve been a victim of, no matter what kind of awful day I’m having, Mitch can make me laugh.
He brought two of his three boys, one being about 18 months old and the other about 6 years. The toddler was getting into everything as Mitch and I stood around chatting, and he’d occasionally run off and grab the little one to rescue the library from ultimate destruction. At one point, he handed the child a toy from our desk, which promptly went into the mouth.
Me: Ohhhhh, yeah, that’s probably been in at least 10 mouths just today. Ugh.
Mitch: We’re not afraid of germs. We’re trying to build strong immune systems in our kids. That’s nothing.
A few minutes later, the little guy was in the garbage can in front of my desk and Mitch flipped out.
Mitch: AH, no, some germs are okay, but you’ve gotta draw the line at the garbage! We don’t eat garbage.
Me: You have standards for germs, huh?
Mitch: Yeah, and it’s like, depending on whether you’re giving or receiving, you have different views as well. Like when you’re the one with the germs, you’re very liberal about sharing your germs. But sometimes you get very republican about not wanting germs. No sharing!
I was laughing at the truth he spoke.
As I was laughing, one of the staff made the 30-minute closing announcement, which scared the hell out of Mitch. He ducked and looked up at the ceiling for the loud, booming voice over his shoulder, which made me laugh harder.
Mitch: It’s like that movie…what’s it called?
Me: I don’t know. What IS it called?
Mitch: It has that guy, the tall one…what’s his name?
Me: I don’t know. What IS his name?
Mitch: He looks a little like the guy who played The Tick.
Oh, glory be! Mitch likes The Tick! The Tick! I love The Tick! SPOOOOOOOOOON!
Me: Patrick Warburton?
And then we derailed and had a discussion about the live-action movie versus the cartoon.
Mitch: But what was that movie that your announcement reminded me of?
Me: I don’t know. It’s too bad we don’t know any librarians who can look it up for you. *Sigh*
Mitch: It’s going to drive me crazy!
Me: Seriously? THIS is going to be the thing that drives you crazy? Three boys and another one on the way and THIS is going to drive you crazy?
Mitch: YEAH! I gotta know what that movie is!
Me: Okay, you think about that.
The little one was giving him some trouble so Mitch picked him up and put him on his shoulders. This pleased the baby for about 15 seconds, so Mitch started bouncing him up and down for more entertainment.
Mitch: You know, once I was doing this, I forget which kid it was with, but all of a sudden he just threw up all over my head, and it ran all down my face and neck. I was so disgusted, but everyone else thought it was hilarious.
Me (laughing): Yeah, well, that’s the whole giving and receiving thing again. We’d rather give some things than receive.
Mitch: Ain’t that the truth!
This idea pretty much summed up my entire day.
We talked a little more and then he took the boys downstairs to get a movie. As he was leaving the building he ran up to me and yelled, “ELF!”
Ah, he remembered the movie. Now he wouldn’t go crazy. Good for him.
If only it could be that easy for me.
Friday, December 18, 2009
A Battle Lost
Whenever an epic battle is lost, one I’ve not only witnessed but participated in – nay, fought alone against a foe – there is a sense of relief that the fighting need not continue, and even conceding feels good. Such is the case with my heroic war on cell phones.
Part of the reason for conceding is that I can actually talk on the phone less, and I…
talking on the phone! Now, instead of calling people, I text them. It’s a gift from the gods.
Also, when I’m running late, which I always am, I can use the cell to warn people of my temporal failing, and for those who don’t [know me and know to] expect me to be late in advance can be forewarned of my soon-to-be lack-of-timely-presence and hear humble apologies before the offense has been completed. It results in fewer apologies by me because I can apologize for the tardiness instead of apologizing for the tardiness as well as apologizing for not being able to call and say I’m going to be late. Less apologizing makes me feel better, and perhaps one day I will not have to apologize at all because I’ll learn to be on time. Perhaps.
The problem now is getting accustomed to carrying this thing around with me wherever I go, in addition to familiarizing myself with the various functions.
For instance, my throwaway phone has no keyboard, and texting takes me forever, not to mention that in my haste I don’t proofread and often send bizarre words that have no known meaning. The time consuming act of using the number pad to communicate has caused me to do undignified things like walking into furniture or tripping on unseen objects because I’m walking around with my eyes and hands glued to my phone, trying hard to finish a two sentence message inside of 5 minutes. Thankfully I have the layout of my house so memorized that I could easily walk from my room, down the 13 stairs, around a corner, into the kitchen, pour myself a glass of milk, then go back up to my room, and never open my eyes once. My brother caught me walking down this exact pathway, texting the entire time, and only when he yelled out to me that I was an honorary teenage girl did I even realize he was present. Clearly I could alleviate much of this issue if I’d get a better phone with a keyboard, for which I am in the process of shopping.
Another example of my proletarian experience is obvious if you’re around me and I’m suddenly alerted to an incoming text or phone call. If the ringer is on, I tend to not even recognize that it’s coming from my pocket and will glare at others nearby who might be offending my ears with their cell noises. While napping recently, I received a text, which rings once and then re-alerts me a minute later, and a minute after that until I respond. I heard the ringer faintly disturbing my slumber and picked up my home phone only to be greeted by a dial tone. In my sleepy state, I cursed and set the phone back down, but a minute later the ringing returned and I repeated this entire process until my frustration peaked and I turned the ringer off on my phone. When it rang again, I realized what it was but was then too awake to return to dreamland and begrudgingly rejoined the conscious world. The conscious world participating in cell phone activity.
If the ringer is off and it’s set to vibrate, hijinks are unavoidable. The sensation of a vibration going off somewhere on my person is so shocking that I have had to pick myself up off the floor, after flinging the part of my body being vibrated right out of my chair. Once I was holding the thing when it started vibrating and before I could register what was happening, I’d throw the cell phone across the room to break contact with the living, pulsating thing in my grip. Another evening I was sitting quietly on the couch cutting coupons, with my precious little money-saving scraps of paper separated neatly in piles stacked all around me and on my lap. When my cell phone started vibrating in the pocket of my jeans, I let out a relatively quiet squeal while bucking briefly off the couch, sending a shower of coupons across the living room. Fortunately for my ego, my brother was around for this as well, and in his usual sensitive and tender manner, he laughed and called me an amateur. You don’t even want to know what I’ve done when it goes off and I’m driving. (Special note to Leelu: it’s like...GOOD MORNING!)
So, while I feel that having a cell phone has made my life somewhat easier, it’s definitely complicated other areas. However, since I’ve clearly lost the battle against them, it seems only fitting that I take the leap and acclimate to a life tethered to this little machine. For everyone’s sake. And despite everyone’s amusement.
Part of the reason for conceding is that I can actually talk on the phone less, and I…
HATE
talking on the phone! Now, instead of calling people, I text them. It’s a gift from the gods.
Also, when I’m running late, which I always am, I can use the cell to warn people of my temporal failing, and for those who don’t [know me and know to] expect me to be late in advance can be forewarned of my soon-to-be lack-of-timely-presence and hear humble apologies before the offense has been completed. It results in fewer apologies by me because I can apologize for the tardiness instead of apologizing for the tardiness as well as apologizing for not being able to call and say I’m going to be late. Less apologizing makes me feel better, and perhaps one day I will not have to apologize at all because I’ll learn to be on time. Perhaps.
The problem now is getting accustomed to carrying this thing around with me wherever I go, in addition to familiarizing myself with the various functions.
For instance, my throwaway phone has no keyboard, and texting takes me forever, not to mention that in my haste I don’t proofread and often send bizarre words that have no known meaning. The time consuming act of using the number pad to communicate has caused me to do undignified things like walking into furniture or tripping on unseen objects because I’m walking around with my eyes and hands glued to my phone, trying hard to finish a two sentence message inside of 5 minutes. Thankfully I have the layout of my house so memorized that I could easily walk from my room, down the 13 stairs, around a corner, into the kitchen, pour myself a glass of milk, then go back up to my room, and never open my eyes once. My brother caught me walking down this exact pathway, texting the entire time, and only when he yelled out to me that I was an honorary teenage girl did I even realize he was present. Clearly I could alleviate much of this issue if I’d get a better phone with a keyboard, for which I am in the process of shopping.
Another example of my proletarian experience is obvious if you’re around me and I’m suddenly alerted to an incoming text or phone call. If the ringer is on, I tend to not even recognize that it’s coming from my pocket and will glare at others nearby who might be offending my ears with their cell noises. While napping recently, I received a text, which rings once and then re-alerts me a minute later, and a minute after that until I respond. I heard the ringer faintly disturbing my slumber and picked up my home phone only to be greeted by a dial tone. In my sleepy state, I cursed and set the phone back down, but a minute later the ringing returned and I repeated this entire process until my frustration peaked and I turned the ringer off on my phone. When it rang again, I realized what it was but was then too awake to return to dreamland and begrudgingly rejoined the conscious world. The conscious world participating in cell phone activity.
If the ringer is off and it’s set to vibrate, hijinks are unavoidable. The sensation of a vibration going off somewhere on my person is so shocking that I have had to pick myself up off the floor, after flinging the part of my body being vibrated right out of my chair. Once I was holding the thing when it started vibrating and before I could register what was happening, I’d throw the cell phone across the room to break contact with the living, pulsating thing in my grip. Another evening I was sitting quietly on the couch cutting coupons, with my precious little money-saving scraps of paper separated neatly in piles stacked all around me and on my lap. When my cell phone started vibrating in the pocket of my jeans, I let out a relatively quiet squeal while bucking briefly off the couch, sending a shower of coupons across the living room. Fortunately for my ego, my brother was around for this as well, and in his usual sensitive and tender manner, he laughed and called me an amateur. You don’t even want to know what I’ve done when it goes off and I’m driving. (Special note to Leelu: it’s like...GOOD MORNING!)
So, while I feel that having a cell phone has made my life somewhat easier, it’s definitely complicated other areas. However, since I’ve clearly lost the battle against them, it seems only fitting that I take the leap and acclimate to a life tethered to this little machine. For everyone’s sake. And despite everyone’s amusement.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Do YOU Do the Poo?
Even when the shit hits the fan, I still crave the humor.
Me: Is the janitor here yet?
Clerk: No...why?
Me: Uh, there's poo.
Clerk: Where?
Me: In the large stall of the washroom. Which is where it belongs, right? But no. Wrong. It's on the floor in front of the toilet. WHY? I don't know. You're so close! What happened?!
Clerk (snickering): That's terrible. Someone's going to have to clean it up, though.
Me: Who wants the poo? Because I can't do the poo. Not now. I'm on my way to lunch and I just can't do the poo.
Clerk: Maybe we can get the director to do the poo since it's Board Meeting Night.
Me: Can he do the poo?
Clerk: We should make him do the poo.
One of our coworkers walked by, a banished one from the bowels of Tech Services, who had no idea what we were talking about.
Me: Do YOU want to do the poo?
Techman: Um, no, sorry, not tonight. Maybe some other time. Thanks for asking, though.
I grabbed his arm and hugged him. You have to reward someone with gratitude if they're willing to play ball.
After lunch, I had the following IM conversation with Marina:
Marina: I just typed to Bri all excited about "male brownies"
Me: Um.
Me: Um.
Me: Um.
Marina: I meant malt brownies and mistope.
Me: LOL
Me: I was wondering.
Me: Were they bigger? Shaped in a certain way? Acting like assholes? What's up with the male brownies?
Marina: lol
Me: So, on the brown topic, I found poo in the women's washroom tonight. On the floor.
Me: In front of the toilet.
Marina: oh god
Me: Is that bad aim?
Marina: :(
Marina: I think it had to be intentional.
Me: Is that an emergency that was too emergent?
Marina: How else does it happen?
Me: Yeah, I know. It's not like you get drippage there.
Marina: oh god
Marina: What a horrible mental image.
Me: Yup. Butt drippage. And they left it behind for me to find in the washroom.
Marina: *shudder
Thankfully, I didn't have to do the poo. The brave clerk I reported the poo to did the poo. I wonder if our patrons know how much poo we do to keep them in a relatively poo-free zone here. And given the amount of poo we end up having to do, we should include that in the job description. It should be taught in library school. It should be on a sign on the door as you walk into the library.
Me: Is the janitor here yet?
Clerk: No...why?
Me: Uh, there's poo.
Clerk: Where?
Me: In the large stall of the washroom. Which is where it belongs, right? But no. Wrong. It's on the floor in front of the toilet. WHY? I don't know. You're so close! What happened?!
Clerk (snickering): That's terrible. Someone's going to have to clean it up, though.
Me: Who wants the poo? Because I can't do the poo. Not now. I'm on my way to lunch and I just can't do the poo.
Clerk: Maybe we can get the director to do the poo since it's Board Meeting Night.
Me: Can he do the poo?
Clerk: We should make him do the poo.
One of our coworkers walked by, a banished one from the bowels of Tech Services, who had no idea what we were talking about.
Me: Do YOU want to do the poo?
Techman: Um, no, sorry, not tonight. Maybe some other time. Thanks for asking, though.
I grabbed his arm and hugged him. You have to reward someone with gratitude if they're willing to play ball.
After lunch, I had the following IM conversation with Marina:
Marina: I just typed to Bri all excited about "male brownies"
Me: Um.
Me: Um.
Me: Um.
Marina: I meant malt brownies and mistope.
Me: LOL
Me: I was wondering.
Me: Were they bigger? Shaped in a certain way? Acting like assholes? What's up with the male brownies?
Marina: lol
Me: So, on the brown topic, I found poo in the women's washroom tonight. On the floor.
Me: In front of the toilet.
Marina: oh god
Me: Is that bad aim?
Marina: :(
Marina: I think it had to be intentional.
Me: Is that an emergency that was too emergent?
Marina: How else does it happen?
Me: Yeah, I know. It's not like you get drippage there.
Marina: oh god
Marina: What a horrible mental image.
Me: Yup. Butt drippage. And they left it behind for me to find in the washroom.
Marina: *shudder
Thankfully, I didn't have to do the poo. The brave clerk I reported the poo to did the poo. I wonder if our patrons know how much poo we do to keep them in a relatively poo-free zone here. And given the amount of poo we end up having to do, we should include that in the job description. It should be taught in library school. It should be on a sign on the door as you walk into the library.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Santa's Naughty and Nice Lists
It must be the holiday spirit in the air because people are starting to scare me with their kindness.
A few weeks ago a patron hugged me and told me she loved me because I found a book for her that she was unable to find on her own. It made me laugh, but my suspicious nature made me check my back for a “kick me” sign or some other prank that had to be attached to affection like that. Nobody does that. Not in my line of work anyway.
Last week a patron gave me a beautiful yellow rose as thanks for the service I provide.
I had to throw my panties away that day. There’s just no good way to get those kinds of stains out.
Today I helped a pair of women find a recipe they were dying to find.
Lady: We’ve looked through all these recipe books, and we can’t find the recipe.
Me: I bet if I do an Internet search I can find it.
Lady: OH MAN, I bet you can! I haven’t had Internet in 7 months and I forget it’s out there.
Me: Wow. That’s impressive. I’d be in the library twice a day just checking email.
Lady: Well, we’re in the process of buying a house and it’s taking 7 months. I’ve been packed and living out of boxes and storage since May. I can’t believe it’s taking this long.
Me: That’s awful!
Lady: Yeah, so Internet is something I don’t think about much.
Me: Sure, you’ve got other things on your mind. I’ll go look and see if I can find it online and I’ll bring back what I find.
Lady: If you find this recipe…I’m going to kiss you. On the mouth.
Me: I better go brush my teeth first then.
I did find her recipe, four versions of it, printed them all, presented them to her, and she must have forgotten she was going to reward me because I reaped no such benefits. It’s the thought that counts, right?
Then again, I didn’t brush my teeth like I said I was going to either, so maybe she was trying to say something.
But again, what’s with people being nice and gracious lately? Is this the childhood syndrome of attempting to get on Santa’s Nice List at the last minute?
Fools. What’s the point of being nice all year and getting presents for one day when you can be naughty everyday and sleep in on Christmas dreaming about all the devious things you’ve been up to?
Christi and I were standing around talking at the Circ desk tonight and Rick interrupted us to ask a very important question: would you rather be a superhero or a super-villain.
Heh, little does he know that I am the Happy Villain.
Christi: A superhero, duh! Doesn’t everyone want to be a hero?!
Rick: Well, actually…mwah-hahaha…when you’re a super-villain you get to murder people!
Christi: Oh, I’m sure there’s a loophole for superheroes. I mean, killing people for the greater good works, right?
Me: Wait, wait! Isn’t there an in-between? Like a super-moral-ambiguity?
Rick: No! Good or evil!
Me: Well, then I’d be a lazy superhero who only helped people I felt like helping.
Christi: And we could sometimes kill people who deserve it!
Me: You know, there are accidents.
Christi: Yeah, like I could accidentally run someone into a building.
Me: Excellent! Like you’re taking in the bad guy and all of a sudden you drop him from 86 stories up. Oops, my bad. Bet that had to hurt. Sorry!
Christi: Exactly! Bump someone in front of a speeding bus. Oh no, I didn’t mean to kill you, really.
Me: There are so many ways around that. We could be heroes who killed. No doubt about that.
I know Rick was trying to freak us out by insisting that super-villains are cooler and he’d could be one, but in the end I believe the debate was won by the superheroes here.
Maybe I should change my blog moniker to Super-Morally-Ambiguous. Nah, that’s too long. But it does make me want to whip out my old South Park Happy Villain character.
A few weeks ago a patron hugged me and told me she loved me because I found a book for her that she was unable to find on her own. It made me laugh, but my suspicious nature made me check my back for a “kick me” sign or some other prank that had to be attached to affection like that. Nobody does that. Not in my line of work anyway.
Last week a patron gave me a beautiful yellow rose as thanks for the service I provide.
I had to throw my panties away that day. There’s just no good way to get those kinds of stains out.
Today I helped a pair of women find a recipe they were dying to find.
Lady: We’ve looked through all these recipe books, and we can’t find the recipe.
Me: I bet if I do an Internet search I can find it.
Lady: OH MAN, I bet you can! I haven’t had Internet in 7 months and I forget it’s out there.
Me: Wow. That’s impressive. I’d be in the library twice a day just checking email.
Lady: Well, we’re in the process of buying a house and it’s taking 7 months. I’ve been packed and living out of boxes and storage since May. I can’t believe it’s taking this long.
Me: That’s awful!
Lady: Yeah, so Internet is something I don’t think about much.
Me: Sure, you’ve got other things on your mind. I’ll go look and see if I can find it online and I’ll bring back what I find.
Lady: If you find this recipe…I’m going to kiss you. On the mouth.
Me: I better go brush my teeth first then.
I did find her recipe, four versions of it, printed them all, presented them to her, and she must have forgotten she was going to reward me because I reaped no such benefits. It’s the thought that counts, right?
Then again, I didn’t brush my teeth like I said I was going to either, so maybe she was trying to say something.
But again, what’s with people being nice and gracious lately? Is this the childhood syndrome of attempting to get on Santa’s Nice List at the last minute?
Fools. What’s the point of being nice all year and getting presents for one day when you can be naughty everyday and sleep in on Christmas dreaming about all the devious things you’ve been up to?
Christi and I were standing around talking at the Circ desk tonight and Rick interrupted us to ask a very important question: would you rather be a superhero or a super-villain.
Heh, little does he know that I am the Happy Villain.
Christi: A superhero, duh! Doesn’t everyone want to be a hero?!
Rick: Well, actually…mwah-hahaha…when you’re a super-villain you get to murder people!
Christi: Oh, I’m sure there’s a loophole for superheroes. I mean, killing people for the greater good works, right?
Me: Wait, wait! Isn’t there an in-between? Like a super-moral-ambiguity?
Rick: No! Good or evil!
Me: Well, then I’d be a lazy superhero who only helped people I felt like helping.
Christi: And we could sometimes kill people who deserve it!
Me: You know, there are accidents.
Christi: Yeah, like I could accidentally run someone into a building.
Me: Excellent! Like you’re taking in the bad guy and all of a sudden you drop him from 86 stories up. Oops, my bad. Bet that had to hurt. Sorry!
Christi: Exactly! Bump someone in front of a speeding bus. Oh no, I didn’t mean to kill you, really.
Me: There are so many ways around that. We could be heroes who killed. No doubt about that.
I know Rick was trying to freak us out by insisting that super-villains are cooler and he’d could be one, but in the end I believe the debate was won by the superheroes here.
Maybe I should change my blog moniker to Super-Morally-Ambiguous. Nah, that’s too long. But it does make me want to whip out my old South Park Happy Villain character.
Me:
And then I have to whip out everyone else in the cast.
Marina:
Ann:
Christi:
Briana:
(It is scary-funny how much we all look like these characters, and how I made these years ago for the Happyville blog, and they still apply, and still look like us.)
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