Defcon 1

The other day, my mom had a panic attack about not having enough food in the house. She mentioned to my brother that she wouldn’t be able to grocery shop for another week and that we’d have to get by until then, make the food that we had last for a while.

(I should explain that I buy most of the groceries for our house, but I refuse to buy junk food. I buy produce – fresh and frozen – of all kinds, meat, jarred and dried foods, and all the household products. My mother gets a small lump sum in food stamps, and with that she buys the crap I won’t buy, like cookies, cakes, pop, chips, shitty pre-packaged foods full of sodium and preservatives, and the white bread products I can’t and won’t consume. Her money doesn’t go far and she usually runs out somewhere around the middle of the month, so she must spend the remainder of the month eating the fresh foods I buy, which drives her crazy because that means it requires her to cook.)

My brother, of sound mind and body (relatively, compared with her), told her there was plenty of food in the house and he didn’t know what the hell she was talking about. When he told me about this later, we laughed heartily because Mom can take a perfectly safe, normal, calm situation where no panic is necessary and take it straight to panic mode, Defcon 1. We dubbed it Foodcon 1. The fridge isn’t packed to the walls with food and you can actually see the shelves in the pantry, so she was worried we were going to starve to death. We happened to run out of milk 2 days before I was to grocery shop, so she was frantic about having no milk and my unwillingness to run to the store to buy more milk.

Let me show you something.

THIS is what the refrigerator looks like.


THIS is what the pantry looks like.


THIS is the collection of fruit I have sitting on the island at any given time. (I’m a banana and grapefruit addict, by the way.) What you cannot see are the shelves on the bottom that are piled high with potatoes (3 5-pound bags), onions and other fresh produce that can be left out of the fridge.


This doesn’t even include the fact that I have a 5.2 cubic foot chest freezer in the garage (too dark to take a picture) that is so crowded, I’ve had to take things out of their original packaging and put them in baggies with notes on when they were opened and what they are. Meat stacks better when thawed and repackaged in Ziploc bags, the air is pushed out, and you can pile almost twice as much in a given space. Frozen pizzas in boxes take up too much room, so I leave them in their plastic wrap and cut out the cooking instructions, which I tape to the pizza. That freezer is packed so tight that I have to pile heavy things on top to keep the lid down.

PEOPLE, WE HAVE PLENTY OF FOOD! We could go a month without shopping and barely show concern. Part of that is because I learned from my dad to overbuy things that will keep for a long time and I tend to stock up if I can afford to do so, largely because I never know what tomorrow will bring, and maybe the food money will be cut severely, but I’ll have a heap of food to get us by for a while.

Yet, we were at Foodcon 1 to my mother.

That’s her way. Everything is tragic; everything is scary; everything is bad. It’s not even a case of seeing the glass as half-empty. She sees a full glass and panics because the glass isn’t big enough, or worse, it could be knocked over before you get to drink it and then there won’t be anything in the glass! She’s that way about everything: Defcon 1.

She should get a job with Homeland Security. Or airport security.

It's Not So Bad Being Me

I knew it wasn't going to be a good day when I was getting ready for work. First, I pulled a muscle in my back somehow. All my working out at the gym and riding my bike did not strengthen my back muscles such that they could withstand simple movement getting out of bed, and one would freak out and cry like a baby. Stupid muscles.

Then, as I was brushing my teeth -- which is more like brushing my mouth, including my tongue, the roof, and down my throat -- I hit a sensitive spot and gagged. Hard. Unlike I've ever gagged before. I didn't just catch myself starting to heave, but my throat made a horrific sound that took my evolution back eons, and something resembling the alarmed call of a pterodactyl escaped my esophagus. First I was startled, wondering if that noise really came from me, and when I realized it had, I started to laugh. Not a giggle. Not a snicker. But a full-on case of hilarity that caused me to spit toothpaste foam all over my mirror. This, of course, made me crack up more, and not wanting to spit more on my mirror, I tried to stifle it, which failed. Not only did I laugh harder, but the harder I tried not to laugh, the harder I laughed. Soon there were tears running down my face, toothpaste dripping down my throat, and the gagging started again until I threw up in my sink. And I was still laughing. Harder. Leelu was kind enough to point out that there are worse scenarios for throwing up than in a fit of laughter, and while I do agree, minty vomit is still pretty gross.

By the time I arrived at work, I was really feeling like a lame-o, and then I had the following conversation with Marina, via IM.

Me: You working tomorrow?

Marina: No way, Jose

Me: LOL, okay then.
Me: Do you need help clipping coupons?

She has a coupon program on Saturday and everyone has been bringing in their unused coupon inserts for her.

Marina: I shouldn't
Marina: I keep the inserts intact whenever possible

Me: Ah.
Me: Okay. Was looking for something different to do. So tired of ordering books.

Marina: I know what you mean
Marina: You could do my cataloging homework

Me: Sure. If you want to fail.

Marina: Hmmm good point.
Marina: If I can't understand it after three lectures on the topic, I doubt someone who hasn't sat through the B.S. could do it with no instruction
Marina: I'll get [the head of Tech Services] to do it
Marina: He'll think its fun

Me: Oh, good idea.

Marina: I don't know why it is so hard for me to grasp

Me: Because it's boring.
Me: How well would you do on a project about the chemical properties of paint and how they contribute to the length of time it takes for them to dry?

Marina: Well...
Marina: Probably worse than cataloging

Me: Uh-huh
Me: Detect a pattern here?

Marina: Yeah you're right
Marina: Even with three lectures, cuz I'd likely sleep through all 3
Marina: I'm just baffled, because 80% of my class seems to love it
Marina: They all want to take more cataloging classes
Marina: I think the conclusion that this leads to is that librarians are cracked

Me: Were you in doubt before the class?
Me: Need I remind you of our consortium meetings?

Marina: I guess I never really put it all together before
Marina: What did I get myself into?

Me: You just got yourself into a field where you are guaranteed to be the coolest, hippest, brightest, and most with-it person around.
Me: CONGRATS!

Marina: Oh yay!
Marina: A patron just asked me for his horoscope
Marina: I've never been asked that before

Me: A weird lady came in yesterday wanting copies [a coworker] made for her of her PAST horoscopes!
Me: OMG, what good is that?
Me: In hindsight!

Marina: lol
Marina: Maybe she is doing research on the accuracy of horoscopes

Me: Um...
Me: Maybe
Me: But I doubt it.

Marina: Yeah probably not

Me: Have you looked around lately?
Me: Do it. Right now. Take a look at your patrons.

Marina: I'm scared....

Me: You should be.

Which reminds me of a conversation I had not too long ago with one of my favorite people.

Patron: Hey, beautiful.

I looked around to see who the hell he was talking to and there was no one there but me. I was thinking he shouldn't be this drunk this early in the morning, but as he approached the desk he didn't smell like alcohol. Must be the politician in him that makes him so good at lying like that.

Me: Good morning.

Patron: Are you still dating Boyfriend *eyeroll* Extraordinaire? What are you thinking dating someone who lives in California? You need to look for someone else, someone local.

Me: WHAT?! Are you on crack? Have you SEEN the men who live around here? You'd like me to DATE one of THEM?

Patron (laughing): Okay, you have a point, but you should look in areas like Evanston. They're the types of guys for you.

He said this like it's a question of lifting up rocks and peering behind bushes, trying to find men in certain areas worthy of dating. Wait, that might not be a bad idea…

Patron: You're right, though. I'm looking at the patrons behind you, sitting at the computers. There's one guy, I swear he's on the sex offender list. Don't look, but he's on computer #5.

Me: Oh, yeah, I know who you're talking about. He's harmless, just creepy. And no, I wouldn't date him.

Patron: Slim pickings around here.

Me: Tell me about it! Why do you think I moved on to another state?!

So, while my day started off weird, I realize I'm probably not the weirdest person around, and that's nice.

This Post is Overdue

A long time ago I received an email from a woman named Marilyn Johnson, who identified herself as an author writing a book about librarians in the cyberage. We began an email conversation that has budded into a respect and friendship, and it all stemmed from her curiosity about my defunct blog about Happyville Library. We discussed many topics, like prudish views and censorship of librarians by themselves, though they are the very people who are supposed to champion free speech. When not sharing experiences on the heavy topics, there was always the never-ending supply of stories about poop. Libraries provide us with the fodder that fill blogs for years, and shock outsiders about what really goes on. Marilyn was no less shocked than any of the rest of us were the first time we found a rogue turd in the library.

As she worked on her book, her deadline fast approaching, I awaited its publication with silly eagerness, anxious to read about what she uncovered during the rest of her research and what a whack profession she would reveal this field to be.

First, she sent me a copy of the galleys (which I learned was the manuscript), and when it was published, I got a copy of the book, This Book is Overdue.


Much to my astonishment and delight, she had much more to say about the profession than I expected. I read every page, devoured it completely, and felt like I understood the job I do a little bit better because I was looking at it from a perspective that I had not entertained in decades: as an outsider. This book was written with a loving touch, a kind of objective reverence, one that made me feel proud of what I do not because I think we're going to save the world, but because we collect, share and preserve civilization, whatever that entails at this point in society. It wasn't all librarian martyrdom, either. Let's get down to business with the nightmare that is a Sirsi upgrade (deep breaths!) and how it pits IT library staff against all others, or the silliness that is the book-cart drill-teams. She covered it all, from many sides, dark and light, all respectful and diligent in upholding the library ideal, and yet still devoting a section of a chapter to my own trials and tribulations, which she dubbed "The Real Poop".

Barring the fact that I have been immortalized in book format for my battles within the library and without, for being the finder of poop, and a blogger who writes because I can't stop myself, I was deeply proud to be mentioned in this book. It's a gem and it will always have a place on my shelf. Not many would think to document the meaning of being part of a library in this day and age, and I'm sure even fewer would imagine this book is worthy of reading, but truly, if you work in a library, if you frequent libraries, or if you're just curious about librarians, this is a book to read. It will shed light on things you had forgotten about, didn't know occurred, or just flat out took for granted. And maybe, like me, you'll put it down and feel a little bit better about your library.

Climate Committees

An old tradition has been resurrected at my library recently, at a time of year when resurrections are en vogue. For the first time in a long while, we have a Sunshine Committee.

My outspoken abhorrence of committees not withstanding, the very concept of a committee designed to bring sunshine to the staff strikes at my very sensitive phony bone. Cookies, parties and random acts of caloric kindness do not a Happy Villain make. People, I lost 70 pounds by kicking sunshine’s ass, and I’m not about to let a committee of people with teeth too white and attitudes too bright take that away from me. Besides which, I’m pretty damn content being partly cloudy.

Now, I like the people on the Sunshine Committee a lot. They are happy faces I enjoy encounters with and who routinely make me laugh, so righteously they belong on a committee dedicated to raising employee morale. However, given the choice, I’d much rather go home and study my bellybutton than stick around the library on the clock and mingle with my coworkers over snacks and non-alcoholic beverages. Add some lame-ass games to that mix and I’d just about fall upon a sword to get out of it. Forced socialization makes me covet a recluse lifestyle.

As if this all weren’t bad enough, we are having another all-day, all-staff meeting, which, when I look at the schedule, seems to me to be a feeble excuse to get people to obey an order to come to work and participate in seminars, activities and exchanges that no one cares about or really could benefit from. An hour on our retirement fund? Two hours on assertiveness? One hour on happiness? A question and answer session? Should we really close the library for an entire day for this crap, and pay everyone to be there? There is a one-hour luncheon event put together by the Sunshine Committee, and given my specialized diet, it’s a wasted hour and an expense I can’t participate in. Additionally, there is a one-hour activity, fiercely secretive, held at the end of the meeting, put to us by the Sunshine Committee.

I have to go in on my day off for this.

Thus, I have decided I am going to be the unofficial, unsanctioned Gloomy Committee. I will not bake for staff; I will not throw them parties; I will not ask them to play games at work instead of doing their job or going home; and I will not give anyone a hard time for not being gloomier. I will simply be my gloomy self and not impose my attitude on others. It is my plan enjoy my Gloom by politely refusing the Sunshine and sitting in the shade, rolling my eyes, wishing for a fire drill or building-wide case of dysentery.

It’s hard to be sunshiny when I spent the afternoon fielding calls from cranky patrons who aren’t satisfied with all the free things they get from the library. Patron A is pissed because the museum pass program, which gives people free admission, doesn’t include the museum she would like to attend, and though Macy’s actually sponsored this and we just hand out the passes, she would like to lodge a formal complaint that we are misleading people into believing that we have a program ongoing that is of value, which she feels is not. Furthermore, she would like us to find a way to get free passes to her museum of choice to satisfy her need. Then, Patron B, who has an affinity for music that’s so obscure it has to come from one of the 4 libraries in the world who own it, yells at me because we don’t have it on our shelf for him right this minute. Patron C, who is also a music-lover, is looking for Celtic music, but he pronounces it with a soft C instead of a hard C, which makes me wonder if the basketball team is putting out albums now. Patron D just signed up for a new email account and already forgot her password, which she’s angry with me about because I have no way of retracing her history on the computer to see what she used. Am I seriously expected to be sunshiny 4 hours into a shift of frustration like this? Oh, and did I mention I’m midway through my week of estrogen withdrawal and Midol can only do so much? Ain’t no sunshine.

My two favorite patrons graced me with their loveliness today, too, but I was unable to find the sunshine.

Mitch and I discussed books for a bit, until he realized he had a small stain in the middle of his sweater and began rubbing it, licking his thumb and smearing it around, enlarging the stain with each touch.

Me: Um, it looks like you’re growing an emblem on your chest. Maybe a superhero uniform? Is that it? Is that the larva stage of a Superman costume?

Mitch: I should stop, huh? It’s just getting bigger and bigger.

Me: That happens when you rub it. In my experience.

He didn’t get my dirty joke because he was so focused on rubbing the stain. Eventually he wandered off and about 20 minutes later he walked past my desk sheepishly, trying to avoid eye contact, and I noticed that the once pea-sized stain had grown to the size of a softball and looked freshly drenched. I laughed, but even Mitch couldn’t make the gloom go away. There were too many patrons barking at me from other directions.

When the phone rang and I took a deep breath, expecting to be yelled at by another patron, I was pleased to hear the voice of my other favorite, Tim. He gave me the name of a book he wanted and I ordered it, then finally identified myself.

Me: Hi, Tim, it’s Nikki.

Tim: HEY SWEETIE! God, I haven’t seen you in way too long!

Me: I know. Where have you been?

Tim: Ugh, you know how it goes. I’m actually downtown right now in a meeting and someone mentioned this book so I thought I’d get it right away before I forget about it. So how ARE you? What have you been up to?

Me: Well, given that you’re in a meeting and talking on the phone with me, I’ll give you the LONG version: I’m fine.

Tim: Hahaha, okay, I’ll come in so we can catch up.

Me: You better. Or I might forget about you.

Tim: No, baby, don’t do that! I’ll see you soon.

Me: Promises, promises.

Do people have these types of conversations with their librarians? Tell me I’m not the only one out there playing around like this.

But even Tim couldn’t bring the sunshine.

And if Mitch and Tim can’t bring the sunshine, cookies in the staff lounge are not going to cut it.

Thus, I am a natural Gloomy Committee member. A committee of one. As it should be.

Daniel-san!

If seeing sandhills on Thursday on my way to get my new bike was a sign of a good day to come, I can only imagine what tonight holds for me. (Not holding my breath, though.) As I arrived home from work today, they were back and this time they were in the mood. I got pictures of cranes doing a mating dance! AS SEEN FROM MY DRIVEWAY!

Click below if you're interested. If not, I won't bore you with a long narrative.

SPRING!

Today I had a mission: buy a bicycle. I've been working my ass off, literally, at the gym since last May and have finally gotten to the point where I think I have the strength and stamina to be a biker again, so today was the day to get it. I even took a vacation day tomorrow and one next week for riding purposes.

However, pessimist that I am, I wasn't so sure it would all work out for me today. Either the bikes would all be out of my price range (because really, it's been 20+ years since I bought one and inflation doesn't skip over bikes because I want it to), or they would only have ugly, grandma, brown ones. Gah!

As I left the house, I was half-excited, half-pre-disappointed.

Walking toward my car in my driveway, I looked to my right to admire the gorgeous sunny day and the birds gathered at the bird feeder and very nearly shit my jeans.



Two monstrous sandhill cranes were standing there, probably 30 feet away from me and approaching! HOLY CRAP! Now, I've seen sandhills before and I love them passionately. My first sandhill encounter happened outside of Grand Marais, Michigan one June when I was driving down the street and spied these two gigantic orange birds and a tiny baby one. I swerved off the road, did a U-ie, and watched these marvelous creatures until they scampered off into the woods. Since then, it's been an ongoing love affair. But they've NEVER, in the 23 years I've lived here, paid a visit to my yard!


Not even the ornery Canada geese deterred them. They munched on seeds and breadcrumbs for a good long time, until someone approached too close and they wandered into my back yard!

SANDHILLS IN MY BACK YARD!



Eventually the guy who scared them off left and they went right back to the bird feeder to continue filling up. They seemed to not care about me in the least, and I was no more than 15 feet from them.



I watched them eat for a while and then went about my bike-buying day. I'm weirdly superstitious about how my day starts off and how that bodes for the remainder of the day. If, while driving to work, I hear a good song on the radio, it will be a good day. If I'm going somewhere and spot interesting wildlife, the adventure will be grand. It always pans out, too. Never fails. So, with my pair of sandhill cranes in my yard, I knew things would go well with the bike-buying.

And it did! I'm the proud new owner of a baby blue Schwinn mountain bike, which I have to re-learn how to ride.

DUDE, they lie so hard when they say you don't forget how to ride a bicycle because in 20 years, bikes are TOTALLY DIFFERENT and I have to learn how to ride new bikes. Also, the style of jeans that are currently out there are not conducive to bike riding, thank you very much fashion designers. I'm going to be one of those geeks with a rubberband around my ankle so my boot-cut pant cuffs aren't snagging on the chain. This was so much easier in the 80s when we wore stirrup pants or jeans with ankles so tight they put zippers in them so your feet fit through. Sigh.

Anyway, it was a successful adventure and I'm a bike owner and temporary neighbor to sandhill cranes.

I love spring!

Thats My Gig, But Do I Really Want This Gig

Somehow, for some reason, the Powers That Be at my library decided to spend a bloody fortune on bringing in a national author to our hick little town (good PR, dontcha know?), and the lucky author, as voted on by the patrons, was announced last week.

Marina, who is organizing the event, has been inundated with the details of this duty, as well as fielding all patron questions about the event.

Allow me to digress momentarily.

We have a patron, a professional photographer, or at least someone who fancies himself a pro, who has long been using our library. I'll call him Jack. Jack is a classic narcissist who thinks his shit doesn't stink. The only time this guy wants to talk with me is when he wants to brag about some piece of camera equipment he bought, or a job he got shooting for someone quasi-famous. (Meaning, an unknown member of a band that was popular in the 80s, who is now touring with a new band of has-beens and playing local dives with the rest of the local nobodies around the country.) He likes to stand in front of me for 15 minutes and talk about how awesome he is, and then ask me if I'm doing anything important or getting paid for my work yet. It bugs me. Lately he's been suggesting he might be a good mentor for me, that he could teach me a lot (which he says with a creepy grin), and introduce me to important people he knows. I politely decline. I'm on library time, after all. If I were not, I'd tell him to go fuck a duck. Not only do I not appreciate someone telling me they'd like to teach me some things (with a wink and a nudge), but it better not be some jerk who thinks he has talent running out of his ears and I'd be lucky to just witness his genius. 'Twould be good of him to not wear expensive shoes when he suggests such nonsense or he'll be cleaning my undigested lunch out of the seams. But since he thinks a lot of himself, I'm quite tempted to tell him that this opinion doesn't have many followers. The few occasions when I've shown him my work he's been speechless and gushed about how surprisingly good I am (always with an addendum that he could teach me more if I let him), but I am not a good photographer, and it only goes to show he has no concept of what it takes to be a good photographer. Added to this misconception of grandeur is his lack of business skills and the sheer number of people who gave him a chance and now won't return his calls. This is not a guy you want to work with.

Jack was in last week when he noticed the sign about our super national author visit and he began grilling me for information immediately. He's a big fan, so much so that he's stalked the poor guy at places he was scheduled to make appearances, but for comical reasons I can only attribute to this author's divine luck, they have not met yet. Jack is determined, though. With little to tell him, I advised him to ask Marina when he was in the library next.

Yesterday, as I was coming back from my trip to the gym with my arms loaded up with my lunchbag, purse, coat and other miscellaneous junk I carry around with me, I heard my name being shouted from about 25 feet away.

My office, and I think I've said this before, is about 3½ miles from the staff entrance, which requires me to walk through the administrative offices, past the circ desk, past the reference desk, and through the teen area, and we are threatened with unforseen numbers of patron landmines just to get to the locked door of safety where we can finally take off our coat and set down our luggage. (Luggage being that which we lug around.) (We need a tunnel into our office. I think I'll start digging with my spoon on my lunch break tomorrow.) The stress of trying to get to the office before being accosted is intense, and I cannot tell you how many times I've made it as far as unlocking the door and getting one foot inside before someone nabs me and forces me to do my job.

Such was the case with Jack yesterday.

With one foot in the office as I was pulling the key from the lock, I turned at the sound of my name being shouted and found Jack hurrying toward me.

Jack: Were you trying to avoid me?

Already I was irritated. He saw me with all that stuff in my arms, saw me hurrying in to get to the office. It's ALWAYS about him, though.

Me: No, I'm trying to get into my office so I can set all my stuff down.

Jack: Oh, okay. I just talked with Marina about--

Me: The author visit, yeah, good.

Jack: She gave me all the information. I'm so excited!

Me: That's good. A lot of people have been asking so it'll probably be popular.

Jack: Yeah, but my wife and I just LOVE him!

Me: Okay, so you're the happiest about this. Great.

Jack: Oh, and I asked Marina something else. I said I'd be happy to cover the event and take pictures for the library if they'd let me.

I cocked an eyebrow at him. He knows that's my gig.

Jack (looking at me sideways): But I don't want to step on any toes or anything.

I smiled my fakest work smile of all.

Me: She'll probably have to clear that with the director first.

Jack: Yeah, that's what she said.

Me: Well, good luck with that.

Jack: Okay, thanks. It was really good seeing you again. You look great!

Me (less than sincerely): Thaaaaaaaanks.

When I got into the office and closed the door, I whispered as loud as I could, "WHAT AN ASS!" and as I was slamming my stuff down near my desk I continued, "I HATE having to be nice to people here who I'd rather tell off!" I grumbled more, slammed myself into my chair and didn't care who heard me.

After discussing it with Marina, and after she perused Jack's MySpace page, where he showcases his work--

Wait, I have to comment on that.

MYSPACE!? Seriously, you consider yourself a professional caliber photographer and your only online exhibition is on MY-FUCKING-SPACE? Could you be a bigger loser? Could you be a bigger douche? Seriously, unless you're looking to impress underprivileged middle school and high school students and lure them into some septic, decrepit dungeon to perform unspeakable acts upon them, your photo gallery on MySpace will get you precisely ZERO respect, you booger-eating moron!

Sigh.

So, Marina, thoroughly unimpressed with his work, felt the need to tell me that he wasn't so hot and I shouldn't feel intimidated by him, which was good because I was expressing a little bit of trepidation about being so amateurish and covering such a huge event myself. Perhaps bringing in a pro would be good. Just not him. Anyone but him.

Grrrr, that guy makes me angry.

And here it is, a day later, and I'm still angry, even though Marina officially told me today that if I wanted the shoot, it's mine. Plus I helped her craft the denial email she sent Jack, in which I would have liked to find and insert a big fuck-you smiley, but alas, that would make her look unprofessional.

Anger still beads on my skin, though. That weasel!

So, when this gigantic, ornery woman came bounding over to my desk this afternoon, followed closely by Arms, and she was demanding to know why she was only getting in one of her inter-library loans per week since moving to our library from the neighboring library, and why we purchase so few new releases, and why our library sucks, I let her get away with it and tried to reason with her rationally for a bit, but it became quite clear I hadn't the patience or the tools with which to not only give her what she wanted, but to continue with the act without bludgeoning her, and then I snapped.

At some point during her rant about Northbrook's Library, the holiest of all libraries in her eyes, where they purchase every movie released every single week whether their patrons want them or not, but they have strict rules about lending out AV on ILL, I said something maybe I shouldn't have.

Me: Well, there's a big difference between our library and Northbrook's. That's MONEY. They have loads of it and we don't. They can afford to buy every new release there is but we can't. Look around. This town is nothing like Northbrook.

She started to say that we should be more like Northbrook, as if nothing I'd just said made a damn bit of sense to her and I cut her off.

Me: Northbrook is great, right? Maybe you should move there.

I felt myself going down a bad path. A path to Unemployment. So I added to that.

Me: But who can afford that, right? Not many of us could, or else we would. You have to keep in mind that they are LOADED. Their tax money is huge compared with ours. You're not going to get that collection here. Period. End of story.

I could tell she understood, but she wasn't happy and wanted to continue to argue. She altered her rant to be about the stingy ILL policy they had and how that's the only place to get some of the movies she's interested in.

Me: Look, I understand you think that you should have access to everything, and I really wish we could give that to our patrons, but they have the right to do with their money as they please. It's THEIR money. ALL of it. They don't owe us a thing. And you DO have an alternative. You can drive all the way to Northbrook and check it out there. You just can't get it delivered to us so you can pick it up here. You want those movies, go right ahead and get them. From Northbrook.

She said something like that wasn't going to happen and resigned that there was nothing she could do to change the system as she walked out the door.

Yes, blame the bloody system that fails you and your need to see every fucking movie released every week FOR FREE, delivered to your local library, which you can keep for a fucking week! Yes, that sucks, doesn't it? Even Netflix can't beat that deal and still she raves. MAYBE she should get off her cranky ass and do something other than watch fucking movies all day and night, and maybe she should learn that there's more to life than her precious addiction to what fake people are pretending to be doing on film. And MAYBE she should try getting out more so she can develop some interpersonal skills, which she is in dire need of. And maybe then she'll succeed in life beyond her no-name uniformed package delivery job and excel at something so she can move her miserable ass to NORTHBROOK! THEY CAN HAVE HER!

And thus, the fury continues. Good thing I leave town in two days on a much-needed long weekend trip.

Dweebs -- they vex me so.

She Will Math You

There was a very impish lad sitting at one of the adult computers tonight and I did not believe he was old enough to be doing so. Wanting to bust him for using someone else’s card, I looked up the computer user and tried in vain to determine his age from his birthday.

Me: He was born in 96, so he’s 14, right? No wait, 24. No! 14! What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I do mental math anymore?

Marina: Don’t ask me. I’ve never been able to. I have to use a calculator, or there’s a screen you can click on and it will actually tell you the patron’s age. Look.

She showed me and it was the first time in my 17+ years that Sirsi actually impressed me, so I smiled.

Me: That’s awesome! Thank you! So, anyway, he’s 14 and I guess he actually is old enough to be using our computers. Color me surprised.

Marina: Yeah, me too. When he turned around and I saw his face, yeah, he could be 14, but from behind he looks like he’s 8.

Me: I’d rather not confront him anyway. It’s not worth it. But it’s great to know that I don’t have to hurt myself with the mental math anymore.

Marina: I know. I can’t math.

Me: What? Did you just turn “math” into a verb? You can’t do that!

Marina: Yes I can! I totally can!

Me: Nuh-uh, “math” is not a verb!

Marina: Yes it is. I may not be able to math, but I can English.

That became our favorite quote, on the spot.

Me: ARMS! Did you know that Marina thinks she can just turn the word “math” into a verb. She says she can’t math well.

Arms just chuckled and Marina got that puffed-out chest stance that dared this big, gigantic man to disagree with little ol’ her.

Arms: You guys are like Smurfs then.

Me: What the hell are you talking about?

Arms: Well, they substituted regular words and input “Smurf” instead. They would “smurf” this or “smurf” that.

Me: That’s not what we were doing.

Arms: Poor Smurfette, though.

He jumps around in conversations like this often. Sometimes you just have to pretend like you understand and not ask. Guys with big muscles focus on things other than linear and logical thought patterns.

Arms: Just one chick with all those guys.

Me: Lucky girl!

Arms: No, not lucky! Do you know what a nightmare that had to have been?

Marina: Yeah, I’m with Arms. Did you SEE some of those guy Smurfs? Ew.

Arms: Yeah, she was completely abused, you could just tell.

Marina: I think you mean she was completely “smurfed”, don’t you?

Touche!

At some point while we were yakking with Arms, a woman walked into the library carrying her shitzu-poo-poo-doodle-something dog in her arms.

All three of us saw this at the same time and Arms vocalized our thoughts for us.

Arms: HUH!?

He took off after her and moments later he was escorting her and her fluffy little pet out the door. When he returned he was laughing.

Arms: She said the reason she brought the dog in was because there was no sign saying she couldn’t.

Me: Oh, so we need a sign for everything now?

Arms: Apparently she thinks so.

Me: Once we had a guy walk in with a huge iguana on a leash sitting on his shoulders. The guy said he didn’t know he couldn’t bring it into the library. DUH! I said, “Unless that’s a seeing-eye iguana, it’s got to go.”

Arms: Oh, I’ll have to remember that one!

I spent much of the night trying to imagine what kinds of signs we’re supposed to have posted out there so that stupid people know they cannot do it in our library.

No setting your hair on fire?
No stabbing?
No flying squirrels?
No cars?

I mean, where does it end?

Patrons. Totally smurfing nuts sometimes.

Full Moon

While Sunday was a full moon, I am fairly certain that the effects of the lunar lunacy in my area surrounds the actual full moon by three to four days on either side.

Over the weekend, I was approaching the water fountain to fill my large container that I use to keep my plants surrounding my desk fed. The water fountain lies between the men’s and women’s washrooms, and as I neared that part of the lobby, a man walked out of the men’s washroom still zipping and buttoning his pants.

When a man you are not interested in has his hands on his open fly, opening your mouth wide (in horror) is not recommended.

This guy smiled. What he was thinking, I don’t know, and I’m glad I don’t.

Bluck.

Later, one of my favorite, long-time patrons came in, and as he approached my desk we had the following conversation.

Me: Hey, Ron. Been staying out of trouble?

Ron: Nah, trying to get INTO trouble.

Me: Heh.

Ron: Hello, Trouble.

I’m so lame that the only thing I could think to do was laugh nervously and start twirling my ring around my finger. A ring I wear on my left ring finger. I wonder if he got the hint. Not that the ring means anything to anyone except me, because I’m the one who bought it for myself 13 years ago, but I hope that it gives men the idea that I’m not available. Ron left quickly, but I still had a case of the creeps.

While meeting Briana in the lobby Sunday afternoon, I passed a middle-aged man standing in the movie section wearing a women’s denim jacket with Eeyore on the back. Seriously, I don’t know what struck me as more wrong: the women’s jacket, the poofy denim style from 20 years ago, or the Eeyore embroidered on it.

Then tonight, Needy Betty called.

Betty: I have a question, maybe Nikki would be best to look this up, so if you want you can give this to Nikki.

Me: Um…okay.

Betty: If Nikki is there, that is. If she’s not there then I guess you can look it up yourself.

Me: Okaaaaay.

I wasn’t about to tell her I was Nikki because she likes Nikki and I didn’t want to be someone she liked today. She yammered away for about 20 minutes before she caught me.

Betty: Is this Nikki?

Me: Yeah, it is.

Betty: But, you didn’t say anything earlier!

Me: Yeah, I know.

Betty: WHY!?

Me: Because…

Think! What’s a good reason?

Me: Because…I didn’t want to interrupt you.

Betty: Oh, okay, that’s sweet.

Whew. She talked for about a half-hour, wanted me to research how many people have been killed by coyotes, a copy of the website created for the business someone bought from her husband, transcripts from a radio show she listens to (which aren’t available), and someone to listen to her talk about her tubal ligation for a while. I was texting friends, IM’ing Marina begging her to shoot me, and flinging myself dramatically in my chair like a bored child having a tantrum. When I finally got rid of her, she called back to add some more useless information to my night and request more irrelevant searches that she’ll forget all about before her next trip in.

After work, I drove home to pick up my brother so we could run to the grocery store for some mid-week replacements. He found frozen breakfast sandwiches with croissants and about wet his pants in the freezer aisle of the store.

As we were driving home, we discussed this at length.

Bro: When I get home, I’m having two breakfast croissants!

Me: Don’t you mean cro-sohhhs? Like the unintelligible adults on the Peanuts?

Bro: Why do they put all those letters in if they don’t want to pronounce them?

Me: So they can make weird noises in their throat and pretend that those weird noises are spelled with normal letters.

Bro: I’m going home to have some…hwah-HWAAAHS.

I was cracking up.

Bro: Sausage and egg…hwah-HWAAAAAHS!

Me: Sausage, egg and cheese…hwah-HWAAAAAAAAHS!

We laughed ourselves into hysterics as I was entering the drive-thru to pickup my prescription. There is a slightly raised area at the drive-thru window where the cement has sensors and alerts the pharmacy folk that they have a customer, but I wasn’t thinking about this as I was pulling out my wallet, and as soon as the tires hit the slight bump, I screamed out, thinking I’d plowed into something.

Me: Oh, whew, I thought I ran over something.

Bro: You did. It was just the road.

I started laughing hysterically again and he continued making fun of me.

Bro: WHEW! I thought I was driving for a second. Wait, I was.

Me: *coughing and sputtering*

Bro: WHOA, was I just breathing?

Me: STOP!

Bro: Man, I feel like I’m talking. HEY, I am talking!

The lady at the pharmacy drive-thru window didn’t think we were funny at all. I gave her my name and then my brother said something that caused me to totally lose it.

Bro: I’m picking up a prescription. My name is French. Its Niihaaa, wah-WAHH. And when we go home, we’re going to eat sausage and egg hwah-HWAAHS!

Tears freely flowed down my cheeks and even my brother was laughing so hard he could barely breathe.

So, we weirdoes were out last night trying to keep ourselves from peeing our pants, and I just know that the folks at the grocery store and the lady at the pharmacy were thinking about the stupid full moon and all the lunatics out and about.

Screw It

I knocked on my brother’s door.

Me: Do you have a tiny little phillips-head screwdriver I could use on my keyboard to open it up?

Bro: Um, let me see. Why do you want to open your keyboard?

Me: Because the letter L doesn’t work, and there’s an L in my email address, so I can’t even check my email.

Bro: Here, try these. They’re flatheads, but they’ll probably still work.

He handed me those lame-ass, bullshit tools that are pretty much large screws with a textured, cylindrical sheath for a grip around the barrel.

Well, it worked, but then the real challenge began.

Me: Why the FUCK do they put 300 screws in one little keyboard?

Bro: Because you’re not really supposed to take them apart. It’s a deterrent.

Me: Because they just want you to go, “Shit, I could take out these 300 screws that are smaller than ants to clean it out…OOOOOORRRRRRR, I could just spend $20 and get another one. Durrrr, I’m going to get another one.” And thus, they make more money on something that could be a quick cleaning fix.

Bro: Yes. Probably. You know how funny you look doing that?

Me: Quit laughing! What do you mean?

Bro: Well, there are all these tiny little screws and you’re using this tiny little screwdriver, and it makes you look like this Darby O’Gill giant trying to work in a tiny little world. “Must get screw out.”

With that, he made a big oaf face and pretended to be rolling a teeny-tiny screwdriver between his thumb and index finger, squinting at the miniscule thing it was unscrewing.

Bro: And it’s even worse with those things because you can’t hold the top like you want to because it turns. You have to hold that narrow, slotted thing around the middle, which is even more awkward, and you’re rolling it between your fingers instead of gripping it with your hand.

Me: Yeah, and the manufacturer made sure to put in 100 screws that are atomic sized, 100 that are molecular sized, and 100 that are barely visible with the naked eye. Why three sizes? And why are they in here so tight? It’s like Dad worked at this plant and convinced them that the tighter a screw is, the more sound the design.

Bro: They do, but over time they get corroded, so not only do you have to break that seal of the super-over-tightened screws the size of DNA, but you have to break the chemical corrosion that has sealed the screw to the plastic, too.

Me (breathing heavy): This is nuts! I can’t get these tiny screws out!

Bro: That’s why no one opens their keyboards!

Me: It’s a conspiracy! I won’t participate! I will fix my L!

Finally I got the keyboard open and all these little plastic suction-cup-looking things went flying everywhere.

Me: SON-OF-A—

He started laughing so hard he had to leave the room.

I spent the next 15 minutes trying to line up the plastic thingies with the keyboard keys and circuit board thingy to get it back together, and when I finally did, only the letters D and F worked.

Meltdown in 3…2…1…

Grabbing the keyboard and all the carefully placed plastic thingies, I slammed it on my desk with a scream and little miniature suction cups and screws went everywhere. It was the biggest miniature mess I ever saw and it made me laugh.

Me: So, wanna go to Walmart and get a new keyboard with me?

And so we went.

In a snowstorm.

But now my L works again. And I feel normal-sized once more.

Adult Services

Last Week:

After explaining to one of my coworkers that I mistook the earthquake for my room being haunted when I was wakened by a loud boom and my bed shaking, then finding out that Marina thought it was aliens, she asked a poignant question about why it is that all these alleged abductees claim they were anally probed during their abduction. We discussed this, between giggles, wondering if the aliens had some kind of knowledge about the colon that we do not, or was it some kind of anthropology study of the waste of a people revealing their culture. The more we discussed the anal probing of aliens, the sillier we became, and then Arms approached the desk and we asked if he’d felt the earthquake. He did not.

Me: Marina thought it was aliens.

Coworker: What do you think about alien abductions?

Without her elaborating that we’d basically deduced that alien abductions = anal probing, Arms began a exclaiming in favor of alien abduction.

Arms: Oh, I’d LOVE to be abducted!

Giggles.

Arms: I think I’d enjoy that immensely!

Laughter.

Arms: I’ve ALWAYS wanted to try that!

Hysterics.

Arms: Since I was little, I’ve wanted to be an ASSSSSSS-tronaut.

Tears and sobbing.

It was as if he knew what we were talking about and was playing along. But he didn’t have a clue.

So my coworker decided to let him in on the source of our laughter and she wrote on a piece of small paper, “anal probes.” Once he realized what we were laughing about he laughed as well.

Arms: I’m going in the back to shred this piece of paper. I don’t want to just drop it into the garbage and someone else will come along and see that and find it disturbing.

Me: You can’t just fold it up in your pocket and risk finding it later when you do laundry. What if you don’t remember what it’s about and there’s just this paper that says “anal probes” in your pocket?

Arms: Exactly. What if it fell out of my pocket and someone saw it fall out and tried to tell me, but they read it and then had to wonder why I was walking around with a slip of paper in my pocket that said “anal probes.”

Me: You have to destroy all evidence of that paper.

Arms: That’s exactly what I’m about to do.

Monday Night:

Arms: Look, I got a Valentine!

Me: Oooh, who from?

It was from one of the girls who works in the youth department.

Arms: But look. It’s not just any Valentine. It’s a Jonas Brothers Valentine.

Me: Wow, that…that…is…sad.

Arms: It says, “Happy V-Day.”

Me: Yeah, but they’re the Jonas Brothers and V probably means something entirely different to them.

Arms: Whoa! You know, every conversation I have with Adult Services lately goes straight downhill. You guys put the “Adult” in Adult Services.

Me: Don’t be giving them credit for my dirty mind! That’s all me, baby!

Arms: I’m getting out of here and going back down to the youth department where they’re good.

Me: You can’t handle the heat, get out of the kitchen.

Yesterday:

We were discussing a wild time Arms had at the bars the night before and a random girl he was making out with.

Me: You sure she was a girl?

Arms: Oh yeah, I’m sure.

Me: Are you REALLY sure? Because some of those cross-dressers are prettier women than real women.

Arms: If that happened and I found out she wasn’t female, there would be some violence. ‘Captain Winkie!’

Me: Huh? Tell me you don’t have a nickname for it!

Arms: No, that’s from Ace Ventura! Remember?

Me: No, it’s been a really long time since I saw that.

Arms: Well, I could’ve said ‘cock’, but that’s such a harsh word. I’d have to say ‘cahhhk’ so it wouldn’t sound so bad. I don’t like that word.

Me: Oh, I like it. I like it a lot!

Arms (blushing and laughing): Every time I come up here, this department gets more and more ADULT.

Me: Scary, isn’t it?

Arms: No, I like it.

But he walked quickly away. Back to the youth department for some cleansing.

Tonight:

Arms: What’s that chemical called that the body releases?

Me: Serotonin?

Arms: No, the stuff that makes you feel good.

Me: Endorphins?

Arms: Yes!

Coworker: Margaritas!

Me: Oh, that would be awesome if our bodies just produced that! Every few seconds I’d do this…

I pretended to lick the entire length of my left arm.

Me: Mmmmmmmmmm…

And then I pretended to lick the entire length of my right arm.

We were cracking up and I continued going, pretending to lick myself with an exaggerated lusty, hunger.

Coworker: It would be like pheromones!

She began sniffing the air, searching for the smell of someone releasing margarita pheromones.

I leaned over to her with my tongue lolling out of my mouth and sniffed her shoulder with dramatic facial embellishments.

Me: Mmmmmmmmmmargarita!

Arms was laughing and trying not to watch this directly.

I smiled huge, my eyes buggy, and I leaned over and started pretending to lick my coworker’s arm, making loud slurping sounds. We were in hysterics again.

Me: It’s like those toads people lick to get high. We’d be licking one another all night around here.

Arms (bright red and laughing): OHMYGOD, you guys are sick!

Again, he slithered off to Youth for comfort and sweetness.

I think allowing 14-year-olds in our area is probably irresponsible. We clearly need to be NC-17.

Facebook Fail

Last week I did something I swore I’d never do, right on the heels of getting that cell phone I swore I’d never get, but once again I disappointed myself and joined Facebook. Already I’m frustrated and trying hard to figure out what to do because I’m getting friend requests from people I don’t consider my friends, like my boss’ boss’ boss (seriously?), and a warning from Bri about the most irritating patron ever who friended her and will likely come after me if she knows I have an account. Bloody hell no! And since I have working relationships with these people, what’s the polite way of saying, “Dude, I don’t want to be your friend. I don’t want you knowing even the most irrelevant, superficial things about me. And I really don’t want you knowing who my friends are so you can voyeuristically keep an eye on them too.” How do you say that to people you don’t want to friend?

I think about this shit too much, I know. To me the word “friend” still means something, and I’m not collecting as many of them as possible, not in the real world and certainly not in a fake one I don’t plan to spend much time in. And more than anything, I want my Facebook anonymity back so that I don’t have to “friend” someone and block them from everything in my account. What IS the point?

Anyway, there is something else bothering me that I found on Facebook, something that’s been bothering me for many years and I just shake my head and walk away from the debate because it’s so nonsensical to me that it boggles my mind. One of my real friends, who also happens to be a friend on Facebook, joined a group supporting gay marriage, and another real friend, who also happens to be a friend on Facebook, joined a group opposed to gay marriage, and it makes me scratch my head that I can manage to be such close friends with both.

Here’s what boggles my mind: we’re debating the rights of gays to marry. And it’s such a heated debate that it’s polarized people into joining one group or another to announce their side of the fight.

After taking a few deep breaths, I beg the question: why? Why is this an issue? Why does anyone care if gays marry at all? Why do we even recognize gay couples as being different? Why is it a legal matter? Why is it a political matter? Why do we join groups on a social networking website and announce proudly to the world who we think should be allowed to marry? Why is there such a thing at all as the phrase “gay marriage”? People are people, people!

Here is how this sounds in my head.

I’m against fat marriage. Adam and Eve weren’t fat, the bible doesn’t specifically state that people should be fat and marry and have kids, so therefore it’s blasphemous. Fat people shouldn’t marry. If fat people were to get married, that would send a message that it’s okay to be fat, and clearly that goes against the way we were intended to be. Fat people get diseases and don’t live as long. You don’t see fat animals in nature. We’re not born fat – it’s a choice! Our ancestors weren’t fat. Fat is abhorrent. If fat people got married, they’d want to be parents and have children, and we all know that fat people can’t be good parents or role models. Their kids would turn out fat for sure and it would create more fat people in the world. And how would those kids feel growing up, having to explain to their friends that their parents are fat. They’d be made fun of, other kids would say that they’re going to grow up to be fat, and skinny parents wouldn’t let their kids play with the children of fat parents because fatness is contagious. Don’t get me wrong, I have fat friends, but I’m certainly not going to some fat wedding with all their fat friends and family, because you just know that people are going to be talking about nothing but food, and eating more than I can stand to watch, and while I like my fat friends, I don’t want to support that lifestyle in any way. Isn’t it enough that there are fat bars in the world, where fat people can go and be themselves? What more do they want? Next thing you know, all ceremonies will be fat-friendly and we’ll have fat marriage, fat divorce, fat funerals, fat christenings, and with the way things are going, one day we’ll have a fat president. OHDEARGOD, can you just imagine? Now, it’s forgivable for some to experiment with fatness, I suppose. Many folks put on those freshmen 15 pounds and dabbled in being chubby for a bit, but they realized it wasn’t them and they went back to their normal, natural weight. College is time of experimentation, I understand, but then you grow up. It’s just not right. I’m not going to vote for anyone who supports fat rights and if I ever find out my kids are fat, I’ll disown them.

As much as I’d like to put up a big banner and announce to the world that I support gay rights, I’d feel like I’m entering into battle of idiocy. This should not be an issue that divides us. It doesn’t even make sense to me. I understand that we need to make strides (likely slow ones) that aim toward a more equal society, but like other wars going on, I just don’t want to enter into this war that shouldn’t even be a war to begin with.

One day I hope that common sense will prevail. One day I hope that we’re not on one side or the other for civil rights of any group discriminated against in society. Because while it seemed amusing to read my fat marriage rant, substitute any other section of society for “fat”, like “black” or “Jewish” or anything else, and see how funny is sounds when you have people on Facebook arguing for or against a black couple’s rights to marry and have a family. I’m ashamed to be alive during a time when this is a hot topic.

Leave it to Facebook to make it possible to pretend to be friends with hundreds of people you would have nothing to do with in real life, all the while encouraging us into factions of warring social groups. It’s not a network, it’s a breakdown.

For the time being, I’ll stay a member and I’ll talk about my purple hair, post some pictures of burros poking heads into my car, whatever superfluous, ridiculous, unassuming things might pop into my head, and try hard to ignore it when people want to participate in division, fan the flames of a fire that shouldn’t even be lit, and I’ll just ignore the people who have no business on earth thinking we should be friends, even though that’s divisive itself. Sigh…what a terrible position Facebook puts me in.