Despite the addition of two new building maintenance employees and two new security guards, either through personal problems or other jobs, we have seen many absences from these crucial new members of staff, plus my favorite of favorites, Sarge, quit. Almost daily, Marina and/or I will go to the washroom in the early part of the afternoon and find it completely toilet paper free and a total mess. Is that mud on the sink again or something else similarly colored? I don't want to know. Last week Marina found blood all up behind the toilet and on the back of the toilet seat. After a lengthy discussion about how this couldn't have happened, we decided that we hoped someone injured herself in the washroom and neglected to clean up, rather than figure out how menstrual blood got up in back of the toilet. Then I found blood in a more reasonable location: the front of the toilet seat and all over the floor in front of the toilet. Sad that these findings are so common that we are merely grateful we don't have a blood mystery to solve. Also plaguing us are the garbage bags that never ever get changed. Food and junk are dumped from the bags, but the torn, stained, stinky bags are still in the bin when we return each day, for weeks and weeks and weeks, and we have come to identify them by the remnants that will no longer fall into the large bin when they're dumped. My garbage can has some sticky goo and pencil shavings permanently adhered to the bag, while another has what looks like a dime-sized purple booger on the rim. That has to be a health issue, but we haven't made a big deal about it yet. Add to that how overburdened Arms is with his full-time job, his new girlfriend, moving to Chicago, and having to work all the security hours himself (without Sarge or a replacement) and we I deemed our library a dirty, insecure mess.
On Monday, our director hired a new maintenance guy to cover the shift where Marina and I frequently end up finding bathroom disasters, and I nearly fell to my knees and kissed the new guy's feet. No one will appreciate him more than Marina and me, that's for sure.
A few minutes after the introduction, I felt the need to pee, so off I went to the washroom. The upstairs washroom was full of giggling teens, both in stalls and outside waiting, so I scurried to the downstairs washroom where I thought it would be safe and available. What did I find? No toilet paper. It wasn't even on my FLOOR and here I was having to replace toilet paper downstairs too. As I was bringing armfuls of rolls of toilet paper to the washroom, I walked past the director and the new maintenance guy, and I eyed the boss-man with a squint, then indicated my arms full of toilet paper with my eyes, as if to silently let him know that I'm not happy about my role as toilet paper girl.
He said to the new guy, "This is Nikki, who you already met. She's The Evil One. Watch out for her."
The temptation to begin hurtling the toilet paper at my boss was intense. I vividly imagined hitting him with a roll of TP and watching it bounce off his head, sending both his head and the TP vibrating in different directions.
And no, that does not support his assertion that I'm The Evil One. That was simply the appropriate response.
AND I take slight offense to this misnomer, for I am certainly not the guiltiest, evilest one around. There is a sign on his door that reads, "Shhhh, director at work," and Marina, using red marker, wrote below that, "Sure..." When I asked how she gets away with that without a title exposing her devious nature while I get dubbed The Evil One, she simply said, "No one ever suspects the butterfly..."
Sigh.
Tuesday, our new maintenance guy quietly entered our office and emptied the trash, which I thought little of, exchanged a friendly greeting with him, and went about my work. When he left I realized he'd changed our garbage bags for the first time in months. I let out a scream of joy! Instantly, I IM'd Marina to share the good news and she was almost as ecstatic as I was. The new conundrum is, how will we know whose garbage we're using? If not for the big purple glob of unidentifiable food that's been sitting atop the rim of the garbage bag to my right since February, how will I know that can belongs by my boss's desk? And if not for the sticky goo at the bottom, covered in pencil shavings, how will I know that is the garbage bin Marina and I share? Will we even know it's our own office anymore without the stale smell of rotten banana peels due to two banana-eaters sitting in close proximity, constantly heaving peels into bags that collect banana gunk for years? Suddenly, there's a whole new scent of pride around here!
As I was leaving the building last night, I approached Arms and the director standing together, and Arms immediately said, "Uh-oh, here comes trouble."
Now, between the two of them dubbing me The Evil One and Trouble, I'm starting to wonder about my reputation around here. But not much. If I let myself care, then I'd have to consider changing, and that's out of the question. Besides which, perhaps my reputation overshadows Marina and allows the butterfly to get away with more. It's a partnership in accomplishing more trickery, and I'm all for that.
Slightly caught off guard by the meandering thoughts Arms caused by calling me Trouble, I found my way back to the matter at hand and announced to Arms and the director that I think I am in love with Jose, who gave us new garbage bags. They laughed. They have no idea how serious I am. Any man who will clean up after me to my satisfaction is a man I could love. And I think he has green eyes to go with the dark, Hispanic features -- swoon!
No wonder the other guys make me put in the toilet paper and don't change the garbage bags. They want no part of my infatuation. I mean, really, who wants The Evil One to be smitten with them?
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Sunday, April 11, 2010
BUILD-A-GEEK
Last year for Ann's birthday, we took her to Build-A-Bear where Marina, Ann and I built bears. Christi opted out because of jealousy issues with her existing stuffed animals, which we all completely understood.
My first Build-A-Bear was Teddy Pringles, a black bear dressed in a Mountie uniform, who is supposed to represent the adorable black bear we met in the wild in Canada. I love Teddy Pringles so much!
In November, for Marina's birthday, we returned to Build-A-Bear with a healthy addiction well under way, and this time it was just Marina and me making bears. Ann had her precious sheep and no need or room for a sibling, and Christi cited the stuffed animal jealousy again, to which we nodded again in total understanding. Given that I'd just gone on my South Dakota trip, I REALLY wanted to make a buffalo, but alas, they had no buffalo. Instead, I made Nanuq, my polar bear (because I was a polar bear in my last life), and I dressed him as an Eskimo. Nanuq is the shit, yo! It doesn't get much cuter. Or softer.
So, in the meantime, I've been pining for my Build-A-Bear buffalo. I had already decided she was going to be named Dakota and I'd put her in traditional Indian dress. Finally, I just bit the bullet and ordered her, and folks, this is the cutest little buffalo in the history of cute little buffalo.
She's soft like Nanuq, has the biggest brown eyes, and a cute pink mouth like she's grazing.
I never meant to fall in love with Build-A-Bears. They're so commercial and silly, and so what if you can help put them together? They're just stuffed animals, right?
Au contraire! They are fuzzy little love beasts and I want more.
My first Build-A-Bear was Teddy Pringles, a black bear dressed in a Mountie uniform, who is supposed to represent the adorable black bear we met in the wild in Canada. I love Teddy Pringles so much!
In November, for Marina's birthday, we returned to Build-A-Bear with a healthy addiction well under way, and this time it was just Marina and me making bears. Ann had her precious sheep and no need or room for a sibling, and Christi cited the stuffed animal jealousy again, to which we nodded again in total understanding. Given that I'd just gone on my South Dakota trip, I REALLY wanted to make a buffalo, but alas, they had no buffalo. Instead, I made Nanuq, my polar bear (because I was a polar bear in my last life), and I dressed him as an Eskimo. Nanuq is the shit, yo! It doesn't get much cuter. Or softer.
So, in the meantime, I've been pining for my Build-A-Bear buffalo. I had already decided she was going to be named Dakota and I'd put her in traditional Indian dress. Finally, I just bit the bullet and ordered her, and folks, this is the cutest little buffalo in the history of cute little buffalo.
She's soft like Nanuq, has the biggest brown eyes, and a cute pink mouth like she's grazing.
I never meant to fall in love with Build-A-Bears. They're so commercial and silly, and so what if you can help put them together? They're just stuffed animals, right?
Au contraire! They are fuzzy little love beasts and I want more.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Redemptive Weekend
It always starts off badly, with smelly, self-centered people who want you to coddle them and be their best buddy, doing things for them that their own friends and family don’t have the patience for, and they don’t ask for any of it; they expect it.
Patron: So, I have a file that’s waiting to be burned on a CD, but what if the computer crashes? Will I lose it?
Me: That, um, depends on the crash. It’s always good to have a backup of anything important that you’re working on. Save it on the computer in a different place, save it on a flash drive, email it to yourself, even if you have to do it a few times over the course of your paper. But, yeah, I’d say save it somewhere else as well.
Patron: But will I lose it?
Me: I can’t say for certain. What I’m saying is to keep a backup.
Patron: You’re not answering my question! If the computer crashes and I don’t have a backup, will I lose that file waiting to be burned?
Me: I’ve explained that I don’t know, that it depends on why the computer crashed, but to avoid that being a catastrophe, save it somewhere else.
Patron: How hard is it to answer a question around here?! WILL? I? LOSE? THE? FILE?
Me: Sir, I’ve answered your question three times. I. Don’t. Know. So! YOUR job is to cover yourself. Save it. Don’t risk it. Do you understand what I’m saying?
Patron (defeated): *sigh* Yes.
I immediately sent Marina an IM, though she was sitting 4 feet away, stating emphatically that I hate that guy and don’t like having to be even professionally polite to him. She agreed.
Soon after, one of our least favorite female patrons approached the desk.
Lady: I have a phone number and I was wondering if you could get me an email address for it.
Me: Uh, you want me to try to find someone’s email address? Based on the phone number?
Lady: Yeah.
Me: Is it a business? Or a person?
Lady: It’s a person. They’re not in this country, either. That’s why I want an email address. I don’t want to call.
Me: That I’m aware of, there isn’t a database that links people from their phone number to an email address, unless that phone number is on a website and offers up an alternate way of getting a hold of them. Do you know if this person has a website?
Lady: No, it’s just somebody who wants me to call them.
Me: And it’s an international number?
Lady: Yes.
Me: Do you have a name? I wonder if there are international yellow pages…
Lady: No, I don’t have a name. Just a phone number.
Me: I…I …I only know how to do a reverse phone number lookup for phone numbers in the US and Canada, and that MIGHT give me a name and number if that phone number is listed, but it’ll be for the person who pays the bill.
Lady: No email address?
Me: No. So far there isn’t a database of listed email addresses. Thankfully.
Lady: So, I have no way of finding out this person’s email address from their phone number.
Me: You’re welcome to search online, but I can’t imagine that there would be. And if there were, I’d be very bothered by that. Plus, when people get email accounts, they don’t necessarily use their real information. There pretty much isn’t a way of finding that out.
Lady: You sure?
I wasn’t, but for this purpose I said I was. If she had the idea to go on a wild goose chase, she could do it herself. This is the lady who got very upset with me recently when she forgot her password and I couldn’t track her history on the computer to see what she used. Some people shouldn’t be allowed to use computers.
Another man came in and ranted about losing his job of 10 years, the injustice of it, the anger this spawned, how he now had to go look for a new job and start over at a company when he didn’t deserve to be treated this way. He was livid and told anyone nearby how furious he was to be unemployed, like he was above this. It was embarrassing to me to be standing amongst a group of adults using computers, many of whom were unemployed, none of them raving about how they didn’t deserve it, and I just wanted to slap this guy. What an ass! I did what he needed, but I didn’t even acknowledge his tirade about the job loss with my usual, “I’m sorry for your loss,” or “Good luck with your job search,” or anything remotely sympathetic. I nodded when he looked at me and redirected him toward the technological question he asked me. I’m not your goddamn shrink, you putz! Cut the crap and quit bitching about how bad you have it because not many people around you are better off.
As the day went on, it became clear that the dregs of humanity were out and about, wandering in and out of the library throughout the day, asking me questions that even as I was hearing them, I was thinking to myself that this was going to go in the blog.
Then, as we were cleaning up at the end of the day, a middle-aged man who had been using a computer for most of the afternoon, approached me and told me something that changed everything.
He had that look in his eye like he was a broken man, beyond wanting to retain some dignity. It was a sad, end-of-the-line look, almost child-like in absolute trust, pleading and fragile, and he told me he recently lost his house and was homeless. He needed help because he didn’t want to live in his van anymore.
I bit my lip. It was all I could do to keep from crying.
Given that we were closing, I gave him a list of places to go for help, organizations (governmental and non-profits), shelters, etc., but I couldn’t devote much time to finding more information about programs and such. I did explain that my knowledge might be a mile wide, but is only an inch deep, and calling these places would put him in touch with people whose knowledge runs much deeper and includes personal experience. He thanked me, said he still had a cell phone that hadn’t been turned off yet, and he’d call them first thing Monday when business hours commenced. He walked out of the building and I was struggling trying to remain on my feet. It simply broke my heart.
This man was smart enough and desperate enough to ask for help, which was good, and hopefully I gave him some tools to help him. But he was so meek, so unassuming, so kind, so grateful, so human. He placed no blame, he wasn’t angry, he didn’t demand anything – he simply wanted someone to give him some avenues he could travel down to get out of this. It was beautifully heartbreaking, and for the first time in a long time, I felt some hope. Hope for him. Hope for me. Hope for all of us. Still it saddens me. It’s a heavy weight I feel when people lay upon me these stories of woe and I let myself care. Part of me wishes he’d been an asshole like my previous patrons and barked at me orders to do various tasks for him, and that way I wouldn’t feel much of anything about his loss. But most of me is appreciative for the trust, the humanity, and the mutual respect, because if I can help him carry his burden, if just for a moment, and he walks away feeling like there’s someone on earth who cares, then maybe the job I do isn’t so frivolous, and maybe the person I’ve grown to be isn’t so selfish, so untouchable, so jaded.
I wore this new-found humble sensation all weekend. Well, until Easter Sunday, when I skipped around and wished everyone a Happy Zombie Jesus Day, and cooked a holiday dinner against my mother’s and mine won. Then I returned to work today to find myself just as quick to be irritated with the patrons who bully me without respect.
Yet, there is this memory of the homeless man who, if just for a moment, carried me, too. It makes me wonder who needs to be saved from what.
Patron: So, I have a file that’s waiting to be burned on a CD, but what if the computer crashes? Will I lose it?
Me: That, um, depends on the crash. It’s always good to have a backup of anything important that you’re working on. Save it on the computer in a different place, save it on a flash drive, email it to yourself, even if you have to do it a few times over the course of your paper. But, yeah, I’d say save it somewhere else as well.
Patron: But will I lose it?
Me: I can’t say for certain. What I’m saying is to keep a backup.
Patron: You’re not answering my question! If the computer crashes and I don’t have a backup, will I lose that file waiting to be burned?
Me: I’ve explained that I don’t know, that it depends on why the computer crashed, but to avoid that being a catastrophe, save it somewhere else.
Patron: How hard is it to answer a question around here?! WILL? I? LOSE? THE? FILE?
Me: Sir, I’ve answered your question three times. I. Don’t. Know. So! YOUR job is to cover yourself. Save it. Don’t risk it. Do you understand what I’m saying?
Patron (defeated): *sigh* Yes.
I immediately sent Marina an IM, though she was sitting 4 feet away, stating emphatically that I hate that guy and don’t like having to be even professionally polite to him. She agreed.
Soon after, one of our least favorite female patrons approached the desk.
Lady: I have a phone number and I was wondering if you could get me an email address for it.
Me: Uh, you want me to try to find someone’s email address? Based on the phone number?
Lady: Yeah.
Me: Is it a business? Or a person?
Lady: It’s a person. They’re not in this country, either. That’s why I want an email address. I don’t want to call.
Me: That I’m aware of, there isn’t a database that links people from their phone number to an email address, unless that phone number is on a website and offers up an alternate way of getting a hold of them. Do you know if this person has a website?
Lady: No, it’s just somebody who wants me to call them.
Me: And it’s an international number?
Lady: Yes.
Me: Do you have a name? I wonder if there are international yellow pages…
Lady: No, I don’t have a name. Just a phone number.
Me: I…I …I only know how to do a reverse phone number lookup for phone numbers in the US and Canada, and that MIGHT give me a name and number if that phone number is listed, but it’ll be for the person who pays the bill.
Lady: No email address?
Me: No. So far there isn’t a database of listed email addresses. Thankfully.
Lady: So, I have no way of finding out this person’s email address from their phone number.
Me: You’re welcome to search online, but I can’t imagine that there would be. And if there were, I’d be very bothered by that. Plus, when people get email accounts, they don’t necessarily use their real information. There pretty much isn’t a way of finding that out.
Lady: You sure?
I wasn’t, but for this purpose I said I was. If she had the idea to go on a wild goose chase, she could do it herself. This is the lady who got very upset with me recently when she forgot her password and I couldn’t track her history on the computer to see what she used. Some people shouldn’t be allowed to use computers.
Another man came in and ranted about losing his job of 10 years, the injustice of it, the anger this spawned, how he now had to go look for a new job and start over at a company when he didn’t deserve to be treated this way. He was livid and told anyone nearby how furious he was to be unemployed, like he was above this. It was embarrassing to me to be standing amongst a group of adults using computers, many of whom were unemployed, none of them raving about how they didn’t deserve it, and I just wanted to slap this guy. What an ass! I did what he needed, but I didn’t even acknowledge his tirade about the job loss with my usual, “I’m sorry for your loss,” or “Good luck with your job search,” or anything remotely sympathetic. I nodded when he looked at me and redirected him toward the technological question he asked me. I’m not your goddamn shrink, you putz! Cut the crap and quit bitching about how bad you have it because not many people around you are better off.
As the day went on, it became clear that the dregs of humanity were out and about, wandering in and out of the library throughout the day, asking me questions that even as I was hearing them, I was thinking to myself that this was going to go in the blog.
Then, as we were cleaning up at the end of the day, a middle-aged man who had been using a computer for most of the afternoon, approached me and told me something that changed everything.
He had that look in his eye like he was a broken man, beyond wanting to retain some dignity. It was a sad, end-of-the-line look, almost child-like in absolute trust, pleading and fragile, and he told me he recently lost his house and was homeless. He needed help because he didn’t want to live in his van anymore.
I bit my lip. It was all I could do to keep from crying.
Given that we were closing, I gave him a list of places to go for help, organizations (governmental and non-profits), shelters, etc., but I couldn’t devote much time to finding more information about programs and such. I did explain that my knowledge might be a mile wide, but is only an inch deep, and calling these places would put him in touch with people whose knowledge runs much deeper and includes personal experience. He thanked me, said he still had a cell phone that hadn’t been turned off yet, and he’d call them first thing Monday when business hours commenced. He walked out of the building and I was struggling trying to remain on my feet. It simply broke my heart.
This man was smart enough and desperate enough to ask for help, which was good, and hopefully I gave him some tools to help him. But he was so meek, so unassuming, so kind, so grateful, so human. He placed no blame, he wasn’t angry, he didn’t demand anything – he simply wanted someone to give him some avenues he could travel down to get out of this. It was beautifully heartbreaking, and for the first time in a long time, I felt some hope. Hope for him. Hope for me. Hope for all of us. Still it saddens me. It’s a heavy weight I feel when people lay upon me these stories of woe and I let myself care. Part of me wishes he’d been an asshole like my previous patrons and barked at me orders to do various tasks for him, and that way I wouldn’t feel much of anything about his loss. But most of me is appreciative for the trust, the humanity, and the mutual respect, because if I can help him carry his burden, if just for a moment, and he walks away feeling like there’s someone on earth who cares, then maybe the job I do isn’t so frivolous, and maybe the person I’ve grown to be isn’t so selfish, so untouchable, so jaded.
I wore this new-found humble sensation all weekend. Well, until Easter Sunday, when I skipped around and wished everyone a Happy Zombie Jesus Day, and cooked a holiday dinner against my mother’s and mine won. Then I returned to work today to find myself just as quick to be irritated with the patrons who bully me without respect.
Yet, there is this memory of the homeless man who, if just for a moment, carried me, too. It makes me wonder who needs to be saved from what.
Friday, April 2, 2010
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.
(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.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, March 29, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
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.
Click below if you're interested. If not, I won't bore you with a long narrative.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
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!
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!
Thursday, March 11, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, March 8, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
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.
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.
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