A man walked up to my desk and mumbled something to me, which I could not make out. All I heard was something about signing up for something. Given that our newsletter just landed in the mailboxes of all our residents, he could’ve been asking to sign up for any number of things.
Me: Excuse me? You’d like to sign up for what?
He rolled his eyes at me, turned his back to me and leaned against my desk facing away, and mumbled again, “[Mumble]...sign up...[mumble]...library card...[mumble]...for a few minutes.”
I know why old people are cranky. I’m getting there way before my time already. Patience with rude, inconsiderate and stupid people runs very thin somewhere around the age of 35, if you’ve been dealing with the public. The more you deal with the public, the quicker it runs out.
Surmising from the three phrases I managed to understand, and completely jumping to conclusions about the mumbles that interspersed the intelligible portion of his conversation with me, I not so patiently replied to him.
Me: I’m sorry but it’s hard to understand you when you’re not even talking TOWARD me. Are you asking for a reservation for an Express computer because you don’t have your library card?
Him (glancing over his shoulder, rolling his eyes again): YES, a COM-PEW-TUR!
This guy was not a punk 14-year-old. He was easily in his late 20s, judging by his receding hairline and slight acne still upon his skin. And by the way, he needed to wash his thinning hair. Even though there wasn’t much, it was greasy-gross. I should also mention I might not have noticed how clumpy and sticky his shiny hair was if that wasn’t the part of his head he insisted on presenting to me.
So I made the reservation, tore off the reservation slip, and held my hand out to his back. Still he would not turn around and face me, and eventually he noticed out of the corner of his eye that I had my arm extended to hand him the slip. With maximum effort -- I kid you not -- he twisted his arm around backward so that he wouldn’t have to actually move his body at all, and just opened his hand up so I could put the slip into it.
I did not gracefully and delicately place it into his hand, lets just say.
From there, things did not improve. Though I was helping other people, in the middle of explaining something with words flowing freely from my informative lips in the direction of patrons standing before me, FACING ME, he would yell to me from the computer, “MISS! MISS! THIS ISN’T WORKING!”
“This” being his brain? Sorry, I’m not trained in handling that kind of problem.
I grew tired of looking at him in the middle of my conversation and giving him the finger.
Not that finger. Thought I very much wanted to.
The hold-one-minute finger.
Eventually I quit bothering with the finger and just kept talking. He would sigh and get the point, though it didn’t stop him from continually doing this throughout his stay.
What it turns out he needed was something from his mortgage company that had his address on it. A simple bank statement wouldn’t work. Apparently, in order to register his child for school, he had to prove not only his address with formal ID, but ownership of property. I’m guessing he was mistaken but this was what he insisted upon, and logging into his online account did not include the physical address of the property anywhere in the account, so he was frantically demanding I figure out what he could do.
I asked if another item would suffice: utility bill, car insurance card, etc.
He looked at me with incredulity.
Guy: They’ll take a car insurance card?
Me: Well, I don’t know. You’d have to ask them. What I’m asking YOU is if you asked them if they’ll take anything else with your address on it.
Guy: I don’t know. Why would they take my car insurance card?
Me: Because some have an address printed on them, which may or may not be enough proof that your car is registered to that address. That’s something else with an address -- car registration. I mean, there are a number of options, but I can’t tell you what the school will accept.
Guy: But why doesn’t the mortgage put my address on my online account?
Me: I don’t know that either, but it’s probably a security measure. You log into your credit card account and, at least with mine, they don’t put the account number on it. Sometimes the last four digits, but mostly you just have to know it’s yours and recognize the rest of the information. It’s for your protection.
Guy: So how am I supposed to get this information?!
Me: Call your mortgage company and see if they can print something out for you. Or call the school and see if they’ll take something else.
Guy: But what else would they take?!
I was tempted -- oh so tempted -- to turn my back on him and mumble my repeat of suggestions, rolling my eyes. If he can dish it out he should certainly be able to take it, but that is almost never the case.
Instead I paused and repeated. He was realizing that his problem wasn’t going to be immediately solved and so he stormed out.
Good riddance, I say.
Or...
[Mumble] riddance...
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Monday, July 26, 2010
The Bitch Principle
Thank you so much to my anonymous commenter for reminding me of this post. I wrote it when I worked for another director, in another department, and the reminder was both painful and jarring. I needed it, thanks. It's part of the defunct Happyville Library archives and no longer published, but I figured I should re-publish it for nostalgia's sake. And my own. So here it is.
Warning: I wrote this post after reading (and re-reading, because it was so damn funny) an entire book of Dilbert comics. When I finished, I had an abundance of crazy manager memories flooding my brain and I wrote this with many of my past jobs in mind. Happyville is NOWHERE near this bad, but I've been places that are and this is not an exaggeration of some workplace philosophies. Read it with the humor it was written with.
The Bitch Principle
You are owned by the taxpayers of this community. This means you are their bitch. They pay your meager salary and begrudge you every penny.
Corollary 1
A bitch’s job is to keep the patrons happy, at all costs. Some will be satisfied that you have done your job if you merely answer their question about the library’s hours; others will be dissatisfied with your output if you call in favors, pull strings, hack a government computer and sell your personal possessions to pay for the bribe used to acquire information you seek on behalf of a patron. It is recognizable that you may eventually find your resources have reached a limit. When this occurs, find another bitch with greater resources and tell the patron you are referring them to someone with more authority in that area.
Corollary 2
If you are off the clock and shopping in a local store, you are still their bitch. Whenever possible, without regard for your personal situation, do your best to serve their needs.
Corollary 3
Find someone else’s bitch for them. Sometimes patrons get attached to the work done by a particular bitch on staff. If Joe is Mr. McCarty’s favorite bitch and Mr. McCarty is on the phone looking for Joe, find Joe immediately. Patrons don’t like to leave voice mail messages for staff because it feels less like their bitches are at their beck and call, so you must track that staff member down or take a message, thereby taking personal responsibility for Joe getting the message. Bitchdom is transferable like that so it is preferred that you find the bitch in question.
Corollary 4
Never forget you’re their bitch. No matter how harsh, offensive or brutally critical a patron is, show them their proper respect. Only when a patron breaks a law and infringes on the rights of other patrons can you act in defense of the other patrons. Your honor is not important and if they belittle you, that is their right. If it weren’t for them, you wouldn’t have a job. It is only through their generosity that you are able to put food in your mouth. Show some gratitude.
Behavior Principles and Management Noninvolvement
Patrons are unpredictable and you should predict their behavior accordingly, without aid of your supervisors.
Corollary 1
Try to diffuse a belligerent patron’s temper before they take their complaint to management. Managers sought promotions to get themselves away from the positions of serving the public because they were terrible at it and they hated it. Do not remind your boss of his or her shortcomings by bringing them a raging patron.
Corollary 2
Inebriated patrons should be refused service. There are no repercussions because if they are as drunk as they seem, they won’t remember it anyway. If the inebriated patron raises suspicion that they might be dangerous or driving, the police should be alerted. If you are feeling apathetic on this particular day, remember that they are parked in the same parking lot as your own vehicle, and they might have lagged on their liability insurance.
Corollary 3
Mothers with children are like ticking bombs and should be given an enormous amount of leeway. Some prefer you to discipline their children for them; others don’t care if their child has eaten the first three volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica, and they do not want you to say a negative word in the direction of their children. You have to figure out which type of mother you are dealing with and then be prepared for the fallout. Again, “diffuse” the situation accordingly and avoid management if at all possible.
Corollary 4
Patrons will deny responsibility for any and all offenses they commit, no matter how obvious it is that they are guilty. If you cannot convince them that they must be accountable for their actions and the matter is presented to management, be prepared for the manager to exhibit his/her spinelessness and give the patron what they want, not backing you up and not standing by the written and formal policy. Managers suppress their confrontational abilities until they wield the pent-up confrontation on an underling. If you are the patrons’ bitch, your manager is an upper echelon bitch and held to an even higher standard of devotion and servitude to the patrons. Do not expect your manager to take your side or uphold your decisions.
Corollary 5
When all hell breaks loose, call the police instead of management. Though there will be a delay in the time it takes for officers to arrive, it will be much faster than locating an effective member of management. Order must be restored as quickly as possible, and often that can only be accomplished by those with guns. Choose wisely and keep in mind that the library will remain open regardless of fatalities, so minimize the mess because it will be you working among the splattered blood.
Emergency Principles
The only thing that should close the library is the building itself being blown to smithereens. Your emergency kits should suffice in rescuing you from any situation, with the exception of the building being blown to smithereens. If you and the building are blown to smithereens, you may officially close the library.
Corollary 1
If there is a fire, gather the patrons and rescue them first. Your life is less valuable and without the patrons, you wouldn’t have a job anyway. Then you may rescue the library pets. Once the important ones have been evacuated safely, you may leave the building. Don’t forget to sign out (you won’t be paid for your time of evacuation), log off the computers, turn on your voice mail, leave a note for your boss saying you left early and why, and get it signed by a fireman on scene (preferably the first one in the building so that they don’t force you to leave before you have finished your duties). The library should reopen immediately unless otherwise indicated by the fire department.
Corollary 2
In the event of a tornado, patrons should be gathered and led to the shelter areas in the building. Some will refuse to evacuate to a safe place – leave them where they are because that is an effective “diffusing” of a problem patron, no doubt. Remember to bring the emergency kits located at each reference desks and the circulation desk. You should then nominate a staff member to check outside to see if the tornado has passed and it is safe to come out. If that staff member doesn’t return, wait a while longer, nominate a new staff member and repeat. If the building collapses on you due to the tornado’s damage, you will be glad you have the emergency kits handy.
Corollary 3
If a bomb threat is made, follow the same instructions given in Corollary 1, but remember to call the police and have them sign your note to management. We do not have bomb alarms and if a board member or the director happens upon an empty library with all the patrons and staff running for their lives and no police or other law enforcement present, it will be assumed you have abandoned your position and you will be fired. This is particularly important if the bomb threat was a hoax and the building was not blown to smithereens.
Corollary 4
With frequently erupting cases of violence and mass murder occurring in workplaces and public buildings, a domestic or non-domestic terrorist threat should be handled as exhibited in the following passage:
Corollary 5
If a patron has an accident, becomes ill, or shows symptoms of ill health, call an ambulance immediately. If you are unable to prevent a bodily fluid spill from occurring, it is up to the staff member nearest the spill to clean it up, regardless of their job description. Supplies are scattered about the building haphazardly, and you will probably have to cordon off the hazardous area until the supplies can be gathered. No matter how enormous the spill, the library should not be closed. A biohazard suit is available, as well as anti-tuberculosis wipes and individual alcohol swabs in case contact is made. The janitors should be notified immediately and contaminated material should be set aside to be determined if it is in need of being destroyed. It is preferred that contamination should be contained and only staff exposed. Innocent patrons should be spared first and foremost, and management spared second.
Corollary 6
Miscellaneous emergencies such as gas leaks, flooding, building damage, power outage, water shutoff, etc., should not result in evacuations unless advised by the fire or police department, and the library should remain open. Keep in mind one steadfast word: smithereens. If the building is not in eminent danger of being blown to smithereens and valuable patrons are not in danger, you should continue doing your job and the library should remain open.
Remember: smithereens! Don’t stop doing your job unless the library is blown to smithereens!
Warning: I wrote this post after reading (and re-reading, because it was so damn funny) an entire book of Dilbert comics. When I finished, I had an abundance of crazy manager memories flooding my brain and I wrote this with many of my past jobs in mind. Happyville is NOWHERE near this bad, but I've been places that are and this is not an exaggeration of some workplace philosophies. Read it with the humor it was written with.
The Bitch Principle
You are owned by the taxpayers of this community. This means you are their bitch. They pay your meager salary and begrudge you every penny.
Corollary 1
A bitch’s job is to keep the patrons happy, at all costs. Some will be satisfied that you have done your job if you merely answer their question about the library’s hours; others will be dissatisfied with your output if you call in favors, pull strings, hack a government computer and sell your personal possessions to pay for the bribe used to acquire information you seek on behalf of a patron. It is recognizable that you may eventually find your resources have reached a limit. When this occurs, find another bitch with greater resources and tell the patron you are referring them to someone with more authority in that area.
Corollary 2
If you are off the clock and shopping in a local store, you are still their bitch. Whenever possible, without regard for your personal situation, do your best to serve their needs.
Corollary 3
Find someone else’s bitch for them. Sometimes patrons get attached to the work done by a particular bitch on staff. If Joe is Mr. McCarty’s favorite bitch and Mr. McCarty is on the phone looking for Joe, find Joe immediately. Patrons don’t like to leave voice mail messages for staff because it feels less like their bitches are at their beck and call, so you must track that staff member down or take a message, thereby taking personal responsibility for Joe getting the message. Bitchdom is transferable like that so it is preferred that you find the bitch in question.
Corollary 4
Never forget you’re their bitch. No matter how harsh, offensive or brutally critical a patron is, show them their proper respect. Only when a patron breaks a law and infringes on the rights of other patrons can you act in defense of the other patrons. Your honor is not important and if they belittle you, that is their right. If it weren’t for them, you wouldn’t have a job. It is only through their generosity that you are able to put food in your mouth. Show some gratitude.
- Exclusion
If you are a member of the community in which you work, a taxpayer to the library where you are employed, you are not your own bitch. Being everyone else’s bitch overrides any entitlement you might have. If you would like to have a library full of your personal bitches, you must move out of the library district in which you work. You automatically forfeit your rights to having library bitches when you live and work in the same library district.
Behavior Principles and Management Noninvolvement
Patrons are unpredictable and you should predict their behavior accordingly, without aid of your supervisors.
Corollary 1
Try to diffuse a belligerent patron’s temper before they take their complaint to management. Managers sought promotions to get themselves away from the positions of serving the public because they were terrible at it and they hated it. Do not remind your boss of his or her shortcomings by bringing them a raging patron.
- Explanation
By “diffuse” we mean to use any means necessary. A shovel and dolly are in the receiving room and the property is adjacent to some dense woods. Use your resources wisely. A dead taxpayer is preferable to a disgruntled taxpayer.
Corollary 2
Inebriated patrons should be refused service. There are no repercussions because if they are as drunk as they seem, they won’t remember it anyway. If the inebriated patron raises suspicion that they might be dangerous or driving, the police should be alerted. If you are feeling apathetic on this particular day, remember that they are parked in the same parking lot as your own vehicle, and they might have lagged on their liability insurance.
Corollary 3
Mothers with children are like ticking bombs and should be given an enormous amount of leeway. Some prefer you to discipline their children for them; others don’t care if their child has eaten the first three volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica, and they do not want you to say a negative word in the direction of their children. You have to figure out which type of mother you are dealing with and then be prepared for the fallout. Again, “diffuse” the situation accordingly and avoid management if at all possible.
Corollary 4
Patrons will deny responsibility for any and all offenses they commit, no matter how obvious it is that they are guilty. If you cannot convince them that they must be accountable for their actions and the matter is presented to management, be prepared for the manager to exhibit his/her spinelessness and give the patron what they want, not backing you up and not standing by the written and formal policy. Managers suppress their confrontational abilities until they wield the pent-up confrontation on an underling. If you are the patrons’ bitch, your manager is an upper echelon bitch and held to an even higher standard of devotion and servitude to the patrons. Do not expect your manager to take your side or uphold your decisions.
Corollary 5
When all hell breaks loose, call the police instead of management. Though there will be a delay in the time it takes for officers to arrive, it will be much faster than locating an effective member of management. Order must be restored as quickly as possible, and often that can only be accomplished by those with guns. Choose wisely and keep in mind that the library will remain open regardless of fatalities, so minimize the mess because it will be you working among the splattered blood.
Emergency Principles
The only thing that should close the library is the building itself being blown to smithereens. Your emergency kits should suffice in rescuing you from any situation, with the exception of the building being blown to smithereens. If you and the building are blown to smithereens, you may officially close the library.
Corollary 1
If there is a fire, gather the patrons and rescue them first. Your life is less valuable and without the patrons, you wouldn’t have a job anyway. Then you may rescue the library pets. Once the important ones have been evacuated safely, you may leave the building. Don’t forget to sign out (you won’t be paid for your time of evacuation), log off the computers, turn on your voice mail, leave a note for your boss saying you left early and why, and get it signed by a fireman on scene (preferably the first one in the building so that they don’t force you to leave before you have finished your duties). The library should reopen immediately unless otherwise indicated by the fire department.
Corollary 2
In the event of a tornado, patrons should be gathered and led to the shelter areas in the building. Some will refuse to evacuate to a safe place – leave them where they are because that is an effective “diffusing” of a problem patron, no doubt. Remember to bring the emergency kits located at each reference desks and the circulation desk. You should then nominate a staff member to check outside to see if the tornado has passed and it is safe to come out. If that staff member doesn’t return, wait a while longer, nominate a new staff member and repeat. If the building collapses on you due to the tornado’s damage, you will be glad you have the emergency kits handy.
- Explanation
These emergency kits will save your life. In the rare event that a sharpened pencil, some scratch paper, a flashlight, some glow sticks, a whistle, band-aids, and a battery-operated radio cannot be utilized to save your life, their presence will absolve the library of liability and prevent your next of kin from filing frivolous civil suits. If you do not know how to save your lives with the whistle, a sharpened pencil and some glow-sticks, then that is your problem.
Corollary 3
If a bomb threat is made, follow the same instructions given in Corollary 1, but remember to call the police and have them sign your note to management. We do not have bomb alarms and if a board member or the director happens upon an empty library with all the patrons and staff running for their lives and no police or other law enforcement present, it will be assumed you have abandoned your position and you will be fired. This is particularly important if the bomb threat was a hoax and the building was not blown to smithereens.
Corollary 4
With frequently erupting cases of violence and mass murder occurring in workplaces and public buildings, a domestic or non-domestic terrorist threat should be handled as exhibited in the following passage:
- Evacuate as outlined in Corollary 1. Inform the director immediately so that she might sit in her chair observing a storytime session, staring off into space, ignoring the threat for a good hour or so. Employees will be ordered back to work right away and the director will protect the public from future attacks by posting a color-coordinated Library Terror Alert system, which instructs everyone to be watchful but continue with their lives, regardless of color warning. Paranoia will be the key to convicting the suspects and the library faction behind it will be chased, without being caught, for all eternity. Dissidence will be considered anti-patronotic and a Patronage Act will be passed that allows the library to revoke library privileges from anyone, at any time, holding their library card hostage and forcing people relinquish their library books indefinitely, without a defense. Terrorists will not get away with harming our library. Well, they might, but we’ll look busy trying to fix it.
Corollary 5
If a patron has an accident, becomes ill, or shows symptoms of ill health, call an ambulance immediately. If you are unable to prevent a bodily fluid spill from occurring, it is up to the staff member nearest the spill to clean it up, regardless of their job description. Supplies are scattered about the building haphazardly, and you will probably have to cordon off the hazardous area until the supplies can be gathered. No matter how enormous the spill, the library should not be closed. A biohazard suit is available, as well as anti-tuberculosis wipes and individual alcohol swabs in case contact is made. The janitors should be notified immediately and contaminated material should be set aside to be determined if it is in need of being destroyed. It is preferred that contamination should be contained and only staff exposed. Innocent patrons should be spared first and foremost, and management spared second.
Corollary 6
Miscellaneous emergencies such as gas leaks, flooding, building damage, power outage, water shutoff, etc., should not result in evacuations unless advised by the fire or police department, and the library should remain open. Keep in mind one steadfast word: smithereens. If the building is not in eminent danger of being blown to smithereens and valuable patrons are not in danger, you should continue doing your job and the library should remain open.
- Reminder
If a patron knifes/shoots/maims one of your coworkers, you should not suspend your duties or accompany that coworker to the hospital. Should that person die, you are advised to mourn their loss on your off time.
Remember: smithereens! Don’t stop doing your job unless the library is blown to smithereens!
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
A Little Understanding Goes a Long Way
It’s nice to have a boss I can complain to and follow up my complaint by saying, “Some days I go home and pat myself on the back because I didn’t kill anyone today. They may have deserved it, but I let them live. Good job!” He agreed, good job, and there was no call to 9-1-1 to have me taken away. He gets me, thankfully.
The patron I was complaining about is quickly becoming one of the most hated people we deal with, not just by me, but by anyone who has to help him. First, he comes in right before we close and has extensive research he wants us to do. Secondly, he has no idea what he’s looking for and requires a ridiculous amount of digging to discover what he’s looking for, and then we must try to locate it. He’ll know a song, but not remember the name or the band. It’s always Christian rock too, so don’t even get me started on that crap. The song may be by this band or that band and he’ll know it when he sees it, so he needs us to look up each band, every album they’ve made, so he can look at the song lists until he recognizes the one he’s looking for. Some of these bands have 20 albums, and because they’re obscure, unpopular Christian rock, maybe 10 libraries in the world might have it. I have gotten to the point where I’ve said he has to sit down and figure out the album and artist himself – Google or Amazon can deliver the information – because I just don’t have time or patience enough to have him leaning over my desk so he can see my monitor as he tells me, “Scroll down, no, not that one, down, more, wait, maybe, no, not that one, keep going, is that it?, no, okay, next album.” I won’t do it anymore. I make him get on a computer and scroll through the albums himself until he finds what he needs. There is no leaning over my desk, breathing in my face, giving me orders to scroll anywhere. Not anymore.
But he does this to other people, though I think many of them have followed my lead and tell him to find the album first and then see us.
Yesterday he came in and wanted to make a resume for his daughter, who has only worked at the local arcade. Why a high school student needs a resume I’m not sure, but that’s his problem – he has to make it. Well, evidently he thought he didn’t. Rude awakening! I’m not writing your daughter’s resume, moron!
So, I sit him down at a computer, get him to open Word, show him where the templates are, explain it’s fill-in-the-blanks and I can’t do that for him so he can get to work on it.
He said, completely seriously, “So, if I have a question, what do I do? Yell out ‘HEY YOU’?”
*blink*
I replied, with a definite air of irritation, “Uh, nooooooo, you walk up to the desk and ask whoever is available to help you.”
Why do I have to teach this man basic rules of etiquette?
Later he walked up behind me, behind my desk, and said near my ear, “I need help!”
When I shook off the fact that he scared the shit out of me, I wanted him dead. Not quickly dead of an aneurysm or stroke, but slowly, losing parts of his body one by one, with time in between to wallow in the agony, and then another comes off. To the pain. Then to the death.
I walked over to discover he had 2 minutes left until the computer shut down, which is irreversible and not extendable when we’re closing – it’s automatic. So, instead of being able to teach him how to save a document, I jumped to action and saved it quickly to the computer so I could log in again after it shut him out. Oh, and he also wanted a PDF as well as a DOC, even though the document wasn’t complete. And he wanted it burned on a CD, not emailed to himself, free of charge. And he then had to go purchase a CD from Circulation. I kept thinking about his deserved death and the injustice of not being able to give it to him myself, but I managed to get through it.
As we were finishing and the CD was burning, he wadded up a piece of paper as garbage and tried to hand it to me, saying, “Here.”
This was too much. There was no nice left in me. WHO DOES THIS!?
Cold as ice I said, “There’s a garbage can right there. You can put it in yourself.”
He laughed a stupid and unfriendly laugh and responded, “Yeah, you don’t get paid to do that, huh?”
I said, “That’s not the point. You can throw away your own garbage. The can is 5 feet away.”
He didn’t say anything after that and I just walked away in disgust.
On his way out he thanked me and said he’d be back the next day to keep working on it, would likely need more help, just so we knew.
I nodded. I knew I wouldn’t be closing tonight so I figured it was up to the next crew to not kill him. And if they did, I’d completely understand. And I’d testify on their behalf. And I’d dance on his grave.
He never showed up tonight. Maybe someone else did the deed for us. He can’t be that rude and shitty just to us – this has to be a trait he practices all the time. To be this good at being an asshole takes a lot of work.
But it takes more work to let him walk out the door without shedding a drop of his blood.
I’m glad I have a boss who understands and appreciates this.
The patron I was complaining about is quickly becoming one of the most hated people we deal with, not just by me, but by anyone who has to help him. First, he comes in right before we close and has extensive research he wants us to do. Secondly, he has no idea what he’s looking for and requires a ridiculous amount of digging to discover what he’s looking for, and then we must try to locate it. He’ll know a song, but not remember the name or the band. It’s always Christian rock too, so don’t even get me started on that crap. The song may be by this band or that band and he’ll know it when he sees it, so he needs us to look up each band, every album they’ve made, so he can look at the song lists until he recognizes the one he’s looking for. Some of these bands have 20 albums, and because they’re obscure, unpopular Christian rock, maybe 10 libraries in the world might have it. I have gotten to the point where I’ve said he has to sit down and figure out the album and artist himself – Google or Amazon can deliver the information – because I just don’t have time or patience enough to have him leaning over my desk so he can see my monitor as he tells me, “Scroll down, no, not that one, down, more, wait, maybe, no, not that one, keep going, is that it?, no, okay, next album.” I won’t do it anymore. I make him get on a computer and scroll through the albums himself until he finds what he needs. There is no leaning over my desk, breathing in my face, giving me orders to scroll anywhere. Not anymore.
But he does this to other people, though I think many of them have followed my lead and tell him to find the album first and then see us.
Yesterday he came in and wanted to make a resume for his daughter, who has only worked at the local arcade. Why a high school student needs a resume I’m not sure, but that’s his problem – he has to make it. Well, evidently he thought he didn’t. Rude awakening! I’m not writing your daughter’s resume, moron!
So, I sit him down at a computer, get him to open Word, show him where the templates are, explain it’s fill-in-the-blanks and I can’t do that for him so he can get to work on it.
He said, completely seriously, “So, if I have a question, what do I do? Yell out ‘HEY YOU’?”
*blink*
I replied, with a definite air of irritation, “Uh, nooooooo, you walk up to the desk and ask whoever is available to help you.”
Why do I have to teach this man basic rules of etiquette?
Later he walked up behind me, behind my desk, and said near my ear, “I need help!”
When I shook off the fact that he scared the shit out of me, I wanted him dead. Not quickly dead of an aneurysm or stroke, but slowly, losing parts of his body one by one, with time in between to wallow in the agony, and then another comes off. To the pain. Then to the death.
I walked over to discover he had 2 minutes left until the computer shut down, which is irreversible and not extendable when we’re closing – it’s automatic. So, instead of being able to teach him how to save a document, I jumped to action and saved it quickly to the computer so I could log in again after it shut him out. Oh, and he also wanted a PDF as well as a DOC, even though the document wasn’t complete. And he wanted it burned on a CD, not emailed to himself, free of charge. And he then had to go purchase a CD from Circulation. I kept thinking about his deserved death and the injustice of not being able to give it to him myself, but I managed to get through it.
As we were finishing and the CD was burning, he wadded up a piece of paper as garbage and tried to hand it to me, saying, “Here.”
This was too much. There was no nice left in me. WHO DOES THIS!?
Cold as ice I said, “There’s a garbage can right there. You can put it in yourself.”
He laughed a stupid and unfriendly laugh and responded, “Yeah, you don’t get paid to do that, huh?”
I said, “That’s not the point. You can throw away your own garbage. The can is 5 feet away.”
He didn’t say anything after that and I just walked away in disgust.
On his way out he thanked me and said he’d be back the next day to keep working on it, would likely need more help, just so we knew.
I nodded. I knew I wouldn’t be closing tonight so I figured it was up to the next crew to not kill him. And if they did, I’d completely understand. And I’d testify on their behalf. And I’d dance on his grave.
He never showed up tonight. Maybe someone else did the deed for us. He can’t be that rude and shitty just to us – this has to be a trait he practices all the time. To be this good at being an asshole takes a lot of work.
But it takes more work to let him walk out the door without shedding a drop of his blood.
I’m glad I have a boss who understands and appreciates this.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Pockets
Pockets are not attractive. I realize they are very important, essential possibly, for many people to have built into their attire. It’s why we love marsupials so much – pocket envy. We need to have stuff with us. Given the size of women’s purses, the number of pockets in cargo pants, and the inability to get rid of silly little breast pocket on shirts, pockets are clearly here to stay. However, they are ugly and they distort the shape of our silhouettes, weigh down our clothes with stuff, and no matter how neatly they are sewn into the designs, they still look bulky and droopy, and the more you have, the bulkier and droopier you look.
That said, women, your bra is not a pocket.
If you’re going to walk around in microscopic shorts, a tank top and a bra, your bra does not become a place to keep your cell phone, reminder notes, money, lipstick, or other necessities. Get a purse like the rest of us. And if you pull a library card out of your sweaty bosom, you might as well put it right back in there because we are not going to handle that biologically contaminated tit-card. Your girls are round, they are pretty, they are soft and they should be treated with respect. If you put 53¢ in change in your bra, along a wad of bills and your credit card, those breasts end up looking like a refrigerator decked out in too many magnets. I can only imagine what your boobies look like at the end of the day, the indentations, maybe even the paper cuts, and nothing you can wiggle or jiggle will make them look nice when there’s an imprint of a quarter and the large, rectangular fossil of your cell phone visible on that soft flesh. It doesn’t matter if it says Samsung or Blackberry backwards on your melon – that’s just trashy. Get your shit out of your bra, ladies.
Also, men, your underwear do not qualify as a pocket.
If some smart designer started putting pockets in boxers (for surely there’s no comfortable place to put them in briefs), the pocket wouldn’t be right down the center of your waistband. When you reach down there to pull something out – anything out – you should be prepared to be either arrested or ridiculed because nothing down there is something you want to show to a librarian, even if it’s just your library card. Unless your full-time job is at a male strip club, you moonlight doing stripper-grams, and you’re in really high demand, leave it in your pants, you perv. If it’s touched a part of your skin that is warmer than room temperature, we don’t want anything to do with it. I know there’s a long-standing tradition of stuffing socks down there, and that’s fine so long as you don’t whip out that sock and hand it to me. In fact, stuff whatever you want down there, but whatever it is has to stay. You’re stuck with it. Money, credit cards, cell phone, hamster, tapioca, Brilo pad, or whatever your heart (ahem) desires to have down your underwear is between you and your underwear, literally. Keep it to yourself.
So, while I admit I use pockets, though I dislike any more than one or two in my clothing, I don’t like people creating pockets where none exists. And what baffles me the most is why don’t these people put pretend pockets somewhere that isn’t R-rated?
I swear, I don’t know why I serve the public. The public is so creepy.
That said, women, your bra is not a pocket.
If you’re going to walk around in microscopic shorts, a tank top and a bra, your bra does not become a place to keep your cell phone, reminder notes, money, lipstick, or other necessities. Get a purse like the rest of us. And if you pull a library card out of your sweaty bosom, you might as well put it right back in there because we are not going to handle that biologically contaminated tit-card. Your girls are round, they are pretty, they are soft and they should be treated with respect. If you put 53¢ in change in your bra, along a wad of bills and your credit card, those breasts end up looking like a refrigerator decked out in too many magnets. I can only imagine what your boobies look like at the end of the day, the indentations, maybe even the paper cuts, and nothing you can wiggle or jiggle will make them look nice when there’s an imprint of a quarter and the large, rectangular fossil of your cell phone visible on that soft flesh. It doesn’t matter if it says Samsung or Blackberry backwards on your melon – that’s just trashy. Get your shit out of your bra, ladies.
Also, men, your underwear do not qualify as a pocket.
If some smart designer started putting pockets in boxers (for surely there’s no comfortable place to put them in briefs), the pocket wouldn’t be right down the center of your waistband. When you reach down there to pull something out – anything out – you should be prepared to be either arrested or ridiculed because nothing down there is something you want to show to a librarian, even if it’s just your library card. Unless your full-time job is at a male strip club, you moonlight doing stripper-grams, and you’re in really high demand, leave it in your pants, you perv. If it’s touched a part of your skin that is warmer than room temperature, we don’t want anything to do with it. I know there’s a long-standing tradition of stuffing socks down there, and that’s fine so long as you don’t whip out that sock and hand it to me. In fact, stuff whatever you want down there, but whatever it is has to stay. You’re stuck with it. Money, credit cards, cell phone, hamster, tapioca, Brilo pad, or whatever your heart (ahem) desires to have down your underwear is between you and your underwear, literally. Keep it to yourself.
So, while I admit I use pockets, though I dislike any more than one or two in my clothing, I don’t like people creating pockets where none exists. And what baffles me the most is why don’t these people put pretend pockets somewhere that isn’t R-rated?
I swear, I don’t know why I serve the public. The public is so creepy.
Friday, July 16, 2010
What I Learned Camping
When I was in Girl Scouts, we went on a two-day camping trip to Butternut Springs. This was something like 28 years ago, and the way it was set up was there was a cabin for the troop leaders to sleep in, prepare meals, and a dining room to feed the troops. The girls camped in tents in the surrounding woods. These were permanent tents with a deck-like floor and prison beds and mattresses inside. Given that it was in Indiana, and we were there in the height of a sweltering summer, we were fairly miserable in the woods, sweating and bored, with only a single strip of flypaper hanging in the tent for bug protection. The first night we were there, I did the sensible thing any kid who had been trained by her cruel, older cousin would do: I scared the crap out of the girls telling them ghost stories in the dark. Many of the girls couldn’t sleep, either because they were terrified or because they were homesick, and throughout the night many cries were heard from many of the tents. And then a terrible storm hit, which quieted the sobbing, but also brought a tree down on one of the tents. In the morning, the nonchalant troop leaders congratulated us on surviving our first night camping and said the second night would be easier. I was having nothing of that and I organized a coup against the leaders. Screaming, crying, whining girls ranging from 6 to 12 years old, dozens of them, have a way of wearing down the defenses of even the most weathered troop leaders, and the second night we slept in the cabin, snug as bugs in our sleeping bags on the linoleum floor of the dining hall. So went my first camping experience, which I don’t really count as camping.
Last weekend I camped for the first time for real. Aside from having a lot of fun, it was quite a learning experience. And being a good librarian, I’m going to share it with you. (Click pictures to embiggen.)
1. This stuff, without DEET, is awesome at keeping bugs away. This is not a light statement made by someone who can frolic in the woods with Skin-So-Soft. Oh no! If there is a biting bug within 100 yards of me, it will find me, send up a signal to any biting bug in 4 square miles, and the swarm will descend upon me with ravenous hunger until I am all but exsanguinated. They leave enough blood for me to survive so that they can feed upon me when I step outdoors the next time.
This is the stuff I usually use. If you can’t read that, it says 98% DEET. This is the only way for me to come in from an evening outdoors without losing my mind – and my blood.
2. Putting up a tent is a lot easier than I thought it would be. But it would’ve been a whole lot easier if it hadn’t been 95º.
Even the tent wanted to melt. Taking down a tent is easy too. Getting it back into the container it came in is a whole nother story. Good luck.
3. Never bring a photographer with you on camping trip. They are way more interested taking pictures of you putting up the tent than actually helping put it up.
4. When your car wobbles (or shakes violently) at high speeds, something is wrong. If you have the tires rebalanced and this does not fix it, check again. Because sitting in your car on the banks of the Mississippi River on a Saturday night, changing a flat for a spare, trying to find space in your already packed car for the tire that was worn down to the cords is really going to put a damper on the whole camping experience.
5. This little LED lantern (which is merely 5½ inches tall) generates enough light in a 9’ x 9’ tent for two people to lay on their bellies and do crossword puzzles in the darkness of the late night, while waiting for the neighboring tent campers to either kill one another, or shut the fuck up. Handy little device. I highly recommend it.
6. If Person One is in the tent doing crosswords with the lantern on, head positioned right by the tent door, turn OFF the lantern for a few moments before Person Two enters tent, or all the moths, gnats and other light-attracted bugs who are patiently waiting at the door to get at the lantern will invariably get into the tent and drive you completely mad.
7. These batteries only work if you scrape them with something metal each and every time you use them in the little LED lantern. Totally retarded. Don’t know why. Don’t know why we tried this. They worked fine in B.E.’s camera, his camera batteries worked fine in the lantern, but these batteries + the above lantern = need for scraping.
8. When you have inconsiderate, idiot camping neighbors who stay up until 1 am setting up their tents, hammering their spikes with actual hammers and not mallets, vacuuming the tents out, using their car headlights to do all this, with the keys in the ignition and the alarm going off the entire time, slamming car doors every three seconds, no matter how many times you complain, they will insist they’re almost done and that your complaints are absolutely unreasonable.
9. However, revenge is yours in the morning when the drunken losers are trying to sleep off their hangovers. Revenge is sweet. And best served cold. And loud.
10. Millipedes are gross, but massive quantities of millipedes in the campground’s bathrooms/showers are massively gross.
11. When you camp and the temperatures are already above the mid 80s by 7 am, you get so sweaty, so slimy, so dirty, that even in showers infested with 1-inch millipedes, you will shower daily, and you will be grateful for the ability to do so.
12. Bug spray needs to be reapplied before you leave the safety of the shower. Freshly showered humans are most delectable.
13. Trees make for nice insulation against noise, protect you from the direct sunlight that seeks to fry you to a blistering pulp, and provides perches for the early morning birds that sing you awake. Yay trees!
14. Trees also are the homes of many bugs that will annoy you to no end. Tit for tat.
15. The only thing worse than sunburn is sunburn with bug bites on top of it.
16. If you have a sweetie with you who will scratch your sunburn and bug bites for you, you are a lucky, lucky person.
17. No matter how awful you think the whole experience is going to be, it’s never going to be that bad. Bring the condoms just in case. Assuming you won’t be in the mood is an underestimate. Being sexually frustrated in the woods is just sad.
18. Air mattress. Get one. You will not regret it.
19. A bag of cherries is great for camping. Put them in the cooler and the cherries will stay fresh longer, but they will dye the ice water a purple-ish red color. Which will dye everything else a purple-ish red color.
20. You, too, can have the coolest meals around if you have a propane stove and make pizzas for dinner! Others are eating sandwiches, or burgers and hot dogs that are not cooked enough, or cooked too much. Pizzas rock.
And so, despite the heat, bugs, things we forgot, people who irritated us, car mishaps and general annoyances, we had a really great time and are already planning our next camping trip. After we get an air mattress.
Last weekend I camped for the first time for real. Aside from having a lot of fun, it was quite a learning experience. And being a good librarian, I’m going to share it with you. (Click pictures to embiggen.)
1. This stuff, without DEET, is awesome at keeping bugs away. This is not a light statement made by someone who can frolic in the woods with Skin-So-Soft. Oh no! If there is a biting bug within 100 yards of me, it will find me, send up a signal to any biting bug in 4 square miles, and the swarm will descend upon me with ravenous hunger until I am all but exsanguinated. They leave enough blood for me to survive so that they can feed upon me when I step outdoors the next time.This is the stuff I usually use. If you can’t read that, it says 98% DEET. This is the only way for me to come in from an evening outdoors without losing my mind – and my blood.2. Putting up a tent is a lot easier than I thought it would be. But it would’ve been a whole lot easier if it hadn’t been 95º.
Even the tent wanted to melt. Taking down a tent is easy too. Getting it back into the container it came in is a whole nother story. Good luck.3. Never bring a photographer with you on camping trip. They are way more interested taking pictures of you putting up the tent than actually helping put it up.
4. When your car wobbles (or shakes violently) at high speeds, something is wrong. If you have the tires rebalanced and this does not fix it, check again. Because sitting in your car on the banks of the Mississippi River on a Saturday night, changing a flat for a spare, trying to find space in your already packed car for the tire that was worn down to the cords is really going to put a damper on the whole camping experience.
5. This little LED lantern (which is merely 5½ inches tall) generates enough light in a 9’ x 9’ tent for two people to lay on their bellies and do crossword puzzles in the darkness of the late night, while waiting for the neighboring tent campers to either kill one another, or shut the fuck up. Handy little device. I highly recommend it.6. If Person One is in the tent doing crosswords with the lantern on, head positioned right by the tent door, turn OFF the lantern for a few moments before Person Two enters tent, or all the moths, gnats and other light-attracted bugs who are patiently waiting at the door to get at the lantern will invariably get into the tent and drive you completely mad.
7. These batteries only work if you scrape them with something metal each and every time you use them in the little LED lantern. Totally retarded. Don’t know why. Don’t know why we tried this. They worked fine in B.E.’s camera, his camera batteries worked fine in the lantern, but these batteries + the above lantern = need for scraping.8. When you have inconsiderate, idiot camping neighbors who stay up until 1 am setting up their tents, hammering their spikes with actual hammers and not mallets, vacuuming the tents out, using their car headlights to do all this, with the keys in the ignition and the alarm going off the entire time, slamming car doors every three seconds, no matter how many times you complain, they will insist they’re almost done and that your complaints are absolutely unreasonable.
9. However, revenge is yours in the morning when the drunken losers are trying to sleep off their hangovers. Revenge is sweet. And best served cold. And loud.
10. Millipedes are gross, but massive quantities of millipedes in the campground’s bathrooms/showers are massively gross.
11. When you camp and the temperatures are already above the mid 80s by 7 am, you get so sweaty, so slimy, so dirty, that even in showers infested with 1-inch millipedes, you will shower daily, and you will be grateful for the ability to do so.
12. Bug spray needs to be reapplied before you leave the safety of the shower. Freshly showered humans are most delectable.
13. Trees make for nice insulation against noise, protect you from the direct sunlight that seeks to fry you to a blistering pulp, and provides perches for the early morning birds that sing you awake. Yay trees!
14. Trees also are the homes of many bugs that will annoy you to no end. Tit for tat.
15. The only thing worse than sunburn is sunburn with bug bites on top of it.
16. If you have a sweetie with you who will scratch your sunburn and bug bites for you, you are a lucky, lucky person.
17. No matter how awful you think the whole experience is going to be, it’s never going to be that bad. Bring the condoms just in case. Assuming you won’t be in the mood is an underestimate. Being sexually frustrated in the woods is just sad.
18. Air mattress. Get one. You will not regret it.
19. A bag of cherries is great for camping. Put them in the cooler and the cherries will stay fresh longer, but they will dye the ice water a purple-ish red color. Which will dye everything else a purple-ish red color.
20. You, too, can have the coolest meals around if you have a propane stove and make pizzas for dinner! Others are eating sandwiches, or burgers and hot dogs that are not cooked enough, or cooked too much. Pizzas rock.
And so, despite the heat, bugs, things we forgot, people who irritated us, car mishaps and general annoyances, we had a really great time and are already planning our next camping trip. After we get an air mattress.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Benje
I learned to read when I was three years old. That sounds a lot more impressive than it is because all I did was beg my parents to read the same bedtime story over and over every night until I memorized it. Once I could recite the entire book cover to cover, I applied my knowledge of those words and the combinations of letters I saw on the pages of the book, and quickly understood what I was looking at. After I figured that out, I was able to read other books and increase my written vocabulary by recognizing words I already knew and adding the sounds of the letters around those familiar words. It was a lot of figuring out, but from an early age, once I had a taste of something I liked, like reading, I attacked it and had to devour it entirely.
Working in a library, I run into many people who also love to read, and though I haven’t interviewed them all, I suspect they all have a book – a single, solitary book – that they can trace their love of reading back to, and will remember that book (or the essence of that book) for the remainder of their cognizant lives.
My book, which not only taught me how to read but also bred my love of books, was Benje, by Elizabeth Rice. It’s a touching story about a squirrel who loses his tail in a trap and becomes depressed because he isn’t like the other squirrels and can’t do the same things he used to as well. Eventually he’s talked to by an owl, who teaches him to appreciate what he has and learn to do things again without his tail. He does and lives happily ever after. Something about the sad, tailless squirrel spoke to me and the book just stuck.
This is the actual book, which some 34 years ago turned an ordinary child who was a veritable blank slate into a life-long reader.
I’m curious what your book is. What started you on the path of being a reader?
Working in a library, I run into many people who also love to read, and though I haven’t interviewed them all, I suspect they all have a book – a single, solitary book – that they can trace their love of reading back to, and will remember that book (or the essence of that book) for the remainder of their cognizant lives.
My book, which not only taught me how to read but also bred my love of books, was Benje, by Elizabeth Rice. It’s a touching story about a squirrel who loses his tail in a trap and becomes depressed because he isn’t like the other squirrels and can’t do the same things he used to as well. Eventually he’s talked to by an owl, who teaches him to appreciate what he has and learn to do things again without his tail. He does and lives happily ever after. Something about the sad, tailless squirrel spoke to me and the book just stuck.
This is the actual book, which some 34 years ago turned an ordinary child who was a veritable blank slate into a life-long reader.
I’m curious what your book is. What started you on the path of being a reader?
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Benefits
At the reference desk, we have about seven of these toys for the public (and us) as a form of self-entertainment.
The director walked over to the desk and as he started asking us how things were going, he flipped one of the seven toys over, but left the other six as they were.
The director walked over to the desk and as he started asking us how things were going, he flipped one of the seven toys over, but left the other six as they were.
This bothered the OCD part of my brain, and with no regard for his position, I snapped, “You can’t just DO that! You have to flip them ALL now!”
And so he did. With a smile. And without batting an eyelash or challenging my tone of voice. It was great.
So…
Me: Now stand on one foot and “bock” like a chicken.
Director: I’ll do that… later. That’s an after-hours game.
Me: Oh my! What other tricks do you do after hours?
He laughed evilly.
My partner at the desk, who’d only last week sung along with the “My Ding-A-Ling” song, begged out of the conversation because it was getting too racy, but typical of her, she never actually left and then rejoined and upped the ante.
Partner: Do you play the chicken with feathers or without?
Director: Well… [more evil laughter]
Me: He starts out with feathers, but then…
He began making sexy plucking motions that had me in hysterics.
Ahh, the benefits at my job are not monetary, but they do exist.
One of my favorite regulars was in using the computer, as always.
On his way out, he asked about our Summer Reading Club display (which I will share with you when I get a chance – it’s so twisted), and we joked about it for a few minutes, then he left.
I turned away and heard a crash, looked up to see him, and he was looking at the big glass door, dazed, and his son was laughing at him.
I shouted, incredulously, “Did you just run into the DOOR?”
He scrunched his head down between his shoulders, giggled a little, and left.
My partner at the desk looked at me and we both busted up. It reminded me of the glass conversation I’d had with my brother a while ago, and I couldn’t stop chuckling.
Partner: You’re so mean! You shouted that! ‘Did you just run into the DOOR?’ Everyone looked up and saw him!
Me: I… I… was concerned about him.
We collapsed into giggles.
Partner: You were not! You embarrassed him!
Me: No! He embarrassed himself! I was worried about his health! His mental health, but still!
Partner: And people say I’m mean!
Me: You are mean! But that’s why we like working together.
And we do. More benefits you just can’t put a price on.
And so he did. With a smile. And without batting an eyelash or challenging my tone of voice. It was great.
So…
Me: Now stand on one foot and “bock” like a chicken.
Director: I’ll do that… later. That’s an after-hours game.
Me: Oh my! What other tricks do you do after hours?
He laughed evilly.
My partner at the desk, who’d only last week sung along with the “My Ding-A-Ling” song, begged out of the conversation because it was getting too racy, but typical of her, she never actually left and then rejoined and upped the ante.
Partner: Do you play the chicken with feathers or without?
Director: Well… [more evil laughter]
Me: He starts out with feathers, but then…
He began making sexy plucking motions that had me in hysterics.
Ahh, the benefits at my job are not monetary, but they do exist.
* * *
One of my favorite regulars was in using the computer, as always.
On his way out, he asked about our Summer Reading Club display (which I will share with you when I get a chance – it’s so twisted), and we joked about it for a few minutes, then he left.
I turned away and heard a crash, looked up to see him, and he was looking at the big glass door, dazed, and his son was laughing at him.
I shouted, incredulously, “Did you just run into the DOOR?”
He scrunched his head down between his shoulders, giggled a little, and left.
My partner at the desk looked at me and we both busted up. It reminded me of the glass conversation I’d had with my brother a while ago, and I couldn’t stop chuckling.
Partner: You’re so mean! You shouted that! ‘Did you just run into the DOOR?’ Everyone looked up and saw him!
Me: I… I… was concerned about him.
We collapsed into giggles.
Partner: You were not! You embarrassed him!
Me: No! He embarrassed himself! I was worried about his health! His mental health, but still!
Partner: And people say I’m mean!
Me: You are mean! But that’s why we like working together.
And we do. More benefits you just can’t put a price on.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Hands
His hands were a deep bronze hue from years of sun exposure, a shade of brown that no longer faded in the winter. If you flipped them over, palm up, you’d see the softer, tender pink shade that likely was the same color since his birth. They were strong hands, but not hard, not callused. He’d broken many fingers, many times, and his knuckles, which sometimes locked up on him, were large and appeared knobby with his slim, dark fingers. His fingernails were odd, unlike any I’d ever seen before. Instead of being curved over the tops, they were flat, then angled down sharply toward the cuticles, and if they grew out beyond his finger, they curved sharply inward, creating something like the lid of a box closing over the ends of his fingers. My nails have this tendency as well, but not nearly as pronounced as his. His skin was smooth, no coarse hairs anywhere on his hands or arms, and his veins were pipes making rolling hills on his flesh. He worked with his hands a lot, had scars, blackened nails sometimes, and he wasn’t afraid that they’d ever get ugly from use, though they never did.
His hands always mesmerized me. I’d sit near him and turn them over, study them, open his fingers, close them tightly, hold mine up against his, compare them, try to get mine to look like his, wonder if they would be identical when I got to be his age, and finally rest with my hand in his. Long ago he could fit my entire balled-up fist inside his own, and later we simply folded our fingers together, almost matched in size.
I miss his hands.
Those were the hands that tucked me in the best, mummifying me in my blankets, rendering me immobile in my own bed. They were also the hands that brushed my hair the gentlest, for he was terrified of discovering a snarl and yanking too hard. When I was really little, after a bath he’d wrap me up in a trove of towels, naming each towel a piece of my royal garb, declaring me a princess, and they were wrapped so securely that I could prance around the house in my terrycloth regalia until it was bedtime and I had to put on pedestrian pajamas. They were the hands, too, that would take my cares away when I’d lay in his lap and he’d stroke my back softly. To this very day the technique still works, if only I could find someone who could master the touch that he had. These hands pushed me so high on the swings that I always soared over everyone else at the park, until the day when my own hands betrayed me and I fell, head-first, from high in the air, and then his hands carried me home and never pushed me on a swing again.
I didn’t hold it against his hands when he spanked me, which I mostly deserved, though not always. Nor did I hate them after he smacked me in the face so hard it catapulted me across the room and I bounced off my bed and landed on the floor, bruises created during the landing and mortification alone brought on by the hit itself. It wasn’t the fault of his hands. How could they know my mother had lied and told him something I did wrong that never happened? When I innocently denied it, it came down to a decision over who was lying, and in this case those hands didn’t know his head had been fooled and I took the hit while the liar watched with satisfaction. His hands stood for justice, even when the delivery was wrong.
I watched his hands when he wrote his detailed notes on the yellow legal pads he used for everything; I watched them bending wire clothes hangers in just the right shape for us to dip hard-boiled eggs in dyes; I watched him fumble and gain confidence as he learned to use a keyboard and mouse with his hands, so adept at everything else and so clumsy with a computer; I watched him build things; I watched him dismantle things; I watched him rebuild things; and I watched those hands twitching subtly when he fell asleep in the recliner in the middle of a lazy afternoon.
Sometimes, when my hands darken up with a summer tan, I hold them up and they resemble his hands -- this makes me feel good. I don’t always wield them like he did. Mine are not hands that hit, or hands that do hard work. My hands may never sport popsicle sticks fastened with duct tape over a broken finger, or do intricate wiring to fix a broken electrical device, or build furniture, or be remotely as interesting to my adoring eyes as his hands were. However, the reminder is there, the vague resemblance, and it’s a part of the legacy he left me. They are closely related in that I use my hands to show love: a gentle touch, the sweeping of my fingers across sensitive skin, a tender embrace, a firm squeeze to show support, a soft pat to bring comfort, or just curling my fingers around someone else’s for closeness. They are things his hands did, things they taught me about people, about love, about myself, about what’s important, and though I miss his hands tremendously, I treasure the memories, good and bad, because so much of him was revealed in his hands. And so much of him remains in my own.
His hands always mesmerized me. I’d sit near him and turn them over, study them, open his fingers, close them tightly, hold mine up against his, compare them, try to get mine to look like his, wonder if they would be identical when I got to be his age, and finally rest with my hand in his. Long ago he could fit my entire balled-up fist inside his own, and later we simply folded our fingers together, almost matched in size.
I miss his hands.
Those were the hands that tucked me in the best, mummifying me in my blankets, rendering me immobile in my own bed. They were also the hands that brushed my hair the gentlest, for he was terrified of discovering a snarl and yanking too hard. When I was really little, after a bath he’d wrap me up in a trove of towels, naming each towel a piece of my royal garb, declaring me a princess, and they were wrapped so securely that I could prance around the house in my terrycloth regalia until it was bedtime and I had to put on pedestrian pajamas. They were the hands, too, that would take my cares away when I’d lay in his lap and he’d stroke my back softly. To this very day the technique still works, if only I could find someone who could master the touch that he had. These hands pushed me so high on the swings that I always soared over everyone else at the park, until the day when my own hands betrayed me and I fell, head-first, from high in the air, and then his hands carried me home and never pushed me on a swing again.
I didn’t hold it against his hands when he spanked me, which I mostly deserved, though not always. Nor did I hate them after he smacked me in the face so hard it catapulted me across the room and I bounced off my bed and landed on the floor, bruises created during the landing and mortification alone brought on by the hit itself. It wasn’t the fault of his hands. How could they know my mother had lied and told him something I did wrong that never happened? When I innocently denied it, it came down to a decision over who was lying, and in this case those hands didn’t know his head had been fooled and I took the hit while the liar watched with satisfaction. His hands stood for justice, even when the delivery was wrong.
I watched his hands when he wrote his detailed notes on the yellow legal pads he used for everything; I watched them bending wire clothes hangers in just the right shape for us to dip hard-boiled eggs in dyes; I watched him fumble and gain confidence as he learned to use a keyboard and mouse with his hands, so adept at everything else and so clumsy with a computer; I watched him build things; I watched him dismantle things; I watched him rebuild things; and I watched those hands twitching subtly when he fell asleep in the recliner in the middle of a lazy afternoon.
Sometimes, when my hands darken up with a summer tan, I hold them up and they resemble his hands -- this makes me feel good. I don’t always wield them like he did. Mine are not hands that hit, or hands that do hard work. My hands may never sport popsicle sticks fastened with duct tape over a broken finger, or do intricate wiring to fix a broken electrical device, or build furniture, or be remotely as interesting to my adoring eyes as his hands were. However, the reminder is there, the vague resemblance, and it’s a part of the legacy he left me. They are closely related in that I use my hands to show love: a gentle touch, the sweeping of my fingers across sensitive skin, a tender embrace, a firm squeeze to show support, a soft pat to bring comfort, or just curling my fingers around someone else’s for closeness. They are things his hands did, things they taught me about people, about love, about myself, about what’s important, and though I miss his hands tremendously, I treasure the memories, good and bad, because so much of him was revealed in his hands. And so much of him remains in my own.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Sing It Again, Sam
Given the title of my last post, about doorbells and why we have to ring them for help from our coworkers, the subject of this one is going to look fake, but I swear people, I cannot make this stuff up.
Allow me to introduce the guest of my post tonight: skinny guy with scraggly facial hair, a mullet, a red wife-beater, bad posture, shorts made from cut-off sweatpants and a farmer’s tan that turned parts of him so red, it looked like his tank top was actually a full-length shirt with white holes in certain areas.
The conversation that ensued probably won’t translate as well to written word, as many of my encounters do not, but I feel compelled to try.
Guy: Hey, I was just at [Neighboring] Library and asked them a question, but they just looked at me like I was NUTS.
Any conversation that opens with a line like that is about to become blog fodder. This I know from experience. Fortunately, my coworker had finished helping the odd, affable guy with the big Jesus belt buckle, and as she was walking toward the desk, our redneck friend (who was looked at like he was nuts at another library) decided to approach my partner.
Maybe I was already reaching for scrap paper to take notes and appeared busy. Could be.
Guy: There’s this song, and I wanted some information about it. Maybe you’ve heard it. It’s called “My Ding-A-Ling.”
I bit my lip to hide the emerging grin and sniffled to cover my brief giggle. Not only was this guy dead serious, he was talking so loudly that the entire library went quiet. And mine is a library that is seldom quiet unless the computers are down or the police are walking through. The soft pitter-pat of 20 computer users tapping away at their keyboards, a wonderful white noise that keeps me from hearing all their personal bodily turbulence, abruptly slammed to stop, giving my ears whiplash, plunging us all headfirst into a dead silence. There was not a mouse click in the whole building save for my partner, looking up the "Ding-A-Ling" song.
Guy: Do you know how it goes? It’s like, “My ding-a-ling, won’t you play with my ding-a-ling…”
I was suddenly very interested in inspecting the ceiling tiles, tongue attempting to poke a hole in my own cheek, grimacing at the pain of trying not to laugh. Oh, look! There are more dead bugs in the fluorescent lights! Surely I should ponder this instead of listening to the conversation going on only three feet from me!
Professional in a pinch, but seldom so elsewise, she started rattling off facts about the song to this guy, something about Chuck Berry, something about 1972, blah-blah-blah, and she asked what else he wanted to know about the song.
Guy: Well, I kinda know how it goes, but I want the lyrics. It’s something like “it’s the prettiest little song you ever had…”
And then something spec-fucking-tacular occurred!
Partner: Right, then it goes, “And those of you who will not sing, must be playing with your own ding-a-ling”
The patrons situated on the perimeter of our reference desk erupted in gut-busting, capillary-popping, wailing laughter. Patrons all around me were red-faced and gasping for air, no longer interested in politely eavesdropping on the patron’s request, but full-on, no-holds-barred, doubled-over hilarity hearing the librarian talk about playing with a ding-a-ling.
Seeing the reaction of so many people positively roar with uncontrollable laughs made me lose it, and I came very close to having to excuse myself to find somewhere with more oxygen and possibly a diaper for my own safety.
The conversation went on, him quoting parts of the song, her nodding stoically as she read along with the lyrics online, telling him that he had the words right, correcting him here and there when it wasn’t “ding-a-ling”, but the longer “ding-a-ling-a-ling”.
Two teens in particular, a young man and a young woman, were holding each other up listening to these two people recite the words, looking at me for some confirmation that this was for real and not staged. I just shook my head in disbelief and continued laughing, trying my hardest not to look at this guy.
He went on and on about the song.
Guy: You know, they used to sing it in bars, too. And it’s not about what you think it’s about, which is why it’s so fun to sing, right? I mean, it’s great to sing about your ding-a-ling!
Partner: Uh-huh, I remember this song. So, do you want me to print the lyrics out for you?
Guy: Oh yeah! That would be great! I gotta take this back over to [Neighboring] Library and show them, since they thought I was nuts. I’ll sing it to ‘em, now that I got the lyrics, and I bet they’ll remember it then.
Partner: Um, yeah.
Guy: This is great! I gotta show Randy!
Partner: Okay.
Guy: And we can sing “My Ding-A-Ling” all the time!
Partner: Uh-huh.
She never laughed. She was perfectly calm, perfectly unamused, and only started laughing when the patron walked away and she saw how hard everyone else was laughing.
Indignantly, she scoffed at us.
Partner: What?! It’s just as song!
I bounced up and down in my chair, childish grin on my face and said, “Sing it again! Please! PUH-LEEEEZE!”
She brushed me off and walked away, leaving me cracking up with the nearby patrons, and we were content with the memory of hearing her recite the “My Ding-A-Ling” lyrics to a patron.
Allow me to introduce the guest of my post tonight: skinny guy with scraggly facial hair, a mullet, a red wife-beater, bad posture, shorts made from cut-off sweatpants and a farmer’s tan that turned parts of him so red, it looked like his tank top was actually a full-length shirt with white holes in certain areas.
The conversation that ensued probably won’t translate as well to written word, as many of my encounters do not, but I feel compelled to try.
Guy: Hey, I was just at [Neighboring] Library and asked them a question, but they just looked at me like I was NUTS.
Any conversation that opens with a line like that is about to become blog fodder. This I know from experience. Fortunately, my coworker had finished helping the odd, affable guy with the big Jesus belt buckle, and as she was walking toward the desk, our redneck friend (who was looked at like he was nuts at another library) decided to approach my partner.
Maybe I was already reaching for scrap paper to take notes and appeared busy. Could be.
Guy: There’s this song, and I wanted some information about it. Maybe you’ve heard it. It’s called “My Ding-A-Ling.”
I bit my lip to hide the emerging grin and sniffled to cover my brief giggle. Not only was this guy dead serious, he was talking so loudly that the entire library went quiet. And mine is a library that is seldom quiet unless the computers are down or the police are walking through. The soft pitter-pat of 20 computer users tapping away at their keyboards, a wonderful white noise that keeps me from hearing all their personal bodily turbulence, abruptly slammed to stop, giving my ears whiplash, plunging us all headfirst into a dead silence. There was not a mouse click in the whole building save for my partner, looking up the "Ding-A-Ling" song.
Guy: Do you know how it goes? It’s like, “My ding-a-ling, won’t you play with my ding-a-ling…”
I was suddenly very interested in inspecting the ceiling tiles, tongue attempting to poke a hole in my own cheek, grimacing at the pain of trying not to laugh. Oh, look! There are more dead bugs in the fluorescent lights! Surely I should ponder this instead of listening to the conversation going on only three feet from me!
Professional in a pinch, but seldom so elsewise, she started rattling off facts about the song to this guy, something about Chuck Berry, something about 1972, blah-blah-blah, and she asked what else he wanted to know about the song.
Guy: Well, I kinda know how it goes, but I want the lyrics. It’s something like “it’s the prettiest little song you ever had…”
And then something spec-fucking-tacular occurred!
Partner: Right, then it goes, “And those of you who will not sing, must be playing with your own ding-a-ling”
The patrons situated on the perimeter of our reference desk erupted in gut-busting, capillary-popping, wailing laughter. Patrons all around me were red-faced and gasping for air, no longer interested in politely eavesdropping on the patron’s request, but full-on, no-holds-barred, doubled-over hilarity hearing the librarian talk about playing with a ding-a-ling.
Seeing the reaction of so many people positively roar with uncontrollable laughs made me lose it, and I came very close to having to excuse myself to find somewhere with more oxygen and possibly a diaper for my own safety.
The conversation went on, him quoting parts of the song, her nodding stoically as she read along with the lyrics online, telling him that he had the words right, correcting him here and there when it wasn’t “ding-a-ling”, but the longer “ding-a-ling-a-ling”.
Two teens in particular, a young man and a young woman, were holding each other up listening to these two people recite the words, looking at me for some confirmation that this was for real and not staged. I just shook my head in disbelief and continued laughing, trying my hardest not to look at this guy.
He went on and on about the song.
Guy: You know, they used to sing it in bars, too. And it’s not about what you think it’s about, which is why it’s so fun to sing, right? I mean, it’s great to sing about your ding-a-ling!
Partner: Uh-huh, I remember this song. So, do you want me to print the lyrics out for you?
Guy: Oh yeah! That would be great! I gotta take this back over to [Neighboring] Library and show them, since they thought I was nuts. I’ll sing it to ‘em, now that I got the lyrics, and I bet they’ll remember it then.
Partner: Um, yeah.
Guy: This is great! I gotta show Randy!
Partner: Okay.
Guy: And we can sing “My Ding-A-Ling” all the time!
Partner: Uh-huh.
She never laughed. She was perfectly calm, perfectly unamused, and only started laughing when the patron walked away and she saw how hard everyone else was laughing.
Indignantly, she scoffed at us.
Partner: What?! It’s just as song!
I bounced up and down in my chair, childish grin on my face and said, “Sing it again! Please! PUH-LEEEEZE!”
She brushed me off and walked away, leaving me cracking up with the nearby patrons, and we were content with the memory of hearing her recite the “My Ding-A-Ling” lyrics to a patron.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Ding-Dongs
Marina: Sorry
I had a rather demanding patron
Me: Did you ding-dong for help? Is that why [coworker] was out there?
Marina: yes
Me: Oh my, whatever did she want?
Marina: I needed him to help the other woman while I scrolled through page after page of abuse memoirs.
Only like 3 were of any interest to her and then we didn't have them.
Me: Figures.
Sheesh.
Marina: yeah
I think she's coming back when she’s done on the express computers.
Me: Of course. Why would she bug only one staff member?!
Marina: What I don't get is why I'm going through this when she doesn't even have a card to check the books out on
This is when I realized the patron Marina was talking about was the one Circ had told me about, who came in with no money, no wallet, no ID, and had a story about how she just left her boyfriend with only the clothes she was wearing. She wanted a library card, but without any proof of who she was, saying that her boyfriend was possessive of her ID and wouldn’t let her have it. Odd story. But the woman was odder still.
Me: Ugh.
Yesterday I had a lady get really pissed because she wanted Chicago museum passes, and I said we didn't have any for the Shedd Aquarium or other museums she wanted, that the Chicago Public Libraries had some kind of program, but it could be exclusive to their patrons, and she threw a tantrum.
Insisted Brookfield Zoo was in Chicago and I was lying about the Chicago museums.
And WHEN would they be available and WHO could she talk to about getting them.
Because having Brookfield Zoo passes meant they all should be in there.
Marina: wow
I hate our patrons somedays
Me: Uh huh
Marina: it drives me CRAZY when people stalk me in the stacks while I'm helping someone else to ask me questions
Me: Oh yes
That creeps me out totally
Marina: I have to refrain from spinning around and screaming "back the f%&* off" at people
Me: Patron paparazzi.
Marina: I would recommend going home sick
You don't want to be out here tonight
Me: Hmm, I'm eating cheese.
That could parlay into digestive problems.
Marina: close down the whole desk and go to a bar with [coworker]
Me: Oh, you are sounding wiser and wiser with every sentence.
Marina: :)
Me: [Coworker] will love you for it too
AND it's payday
So that means I can afford a drink and not a water at a bar.
but sadly, only one drink.
Marina: aww :(
Me: baby needs an oil change
Marina: but you have heirloom tomatoes instead
is that expensive?
Me: I do have tomatoes, and oil changes are not expensive, but drinks are. The ones I like, anyway.
Marina: me too :(
Me: Fruit, frozen, gigantic glasses, umbrellas... pricey.
Marina: damn my girlie taste buds
Me: MINE TOO!
Damn them!
Marina: :)
Me: A friend of mine started calling me Malibu Barbie. Fucker.
Marina: stab him
with an umbrella :)
Me: I shall. With my high heel.
Marina: ooh even better
Me: So, shall we compose our stabbing list?
Patrons who stalk and paparazzi us.
Marina: patrons who can't use Google Maps.
Me: Grrrr.
Marina: Patrons who don't know how to turn off mute.
Me: Being made fun of for being girlie girls.
Not enough cheese in your pasta.
Not enough money for all the drinks your job makes you need.
Marina: Patrons who don't realize that minimize just minimizes their screen.
Calories.
Me: OOOR, patrons who you tell to minimize their screen and instead they hit the restore size button and it just makes the window smaller.
Marina: Oh god! I HATE that!
Me: NUMLOCKS!
Marina: I had to explain links to that woman at least 3 or 4 times today
Me: She is so dense.
Marina: yeah :(
Me: HOH, and yesterday, here's a new one. Woman wanted us to show her how to put her picture up on YouTube (which she called YouToo) so she could be rich and famous too. What? It's for videos? You have to have a video camera? You have to upload? Oh, I can't do that. I'll have to find another way to get rich and famous.
Marina: OMG
I think the shorter list might be the non-stabbing list
Me: Sigh...
True.
This could go on all night.
Marina: it really could
And it did. The woman whose boyfriend is possessive of her ID was very nearly as irritatingly needy as Needy Betty. She went outside to smoke and stood right at the front door, so a non-smoking patron yelled at her that he couldn’t even walk to his car without having to breathe in her smoke, and she was so upset by his statement that she came in and told everyone how hurtful he was. I thought about telling her about the Illinois law that requires people to be at least a certain distance from the front door of businesses if they’re smoking, but she stunk so badly that I didn’t want to talk to her for any longer.
Somehow, she had enough money to be carrying around a big cup of gas station coffee and she purchased headphones from Circ, so she did have cash on her, despite her claims. And she struck another of my pet peeves by carrying around this coffee cup that was actually three coffee cups stacked inside one another. Look, folks, I understand that two cups together help insulate, but I still see it as a waste, and the “green” girl inside me wants to smack you silly. Bring your own damn travel mug and gas stations will let you “refill” it for a fraction of the cost. Anyway, this woman had THREE cups sleeved together, and that irritated me even more! On top of that, she kept leaving her garbage wherever she went. I found that stupid three-tiered coffee cup sitting on the counter in the washroom, right by the garbage can. The patron (who was as odd, or odder) who used her computer after her stood by it, mouth agape, horrified, saying that there was garbage all over the computer and he didn’t want to use it. It was the packaging from this woman’s headphones, that’s all. I heard him whisper to his girlfriend, “There could be DRUGS in there or something. Did you SEE that lady? Ick.” Sometimes I feel like it might be best to let the patrons kill each other and solve many of my problems for me.
Later on, when she couldn’t use one of the computers because they were all taken, she asked to use my phone and proceeded to start calling people to come and pick her up, but no one could. That’s when the neediness got REALLY irritating.
Lady: No one can come and get me.
Me: Oh really?
Lady: And I have to walk all the way by the Walgreens. Can you tell me how far that is? Because I think it’s really far.
I looked it up. It was 2.5 miles.
Lady: *gasp* That’s a LONG way. And it’s COLD outside! Can you tell me what the temperature is?
Me: It’s 67º.
Lady: That’s way too cold to walk almost three miles.
Seriously? To me, that’s just the right temperature to go on a walk, but then again, I haven’t been raising my body temperature all afternoon by whining and drinking a well-insulated coffee either.
Me: Is there anyone else you can call?
Lady: Nooooooo, I don’t have my address book, and I don’t know anyone’s phone number.
Me: You can look it up online, or look it up in the phone book.
Lady: Noooo, I don’t think I could find anyone.
Me: Okay, well, you can call a cab.
Lady: I don’t have any money.
I should mention that all of these sentences she uttered were in the most annoying whine I think I’ve ever heard. The last word of ever sentence dragged out painfully until I cut her off and began speaking over it. I was waiting for her to employ some vibrato for added punch.
Me: Hmmm, I’m sorry, I don’t know what else to suggest.
Lady: It’s so COLD outside. I don’t think I can walk that far.
Me: Well, it’s 6:00. The sun is going down and it’s only going to get colder.
Lady: *gasp* Noooooooo. Can I use the computer again?
Then she plopped her butt down in front of the computer for another hour, blasting music into her headphones, watching videos online. At 7 she simply slipped out, no more whining, no words to anyone.
I thought the weirdness had left with her when another young woman walked up to me and asked why her money wasn’t coming out of the change machine.
I said, “Um, we don’t have a change machine. I think you put your money in the copier.”
Copier? What copier? She was so clueless, she didn’t realize the big machine she leaned over to put the money in the “change machine” was in fact the copier that the machine was accepting money for. I suggested she either hit the print button and get a piece of white paper and 90¢ change, or she talk to Circ about possibly getting a refund. She nodded and kept walking past me.
Incredulously, I shouted to her, “Ma’am, your dollar is in the machine still, right? You’re going to want to go over and take care of that now, otherwise someone might think that’s $1 in free copies for them, and then there’s nothing we’re going to be able to do to get your money back.”
She looked at me blankly, said, “Reeeaaly?” and I nodded and told her to go get her money.
Marina was right. We should’ve closed down the reference desk and gone for drinks. We should’ve continued making our list of people to stab. Which would’ve gotten too big and then we would’ve switched and made lists of people not to stab.
That would’ve been a short list.
It might have only had our own names on it.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Out of Office
For the next two weeks I will be on vacation at Yellowstone and Grand Teton National Parks, possibly also Badlands and any other National Parks I can hit en route to or from.
Have a good two weeks and I will be back in June. Wheeeeeee!
Have a good two weeks and I will be back in June. Wheeeeeee!
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Replies
Microsoft Outlook should be sued for putting the Reply to All button next to the Reply button, in an easy to find, accessible place. Assholes set us up! If you click on Reply to All, a loud buzzer should sound and a neon orange pop-up should appear on your screen asking if you are a totally reckless lunatic who wants to make enemies, or if you really think the All recipients are interested in your reply. If you answer yes to either of these questions, another pop-up should appear and ask you if you’re on any medications, suffering from delusions of grandeur, or just stupid. Answers of “no” should then require a special series of math questions (like Gmail labs instituted) that you have to answer correctly to prove you are smart enough to decide and cogent enough to include pertinent information for your All group, and only then can you actually Reply to All. If Microsoft really cared about their customers, this is what Outlook would do.
Additionally, people who misuse the Reply to All button should be flogged and whipped in public for their indiscretion. By their boss. And then docked a day’s pay. And this should be a global law. Screw off, Amnesty International! There are some instances of torture that are worthy!
Yesterday, a very sad email went out to thousands and thousands of employees who are part of our library system, self-defined in the following paragraph:
...is a consortium of over 650 academic, public, school, and special libraries in [4 counties of Illinois]. It is one of nine multi-type Illinois library systems funded by yearly grants from the Illinois General Assembly and the office of Jesse White, the Secretary of State and State Librarian.
The email explained how little funding the State has doled out, how desperate things are in the system, and how they are all but shutting down at the end of June, running barely a skeleton crew for minimal services, which are also in jeopardy.
We all saw this letter and sighed heavily. They do so many things for the libraries in my neck of the woods that losing them would be devastating. Not only do they run the van service for our Interlibrary Loan, but our health insurance is administered through them, so we’re terrified what kind of implications this will have on our functionality as a reciprocating library, and how it’s going to impact our health care. This doesn’t even touch on many of the other services it offers, including the entertaining continuing education seminars/classes we often attend, where we laugh and shudder at the weirdos in our field.
So, none of us is sure where the mailing list came from. Perhaps anyone who has ever taken a course through the system and registered their email address was a recipient. Regardless, once the email went out, many others assumed they were special, had received this email from the director of the library system personally, and then forwarded it on as well. Many of us received the initial letter, somberly read it, and then continued receiving it from others through forwards for the remainder of the evening.
Sigh...
Okay, that’s bad enough, but today started the replies to all (meaning all the staff members in all the libraries in four counties, I should remind you) from various recipients that went on and on about how sad they were about the losses.
Lovely. Thanks. We’re all sad. Glad you felt the need to share it with every-fucking-one, but whatever. That’s part of why we laugh at you in the classes, you nitwits. Reply to sender only, please!
After a few hours of monotonous, repetitive letters of sorrow being emailed out to every-fucking-one on the list by Repliers to All, the hostile remove-me-from-your-listers started hitting Reply to All as well. So now, I’m in the middle of a shitstorm of idiots who were pissed to be receiving the heartfelt letters of sorrow, and are now Replying to All to be removed from the list because of the abusers of the Reply to All.
Seriously?! You do NOT need to hit Reply to All when you are asking to be removed from future Reply to All notifications.
GAH!
Now, I’m not going to reveal my font snobbery and complain that the director of the consortium sent out this email in Comic Sans, because that would be petty. I am also not going to comment on the long-winded explanations about why some of these people are baffled as to how they got on this list because I quit reading them. What I’m amazed with is the fact that 27 have arrived in my Inbox thus far, a few in my spam, some surely pre-filtered before they even reach me, and then there was someone who used the opportunity to forward their own professional agenda to this list. WTF, people? If you’re the director of a huge consortium and you’re sending out a massive email to thousands and thousands of people, filter the list so that it’s not reusable by every moron who receives it! Maybe everyone who knows how to do this was already laid off. I don’t know. But goddammit, this is getting ridiculous. And it wouldn’t be ridiculous if people weren’t booger-eating morons! Or as Arms likes to say, “window-lickers on the short bus”.
So, while I’m at work and I’m dealing with the neanderthals who can’t enter their computer reservation number because they don’t know about the Num Lock key, or the folks who can’t figure out how to scan their barcode using a scanner (holding anything but the barcode up to the scanner), I’m going to say they’re less infuriating today than the people who work in my field.
And as if to top it all off with an even bigger irritation, someone just Replied to All to stop sending out Replies to All about wanting to be removed from the list because this is a serious situation we’re talking about here. As if this serious situation warranted thousands of respondents to clutter my inbox with identical emails of woe. Shut the fuck up, people!
Aaaaaaand, now people are Replying to All in support of the whiner who wants people to stop whining in their Replies to All.
Sigh... these are not my people.
The bottom line here is, it’s not going to change. Why does our library system deserve money the state doesn’t have more so than the schools? More so than any other organization they owe? My local school system is owed $1.5 million. There are school systems doing mass layoffs in anticipation of not receiving any state funding next year and trying to stay afloat. Fundraising has become essential for organizations like ours. We have to learn to adapt and survive any way we can, and writing our politicians, buying T-shirts, and singing Kumbaya around a bonfire (funded by donations and not the state) is not going to save anything. Despite what the idiots who are Replying to All think, this is not exclusive to Illinois. Get over yourself, folks. And quit using my Inbox as your soapbox! Frankly, if the Powers That Be came to me and asked if $2 million should be paid to our public schools or our library consortium, I’m going to be hard-pressed not to say the schools. While I think this is all quite sad, mainly the loss of jobs in this terrible market, I really don’t understand why so many people would rather whine about it en masse than pick ourselves back up and figure out a way to subsidize.
If we could sue Microsoft for putting together Outlook without all of the pitfalls attached to the Reply to All button as there should have been, we could solve many of these problems.
Additionally, people who misuse the Reply to All button should be flogged and whipped in public for their indiscretion. By their boss. And then docked a day’s pay. And this should be a global law. Screw off, Amnesty International! There are some instances of torture that are worthy!
Yesterday, a very sad email went out to thousands and thousands of employees who are part of our library system, self-defined in the following paragraph:
...is a consortium of over 650 academic, public, school, and special libraries in [4 counties of Illinois]. It is one of nine multi-type Illinois library systems funded by yearly grants from the Illinois General Assembly and the office of Jesse White, the Secretary of State and State Librarian.
The email explained how little funding the State has doled out, how desperate things are in the system, and how they are all but shutting down at the end of June, running barely a skeleton crew for minimal services, which are also in jeopardy.
We all saw this letter and sighed heavily. They do so many things for the libraries in my neck of the woods that losing them would be devastating. Not only do they run the van service for our Interlibrary Loan, but our health insurance is administered through them, so we’re terrified what kind of implications this will have on our functionality as a reciprocating library, and how it’s going to impact our health care. This doesn’t even touch on many of the other services it offers, including the entertaining continuing education seminars/classes we often attend, where we laugh and shudder at the weirdos in our field.
So, none of us is sure where the mailing list came from. Perhaps anyone who has ever taken a course through the system and registered their email address was a recipient. Regardless, once the email went out, many others assumed they were special, had received this email from the director of the library system personally, and then forwarded it on as well. Many of us received the initial letter, somberly read it, and then continued receiving it from others through forwards for the remainder of the evening.
Sigh...
Okay, that’s bad enough, but today started the replies to all (meaning all the staff members in all the libraries in four counties, I should remind you) from various recipients that went on and on about how sad they were about the losses.
Lovely. Thanks. We’re all sad. Glad you felt the need to share it with every-fucking-one, but whatever. That’s part of why we laugh at you in the classes, you nitwits. Reply to sender only, please!
After a few hours of monotonous, repetitive letters of sorrow being emailed out to every-fucking-one on the list by Repliers to All, the hostile remove-me-from-your-listers started hitting Reply to All as well. So now, I’m in the middle of a shitstorm of idiots who were pissed to be receiving the heartfelt letters of sorrow, and are now Replying to All to be removed from the list because of the abusers of the Reply to All.
Seriously?! You do NOT need to hit Reply to All when you are asking to be removed from future Reply to All notifications.
GAH!
Now, I’m not going to reveal my font snobbery and complain that the director of the consortium sent out this email in Comic Sans, because that would be petty. I am also not going to comment on the long-winded explanations about why some of these people are baffled as to how they got on this list because I quit reading them. What I’m amazed with is the fact that 27 have arrived in my Inbox thus far, a few in my spam, some surely pre-filtered before they even reach me, and then there was someone who used the opportunity to forward their own professional agenda to this list. WTF, people? If you’re the director of a huge consortium and you’re sending out a massive email to thousands and thousands of people, filter the list so that it’s not reusable by every moron who receives it! Maybe everyone who knows how to do this was already laid off. I don’t know. But goddammit, this is getting ridiculous. And it wouldn’t be ridiculous if people weren’t booger-eating morons! Or as Arms likes to say, “window-lickers on the short bus”.
So, while I’m at work and I’m dealing with the neanderthals who can’t enter their computer reservation number because they don’t know about the Num Lock key, or the folks who can’t figure out how to scan their barcode using a scanner (holding anything but the barcode up to the scanner), I’m going to say they’re less infuriating today than the people who work in my field.
And as if to top it all off with an even bigger irritation, someone just Replied to All to stop sending out Replies to All about wanting to be removed from the list because this is a serious situation we’re talking about here. As if this serious situation warranted thousands of respondents to clutter my inbox with identical emails of woe. Shut the fuck up, people!
Aaaaaaand, now people are Replying to All in support of the whiner who wants people to stop whining in their Replies to All.
Sigh... these are not my people.
The bottom line here is, it’s not going to change. Why does our library system deserve money the state doesn’t have more so than the schools? More so than any other organization they owe? My local school system is owed $1.5 million. There are school systems doing mass layoffs in anticipation of not receiving any state funding next year and trying to stay afloat. Fundraising has become essential for organizations like ours. We have to learn to adapt and survive any way we can, and writing our politicians, buying T-shirts, and singing Kumbaya around a bonfire (funded by donations and not the state) is not going to save anything. Despite what the idiots who are Replying to All think, this is not exclusive to Illinois. Get over yourself, folks. And quit using my Inbox as your soapbox! Frankly, if the Powers That Be came to me and asked if $2 million should be paid to our public schools or our library consortium, I’m going to be hard-pressed not to say the schools. While I think this is all quite sad, mainly the loss of jobs in this terrible market, I really don’t understand why so many people would rather whine about it en masse than pick ourselves back up and figure out a way to subsidize.
If we could sue Microsoft for putting together Outlook without all of the pitfalls attached to the Reply to All button as there should have been, we could solve many of these problems.
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