This Post is Overdue

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

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

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


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

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

Climate Committees

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me: Hi, Tim, it’s Nikki.

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

Me: I know. Where have you been?

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

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

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

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

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

Me: Promises, promises.

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

But even Tim couldn’t bring the sunshine.

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

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

Daniel-san!

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

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

SPRING!

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

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

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

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



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


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

SANDHILLS IN MY BACK YARD!



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



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

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

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

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

I love spring!

Thats My Gig, But Do I Really Want This Gig

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

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

Allow me to digress momentarily.

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

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

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

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

Such was the case with Jack yesterday.

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

Jack: Were you trying to avoid me?

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

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

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

Me: The author visit, yeah, good.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I smiled my fakest work smile of all.

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

Jack: Yeah, that's what she said.

Me: Well, good luck with that.

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

Me (less than sincerely): Thaaaaaaaanks.

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

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

Wait, I have to comment on that.

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

Sigh.

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

Grrrr, that guy makes me angry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dweebs -- they vex me so.

She Will Math You

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Marina: I know. I can’t math.

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

Marina: Yes I can! I totally can!

Me: Nuh-uh, “math” is not a verb!

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

That became our favorite quote, on the spot.

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

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

Arms: You guys are like Smurfs then.

Me: What the hell are you talking about?

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

Me: That’s not what we were doing.

Arms: Poor Smurfette, though.

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

Arms: Just one chick with all those guys.

Me: Lucky girl!

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

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

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

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

Touche!

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

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

Arms: HUH!?

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

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

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

Arms: Apparently she thinks so.

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

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

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

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

I mean, where does it end?

Patrons. Totally smurfing nuts sometimes.

Full Moon

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

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

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

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

Bluck.

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

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

Ron: Nah, trying to get INTO trouble.

Me: Heh.

Ron: Hello, Trouble.

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

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

Then tonight, Needy Betty called.

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

Me: Um…okay.

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

Me: Okaaaaay.

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

Betty: Is this Nikki?

Me: Yeah, it is.

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

Me: Yeah, I know.

Betty: WHY!?

Me: Because…

Think! What’s a good reason?

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

Betty: Oh, okay, that’s sweet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was cracking up.

Bro: Sausage and egg…hwah-HWAAAAAHS!

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

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

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

Bro: You did. It was just the road.

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

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

Me: *coughing and sputtering*

Bro: WHOA, was I just breathing?

Me: STOP!

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

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

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

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

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