librarygoddess

Okay, in spite of previous unpleasant experiences, I'm still trying. I've amended my ad to say that my man should have all original parts--and no additional parts that he has to wheel along behind him. I've tightened up the weeding process and am determined not to be the sweet, carefree sap that I've been in the past. I dive boldly back into the morass of emails I've received hoping to find a gem. And I find a "cultured, worldly, mature man," who thinks I sound delightful and wants to take me to dinner. Okay, I'm not quite buying the hype as I'm slightly jaded at this point, but he used big words and spelled them correctly which gives him an edge over most of the other potentials so I decide to pick him.

We talk on the phone--he has an accent--I'm totally hooked. I'm just a sucker for a sexy accent! He works up in Boston, but wants to drive down to my neck of the woods for dinner. I suggest a place and he calls back to tell me he's made reservations! Okay, sexy accent, takes the initiative.....so how "mature" is he really? Late 50s he says. Hmmmm, I briefly reflect on my vow to dial back the older man thing then figure well, just this once....

I get to the restaurant and he's not there--but the waiter has been instructed to bring me a glass of wine while I wait. Nice touch. Then he walks in--okay, late 50s? This guy is easily in his late 60s--I date old men, I can tell these things. Oh well, another one. I slug back my wine and prepare to make this a very brief dinner. Then we start to talk--he's charming, cultured and worldly---as advertised. Okay, maybe I can over look the little lie about his age, but the vague resemblance to Wilfred Brimley is holding me back a bit.

He does that romantic things where he asks me what I'd like for dinner then orders for both of us and then some. Gets a nice bottle of wine and we hang back and talk. It was pleasant. Dinner was good. We order another bottle of wine. Then it gets weird. He decides he'd like to sit next to me instead of across from me--I'm not comfortable with this, but he insists, saying that the restaurant is crowded and his hearing isn't what it used to be (oh yes, the selling points are just racking up!.) Then he starts talking about his work as a cardiac care physician, making broad, elaborate points that include lots of hand gestures that have him brushing against me inappropriately. I politely push his hands away and point out that cheap feels aren't on the menu. He pretends to be apologetic then orders dessert while I scope out the emergency exits. Of course champagne should come with dessert!

At this point he's getting a tad overheated from all the alcohol and unbuttons his shirt at the neck just a bit, exposing brillo-like tufts of white hair (yep, now I have the creepy feeling that I'm dating Santa,) and.....what's that? All my past bad experiences have numbed me to diplomacy. I lean forward to get a better look and unbutton the next button on his shirt. He puffs up and smiles, thinking I'm going to get all lewd and rude with him right here on the dinner table. And then I see it. "What's that?" I ask. "Oh," he looks down, realizing I'm not admiring his scrubby thatch of white manliness but something else. "I had a quadruple by-pass last year and this is the scar." He even unbuttons his chest further to show the length and breadth of it, explaining in painful detail about his pace maker.

I grab my cell phone, open it, pretend to listen, say, "I'll be right there," then perform a graceful hurdle jump over him while explaining that I'm needed at home right away. "I didn't hear your phone ring," he begins to protest. "Maybe you should turn up the volume on that hearing aid then you won't have to sit in the laps of your dinner guests either." And I'm out the door in record time.

Okay, new addition to the personal ad: "should not be sporting any internal equipment that prevents you from being in the same room with me when I use the microwave."

It's official--I have become the Island of Misfit Boys.

Okay, so my first post Asshole-Boyfriend encounter wasn't what I expected at all, I decide it's time to get over it and place a personal ad so I can directly appeal to my target demographic and clearly state that he should have all original parts, and I don't date married men (not that it'll stop them responding, but at least I'm putting it out there!) So I craft an ad that is witty and intelligent with a clear description of myself and a little bit about what I'm looking for. It was a charming and delightful piece of prose and I felt sure it would bring Mr. Right Now to my door. Then I posted it, hung back and waited to see what emerged from the murky depths of the Internet.

I was pleasantly surprised to be IMed by a funny, intelligent man (yep, LG's International Naivety Tour continues.) So we chat a bit and work up to the exchanging phone numbers stage of things. I'm a tad nervous but the conversation was pleasant and left me wanting more, so now we graduate to the meet and greet stage and make a date to get together for drinks. As the strict etiquette of Internet dating states, you start with the email, swiftly move to the IM, progress to the phone, then work up your courage for the coffee or drinks stage; some get impulsively daring here and actually opt to meet for lunch, but that can horribly backfire because then you're trapped for at least an hour without reprieve. And no matter how good the email, IM or phone call is you're only able to weed out the grossly illiterate guys with horrible speech impediments. You still have no idea what his hygiene, social skills, or facial tics look like till you do the up close and personal.

So, the afternoon of the Meet and Greet approaches and I get a call from The Dude--he doesn't drive and could I pick him up for our date? Well, this is a major breach of protocol and warning lights were flashing all over the place on this one, but he seemed nice so I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. I arrive at his humble abode to pick him up and see him standing outside, looking all dashing in a t-shirt, sport coat and jeans. Then I see it--he's wheeling an oxygen tank behind him and has the little tubes in his nose. Holy shit! This is the kind of thing you at least MENTION before actually meeting someone! I'm contemplating peeling out and ending this disaster before it can go any further, but then I think that I shouldn't hold this affliction against him--we had nice conversations and he is attractive and intelligent, I should give it a go! Yep, it's official, I'm a complete idiot.

We get to the charming little bar not far from his place and on the way there he explains his iron clad companion--he has this lung affliction and has been on disability for over a year now (again, good stuff to know BEFORE going out.) Thankfully he is able to leave the tank in the car and we go in for drinks. We sit and chat for a while and I'm warming up to him and enjoying his company--until he needs to step outside to take a cigarette break. What the fuck?! You're on an oxygen tank with a mysterious lung condition but you still smoke?! He comes back in, orders us another round and we pick up where we left off--then he gets a little too friendly, stroking my legs, checking out my necklace (yes, guys, we all know that this is just a lame way you figured out to get as close to touching our breasts as possible without getting punched in the jaw.) I delicately push him away, but he persists. Then he suggests going back to my place--we can't go to his place because he has a roommate and she lives with her kids part-time (oooh, this package is just getting more and more tempting!) I point out that tonight isn't a good night, my kids are home. He says I should send my kids to their dad's house so we can get busy.... What?! I'm going to kick my kids out of the house so you can get laid?! Dude, this is way out of line. He brushes me off by saying I'm getting too sensitive about things and should really lighten up.

At this point I'm pretty much over the whole etiquette thing. I tell him I'm done here and he needs to find himself a ride home. Then I go to my car, leave his tank in the parking lot and head home. He still calls, emails and IMs--until I blocked him. Guess he keeps trying with me because everyone else had the sense to peel out when they had the chance.

And so now that Asshole-Boyfriend (yes, after startling, relationship ending experiences he has been demoted yet again from just Ex-Boyfriend to Asshole Boyfriend) has been kicked to the curb and I've gotten past the "all men completely suck and I'm never dating again" stage, I decided it was time to give the boys another chance. My friends and I hang out at a local Chinese karaoke bar--I know, majorly lame, but everyone has their guilty pleasures so just shut up about mine! Anyway, there was a guy who also frequented the place and would sit with us and flirt with me when we were there. He was cute, it was fun and passed the time. Then one evening, I had a few drinks and decided I needed something a little more than casual flirting (mistake #1: making impetuous decisions while drunk). So we went back to my place and started to have a pleasant time together (mistake #2: thinking that you can actually pick up a decent guy at a karaoke bar!)

I'll break here just to ask you to consider the following question: When is the absolute worst possible time to find out your sexual partner has a colostomy bag? Yep, I kid you not--I can't make stuff like that up! So I feel this plastic thing scrape against my thigh and sweetly inquire, "what the hell is that?," thinking he may be inviting some bizarre sex toy into the evening's festivities without consulting me first. And he explains about his intestinal problems and hoped that I would understand and that it didn't matter to me. So what did I do? I lied. Fortunately it was dark enough that I didn't have to see what he had going on down there and things ended blessedly quickly! *shudder*

The next day he comes by the library to take me out to lunch. I'm trying to tell myself he's a nice guy and just has this problem and I shouldn't hold it against him--but deep down I certainly didn't want him holding it against me ever again! So while we're eating lunch and I'm trying to figure out a way to let him down easy, he tells me about his wife--yep, WIFE! And how she just doesn't understand him. Well, sweetie, that makes two of us. I let him pay for lunch, acting all huffy about being deceived but am secretly breathing a sigh of relief that I was able to skate out of this one pretty easily. And so, in the train wreck that is my love life, C-bag is just another car to crash and burn on the pile up.

This one came in on IM about an hour before closing. Names have been changed to protect the hopelessly ignorant.

[21:14] Student1: hey, im writing a paper about the books no telephone to heaven and housekeeping..and i have to discuss "In the novels Housekeeping and No Telephone to Heaven, several female characters resist the social categories (such as race, class and gender), values (such as domesticity) and stereotypes imposed upon them by their surrounding cultures. Using a few closely analysed passages, show how these strategies of resistance reveal the cultural, rather than natural origins of their struggles". I dont know where to start...i read the book but i dont understand the prompt really

[21:17] Library Goddess: you really need to clarify that with your professor.

[21:18] Student 1: shes not responding to my emails

[21:18] Library Goddess: is there someone else in your class you can contact?

[21:18] Student1: im trying but still theyre unresponsive too
[21:18] Student1: have you read the books?

[21:18] Library Goddess: no, I haven't

[21:19] Student1: well, do you think you could take a look at them and give me your opinion on where I should start?

[21:19] Library Goddess: We close in an hour--I wouldn't really have the chance to read them for you. Have you contacted the Writing Center on campus?

[21:19] Student1: touche
[21:19] Student1: ok, thank you anyways

Too bad he didn't have to read "Their Eyes Were Watching God" I wrote an A paper on that a few years ago that I'd be willing to sell ;)

An email from a potential:

him: I loved your ad--would you consider dating a younger man?

me: how much younger?

him: 18

me: Dude--do you really need to ask?! Back to the sand box with you now and grab a cookie on your way. Good boy!

I've done the Lolita thing--I'm really not interested in the Mrs. Robinson thing.

So the cops come in and we deal with our little whoring at the library situation quietly and very little mental distress to the staff--which is good because they can be very fragile and keeping their stress levels low is a priority.

Next day I take a little stroll to the corner store and notice a nice Subaru Forester in the parking lot (not that I can afford to replace my battered old bookmobile of a car, but I like to look.) Some dude is sitting in the driver's seat--"must be waiting for someone to get out of one of our classes," I naively think to myself. On my way back from the store I'm startled to see a head pop up from the passenger seat! It's one of the little hoochie mommas we'd just booted from the back stacks! This shocked even my incredibly jaded self--it was broad daylight! I must admit that while a nooner at noon does seem appropriate, don't do it in the library parking lot, fer fucks sake! She and I locked eyes and she quickly exited the vehicle and ran off up the street--the guy in the car took off too, and I was too startled by the whole thing to have gotten the plate number.

I've decided that the best way to market this is to get the hookers roller skates to make the service even faster and instead of A & W, we'll call it the B & J. My state grant will seem like a drop in the bucket compared to what I'll be raking in at 50% of the take--and I'll even throw in the skates for free.

What the hell has happened to internet dating in the eight years I've been absent from it? Jeez, how old am I that I'm reminiscing about the good old days of online dating?! Maybe that's the problem--I'm way too old for this shit.

So I go on this one date--excellent guy, my physical ideal. He unfolds all 6'5" of himself out of his cool foreign car and my first thought was, "I so want to climb that!" We wine, we dine, we go back to his place for more wine in private--I mount an expedition, plant my flag and we both agree it was a wonderful evening. Two days later I get a call--he really wants to see me again but has some questions. Okay, shoot. Then he proceeds to ask me what his full name is, where he grew up, where he went to college.....

I immediately break out into a cold sweat--flash backs to all those anxiety dreams of showing up for the final when you accidentally forgot to go to class all semester long. Then reality kicks in, "You're testing me?! Dude, what the fuck?" And he tells me that I'm not interested in him (well, not any more, I'm not!) I'm just interested in the situation--whatever that means. He claims he knows everything about me and I know nothing about him. "So you know everything about me?" Yes, he assures me, "Well, did you know this?" and I hung up on the asshole.

I've been witness to a strange new trend in libraries--well, my library at any rate. It all started when this chick started coming in--young, pretty, sits and reads the paper till we've figured she's found what she wants and now flies under the reference librarian radar. Then, a little while later a guy will come in to use the computer--they'll make eye contact and within fifteen minutes they're in the back stacks, tits out and both trouser diving. At first we figured it was young-still-living-with-the-parents-and-can't-afford-a-room lovin', but now I've found that it's much more!

There are three different girls and an overwhelming number of different guys. Needless to say, I've seen more naked tits lately than any straight girl has a right to. So I called the cops to tell them that the library was becoming freesamples.com for hoochie mamas looking to sell a "date". Can you believe the cops were actually shocked that this was happening at the library?! I just gave them a jaded chuckle and told them about the guy I had to explain bathroom etiquette to after he peed with the door open in full view of a mom and her three year old in the Children's Room. They came right over to deal with it. My only request was to keep it quiet--I don't want the first article about me in Library Journal to be my stint as the Library Madame.

That's right, newbie librarian didn't even make it to the New Year, just like Paranoid Tech.Services Librarian said--and since she'd picked the closest date to that in the pool, I had to fork over my $20 to her. I seriously thought he'd make it to February, at least! But he left us before Christmas for greener pastures at Library Z--and let me tell you, the going away party we had in his absence was great fun for everyone!

I hear he hit the ground running at Library Z! He's so busy chairing committees--he expressed his frustration at having so many people clamoring for his time, "everyone thinks he's a rising young superstar." Poor sweetie! It must be so hard to be the Paul McCartney of the library world! *sigh* Now I get to post the position and hire another newbie, hot-young-superstar, to replace the last one. Oh joy. I'll keep you updated on the fun resumes I'll be "keeping on file!" ;)

Tell them you don't follow hockey. Stops 'em dead every time.

Okay, sweetie pies, the moment all you lovely little library school students have been waiting for--what NOT to put on your resume!

Due to the fact that I've always worked at borderline bankrupt libraries, I've had the benefit of doing a great deal of hiring due to a great deal of turn over (when you can't even match a barista's salary--you're in tough shape.) Just some words of advice for the newbies among you:

DO NOT mention your work as a mystery shopper under your job experience--it amuses the shit out of administration, but it won't get you an interview.

If you blog, Facebook, MySpace or (insert your favorite social network here) for fun, do it anonymously. Nothing ticks off a potential employer more than reading about how boooorrred you are at work today. And for christ's sake, don't be stupid enough to assume that those YouTube clips of how you got those beads at Mardi Gras won't come back to bite you in your perky ass!

Write a resume--not several loosely joined paragraphs on your speculation of how your life skills as a career student will benefit the library to which you are applying. Save the nebulous crap for your novel.

And finally, no one cares if you like skiing, hiking, kittens, support groups, etc., etc. And many of us don't like knitters--so keep that nasty shit to yourself.

Ah yes, it's that time of year again--time to pull down the storm windows, turn on the heat and revel in the contained aromas of the great unwashed. Unfortunately there are few things you can do about this--in the age of lawsuits, it's inadvisable to coat said patrons with a liberal spray of Lysol. Although, Febreezing the furniture on a regular basis is incredibly helpful. You could have someone at the circ desk rip all the perfume and cologne samples out of Cosmo and Vogue and place them in decorative baskets on the reading room tables--it's subtle, but someone might be inclined to give their pits a much needed rub with a little Ralph Lauren.

Or, you can do what my library did and write a behavior policy that includes a hygiene clause. It's controversial, I know, and it may seem silly in the extreme to some, but I've had patrons leave because of the overpowering aroma of another--I'm talking so strong it has a twenty foot perimeter and the potential to get its own zip code. And it's no fun being the one who has to break the bad news to the Funkmeister that he really needs to seek out some shower facilities before he visits us again. There can be angry protests that result in the waving of arms and wild gesticulating that make you wonder where you stored that gas mask you bought in anticipation of Y2K. But usually there are just lame excuses--the most popular one being "oh, that must be because of the new medication I'm on." And you just smile and nod and try not to notice that the rain has left clean streaks on their faces. Just another day in the life of the librarian/social worker.

I met a brand-spankin' new librarian today. She was so cute (I'm talking Sarah Palin cute,) and filled with wide eyed wonder at officially being a librarian for the past four months. It's so nice to see them before their dreams are crushed and their optimism is siphoned off by administrative bureaucracy--you know, while they still think they can make a difference in the library world.

We actually have a newbie at my library. He was cute at first, too. All that gung ho drive and ambition--but let me tell you, it got old real fast. He just came off an internship at one of those big-ass fancy libraries who can afford things like janitors and books and soap in the bathrooms. Every fricken thing that came up was, "Well, Library Z does it this way," and "Library Z has this resource." The staff was ready to lynch him on the flag pole--the boy is seriously not making any friends.

I get that the newbies want to make their mark in libraryland, but too much moving and shaking in the first few months of employment doesn't win you the cover of Library Journal, it just pisses off your co-workers. So we chatted--and I explained, in very gentle terms, that he really needed to reign in his rampant OCD, stop talking down to the staff, and stop defying my orders (why are minions so hard to find nowadays?) He seemed to be improving for a while there--then I find out today from Paranoid Tech Services Chick that he was dissing me to her behind my back. She, of course, told me all of it immediately. You can't fart in that place without it being discussed for days afterward. It's not good--the staff re-instituted their betting pool. Odds are he won't make it to New Year's. But I'm hopeful that he can pull it together and turn this around. Until then I'm slipping some valium in his water bottle to help mellow him out and, worst case scenario, I've got $20 on Valentine's Day.

Programs and features I'd love to see at the next library conference I attend:

Library 2.who the fuck cares!? : how to take another stupid library catch phrase and beat it like a red-headed step child.

Becoming a change agent in your library OR retire already and give someone else a chance at a career you withered, old bat!

Knitting 1.0--they're going to do it anyway, so let them do it in private. Then show them where to put the fricken needles.

On sale in the vendor area: Library patron voo doo dolls--because sometimes good customer service just needs to stop.

Special reclamation project with a local Harley Davidson store: All novelty sweaters (or any item of clothing with kittens, puppies, and holiday kitsch) can be turned in for biker leathers.

Hot vendors = booty call. How to get your lonely ass laid, and get free shipping from Ingram, too.

Librarian extreme makeover : speakers Stacy and Clinton identify the attendees at registration and then force them to give up their Birk's and socks for grown-up shoes--bonfire of the misfit clothes will take place after lunch.

It was a quiet Friday. The library was packed with facebookers, myspacers, and a couple of people reading the newspapers. The lab was packed with people using our computers to keep in touch with their loved ones. A little too in touch--I had to kick a couple of chicks out for taking pictures of their tits using the library's web cams. Yep, it shocked the shit out of me, too. There I am, just minding my own business when, out of the corner of my eye I see these two women sharing a computer to take advantage of our cool webcams to enhance their online ads with some tit shots. Granted, to look at them, these are women who are obviously used to being topless in a room full of people. Also, to look at them, these are women who are well used to not getting dollars stuffed anywhere for the privilege either.

Since I couldn't recall anything like this being discussed in any of my library school management classes, I probably handled the situation incorrectly. I picked my jaw up off the floor and said (quite loudly) "what the hell is wrong with you?!" The women looked over huffily (yes, people can look huffy--even huffily) and pulled their shirts back up as if offended I caught their personal, naked moments IN THE MIDDLE OF THE COMPUTER LAB! I followed this with, "do you know you're exposing yourself in a library?!", "did you manage to get a nice picture of the READ poster hanging behind you?", "get the hell out right now!"

Of course, my inability to handle this calmly and properly totally backfired on me. About a half hour later we discovered that if anyone flushed a toilet anywhere in the building, it all backed up into every sink and toilet in the building. So we had to close and call the plumber--and what did they find when they snaked the drains? Some skank's Victoria's Secret thong stuffed into the toilet--payback for their inability to get a boob shot for their websites. The sign went up today: "No shoes; No shirts; No webcam action, chicas."

Why do so many guy's pictures look like mugshots pulled off the Smoking Gun website? Why can so few of them distinguish between "women" and "woman", "your" and "you're" and let's not even get into the "there", "their", and "they're" issues! And what the hell is wrong with typing in full sentences and actually spelling out words instead of substituting numbers and single letters?? Am I hopelessly too old to be doing this again? Or does the growth in Internet usage over the past eight years just mean there are more dipshits trolling the dating sites than there used to be? I'm thinking it's a little of both.


But I got this way cool email to a dating web site that I pathetically posted an ad to and this is the response I got from some dude I don't even know. I just thought it was hysterical to see the advertisement the site added to his message to me. Funny--but very sad. But I'm sticking to my standard rules--no dating guy-brarians, and (definitely!) no dating patrons (somehow an unlimited bus pass and eating hot pockets in some 40 year old guy's mom's garage just isn't a turn on for me.)

So I'm soon to be off to a conference! I'm eagerly anticipating the joys of hotel living for the few nights I'll be there. I don't get the chance to do it often so I enjoy it whenever I can. First I spread out all my make up and hair accouterments in the bathroom (which is completely clean and free of teenage boy smell and Ex-Boyfriend's skanky underpants ) *sigh* all mine! Then I roll around on the bed and revel in fresh sheets I didn't have to change and wash and a TV remote that I can find because it's right where I left it. Okay, yeah, it's kind of sad that my expectations have narrowed to the point where this is all it takes to delight me.

The only part that really worries me is the drive up--it's two hours away (I know, I know, that's very Rhode Island of me to think a two hour drive requires a Sherpa guide and laying in provisions--it's a conference center, not the Donner Party) but my sense of direction is miserable. Although, stick me in a shopping mall and I'll have mapped out the best restroom facilities, coolest shoe stores, and the MAC counter at Nordstroms in thirty minutes tops. I'm a directions savant with rare moments of geographic brilliance--and those moments are truly rare! I'd love to have a GPS, but it seems so silly to need one in a state that can be described as 45 minutes wide by 55 minutes long in drive time. So I have my Google maps, am hoping for the best, and including an extra hour for getting lost. The good thing about my direction disorder is that when I do get lost, inevitably I end up going in a full circle so I will get back to where I started and can try a different path...probably to get lost on again. Pray for me. ;)

I recently started a part-time gig at a university library--"Devoted Boyfriend" had been demoted to just "Boyfriend" and is now "Ex-Boyfriend"--this means LG needs more fundage to keep herself in the manner to which she's become accustom. I like speaking in the third person--makes me feel all royal and princessy. Anyway, these academics have mad money! It is all very cool, but I'm still not over the culture shock of coming from a small, urban public library. Do you know they give patrons things?! Just hand stuff over whenever a patron asks for it! Things like scissors and highlighters and pens--and the people--they actually bring the stuff back! And they say, "thank you for helping me." Oh, brave new library that has such patrons in it! And the joint is always jumping--we have to kick kids out at closing time. Jeez, isn't there a kegger somewhere they should be practicing their beer pong at? What are they doing in the library at 10 pm on a Friday night--at least I'm in it for the money.

But college kids are the laziest fuckers around. You show them how to use one of the billions of incredibly expensive databases they have at their fingertips and you have to walk them through every damn thing. One kid had a list of questions he had to answer and he just kept pointing to the site I found for him and saying, "but where are the answers?" You have to READ the page, sweetie, I told him soothingly--he seemed afraid, poor thing. Another charming young man needed books on bullfighting in Spain--no, maybe just current politics in Spain--no, books on Franco, maybe just something Spain related, but the real stuff, not the fake stuff, "you mean non-fiction?" Yeah, that stuff! Oh, and it's due tomorrow so what do you have? So many children left behind. At least they managed to land a spot in a $60,000.00 per year university--and they're polite!

This happens to me all the time. I usually don't let it get to me, but every once in a while it does. I was at a recent, librarian-esque party; a variety of librarians rubbing cardigan swathed elbows and sipping spritzers, asking each new face what kind of library they're from and where. So I'm chatting with this one chick in wool tweed who apparently never got the memo that Prince Valiant haircuts are so five decades ago--she mentions where she's working and her hopes and dreams of getting into a big, private school library (yawn) so I trade my info and her jaw drops in horror, "you work there?!" "Well, yes, they closed the leper colony ages ago and it's quite safe now." Somehow my witty quip fails to clue her into the fact that she was just really fucking rude--I contemplate telling her that she's really fucking rude, but that seems like it would confirm her bad opinion of my little city.

We all move on to dinner and I figure it'll stop, I'll throw back another vodka tonic and all will feel better. But it doesn't stop (fortunately neither do the VTs) and she continues to rag on my hometown--even after I point out that it actually is my hometown. Undaunted, she goes on and on about how she wouldn't even drive by that city on the highway without locking her doors.

I wish I could say this was an isolated incident, but I run into this all the time and it really gets to me. I work in a wonderful city--yeah, there's crime (which is pretty much the only times we make front page news), but there's a dedicated group of people who come to the library, who own businesses I patronize, who care about their kids...I could go on and on (and I frequently do) but I'll step off my soap box and just say, ''Tell it to the hand, puta, cuz the face is sick of hearing you talkin' smack--and don't be gettin' all up in my grill, either!"

Not even hours after my Cohort-In-Crime announces to me that he's jumping ship to a swankier, better paying library (the bastard--we're not in this line of work for living wages!) My "security guard" announces that he's applied for a job at the Post Office. Apparently they give hiring preference to former combat veterans--well, doesn't that explain an entire fucking stereotype?! Anyway, he assures me that the library will be taken care of--by his dad, the big guy, Moe himself (see earlier entry "My big, fat Sopranos moment") Of course, my dear Barney doesn't seem the least bit concerned that "The Big Guy" is nearing eighty, barely five feet tall, and looks like a raggedy piece of shoe leather stretched over a skeleton.

One resignation I can deal with (barely) but two? And the prospect that I haven't sold my soul to the devil (which does sound way cool) but to a straight-off-the-porch extra from Deliverance who's greatest recent accomplishment is his ability to perform most of his bodily functions without the aid of machinery (SO not cool!) Anyway, after a bit of heavy breathing into a paper bag, I regain enough composure to ask Barney how his dad will manage to maintain the high level of quality security service that he's established while being slightly hindered by the large oxygen tank he drags around? He assures me that there's nothing to worry about. The rounds might take him a little longer, but he's still pretty spry and a mean bastard with that taser.

The happy day arrives--my Barney gets a job with the good old USPS and I await my miserable fate--and wonder if everyone on staff is up to date in their CPR certifications--hmmmm, maybe we can rig the 3M system to double as a defibrillator? But my stress filled musing amount to nothing. I get a call from Barney informing me that The Big Guy won't be able to make it. "He's in the hospital. Hasn't been able to urinate for the past three days and never said anything to anyone. Got some kind of prostate problem..." I cut Barney off there, assuring him that he could have stopped at "hospital" and that would have been fine. "We got a new guy starting with you--he'll be fine."

I anxiously await what will result in my most recent spin of the Wheel of Wannabe Cops. I have to say, I got what I initial asked for--a big, scary looking, intimidating guy. Unfortunately he has this gansta fashion sense going on--no uniform, just his slacked black jeans, his nicely puffed Sean John boxers and a hoodie with a badge pinned to it. To make it even worse, he's a total cream puff--the punk ass kids are walking all over him and dissing his boxers as too retro. I'll whip him into shape, I'm sure--he does have potential, he just needs a mean-ass attitude and I have a way of inspiring that in men. But I know that once I get him all broken in just the way I like, he'll move on. *sigh* Maybe that swanky library could use a jaded, cynical librarian like myself? Gotta check the want ads--right after I see if they sell slightly used defibrillators on Amazon.