librarygoddess

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.

Well, folks, I know I've kept you waiting for this for a while and I have to say the show was a big success with only minor casualties (but they were little bums who pushed and shoved their way on the jumpy bounce, so they deserved what they got.) We netted a full $5408.00 total in donations to the event and sales of stuff at the event. This kept our program up and running through the month of December. (And lucky for us, our pathetic press about putting on shows, checking seat cushions for spare change, and selling soap we make by scraping the congealed stuff out the the hand soap dispensers seemed to garner some interest and we ended up getting enough funds to keep the program going "as is" for another year.) Of course we'll be busting our butts to write more and better grants, put on more and better shows, and pretty much dispense with the day-to-day grind of being librarians to keep the programs going (not that I'm bitter or anything....)

The day started off with a perfect, Punch Drunk Love premonition of impending weirdness that really set the theme for us for the rest of the day. Around 11a.m. a large van pulled up in front of the library, screeched to a halt, two dudes pulled out a battered upright piano from the back and dumped it on our front lawn. They glanced around (Detective Gadget like) then hopped back into the van and sped away. I called over my assistant co-hort in crime, but he looked comparably confused. Since the perpetrator of the drive by piano-ing sped off so quickly, we never had time to get a license plate number. I glanced around, but there's never a good CSI team in sight when you need them--and David Caruso is a conceited jerk anyway--I'd take a battered piano over him anyday. Bastards! I need CSI Ghetto, pronto!

So we play the piano briefly; briefly toying with the idea of taking in this poor orphan--until I realize that it can't even stand up to my mad keyboarding skilz (translation: chopsticks.) I hadn't even gotten through the first few bars when I hear two wires snap like crunchy fritos. Then I had an epiphany! I slapped a "free to a good home--NO RETURNS" sign on the side of the beast and that sucker was gone inside of fifteen minutes! Problem solved. Well, one of them.

But there's still a show to put on--we can't be sidelined by these perplexing David Lynch tricks, we have to move! Yard sale tables, food tables, raffle tables, ticket tables, stage space for the band (A Troupe of Echoes--way amazing--they're on myspace, book them!), a moon bounce, and a magician. We were ready! And we were delighted to be overrun by the charging hoardes--as long as they kept thrusting currency in our faces.

It was a whirlwind! I circulated between food vendors to make sure they were all happy; the volunteers at all the booths to make sure they were all happy; the dunk tank victims to make sure they were all happy and up to date on their latest Hepatitis boosters--that was some skanky water the fire department's pumper truck unleashed in that little tank; and the attendees, of course, to make sure they were all having a good time and spending all their extra cash. I'm a rude, vulgar person by nature; I'm not cut out for mixing all friendly like with the locals and being sweet and charming--it's not in my make-up. But I did it. We raised the cash we needed--hit our goal. Brought in donations, got a local grant, and generally did good.

It was with a tremendous sigh of relief that night that we closed up shop, retired to the library reading room and threw back as many jello shots as we could manage in order to reward ourselves for a successful event. A successful event that looks like it'll be going annual! Woo-hoo, go us! I'm thinking next year that pole dancing and massage tables might bring in a little more, but I'm not sure where to get the permits for that kind of thing--but no worries! I'm a librarian (I think I still am), I can figure out where to get all that stuff!

State grants for literacy programs were put on the chopping block back in late April--everyone was notified with a curt email stating, essentially, "see ya." So the mad scramble for funding was officially on. I wrote a proposal, hit up the city and hit up some other funders, then hunkered down and looked for who I could beg to next. The city came through! The other funders managed to give a little. But the grant fell through--"many applicants," "highly competitive year," "well written but need to demonstrate sustainability...." How can we demonstrate sustainability when we're just getting off the ground and our financial rug was yanked out from under us?!

But enough with my downer whining--we have a plan! Yes, boys and girls, we're putting on a show! With bands and magicians, storytellers and face painters, food and yard sale tables for rent! Yes, I have a master's degree. I went to school to learn the importance of the library and its educational role in the community; our deep commitment to open access to information. So when the fuck did I stop being a librarian and become P.T. Barnum exactly?

Anyway, our small staff has banded together to donate their time and fundraising efforts to hit up local businesses for whatever they're willing to donate that we can raffle off. I'm scrambling to find assistance in getting our facility party-ready. We don't really have a janitor, so it's a matter of begging and pleading to see if someone will kick some community service workers our way. Unfortunately, we can't seem to find any. I wonder if there's a personals site somewhere for community service workers. We
could post that we're a single, mostly white library in a diverse
community, seeking muscular alcoholics or wife beaters who like long walks
to the dumpster and have a fondness for mops. I'm thinking this is a whole new niche market that match.com might want to explore. I should call them.

But no time for that, now, I have fundraising plans to make! We've got a donation jar bolted to the circulation desk--that seems to be doing well. And if this big party goes well, we can start looking into other funding sources with lower overhead. I'm thinking of sending some staff members outside with a metal detector to start sweeping the property for spare change and soda cans. Maybe the children's librarian wouldn't be opposed to wearing a sandwich board proclaiming, "will tell stories for library funding." And we could use those high power magnets left over from the summer reading science program to do regular checks of the seat cushions for quarters.

Yes, my friends, this is the new, sad face of library funding. But rest assured, no matter how bad it gets, I'm not hiring any clowns--they're just fricken creepy.

This really started many months ago--about Christmas time actually. I bought Boyfriend a drinks wheel that gives recipes of a variety of concoctions with just a spin of the wheel. Well, he loved it, but his aging eyes have trouble reading the thing. My eager-to-help Little One jumped in and said, "I can read it for you," quickly followed by, "I bet I could make this for you...." Boyfriend thought this was a great idea--I was having bad flashbacks to my own childhood, but went with it anyway. Besides, The Three Martini Play Date: A Practical Guide to Happy Parenting completely advocates the practice--how can I argue with such an endorsement?!

Thus begins a long apprenticeship where Little One learns the delicate and artistic talent of a true bartender--ah, grasshopper! Actually no Grasshoppers were made, but the kid pours a mean margarita! All seemed cool, until....

The Little One and I are out one day, shopping just before the big Fourth of July celebration we were throwing. The kid loves to cook and help with the prep so we were having a good time selecting ripe melons and discussing the opposing opinions on good barbecue. Of course, the last errand on the list was a trip to the liquor store to stock up on what the guest would be drinking. We're wandering through the aisles, chattering pleasantly to each other when my bright, blue-eyed, 11 year old pipes up, "Mommy, we're low on tequila and could probably use more triple sec, too." Heads turn! Eyes glare! People start to whisper. I hustled my Little One out of there, pronto--well, after stocking up on tequila and triple sec, of course. But I felt sure they were taking down my plate number as I left the parking lot. I kept the lights off at home that night--if DCYF wants me, they're going to have to come find me. Problem is, once they arrive, LO will ask what they'd like to drink.

My day was totally made when I discovered I'd been outed for being the left-leaning, militant librarian I've always aspired to be. I'd like to thank black_magdalene for pointing out the honorable mention I got from the lovely folks at
Plan2Succeed.org. They didn't quote me because of my flagrant use of inappropriate language, but they mentioned my post entitled "I'm a porn pushing media whore." I'm so proud *sniff*!

Of course, once my flash of liberal pride had died down to just a glowing ember, I took a long look at the web site that was singing my infamy. What a bunch of wack jobs! Aren't there any fundie geeks out there to help lead them righteously down the path of good HTML and cascading style sheets? I find the intelligence of these bozos with a virtual axe to grind to be very low and now I sadly don't feel as much pride as I had initially. Maybe, someday, I'll have pushed the evelope far enough (and in an eloquent enough way) to draw the ire of some really intelligent rabid christians. Oh. Wait a second. On the reread, that last line is quite funny. Intelligent. Rabid. Christians. *snicker* *cough-oxymoron-cough*

But anyway, Plan2Succeed dudes and dudettes, thank you for this honor! I'd like to thank god, of course, but since I'm an atheist I guess I have only myself to blame. And if anyone could find any actual information in that verbal vomit you call a website, I'm sure my readership would grow by leaps and bounds. But I don't want to sound ungreatful--mostly because I've already covered that pretty well--so I'll simply say, thanks. And remember--when you send your bright-eyed, innocent little tots to a library--it could be mine :D

So there I am at the circ. desk, sorting mail and passing out bathroom keys when who should walk through my doors but the sweetest piece of eye-candy I've seen in a long time. He sauntered in wearing tight jeans with his big, burly, construction worker chest nicely stretching out his t-shirt. Mmmm, mmm, mmmm, some days just get brighter! "And how can I help you?" I asked, smiling cheerfully and doing the subtle hair flip thing (not to be confused with the ditzy, way too obvious hair flip thing which should not be seen outside of a Pantene commercial.) He needed a computer, his at home was out of commission for a little while and he had some ebay items he needed to keep track of. I made sure to sit him at one that was easily visible from the front desk.

Don't get me wrong, things are still chugging along with Semi-Devoted Boyfriend, but a little harmless flirting never hurts. Besides, women look, too, it's not just for guys anymore.

So as he's logging in and doing his thing, he chats with me. I was right on the construction worker thing--he's got a little down time before the season really kicks into gear, and he sells a few things on ebay occasionally. We chat about that and he smiles--he has a dimple, it's very nice. Then he says those nine little words that I totally should have seen coming from the start, "Have you accepted Jesus as your lord and savior?" And then I see beyond the muscles to the slightly maniacal glint in his eyes, and the smile that's just a tad too Jack Nicholson to be comforting. Damn! How do all the Jesus freaks find me?! Is it the Darwin fish on my car? Or maybe I have a big neon tattoo saying "Save Me Please!" on my forehead?

Anyway, we go back and forth about evolution (Him: monkeys bad! Me: knuckle draggers swinging from my family tree--come to a reunion and see for yourself.) Then the big question came--he smiles confidently and says, "so how do you explain the bible being a best seller for the past 2000 years?" And I reply, "Who doesn't love racy, historical fiction?"

But that doesn't even faze him. He just smiles that self-assured smile that all the True Believers get. They all see themselves as the spiritual animal control officers rounding up us heathen dogs--if they don't catch us with the net, they'll get us with the choke-chain. I'm used to it. We get lots of rabid christians at my library. The thing that really threw me was reading the paper yesterday to see that my hunky friend had been arrested for felony assault on his roommate--with an axe! The responding officer was quoted as saying, "fortunately the blow was not fatal." Hmmm, somebody has not been reading his scripture--either that or he was sticking strictly to the Old Testament.

Right now I'm Googling around to see if my 3M book detection system can be rigged as a metal detector so I can stop the Tin Man before he strikes again! So if anyone out there has any tips or specs to post in answer to this little reference question, I would be deeply appreciative!

I got my first materials complaint today. Well, semi-official since the mom wouldn't put her complaint in writing despite my encouragement to do so. Of course it's from one of the kids we know by name--and not because he's a little, fucking ray of sunshine in our dreary days. He's also checked out about everything in our DVD collection at least twice in the past year so I was a little surprised to have a complaint so late in the game with him. His mom, a delightful woman, marched in and demanded to speak to me. Then she started with her rant, including some impressive finger pointing and wild gesticulation, shouting things like, "parents should be informed!", "I can't believe you let a 14 year old check out this stuff!", "I'm going to call channel 12 news on you!" Seems her little cherub checked out a copy of Hostel and she found him watching it with her six year old. It really put her panties in a bunch, let me tell you!

The entire conversation occurred at the front desk, of course, because she was aching for a scene. Which I did not give her. Instead I went to the file drawer and pulled out the form she had signed last year that gave her son permission to check out any DVD, CD or video from our collection. I even showed her the bolded, underlined part that stated that we do not make selection decisions for the minors who use our facility, that is the responsibility of the parent. She barely heard me as she was well into her rant and there was no turning back now. I tried to explain--she wasn't interested. I offered to remove video permissions from her son's card--she didn't want that either. She wanted me to change the policy, and I refused--quietly and politely, but I refused. After she left, the patrons at the desk commented on how well I'd handled the situation and how calm I was about it. Ha! Calm! She's lucky I didn't take her down for getting all up in my grill like that!

But anyway, let me lay it on the line for you wacko nut jobs who want someone else to do your work for you--just because you feel some latent uterine pang of responsibility for your demon spawn, does not make it my problem. And why do I feel this way?! Because I'm just a mega-bitch?! Okay, maybe that plays a part, but most of it is the fact that I'm a librarian. My job is to promote free and open access to all kinds of information for everyone--not just your demon spawn. It's then your responsibility to take the information available and regulate it however you want--that's YOUR job. Do you really want some grossly underpaid, overstressed and undercaffeinated public servant making those kinds of choices for your kid? I sure as hell know I don't--that's why I do that thing with my kids. What is that thing?.....Um, I know the word....Oh yeah, PARENTING. And when my kid trots up to the circulation desk with a copy of American Pie in his hot little hands, I can shake my head and smile and say, "sorry, sweetie, but you're just going to have to speculate about that one time at band camp for a little while longer."

Okay, I'm totally willing to admit when I'm wrong--well, not when I'm arguing with Semi-Devoted Boyfriend, but that's a whole different dynamic for a whole different blog post. Anyway, My Big Fat Sopranos Moment (see below) did not work out the way I'd hoped. I'm not yet willing to say that it was a complete and dismal failure (partly because I'm such a hopeful and up-beat person by nature, but mostly because this service still only costs me $200.00 per month.) But the Barney that I was assigned had a fatal flaw--he liked kids. He liked to touch kids. Apparently, from what the cops told me was on the incident report, he liked to kiss kids. This is bad. This is very bad! What adult in this country doesn't know that you don't touch any child that isn't related to you?! And even then, if you look like a cast member from Deliverance, you tuck your hands in your pockets and resign yourself to a contact-free existence for the remainder of your sorry, tooth-less life! It's just a fact of the world we live in--I'm not going to argue it with you, I shouldn't even have to remind you of that if you are an adult and a security guard.

So we got re-Fifed. And what a stocky, noble looking Barney we were re-outfitted with! He came around, shook hands and introduced himself. He is a Barney of the highest caliber, he assured me. He's "the fixer;" he's the one who goes around to different sites to resolve disputes, calm situations and make everything better. This is great! I was feeling better already--our troubles were behind us and we could move forward now. We needed a "fixer!" He assured me he deals with different personalities all the time and handles situations effectively and calmly--he just doesn't like to be touched and sudden movements can be a problem, too. Those eighteen months of combat in 'Nam are still somewhat of an issue for him, but his therapist of twenty-five years is hoping for a really significant breakthrough at any time now! Go you, Barney; go you!

*Sigh* What have I done? I'm trying really hard not to focus on the fact that I sold us out to a nickel and dime protection agency--instead, I'm trying to view it as fiscally responsible! I encountered what could have been an unfunded mandate of $12,000.00 (from a reputable security agency) and turned it into a manageable expenditure of $1200.00 per year! I saved us over ten thousand dollars! How cool is that!? Financial responsibility is my motto.....financial responsibility is my motto....financial responsibility is my motto....How many times do I have to say it before I actually start believing it?

If Circ. Heads (those mighty denizens of everything that enters and exits your library building) are the Evil Step-Mothers of the library family, then Children's Librarians are the Dotty-Lobotomized-CrazyAunts-Living-in-the-Attic of that family.

I attended a Children's Librarian's meeting today--my first one ever. It was an illuminating experience for me. The head of the group; a woman I'd known personally to be intelligent and forthright, began the meeting by addressing everyone as if they weren't over the age of six. "Hmmmm," I thought. "This is curious." But I didn't have to wonder long! For the next hour and a half, she reviewed three simple things relating to the Summer Reading Program (this is the be-all and end-all of events for Children's Librarians)and some changes that are the result of funding issues--we're public libraries, there are always funding issues, it's not like a brand new problem!
So, while there are no stupid questions, dear readers, there are a lot of inquisitive fucking idiots out there!

She announced a cut-back in funding, a possible partnership with a local bookstore chain, and the line-up of summer performers (which could be severely altered because of funding problems.) Snotty and defensive questions began firing from every corner like overloaded potato guns. "How are we going to continue services?", "Will our funding be effected next year?", "What about the CHILDRENNNNNN, WHO'S THINKING OF THEMMMMM?!" All of which had been answered quite calmly in her initial statements. But she gently talked everyone down from their ledges, reassured where she could, pointed out that she was seeking other means of funding, and delicately suggested they suck it up and figure out some other funding sources for themselves. She was great! Meanwhile, I was squirming in my seat, wanting to stand up and yell at all these over-cardiganed women to grow the fuck up! My head pounded with unasked questions: "What didn't you understand when she explained it the first time?!", "Why can't you all just grow a pair and ask your local bank/business to underwrite some of the cash for programs?", "And why the fuck do you all insist on wearing tube socks with Birkenstocks--you can't be a bull dyke and a fragile flower at the same time--they cancel each other out!"

But what the hell do I know?! I've never subscribed to the We've-Always-Done-It-That-Way school. See a problem? Fix it fast, because there are plenty more on the way. I'm not sure why everyone else doesn't see it this way. Of course, being in a constant state of crisis management does mean my line item for Absolut tends to be higher than most librarians', but it also makes problem solving a lot more fun!

MONDAY:
I got a phone call from an interesting patron. Translation: this phone call from a total wack job got bumped to me because no one else wanted to deal with her!
WACK JOB: One of your books ruined my coffee table.

LIBRARY GODDESS: That's an interesting situation, do you think you could tell me a little more? (while I'm browsing the Chino's take out menu and contemplating the possible carbs in a taco-hito supreme.)

WJ: I put one of YOUR books down on my table and when I went to move it the next day, it took the finish right off the top! (huffy indignant sound followed)

LG: Hmmm, must have been a pretty racy book! (pause for friendly chuckle that did not follow.....crickets.....complete silence.....) Was the book wet?

WJ: (jumping right in with indignation) NO! The book was not wet! What do you use to cover these things with anyway?

LG: Mylar. They're a standard dust jacket cover that just about every single library in the country uses to cover their books in.

WJ: Well, it stuck to my table! What is the chemical composition of mylar? Why would it stick to my table? How am I ever going to clean this?

LG: I've never heard of mylar spontaneously sticking to a surface unless you got the book wet. I don't know the chemical composition of mylar off the top of my head--well, not any more, but I can look that up for you. And as for cleaning, I would recommend contacting the furniture company.

WJ: (all smug) the table was built in 1853! And I did not get the book wet!

LG: Well, then, perhaps I could recommend an antique dealer who could suggest a way to clean the table.

WJ: I'M NOT ASKING YOU TO CLEAN MY TABLE!

LG: Then what are you asking for?

WJ: A recommendation.

LG: Then I suggest you lay off using library books as a coaster for the copious amounts of G&Ts you ingest in a given evening and scrap the coffee table for a nice, low to the floor wet bar--it makes passing out after the Russert Report way easier!

Okay, but what I really said was that I could recommend an antiques dealer and that was about it--she was welcome to file a damage report with the city (and we all know where those go!) So, NO, sweetheart, I'm not paying for your fricken table. Next?!

TUESDAY:
Random Patron: Where are your tax forms?

LG: Right over there in that enormous floor-to-ceiling rack labeled in flashing, hot pink neon "TAX FORMS"

RP: No, the Rhode Island forms.

LG: (sighing) They won't send out tax forms to libraries or post offices this year, but I can help you look up the form you need and print it from the computer--it's ten cents a page.

RP: I have to pay for the form?! So that I can PAY taxes?!

LG: (handing over the business cards I printed) these are the numbers to the Division of Taxation and the Governor's office--they're the ones who decided this was a good idea. If you want to complain, you need to talk to them. If you want forms and have ten cents, I can print what you need (sparkly smile!)

WEDNESDAY:
Got taken out to a sumptuous and expensive Valentine's Day dinner--but only because SDB (that's Semi-Devoted Boyfriend) has been learning the horrors of RIK Sex (that's reciprocate-in-kind sex--I'm such a librarian, I'm so replete with trendy acronyms!) Sad boy thinks he can roll back the in-kind services and still be the happy recipient of every deviancy he's known and enjoyed for all these years. Hmmmm, not so much any more, sweet-cheeks. A girl's gotta get her regular trip downtown or she gets really cranky--and even the most expensive mojito just isn't going to make up for it. So sad.

THURSDAY:
You get what you pay for....Turns out that my low-rent Barney Fife is everything I should have expected. This rather huge boy in the afterschool homework program decided he didn't have to listen to him--so he didn't. He ran around, played football in the building, and Barney trailed along behind him full of anger and bluster, but no bite.

I found all this out after the fact, of course. And also that this little scene went on for over an hour with no one stepping up to the plate and doing something daring like calling the cops on the 6'3", 280 pound 15 year old. So I saved face as best I could. I told Barney that he had to be a lot tougher with the kids--"you're wearing a fricken tazer! Aren't you allowed to use it?" Okay, maybe not so frequently as I would. But call for backup--or whatever it is you do with that five pound walkie-talkie strapped to your shoulder! DO SOMETHING!

Then, when said child arrived to begin his daily reign of terror and violence I pulled him aside, wagged my finger in his face--well, more like his chest given the height difference--and said, "you should consider yourself really lucky to be talking to me!" He stood way too close, looked down and smirked at me. "That man over there," I said, indicating Barney (who happened to be inappropriately clearing his nostrils of debris at the time), "would be calling in the cops to have your sorry ass hauled out of here right now if I hadn't intervened!" Scary-Tall-Teen is starting to look a little nervous at the mention of the cops because he already has a record. "The only thing that stopped him was he knows what a softie I am! You just consider yourself lucky, young man (damn, did I feel old trotting out that 'young man' line!)" Then, in a moment of inspiration brought on by the fleeting look of fear in STT's eyes I said, "In fact, you should go over there right now and apologize to him, before he changes his mind and calls in to report you."

Every once in a great while, the gods smile down upon us and someone, miraculously, buys our sad line of bullshit. That happened that day. It was good. STT apologized to Barney and order was preserved. I guess for $200 a month, I can't expect to feel as safe as I would if I had a guy named Cheech watchin' my back. Oh, Cheech, where are you?! And about that $200 a month.....

So the situation with the Chica Triplets and all the other teenage reprobates that have taken to frequenting my find, educational establishment has gotten completely out of control (scroll down and read it all for yourself!) What's a poor, little, quiet librarian like myself to do? Outsource to the big boys, of course! So I poll nearby libraries to see what they do and start calling security companies to get some much needed muscle on the library team.

Mmmmm, I was treated to a mighty fine string of personal interviews with very hot, very bald security specialists! They do say it's the increase in testosterone that results in baldness--could this be why so many hot bald guys are in security? I think there's definitely a doctoral thesis that could be done on the subject and I'm just the girl to jump into the research pool! But anyway, back to the library....These dudes want money! They want cash that would actually amount to an income they could live on! Silly, hot boys--this is a library. No one here takes home an income they can actually live on. So I decide to complain to my boss and see if I can shake him down for some additional cash to help me out. I make an appointment, hang out in his office, do the cute little chit-chat thing that seems to be a requirement, then I drop the bomb--I need some cash to solve a problem I'm having that I haven't budgeted for.

He's a cool guy, he wants to help me. He leans back in his big, high-backed burgundy leather chair and (I swear to god) I imagined him saying, "you come to me on the day of my daughter's wedding...." But he was just pondering the situation I laid out before him. Then he says the next best thing, "Hey, Kid," (he calls me Kid--it's cute, really. At least that's what I keep telling myself.) "I know these guys." Whoa! I thought, this is so fricken cool, I have to blog about it (so I am!) He continues: "You gotta call Moe" Oh. My. God. This is getting better and better! "Hey, Myrna," he yells to his secretary in the next room. "What's Moe's number?" She promptly yells it back to him, he scribbles it down and hands me the post-it. I hold it reverently, thinking that outside of Sixth Season, Part One, I will never have another experience in my librarian life quite like this! Of course, I have to rise to the occasion so I says, "Well, what do you think this will set me back?" "Two-hundred a month," he promptly replies. I so wish he'd said "two-bills," because that would just sound way cooler, but I only speak the truth in my blog ;) "How can they afford that?" I wonder aloud--thinking about SSI, TDI, and all that other crap you have to pay out. Then he said the second coolest thing that day, "Kid, there are some questions we don't ask."

"Call Moe, he'll hook you up," he says. And with that, I'm dismissed--not quite like Luca Brasi, but I'm cool with that. So I go back to my humble library and ponder the situation. Either I hire a reputable security company for $200.00 a WEEK, or I hire Moe's Boys for $200.00 a month. Well, let me just say that it did not take a lot of pondering on my part! I promptly called Moe, he reiterated the monthly price my boss had quoted me for my needs, and I hired him on the spot. What else could I do? I was desperate.

I informed my chief co-worker of what I had done and he flipped out in front of my eyes! It was pretty spectacular, I wish I had pictures! "We're paying protection money!" he ranted. And I agreed. "We're buying into the town's ring of thugs!" he exclaimed. Again, I agreed. "We've sold our souls!!" he proclaimed with deep emotion. "Well, for $200.00 a month, I think we're getting a really good deal." Yes, I'm doing this with eyes wide open, but since I'm the only one who has to see the bottom line, I can easily say, "what the hell, let's give it a whirl." So we did....

I had big dreams. Visions of a very large, muscular man in a uniform who was named Cheech, or maybe Guido. I always wanted to know a big, bald man named Cheech or Guido. And I told Moe that what the library needed was a big guy in a uniform to enforce the rules and crack down on the miscreants. I was very clear! What did I get? Hmmm, I'm now wondering if I should separate this out into a separate blog entry entitled "Barney Visits the Inner City." What I got was Barney Fife in a very spectacular uniform. But, oddly, it works. Kids think he's a cop, in spite of the fact that "CONSTABLE" is plastered across the back of every garment he wears. (I found out that being a constable is like being a notary--just fill out the necessary paperwork and you're there, sweet-cheeks.) But it's working. He greets the brats at the door, follows them around and enforces the library rules (which I gave him on a sheet of paper the first day he was there,) and he knows them all by name and they think he's a real cop! It's been great! I made a very risky decision and it panned out! I couldn't be happier--well, unless he were named Cheech. Maybe he'll let me call him Cheech. I'll have to ask.

I knew I was in trouble as soon as I saw the flock of patrons gathered around the front doors waiting for entry. But I couldn't think of any holiday that we could possibly be closed for, so I had to let them all in (Festivus didn't even occur to me until I was watching Seinfeld reruns later that night.) The patrons all scurried off to various parts of the building to do whatever it is they do. Many stopped at the front desk, grunted and thrust their library cards in my face--because, of course, I am a librarian so I'm also telepathically endowed to know just what it is they want without their having to sort out big confusing words in their heads and then suffer through the burden of actually pronouncing them.

A Community Service Worker arrived; a delightful teenage girl who showed up with four of her equally delightful friends. All of them popping their gum and rolling their eyes in a Busby Berkley-esque synchronized dance of teenage girl angst. I promptly informed CSW that she couldn't bring friends along while she did her community service. They all whined and complained until I informed her posse that if they stayed, they'd be assigned chores, too. They paused for a moment, looking at the box of rubber gloves I was offering them, then her loyal following said, "later, baby," and left.

Not long after this I received a panicked call from the children's librarian. Apparently the downstairs toilets and sinks were backing up on to the floor. Not a problem, I declared with a bright smile--then showed CSW were the mop and bucket were and sent her on her way. I printed up "out of order" signs and figured everyone would just have to use the upstairs bathrooms. At this point I'm thinking it's just nasty water down there.

About a half hour later CSW decided mopping was not her gig--she said she got a call and had to leave. Then I get another panicked call from the children's librarian. Apparently if anyone flushed a toilet upstairs, it flooded the sinks and toilets downstairs. We had raw sewage overflowing into the lower portion of the library. Raw sewage. Those two words together just don't evoke the visual I got when I went down the stairs and landed in the puddle of muck. Of course, I couldn't help the smile I got at thinking of miss five feet of attitude mopping crap at the library. But then I quickly had to shift into gear. First, we close the building--can't be open with no working toilet and a bio-hazard lapping at the edges of the carpeting. Second, call the plumber! He informs me that he's working on a really big job right now and can probably get to us on Monday. What?! Did you not hear me correctly?! RAW SEWAGE--we are up to our ankles in someone else's really big job and it needs to be fixed! Monday, he assures me.

Then it occurs to me--who can I call and have them here inside of ten minutes? Buildings and Grounds, of course! It's a Saturday, which means overtime, and it's before Christmas, which means there'll be so much cleaning going on around here that I can probably get them to haul out those shelves I've been calling on for over a month now. So I place the call, quickly make up a list of other projects that need doing and can probably be done in a couple of hours (to share this Christmas bounty with the other boys who need the overtime), and I try really hard not to think about that venti capuccino I had for breakfast.

Let me tell you, it's a beautiful thing when the B&G Dudes are motivated! It was like Santa's workshop around here--but without the toys and with a really nasty smell pervading the building. They mopped, they cleaned, they hauled out those broken shelves and they were all so happy to do it! There's nothing like the Christmas spirit. They get double time and a half on holidays, the light fixtures in the reading room could really use a good cleaning and I don't have plans for New Year's Eve.......

Patrons......Patrons who need.....Lithium....Are the bulk of the patrons, that I serve. Everyone, sing!

Sorry--channeling La Streisand there for a moment. It's been a week! First up we had Asshole Homeless Guy who had threatened to sue me about a year ago (he was employed and home-full at the time) because I was making him pay for books he'd damaged. He cursed, he swore, and I told him he was welcome to take his business to Library Y--which is the library in the neighboring community to us. Oh, and I smiled--I like doing the smile, it's my "fuck you, bitch" to the jerk-offs who give me a hard time. So he went away for a long, blissfully-peaceful time--but for the past few months he's been spending all day (every day) parking his vast, unwashed ass in our reading room. Even that was cool until our Bleeding-Heart Desk Clerk decided to give him some left over pizza from a staff meeting. I knew it was a bad idea from the start--feed a stray once, and he'll crap on your lawn for a lifetime--but I okayed it. Then he came in the other day asking if we knew where he could take a shower for free. So I called around and found a place for him and also found out that all the stories he'd been feeding us about living in his car and dumpster diving for scraps of food were bullshit. They sounded way too Dickensian for me anyway, but I think I was the only staff member who was chuckling at the image of him clutching a bowl in front of the local soup kitchen saying, "please, sir, can I have some more?"; everyone else seemed to buy it. But the dude was living in his car by choice! He has a case worker and a shelter he can go to (with food, clothes, bed, and free showers, too) but doesn't like the case worker so he's pouting. When he came in the next day he informed me that he was expecting a call from his mother that afternoon--he'd take it at the desk. Hmmmm, time for a little pecking-order realignment here! I informed him that he wouldn't be taking any calls at our desk today or any other day. He was free to hang out, read, and drink the free coffee, but just because we were doing our jobs in assisting him didn't mean we disliked him any the less, or that we'd waive our "no personal calls" policy for his lying ass.

Next up were the delightful duo from that wacky bunch I like to call The Group Home Stooges. Mouth-Breather came in and asked, "do you have fish?" That gave me a moment's pause--"books about fish?" I asked. "No." Okay. "Books about fishing?", "No." That didn't leave me a lot of reference interview room to work with, and since the drool was almost hitting the counter I told him that we were totally pro-beef at our library. He nodded as if he understood what I said (which is interesting because I'm not quite sure I did,) and he left. Not long after that he was followed by Red Robe Guy. He stands outside the group home, yells inappropriate things to our patrons, and wears nothing but a red bathrobe. Red Robe Guy doesn't enter the library, he just stands in front of it, smoking and talking rather loudly to the patrons. Depending on the level of offense he seems to invoke, we have to call the police. And as soon as he spots the police car coming down the street, he runs into the group home and changes into a blue bathrobe to cleverly avoid capture. I don't know what's sadder--the fact that it actually seems to work for him, or the fact that we stand there at the front desk and just watch these events unfold before us like some twisted, over-long, David Lynch movie.

Last up today were the Chicka Triplets--three little teenage girls in matching hooded parkas (when did the Kenny look become cool?!) who come in and torment us. After Asshole Homeless Guy and the Group Home Stooges, I was having none of their shit. When I saw two of them sharing a chair by sitting on each other's laps I invited them to take this opportunity to visit another institution. The first one stormed off in a big diva-like huff, doing that side to side head thing that I envy and practice at home so I can do it, too (but I still can't!) and shouting, "I'm done here!" Which gave me the perfect opportunity to put up my hand and yell back, "you go, girlfriend, you won't be missed!" Then the other two stomped off, parkas puffed up with righteous indignation. Yes, that was truly the cherry on the cake of my day.

In the past year and a half that I've spent at my current library of employ we've seen an increase in circulation of over 10%, and had 9,000 more people through our doors than in the previous year. These are things to rejoice about! Statistics that translate into pats on the back and additional funding! Mmmm, good stuff, it's all good. So why am I pissed? Because I arrive at work today to see, "Vincent Sucks Dick!" spray painted all over the back of my library! This is the first act of spray paint vandalism that anyone can recall in our almost 100 year history. But aside from all that--jeez, Vincent, who knew?!

A month ago I had to close the library due to a plumbing problem--which I later found out was just some punk ass kids who'd stuffed all the toilets full of paper towels at the same time of day. The over-the-phone diagnosis from the plumber was that it could have been a problem with the main line so we shouldn't use the one remaining toilet that hadn't backed up yet (the staff toilet) in case they all ended up overflowing in a nightmarish Ester Williams-like cascade of nasty effluvia (the plumber, of course, didn't put it quite so eloquently.) The end result was that I had to close the library early because we had no working toilet. Some of the kids protested that their valuable MySpace and Runescape time was being truncated--they could go to the local gas station if they needed to pee. I was dumbfounded by their selfishness and informed them (rather curtly) that I wasn't about to hand out paper cups to the staff and advise them to avoid fluids for the next few hours--we had to close.

We've removed the paper towels from all the public bathrooms and I'm waiting for a quote on electric hand driers. The staff asked what we were supposed to do when people complained about the lack of paper towels--I really wasn't in the mood to listen to it that day since I'd arrived at 7a.m. so that the plumbers could be there to snake all the toilets (I'm not a pleasant person at 7a.m.)--and I angrily informed the staff that I'd staked out a patch of grass in the back yard and any patron who needed to wipe something was welcome to use that until we got the hand driers! A few days later we've had to call the plumbers in to fish out whole rolls of toilet paper that have been stuffed down into the toilets. So now I need to add those huge, locking rolls of toilet paper to the list of hygienic accouterments that we need to install to try to prevent vandalism.

All I can ask is, "What the fuck?!" We're a pleasant staff (for the most part--Passive/Aggressive Desk Clerk is a whole blog entry unto herself but she doesn't deal with the after-school-set much,) we provide a variety of resources that the public needs and wants (and can't get at home,) and this is what our increased visibility and popularity has gotten us?! I must be incredibly naive. But even though I find myself having to price out the cost of an on-site security guard to add to our staff, I will not be broken by this! It's good that more people know we are there for them! It's good that more people use our resources and we're busy all the time! It just sucks that we can't legally employ the use of choke chains on all the teens--but I'm working on that! There has to be a grant out there somewhere.....

That’s it; I’m shopping for a new scout master. The Little One was telling me all about the fun den meeting he had the other night and how they all learned that drugs and alcohol are bad (really hard for me not to hear Mr. Mackey’s voice right about now.) Anyway, then LO tells me how Mr. Scout Dude sat with him and asked him if he knew anyone in his family who drank too much or did drugs? Well, as a family, we’ve chuckled over the numerous parties where a variety of relatives knock back a few too many and hilarity ensued—they’re a lively group of sloppy drunks! And since we joke about these things so openly at home, LO figured it was okay to share the joke with his friend Mr. Scout Dude.

Of course, upon hearing this, and being the paranoid soul that I am, I immediately think Scout Dude is mining for DCYF gold. And even if he wasn’t, it was way inappropriate for him to be asking my kid these things in the fricken den meeting. LO also mentioned that no other child was asked about their drunken/druggie family but him—which did make him feel special. So, in mulling over these events I started thinking that perhaps my decision to make Margarita Night coincide with all pack meeting nights might have had some influence over his questioning my son in such a manner. In retrospect, maybe it wasn’t such a hot idea. But Devoted Boyfriend is always the designated driver, and I certainly can’t see any other way I could have gotten through those group sessions of overactive future methadone addicts and the grown-ups who love them otherwise.

So maybe I shouldn’t have shouted, “freebird” during the cub scout's stumbling and overlong rendition of “I wish I were an Oscar Meier Weiner” that was intended to delight and entertain the multitudes of parents crammed into the too hot fire station hall. But someone had to cut the cord on that little operatic saga because if there had been one more do-over I would have been taking hostages—or poking my eyeballs out with my car keys. And I tend to think that either of those scenarios would have been construed as way more inappropriate.

And on the night when they were discussing fire safety and the leader asked what you would do if a fellow scout were on fire, I could have kept my mouth shut instead of chuckling, “break out the marshmallows!” But neither of these events was inspired by alcohol in any way, I do shit like this when I’m completely sober all the time—which is probably a sad thing in its own right. But I seem to have this bizarre, scout meeting related Tourettes where I find myself thinking of the most outrageous things I could say in a given situation, and then having absolutely no control over my desire to say them. It must go back to that “problem with authority,” that Sister Dolores cited way back in second grade as her reason for kicking me out of Brownies.

Unfortunately, LO really likes scouts—he’s a very suburban, white-bread kind of kid and I have no idea where that comes from! And while I’d tear up with joy if he said, “fuck it, I’m done with these religious, repressed, middle-aged men and their feral children, too!” That’s just not going to happen. So now the only question that remains is how do I channel Donna Reed when I’ve been so comfortable with Joan Crawford for so long?

.....then I got tired and went home!

Conferences are a wonderful opportunity to network with your colleagues, learn about new products and resources, and, of course, attend highly informative program sessions that give you new and innovative ideas you can bring home and put to use in your own library! Yeah, that's why I go. Actually, I scoped out the hotel online first, found out it had a great indoor pool and jacuzzi and figured a few days on the company dime wouldn't hurt me any.

I did attend one of the aforementioned "inspirational and motivational sessions" to expand my creative horizons and broaden my understanding of library issues. It was a panel discussion on fundraising. I thought it might be worthwhile to attend since the most I do now for fundraising is the weekly scraping of the seat cushions in the reading room to see what spare change we can come up with. It's a poor community, that's about all we can expect from them. And so I attended, and so I sat there. The first two speakers were from wealthy, suburban communities filled with the type of people who believe in libraries as as a concept and will support them no matter what because everyone knows libraries are good. The "no matter what" part includes paying $500 for a brick that gets put in the front walk of the new addition to the building and has your family name on it. It also includes sending sizeable checks in response to the Annual Fund Drive letter. In my library, I'm sure I could probably get about $20.00 per brick, but I shudder to think what might be done with them. And Annual Fund Drive letter?! Given that most of our overdue notices come back stamped "return to sender, address unknown," I'm thinking those big checks ain't going to be rolling in any time soon.

So I patiently (and stupidly) awaited the talk from the third speaker who works in a busy, urban library and still manages to raise book-truck loads of cash for the library. Not a big help there because it's a college town and all the kiddies are going to school on mommy and daddy's inherited cash--they'll pony up for bricks and letters for the benefit of their little Muffy and Biff. It's the least they can do! And it's a tax write off, afterall.

I sat there dejected, realizing that I'd blown a whole program session on this shit and it was too late to bail and get in on anything else. I started looking around me--cheap chandelier, nappy carpeting, hmmm, this place isn't looking as good as it did in the online pictures. But what I found most disturbing was that in a room full of other librarians attending this program, there were five knitters! That's right, folks, knitters--meaning they came to this session, sat their large, polyester-clad asses down, and whipped out their knitting. Do these people EVER consider fighting the fucking stereotype?! Or do they assume that since they're at a whole conference full of librarians it's totally cool for them to get their geek on? I was shocked, offended, and (I suddenly realized) the only person in the room not wearing orthopedic shoes. I momentarily contemplated exploring the mini-bar back in my room, but I am there on a librarian's salary. Well, lucky for me it's a college town--there's a brew pub on every corner

I left in disgust during the last part of the program and decided it was time to wander the vendor tables and watch the biddies fight each other over the last gel pen at the ProQuest table. Would have been better as a caged match, but you take what you can get--although I secretly kept hoping someone would whip out a knitting needle and shout, "those are my post-its, bitch!" while exacting a triumphant coups-de-grace with a number 7 to the carotid. Hmmm, I hope I can get back to kickboxing class soon, my library fantasies are getting way too violent!

It's official; a mere month and a half before I hit that dreadful milestone of 39 years and I'm officially old--and it fucking sucks, man!

It all started a month ago in kickboxing class (at least that part sounds way cool.) The new instructor is a former marine and showed us these five-pointed-star push-ups. I thought, "I'm not going to look like the only pussy in class, I can do these!" Yeah, I know, right up there with Custer laughing off a few measly Indians. Anyway, I get home and notice my knee feels kinda tight. The next day it's swollen up like a football and all of a sudden, looking like a pussy in kickboxing class doesn't look so embarrassing anymore. Okay, no problem, I'll just tone down my workouts until I'm back at 100%. But after a month, that hasn't really happened. So I figure I'll just check in with my G.P., get a nice cortisone shot in the knee and I'm good to go. But my beloved G.P., who usually just prescribes stuff for me over the phone, starts throwing around words like "orthopedic," "surgery," and "x-rays" and I start thinking, "oh shit!"


My orthopedic doctor is a hot, young thing who looks like The Rock, but talks at fast as the Isuzu guy in those old, used car commercials. Of course once he says the magic words ("degenerative arthritis" and "not uncommon AT MY AGE") I do a total brain freeze and hear pretty much nothing afterwards. All I have at this point is a $73.00 knee brace and a month's worth of appointments for physical therapy--that part sounds sexy, but I'm guessing it's totally not. So what's a girl to do to cheer herself up? Shoe shopping, of course! So I'm old, but I have these really cute Etienne Aigner boots to show for it.

My gene pool used to lie before me like a pretty lake and I rarely gave it much thought. Now I see the tsunami of malidies looming before me and I'm scrambling on the beach looking for a fucking tree! Well, you know what? I'm not going to grow old gracefully! I'm never wearing fucking purple, and I'm going to be one of those cranky, old bitches with a pointy cane who knows how to use it! I guess it's a good thing that according to deathclock.com I've only got another 17 years to worry about it!

Part of the library's mission is to educate and inform our patrons--all of them from the snotty little toddler at storytime right on up to the decrepit old pervert in the walker who likes to scratch himself inappropriately--sometimes right in front of the snotty toddlers. Now that school is back in session, we on the library staff spend a large part of our days (after 2p.m.) fighting ignorance amongst the teenage terrors who storm our doors ready for some pillage and destruction--with a little MySpace thrown in.

We've got a small but incredibly popular group of computers with Internet for the public. They're for ALL the public, not just that Old Navy-clad alpha bitch and all her little chickas who like to sign up for one (since they usually only have one fine-free library card between them) while all the others pull up chairs from the other computers and cluster around it. They're quiet at first so we don't notice this. They sit there gazing into the flat panel with undisguised awe, looking like they're reenacting scenes from Quest for Fire. Then, inevitably, one will shout something like, "Nuh unh, are you retarded? He ain't no seven--I'd give him a four, maybe!" Gotta love Hotornot.com.

Shaping young minds. It's a noble mission, and I have to say that I wouldn't mind grasping one of them in my hot little hands and shaping it into, say, a nice planter for my desk. At least then it would prove to be a receptacle for something useful. They just seem to bring out the worst in me! Like that cute little thing they do--you know, the one where you tell them not to do something and they look right at you--right in the eyes, with that glassy and you know in their heads all they're hearing is, "Whah, whah, whah, whah," and you've officially become every adult in the Peanuts cartoons. Then they look away and go right back to doing that thing you just told them not to do. As if in their naivety they are simply assuming you are an adult who will be cowed by this cold dismissal and walk away, when in fact you are just the adult to pick them out of the herd. Like a hunter honing in on its prey, you move in; making that V with your fingers to point to your eyes and then theirs--nodding smugly as they realize that they are your target. Personally, I like going all Travis Bickle and shouting, "hey, I'm talking to you!" It's an attention getter and works well when you follow it with, "now you can leave--come back tomorrow and we'll play again."

"But the children are our future!" some will protest. The children. It's all for the children. Has anyone else grasped the full horror of this situation yet? These same little impetuous urchins who, today, we're tossing out of the library for photocopying their butts or playing book tag (an interesting game where they run through the stacks, randomly pulling off books to throw at each other...but I digress)these are the kids who will one day be sitting across from you while you clutch your cane in your hands as you try to understand what they're saying about the new Medicare. I know the horror, I have fully realized it, but I've embraced it! I tried to approach these strange creatures like Diane Fossey entering the mist. It didn't work--these are the kind of moneys who throw poo. So instead, I've adopted as my role model Ernest Hemingway on a jungle expedition. I will pick off as many of the little bastards as I can with my battle cry, "Cull the herd of ignorance!" Then, later, I'll sit around with F. Scott and Zelda, drinking myself into a fuzzy stupor and reminiscing about the glory days.

Yes, it's that time of year again! And while I'm doing the little happy dance that the cherubs are returning to school tomorrow, I still have an axe to grind with all of suburbia. Yep, I hate 'em all! From the sniveling little soccer mom right on up to the superintendent of schools. No one is spared the wrath of the Goddess!

Primarily, no matter how I try to get past it, no matter how much I like my cute little house, I really hate living in the suburbs. The more I'm here the more I dislike it. I could never say any of this to Devoted Boyfriend, though. Just the sound of crickets in the evening--that nasty, incessant droning of creepy little insects scurrying around in the dark...it makes my skin crawl! Give me the melodious, throbbing tones of a hip-hop bass, thumping out of oversized speakers mounted in the back of some dude's ancient Camry as he drives too fast past my house in the middle of the night, any old day (and how's that for a run on sentence?!) I happen to like the warm glow of street lights illuminating my path as I stumble around to go take a pee at 3a.m. Waking up to total blackness because we live out in the middle of no where is the kind of stuff that got Ed Gein making lampshades out of his neighbors, ferchristsake!

School will be back in full swing tomorrow. We got a letter to inform us that they've changed the start and end times of school by ten minutes--well, no problem there. Then I got to the part where they say that the bus schedule will be altered by thirty minutes--major problem! Not to sound like the complete OCD nut case that I actually am, but altering my daily schedule by thirty minutes is a serious consideration--especially since they didn't tell me if or where in the day these changes would occur. Nice. So I call the school--several times. When I finally get a human, they refer me to the bus company, who never returns my calls. What's my question, you may ask oh so innocently? Why the fuck can't they post the new bus schedule on their website (I didn't ask it quite like that the first few times I called, of course?!) It seems that no one has the answer to this mysterious question. It is posted in the local free newspaper--but all the copies had already been scooped up at five different locations by the time I got there--but what a nice way to spend my morning. What the fuck is it with this town?! Why can't I learn the secret handshake so I get these inside exclusives, too? And how exactly do they spot that I'm not one of them--maybe because I'm the only idiot driving around to five differnt locations to find out what the hell is going on?!

Soccer practice started for the Little One. Three weeks ago. I found out when the coach left a nasty message on my answering machine stating that LO had already missed two practices, there was another one the next evening and a game that Saturday. At 8a.m. He said he'd called and emailed me several times but I had not responded. Hmmm, this was the first phone call and since I check my email every few hours, I knew I hadn't gotten anything about soccer, so I call him back to find out what's up. He admits that this was the first phone call, but there had been several emails--he's very indignant. Then he tells me that he listed the name of the team's sponsor in the subject line of all the emails; it's a local mortgage company. So I'm getting emails from an address I don't recognize and they look like they're about refinancing my mortgage--hmmm, what would any sane person do? Delete the fucking things, of course! I nicely (I hope) point out that I delete anything that looks like spam and maybe putting "soccer" in the subject line would be a cool, new, forward thinking thing to do? He obviously doesn't like my helpful suggestions and, again, I'm left wondering what the secret fucking handshake is here, too!

So now I find myself wandering alone in the suburbs, trying to connect with these people that I really am not all that interested in connecting with. And they can smell that like a steaming turd on their freshly manicured lawns. Where are all the social deviants? Where are the thirty-something females who like a vodka tonic at the end of the day, can quote Monty Python and chuckle over a good dirty joke? They must all be living in the city.