Barbie T: Future Resident Loon?

On Friday, I received a telephone call from Barbara Turdmurkle asking if her Sue Grafton book was on hold. I took this to mean she was asking if it was still on hold from the last time I spoke to her so I began to explain that we likely shelved S is for Silence.

"Oh, no, I picked that up, but I'd already read it," she said. She wanted the next one, which I had to inform her her again was T is for Trespass. Curiously, we had a copy of this very book in the hold shelf. Even more curiously, it was for Barbie T.

"We have that holding for you here," I said.

"But no one ever called me," she said.

Gee, wonder why, I thought. I again consulted her hold slip, though, and noted that it said her phone had been disconnected and that we'd sent her a post card. I explained this.

"But my phone isn't disconnected its..." and she gave me her number. Turns out we had it wrong in our system somehow, off by one digit in the prefix. Imagine that.

Then Barbie T said the words that sent chills down my spine. "I'll come right up to get it."

I immediately went around and warned the staff as to her impending arrival.

True to her threat, she turned up about a half hour later, though I didn't notice her at first. Mrs. B told me that Barbie T had come in for her book, rooted around in her wallet for her card for a while, had trouble finding it, paused her search momentarily to show Mrs. B pictures of herself from back in the days when she was young, pretty and not so crazy (photos Mrs. B has seen many times before), then eventually found her card. Soon after, she disappeared and we both assumed she'd left the building. Instead, she had actually browsed a bit before settling into one of the comfy chairs by our front window. I even glanced at her on a couple of occasions over the course of a half hour, but didn't recognize her at all. I don't know what it is about Barbara Turdmurkle that my memory cannot hold her in place either by sight or sound. Perhaps it's that our encounters with her are so infrequent, but this time I think there was something else at play. Though I didn't actually get a good look at her, my causal glances at her registered her appearance in my brain as that of a "young" woman, despite the presence of her walker cane. I even wondered to myself what tragedy this "young" woman could have experienced that caused her to have to use such a cane. Never once did I realize who she was, even though I knew she'd been in the area.

Later, after I got a better look at her, I could see that Barbie T was actually camouflaged in an outfit that belied her actual age. She was dressed in a clean t-shirt and jeans and her hair was cut short and stylishly, taking years off her appearance. I dare say she even looked nice--though I would never tell her that for fear of giving her the kind of attention she craves, endangering more frequent visits.

Eventually, Barbie T came up to the circ desk to check out a second book. Mrs. B had seen her coming and fled, stranding me there. Barbie T found her card quickly enough and I checked out her book.

"It's really nice here," she said. "It's very relaxing," she added. "It' s a nice place to just sit and read," she suggested. "I should come here more often just to sit and read," she threatened.

I had absolutely nothing to offer on this topic. Nothing I could say out loud, anyway. The thought of Barbara Turdmurkle spending hours and hours of her time and ours hanging out at the "liberry" is a chilling one indeed. And she wouldn't use the time to just sit and read quietly, either--though I'm sure she'd do some of that, too. No, she'd find every excuse to come to the desk and talk to the staff and get some sort of human interaction that her life is no doubt lacking. Unfortunately, we have way too much that sort of thing in our lives, being as how we deal with the insane all the time already, and having Barbie T's particular brand of it on a regular basis is just not something we want any part of. There didn't seem to be anything I could say that would not accidentally encourage her in this, so I kept my trap shut.

Granted, I won't be around for much longer in case she truly decides to attach herself, remora-like to our hide, but for the sake of my friends on the staff, I hope she doesn't.

Actual Telephone Conversations Dashed Down Immediately After They Happened Cause Damn if I was Gonna Remember it All Otherwise #127"

SETTING: My “liberry,” 6:37p on a Friday night during which I’m going to have to stay until 9p even though we close at 7p because there’s a rented function in our multi-purpose room and we have to have staff on hand to close up the building, but that’s okay cause I’ll actually get paid a lot better to do nothing in particular for two hours than I do to do my actual job.

*RING*

ME— Tri-Metro County Library.

CALLER WHOSE BREATHY SING-SONG VOICE I SOMEHOW FAIL TO RECOGNIZE— Yes, I was hoping you could look up a book for me. Could you tell me the latest Sue Grafton? I think she was on Q.

ME— Actually, it's T is for Trespass.

CWBSSVISFTR— Maybe it was R. I know I already read P.

ME— Uh, no, it's--

CWBSSVISFTR— I think I maybe read R, though.

ME— (Interrupting) T is for Trespass... T is for Tresspass is Grafton's latest.

CWBSSVISFTR— Oh. Oh, she's on T already?

ME— Yes.

CWBSSVISFTR— Well, what was S?

ME— S is for Silence.

CWBSSVISFTR— And R?

ME— R is for Ricochet.

CWBSSVISFTR— Could you hold S for me?

ME— Sure.

CALLER— What time do you close?

ME— Seven.

CWBSSVISFTR— (Disappointed) Oh... Seven. (Pause) Well, what about if there's dangerous winds? Are you still going to be there if there are dangerous winds?

ME— ("Liberry"-Ninja Crazy-Sense begins to tingle strongly) Er... What?

CWBSSVISFTR— They're calling for dangerous high winds.

ME— (Looks out window where trees are barely moving in slight breeze.) Dangerous... winds?

CWBSSVISFTR— Yes. It's already a warning. The whole map is red. It’s everywhere. It's all red. We're under a warning right now and this time I really think it's going to happen.

ME— Okaaaay.

CWBSSVISFTR— I was actually hoping to ride out the storm there in your building. I'm very frightened. But… (adopts pitiful and disappointed tone) you close at seven.

ME— (Crazy-Sense tingles unbearably.) Uh, yep. We close up at 7.

CWBSSVISFTR— Well, what about you? Are you going to try and risk going home in this weather?

ME— (Thinking about the function scheduled downstairs and how while we were technically going to be closed, the building itself would still be open and I’d still be here `til 9, but still not wanting to let her know this, cause my Crazy-Sense is almost never wrong and it's definitely blaring now.) Uh, yeah. I'm not worried about the weather. I have a vehicle.

CWBSSVISFTR— Oh, I have a vehicle too, but I don’t like to drive in bad weather. I don’t like bad weather. I’m very frightened. Maybe I could get in my bathtub.

(Long awkward pause)

ME— Um… Well… stay safe, then.

CWBSSVISFTR— I suppose I could try and come pick up my book tonight. I don't live very far away. You do have it there?

ME— Er, which one again?

CWBSSVISFTR— The Grafton.

ME— Yes, but which one? R? S? T?

CWBSSVISFTR— S.

ME— Sure.

CWBSSVISFTR— I would try to come and pick it up tonight, but… (pitiful, pitiful, pitiful) you’re closing. (Adopts very hopeful tone...) Unless you were going to stay open for a while? Because of the storm?

ME— No, we pretty much close at 7 on Fridays.

CWBSSVISFTR— (Disapointment bordering on dispair) Oh.

(Long pause)

CWBSSVISFTR— But you’ll hold my book?

ME— Yes.

CWBSSVISFTR— I suppose you already know who this is, then?

ME— No, I don’t. What’s your name?

CWBSSVISFTR— Barbara Turdmurkle.

("LIBERRY" NINJA LOUD CLAXON CRAZY-ALARMS GO OFF IN HEAD. VISIONS OF BARBARA TURDMURKLE TURNING UP ANYWAY TO "RIDE OUT THE STORM" WITH ME DANCE TERRIFYINGLY IN MY HEAD. I WOULD BE TRAPPED WITH NO WAY TO AVOID HER SHIT-HOUSE-RAT-CRAZY PRESENCE BECAUSE SHE WOULD NEVER EVER LEAVE PROVIDED SHE HAD DANGEROUS HIGH WINDS AS AN EXCUSE TO STAY. AND OH, LORDY, SHE WOULD TALK AND TALK AND TALK AT ME, SPEWING CRAZY THE WHOLE TIME. I WOULD HAVE TO BARRACADE MYSELF IN THE STAFF BATHROOM AND SHE WOULD STILL TALK! *DANGER* *DANGER* *DANGER*)

ME— (Choosing words with extreme care so as not to make her think I want her to try and come in) Oh. Okayyy. Sure. We’ll have it here for you if you could come in in the next few days.

BARBARA TURDMURKLE— Maybe I’ll come by tomorrow.

ME— Yeah. Tomorrow. That would be good. You could do that.

BARBARA TURDMURKLE— Okay, then. Thank you so much for your help.

ME— You’re welcome.

BARBARA TURDMURKLE— Bye.

*CLICK*

(I write Barbara Turdmurkle’s name on a piece of paper and walk over to Ms. D. I hold up the name for her to see.)

ME— You should remember this name and remember it well.

MS. D— Why?

ME— Ask Mrs. B.

Combat Pay (PART II)

After a bit, a new computer patron happened in and I was forced to go back and log them onto a computer within Barbara Turdmurkle's field of vision.

"Oh, oh, excuuuuuse me. I need some help heeeere," Barbie T said in her slow, breathy, singsong voice, upon catching sight of me. I stepped over to her system. Barbara explained that she was trying to look at her credit report on her credit protection agency's website, but couldn't seem to get into it.

"Did you try your username and password?" I asked her.

"Whaaaat?"

"Your username and password," I said. "In order to access your account with them, you have to log into the site using a username and password."

Barbie thought for a moment. "I don't have one."

"Yes, you do," I said. I told her that the last time I'd seen her in the library, she'd been trying to check her credit report and had phoned up her protection agency and spoken to someone who had given her a username and password, which she'd written down and used to access her account. In order to do that again, she would have to use that username and password.

Barbara said she didn't remember any of that. She remembered I had helped her then, but she didn't know what her password might be. I suggested it might help if she phoned up her credit protection agency and asked them what it might be.

At that moment, a patron carried some books on tape past me headed seemingly toward the front room.

"I'm sorry, but I have to go back up front. I'm the only staff member in the building," I said.

"Oh, no, I'm going to be a while," the tape carrying patron said. I nearly spat on her.

Barbara Turdmurkle pointed to her screen. "Since I couldn't get my credit report, I wanted to look at something else." She explained then that she was trying to find a list of local car dealerships who were friendly with her insurance agency, the PROMINENT TEXAS-BASED INSURANCE COMPANY.

"Have you been to their website?" I asked, noting that the auto insurance search engine on her screen was not it.

She said she had and had tried to find it but nothing had worked and it had taken her twenty minutes to find the screen she was now on which wasn't giving her what she wanted either. To demonstrate, she clicked the search button beside of which was a completely blank search field. Nothing happened. I could feel my head start to ache.

"Ma'am, that isn't PTBIC's website. If you want to find PTBIC-friendly dealers, I suggest you start back at PTBIC's website."

"But it took me twenty minutes to get here," she said.

"Ma'am, I really REALLY recommend that you go back to PTBIC's site and start again."

Barbie T blinked at her screen and made no move to do so. She seemed reluctant to leave the incorrect screen on the grounds that it had taken her so long to incorrectly get there. So I explained to her again that the site she was on was not PTBIC's site and if she wanted to find information about them the best place to start was WITH THEIR SITE.

"Or maybe you know which dealerships would work with them?" she asked hopefully. The only explanation I have for this is that apparently the memory that I too am a customer of PTBIC filtered through her noggin.

"No. I do not have that information," I said. I then, for a third time, suggested she return to the PTBIC website, hoping to leave her to it.

"I don't know how to do that," she said.

Blood vessels in my brain strained at the force exerted upon them

So, I stepped over and showed her how to click in the address bar and told her what to type. She misspelled both the address and the ".com" following it. We corrected and moved on.

At the PTBIC's site, there was no indication of what she wanted. We searched high and low and didn't find it in any readily apparent place.

"Ma'am, what I would suggest you do is to phone PTBIC and ask them to tell you the names of the dealerships they work with."

"I've already been on the phone with them for two hours, today," she said. Oh, those poor poor people. "They gave me this password," she said, pointing to a piece of paper she had brought. Ah, now she knows about passwords. Unfortunately for her, there was no accompanying login for her "password" nor any place on the site where it made sense to type it. I tried to explain that in probably 99.999 percent of the cases where a password is required, there will also be a username or login name as well. She would not only need that, but would also need a better idea of where to type them. Barbie T then slowly and breathily told me that she needed to find the information not in order to purchase a new car from a PTBIC friendly dealer, but because she had ALREADY purchased a car from a non-PTBIC-friendly dealer and had gotten herself into some sort of financial trouble doing so. Deeper and deeper grew the dungpit of dealing with Barbie T.

Thankfully, having now spent 10 minutes away from the circ-desk, a patron popped her head into the hall to see if I might come check her out, so I was able to leave Barbie T to her own devices. She was not finished with me, though. After a few minutes she hobbled on up to the circ-desk and proceeded to interrogate me further on the subject of PTBIC friendly dealerships. I even returned to the PTBIC's site and tried to find something—ANYTHING—that might prove or, better still, disprove that there was any help to be had for her. Throughout the process, we were interrupted by patrons checking out, each of whom Barbie T—in a desperate, attention-starved ploy—dropped hints to about how her life was a sob story in an effort to get them to engage her in conversation about it. Wisely, they avoided taking the bait. I was eventually able to convince her that her best course of action was to leave and go call PTBIC and let some other poor bastard deal with her.

Barbie T thanked me for my patience and my help, lingered at the desk a bit longer, as if considering possibly asking me for help on other topics, then finally hobbled her way out the door.

Immediately, I wrote a note to my boss that in the future she should really consider giving the staff a Barbara Turdmurkle Combat Pay bonus whenever we have to deal her, cause it's just not worth it for what we make now.

Combat Pay (PART I)

Five O'Clock was nearly upon us, on my first day back at work, which meant the rest of the staff would soon flee the building, leaving me by my lonesome. That being the case, I went up to the staff bathroom to have myself a whiz before returning to the circ desk for my remaining two hour stretch. Upon entering the main room, I was greeted with the horrifying sight of Barbara Turdmurkle, bees of insanity buzzing frantically about her head, signing up for a computer.

Aw shit, I nearly said aloud. Mrs. B gave me a very sympathetic look as she walked past me to go log on a system for Barbie T.

This was not good. Not good at all.

Granted, a visit from Barbara Turdmurkle is never good, but it's especially bad when computers are involved. In addition to being BUGF**K CRAZY, Barbara Turdmurkle is also computer illiterate to an astounding degree. Yet she keeps purchasing services which require computer access to use.

After ten minutes trapped in the computer hall, putting her well past five o'clock, Mrs. B returned to the front room.

"Did you get her taken care of?" Mrs. C asked.

"I don't think so, but I'm going home," Mrs. B said. Then she added in my direction, "Sorry."

"Traitor!"

She quickly left, along with the rest of the gleeful traitors.

For the next twenty minutes I studiously avoided any library duty that might cause me to come in proximity to the computer hall. This was difficult, because people kept coming in to sign up for computers, causing me to have to actually enter the comuter hall to log them onto systems. Fortunately, the first one was at a system not in Barbie T's direct line of sight, so I was able to stealthily creep up, log it on and then creep away, much liken unto a ninja. I did notice what she was doing with her computer, though: she was trying to log in to her credit protection agency's site. No, no, no, no, no, no, not good. I instantly knew how this little drama was going to play out.

A few minutes later, one of the other computer users signed out and said, "That woman back there is having a lot of trouble on the computer. She kept asking me for help, but I didn't know how to help her."

I thanked the patron for the information, watched her leave and then stayed put at the desk.

Was this a demonstration of a library employee being actively and perhaps stubbornly non-service-oriented? Hells yes, and I make no apologies for it. I want NOTHING. TO. DO. with Barbara Turdmurkle if I can at all help it. Beyond being an exasperating and quite insane human being, Barbie T has a long history of claiming to have been groped, verbally abused or otherwise assaulted by men who have innocently assisted her in the past, regardless of witness testimony that such incidents did not occur.

An example: My boss Mrs. A told me that a few years back a neighboring library allowed a local man to conduct a computer class in their facility on a Saturday afternoon after closing time. One such Saturday, Barbie T came up and began banging on the door, clearly after the posted hours, and continued to bang on the door until the guy had to stop class to see what she wanted. Barbie T insisted that she HAD to make photocopies, that it was a dire photocopy emergency and she simply HAD to make them there despite his protestations that they were closed and he wasn't authorized to let nonclassmembers in the building. The man finally relented and let her in anyway. Being completely helpless with all forms of technology, Barbie T also required assistance in making her photocopies which, according to the legend, were numerous and complicated. The man had to stop his class to assist her, eventually got her to leave and then she went out into the community and told everyone she met that he'd felt her up and cursed at her when she declined his advances. Nevermind that the entire incident was witnessed by the members of his class who all said no such thing occurred. Unfortunately for many people, that was not the only time such allegations have been spread against innocents by Barbara Turdmurkle. I wish very much to avoid being her next victim.

Another example: Barbie T has a longstanding animosity with the neighbor in the apartment next to hers. I know this, as do a surprising number of people in our county, because Barbie T will tell anyone who strays near her about about how evil her neighbor is, how her neighbor has sex with her boyfriend against the adjoining wall just to annoy Barbie T, and how Barbie is convinced that the evil neighbor is trying to steal her identity. (And after seeing a glimpse of the kind of financial chaos that apparently exists in Barbie's life, I have to ask: Who would want it?) Rumor now has it that the reason we haven't seen Barbara Turdmurkle in just under a year is that she's had to spend some time away for psychiatric evaluation after leaving death threats on her neighbor's answering machine.

She is, as the medical establishment terms it, a Fruit Loop.

(TO BE CONTINUED...)

Barbie T.: Master of the Internet (PART 1)

The situation: Late last week my boss, Mrs. A, secluded herself in her office to take care of “liberry” business. My co-worker, Mrs. B, had secluded herself in our storage area to work on more book donations. Everyone else had either fled town or at least the building. I was therefore Cap’n Solo when it comes to running the joint. I’d just logged a patron onto a computer and was on my way back to the front room when I crossed into the children’s room and saw an unwelcome sight blocking my way back to the desk.

“Excuuuuse me,” Barbara Turdmurkle said in her usual slow, breathy, singsong voice. Her voice was nearly a whisper and she began beckoning me over with quick waves of her hand. Beyond her, I could see there were three people lined up at the circ desk. I SO did not need this.

“Excuuuse me, but I’m going to need your help with something,” she said. Before I could stop her she continued, still in a whisper, “I’ve been getting these very eerie phone calls at my house recently and I think someone may be trying to interfere with my credit.”

“Okay, I’ll be right with you in just a minute,” I said. "I need to go back to the desk." I then wedged my way past her in the door frame

"No!" she said, then remembered to whisper. "no."

By then I was moving away from her at a sideways angle so I could look back at her and still keep moving toward the desk. “I have to go back to the desk."

“No, no,” Barbara said again, frantically waving her hand for me to come back. She too was now edging away, moving back toward the computer hall, “I need your help.”

“I’m sorry, but I need to go to the desk right now.”

“No, I need your help with…”

“I. Need. To. Go. To. The. Desk. Right. Now,” I said.

Barbara blinked at me for a second. “Are you the only one here?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m the only one running the desk right now and I have to get back to it, right now. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

With that, I turned my back on her and went to the desk to take care of the patrons who chose to wait in line, rather than in ambush. When I was done and had signed the last of them onto a computer, I returned to the task of Barbara Turdmurkle. She had, by then, come into the main room and was waiting near the desk. Barbara Turdmurkle explained that for the past week she had been receiving odd phone calls at her house. Each time, the caller asked if she was Brenda. Rather than simply admitting that she was not Brenda and that this was likely a wrong number, Barbara T. had chosen to insist they the caller first tell her who they were and then she would say whether or not she was Brenda. The caller, in turn, insisted that she confirm her identity as Brenda first before they would say who they were. Eventually, stalemate realized, one of them would hang up on the other. Or, sometimes the caller would leave a message on Barbara's machine asking Brenda to phone him at a specific number. Adding to the oddity of this, Barbara Turdmurkle claimed the last four digits of the caller’s out of state phone number, as seen on her caller ID, matched the last four digits of her social security number. However, it did not match the number the caller had left on her machine. So Barbara Turdmurkle tried to phone the caller back at his given number. When the other line picked up it was answered, “Accounts.” And when Barbara began insisting that they tell her what sort of business they were running, the person on the other end said, “Brenda? Is this Brenda?” All of this evidence had thus convinced Barbara Turdmurkle that someone was trying to steal her identity and ruin her credit.

Now, I had to admit the events she described were odd, but not beyond the realm of explanation. Barbara Turdmurkle, however, was convinced her evil neighbor was behind it. (I’m not sure if this is the same evil neighbor she’s told us that she’s been to the police about on many other occasions, but it seems likely.)

Fortunately, Barbara is a member of some sort of credit protection program which she phoned right away. They told her they’d send her a credit report, but she needed to go online to their website and check her credit reports that way to make sure nothing seemed amiss. That’s what Barbara needed my help with because, as she said, "I don't know anything about computers."

I think we all know from my past experiences with Barbara Turdmurkle and technology, not to mention with computer neophytes in general, how well this is going to turn out.

(TO BE CONTINUED...)

The Near-Miss Returns of Barbara Turdmurkle

I was at the circ-desk on a Wednesday night, a couple weeks back. All of my fellow employees had departed, including Mrs. A who had just walked out the door. After a minute, the phone rang.

*RING*
ME: Tri-Metro County Library.

MRS. A: (From her car outside) Hey, it's me. I just wanted to warn you, Barbara TURDMURKLE may be on her way in.

ME: Mmm boy.

MRS. A: She's sitting in a car in front of the lib... oh, wait, no. She's getting out now. Just thought I'd warn you.

ME: Thanks.

MRS. A: Good luck!

There passed several tense seconds as I waited for Barbara Turdmurkle to show her face. I don't rightly recall what she looks like, as I have rarely had to deal with her beyond phone calls. Oddly, though, Barbara Turdmurkle never appeared at all. I don't know if she just parked out front and walked somewhere else or what, but she never came inside. Kind of a nice near-miss situation. (We'd had another earlier that day, when Mr. Stanky drove up, failed to find a good parking place for his Stankmobile and then drove away to befoul greener pastures.)

Though I haven't had to personally deal with Barbara Turdmurkle much in the past, I have heard tales from my co-workers that could curdle your blood. From all accounts, she is stark-raving mad but feels a deep-seated compulsion to convince everyone she meets that she's not. And if that involves producing documentation, often in the form of photographs of herself from back when she was "normal-looking,"--her words--she'll do it. (Again, I can't even say that she looks abnormal now, I see her so little.)

When not trying to convince everyone of her sanity, Barbara spends her spare time eavesdropping on the activities of her 20-something neighbor in the apartment next door to hers and phones the police to complain whenever she hears the girl having sex. We know this, because Barbara has made it a point to tell us that she frequently does this.

I say "us" but what I really mean is "Mrs. B," who is kind of Barbara's ambassador to the world.

See, crazy people looooove Mrs. B. This is probably because, unlike the rest of us, Mrs. B actually pays attention to the crazy people, sometimes give them rides places, and almost always returns their phone calls. You do that enough and you develop a reputation among the crazy populace as the go-to gal. Barbara is no exception. Barbara likes telling Mrs. B of her many problems, and about all the people she knows who either think she's crazy or otherwise aren't behaving as they should. It seems to come in cycles, though, for she's not a regular patron. Just every few months she gets it in her bonnet to come talk to Mrs. B and any other employees who happen to be there too. I have, unfortunately for this blog, missed out on most of her appearances. But I do get to talk to her on the phone.

For instance, the day after the above near miss with Barbara Turdmurkle, I had another one. I was running the desk for Mrs. C and Mrs. B while they were engaged with Thursday morning story hour.

*RING*

ME: Tri-Metro County Library.

BARBARA TURDMURKLE: Um. Yes. Is MRS. B... no, wait... that's not right. Is that right? What's that girl's name? MRS. B? Yes. Is MRS. B available?

ME: I'm sorry, she's not. She's in the middle of story hour right now.

(This, by the way, was the 5th such call I'd fielded for Mrs. B and/or Mrs. C, both of whom were engaged in separate story-hour groups. I'll give Barbara a pass on this, but all the other calls had been from people, often other librarians, who knew bloody well better than to call them during story hour.)

BARBARA TURDMURKLE: When will she be finished?

ME: Uhhh, I'd say 11:30 would be safe.

BARBARA TURDMURKLE: Oh. I see. Well then. This is BARBARA TURDMURKLE and I just wanted to ask her a question. So if you could give her my number and tell her to give me a call when she's finished.

Mrs. B did finish up around 11:30 and noticed the note I'd left her to call B.Turdmurkle. She sighed and picked up the phone.

Would ya like to take a guess as to what Barbara Turdmurkle wanted to ask Mrs. B about? Why, yes, you're right. She wanted to ask Mrs. B to renew the same bloody book I'd already assured her days earlier was NOT on her card in the first place. And the REASON it wasn't there? Turns out it's because when Barbara tried to check it out, she neglected to bring her library card and Mrs. B had checked it out on her own personal card in order to get Barbara to simply leave without a big scene. Now my own policy is that I never check books out to patrons on it unless they're sweet little old ladies who genuinely forgot theirs, and Never. To. Crazy. People. However, I can see the logic in resorting to such a move in order to get rid of someone as troublesome as Barbie T.

It took Mrs. B nearly a minute to explain the situation to Barbara in a way that finally seemed to convince her. After that, Mrs. B asked how things were going in Barbara's life, which lead to the latest installment of Barbara's ongoing battle with her over-sexed neighbor and how the police chief himself had now told Barbara to stop calling him about it and how she couldn't speak to the girl about it again because anything they said to one another these days came from a place of anger and was not constructive.

Barbara's latest mission is to find someone gullible enough to come hang curtains for her. She's told this to Mrs. B several times, but Mrs. B has wisely not taken the bait.

I might do it just to have material to blog about if I didn't know that such an act would get my name put on the Crazy People Go-To list for life. The less Barbara Turdmurkle knows my name the better.

Actual Telephone Conversations Heard in Actual Libraries #17

*RING*

ME: Tri-Metro County Public Library.

BARBARA TURDMURKLE (NOT HER REAL NAME): Yeah, this is Barbara Turdmurkle. I have a book out that I need to renew.

ME: (Looks up Barbara Turdmurkle in the computer. There are NO books checked out to her account) You said "Barbara Turdmurkle," right?

BARBARA TURDMURKLE: Yeah.

ME: It doesn't look like there are any books checked out to that...

BARBARA TURDMURKLE: (Interrupting) It might be under B. Turdmurkle.

ME: (Misunderstanding) Dee? D-E-E?

BARBARA TURDMURKLE: No, "B"... B. Turdmurkle.

ME: B, as in Boy?

BARBARA TURDMURKLE: Yes. B... B. Turdmurkle.

ME: Ma'am, we don't allow initials to be used in our patron records.

BARBARA TURDMURKLE: Then it's Barbara Turdmurkle.

ME: (For further confirmation) And can I have your mailing address?

BARBARA TURDMURKLE: P.O. Box 882, Tri-Metro. It's Barbara Turdmurkle.

ME: Yes, ma'am. I understood that. I was just trying to explain earlier that there are no books checked out under Barbara Turdmurkle.

BARBARA TURDMURKLE: Well, I have it right here. It says it's due today, but I want to extend it.

ME: Is this an interlibrary loan, ma'am?

BARBARA TURDMURKLE: (Not listening whatsoever) I checked it out on January 20.

ME: I understand that, ma'am. I'm just asking if this was an interlibrary loan.

BARBARA TURDMURKLE: Well, no I don't think so.

ME: So this was a book that we own here. You got it from our collection?

BARBARA TURDMURKLE: Yes. I got it there on the 20th.

ME: Okay. Well, like I said, there are no books checked out to your patron record. So either we didn't manage to check your book out to you here or it's an interlibrary loan.

(Long pause)

BARBARA TURDMURKLE: But I have it right here.

ME: I understand that, ma'am. We still don't have it checked out to you on your card. You're sure you didn't get this on interlibrary loan?

BARBARA TURDMURKLE: No! I got it there! At the library! I just wanted to renew it for a few days because I'm not finished with it yet.

ME: Okay. Well, like I said, it's not checked out to you on your card. This means we won't be able to charge you any fines if it's late, so just bring it back when you're finished.

BARBARA TURDMURKLE: So I can have it renewed?

ME: (Sighing over the impossibility of ever cracking the walls of understanding with this woman) Yes. It's renewed.

Dirty Old Man Winter

Mrs. C phoned me at home this morning and asked if I could come in early. Turns out her nephew was being rushed to the ER with what the doctors already thought might be meningitis and her sister wanted her to be there at the hospital too. (I'll save you the suspense: it looks like he doesn't have meningitis, but a virus of some sort. And, no, not viral meningitis.) I told her sure thing, that I'd be there as soon as I could. This was easier said than done, though.

It seemed like the faster I tried to leave the house the slower I got out, what with having to dress myself, make lunch and dinner to take, carafe my coffee, etc. We also received a nice bit of snow this morning. Mostly it was just spitting until right around the time I was trying to leave the house, at which point I noticed that all the spitting had stuck and that it was no longer spitting but snowing proper and the roads and my driveway had filled up. I got out of our drive okay and slowly started down the hill toward Town-C then back up another hill toward Town-B and on to Town-A. There was nary a snow plow or salt truck to be seen and the roads showed it. I made it all the way to the street the library is on before nearly getting schwacked when my car slid on ice and into the middle of a fairly busy road. Made it okay.

So there I am, at work, three hours early on a very snowy day with little to no patron traffic due to the weather. Mostly I answered the phone, telling people that, Yes, we were open and, No, they could not speak to Mrs. C. And when a patron did brave the weather to come for a visit they, almost to a person, tracked in every last bit of snow, ice and wet that they could. A few of them stopped and wiped their feet off on our runner carpet which, as I believe I've ranted here before, IS NOT A DOORMAT!!!!! In fact, they had to walk across our real doormat, located conveniently on the front step where it should be, in order to wipe their feet down the length of our runner, soiling it with their ice and dirt. Then there were those who eschewed the runner in favor of just tracking snow and muck throughout the building, leaving it in puddles whenever they stopped to look at a book. I spent the day in silent rage. And in a state with a citizenry as given to frivolous lawsuits as ours, I thought it best to keep a mop handy and well-used lest anyone get any ideas or have any genuine accidents.

Speaking of which, one of our infrequent patrons is a lady who is known for bringing about allegedly frivolous lawsuits. She now walks with a cane, also allegedly due to the cause of such a suit, and has difficulty going up steps due to her condition. Yet this is a person who when visiting the library insists on NOT using our handicapped accessible door in favor of our front steps. The whole time she's in the building, we're on her like me on bacon, least she lose her balance and take a spill. Fortunately, she wasn't in today because I expect she would have been unable to resist taking a spill on the first droplet of snow-melt I managed to miss.

Late in the afternoon, a snow truck drove past the library. It wasn't shoveling the snow out of the way, but depositing a layer of gravel and salt onto it. So for the rest of the day, our patrons tracked in snow, mud, salt and gravel and wiped it on our runner carpet.