SETTING: My "liberry" as a woman approaches the circ desk during story hour.
LADY— Is there a restroom upstairs?
(I'm not surprised by this question because despite the fact that our main floor technically IS the upstairs, people always seem to assume that there's another floor above us rather than below us and frequently ask us how to "get upstairs.")
ME— Actually, there is no upstairs. Everything's pretty much on this level. There is a restroom downstairs, though.
(The woman gives me a very confused look at this and raises her eyebrows in the usual expression of a soul who'd like directions to ANY restroom. I helpfully point toward the stairwell for her.)
ME— When you come out at the bottom of the stairs, take a left and it's right there.
(The lady heads for the stairs. Meanwhile, I'm wondering why she wants to use the restroom on another level at all when we have a perfectly good restroom on our main floor. In fact, she'd walked directly past it on her way to the circ desk.)
(After a bit, the lady returns to the desk, a little irritated.)
LADY— You do too have a restroom upstairs! It's right over there! (Points toward ladies' restroom which she evidently spied upon returning from downstairs.)
ME— (Slowly it sinks in that I had actually been the one to be confused for a change.) Oh... Yes... Yes, we do at that.
Showing posts with label Dumbass Things I've Done. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dumbass Things I've Done. Show all posts
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Jus sans des ceintures
My Indian name, as granted me by my decidedly non-Native American fellow employees, is Juice Two Belts. I was given the name after I came to work wearing two belts, one atop the other, back around Christmas and then, like a dumbass, told people about it. Today, however, I was Juice No Belts and was suffering from droopy pants throughout the day.
"I wish I had even one of my belts," I told Ms. D. "I think I might make one out of book tape."
"Some of that strapping tape would cinch you right up," she said. I eyed the roll of strapping tape, which we use to secure book-wrap-wrapped book-jackets to books. It would indeed make for a decent and sturdy Jethro belt. I considered it more and even checked our supply to make sure I wouldn't ruin us by using some of it. We had extra rolls, but it's some of the more expensive tape we have, so I didn't really want to waste it on a belt. Instead, I grabbed the roll of cheap-ass packing tape, pulled of a belt-sized strip of it, wrapped it over on itself, ran it through the belt loops of my pants and tied it up tight in the front. My shirt hung down over it, so no one but me and Ms. D was the wiser. It worked pretty good, too, though it did occasionally make little plasticy squeaks.
"I wish I had even one of my belts," I told Ms. D. "I think I might make one out of book tape."
"Some of that strapping tape would cinch you right up," she said. I eyed the roll of strapping tape, which we use to secure book-wrap-wrapped book-jackets to books. It would indeed make for a decent and sturdy Jethro belt. I considered it more and even checked our supply to make sure I wouldn't ruin us by using some of it. We had extra rolls, but it's some of the more expensive tape we have, so I didn't really want to waste it on a belt. Instead, I grabbed the roll of cheap-ass packing tape, pulled of a belt-sized strip of it, wrapped it over on itself, ran it through the belt loops of my pants and tied it up tight in the front. My shirt hung down over it, so no one but me and Ms. D was the wiser. It worked pretty good, too, though it did occasionally make little plasticy squeaks.
Friday, December 21, 2007
My Second Jackass Moment? (Dumbass Things I've Done Lately Week: Day 4)
I guess this might not really qualify as a Dumbass Thing I've Done Lately, unless getting my haircut at Wal-Mart qualifies as a dumbass thing to do in your book.
In the book Good Omens, by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett, the character who's ostensibly the romantic hero of the book is a fellow named Newton Pulsifer. Newton an odd man out sort of guy, technology is beyond him, chaos follows in his wake and he cannot get a proper haircut to save his life. The text of that section of the book describes how throughout his life he had frequently gone to hair-cutting establishments armed with pictures of how he wanted his hair to look only to have it turn out wildly different due to his head's refusal to take stylish cuts. In the end, he resigned himself to the fact that the only thing he could really expect from getting a haircut was shorter hair.
I have felt like that quite a bit in life myself. In fact, the last time I received what I would term a really great haircut was in March of 2005 and it was given to me at Wal-Mart.
Before you scoff too much, I've consistently received better haircuts at Wal-Mart's Smart-Style haircuttery than at nearly any other place I've been to. And this can be said for not only my local Wally World, but also ones in towns I've previously lived in.
The woman who gave me that last really great haircut, let's call her Melissa, was just incredible. She seemed to psychically intuit exactly how my hair would look its best, with very little instruction from me, and gave me that exact cut. I was so amazed by it that I resolved at that moment to return to Melissa and only Melissa for the rest of my life.
Unfortunately, one of Smart-Style's major drawbacks is that its a first-come-first-served sort of place. You can't make appointments and can't really ask for individual stylists, unless you want to keep letting people go ahead of you until the one you want comes up in the draw. So the next time I returned to see Melissa, I was saddled instead with the girl at the station directly next to Melissa's. And that girl, let's call her Miss Twique, was actively on drugs. I'm not kidding. She was higher than 93 octane and I was fortunate to escape with hair at all.
Of course, at first, I gave her the benefit of the doubt and tried to imagine she was just a really spacy person with very red eyes and, just to continue the automotive metaphor, a habit of talking at 150 mph. My wife the medical professional walked up mid-way through the cut, exchanged four words with Miss Twique and mouthed "She's ON something" to me. Shortly after this, both Melissa and Miss Twique ceased to work there and I've not seen either of them again.
Still, it was with great hope that I returned to Smart-Style last week with a mop of hair in need of a lopping. I was seated immediately by a stylist I'd not seen there before. She was a middle-aged woman who seemed very happy but only in a High On Life sort of way. Soon the subject of what I wanted done with my hair was broached.
"Do you usually get a clipper cut? Probably about a number 2 guard?" the hairstylist asked.
Now, I do a #2 clipper in warmer weather, but thought, what the heck, let it be a little shorter. After all, it's been pushing 60 degrees around these parts lately. So I told her a #2 blended into a #3 on the sides and back would be fine.
"What about the top?" she asked. "Just a trim?"
"Yeah. Just a trim," I said. "But I want to get rid of all this," I added pointing to the excessively shaggy widow's peak in the front that had been driving me insane.
The lady started a-clippin', making small talk all the while. I could feel that #2 clipper getting higher and higher up on the back of my head as she talked. Then she switched it out to a #3 and I felt a little better. That is, until she ran it clear across the top rear portion of my cranium. A very large chunk of my hair slid down my shoulder and I realized that I had now committed to another VERY short haircut.
As has been chronicled here before, I'm unfortunately no stranger to the odd self-inflicted shaver shark attack. And while I have actually been contemplating another VERY short haircut in recent months, I've not had the sac to actually go through with one. It's the sort of thing that, for me at least, has to occur unintentionally and then become accepted.
Well, I got my wish. When she finished with me, it was ever-so-slightly longer than the skull cap look of four years ago, and barely that. Still, I thought it looked pretty good.
Of course, as soon as I left Wally World, the temperature plummeted, snow began to fall and I now keep snuggy knit hats on my person at all times.
In the book Good Omens, by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett, the character who's ostensibly the romantic hero of the book is a fellow named Newton Pulsifer. Newton an odd man out sort of guy, technology is beyond him, chaos follows in his wake and he cannot get a proper haircut to save his life. The text of that section of the book describes how throughout his life he had frequently gone to hair-cutting establishments armed with pictures of how he wanted his hair to look only to have it turn out wildly different due to his head's refusal to take stylish cuts. In the end, he resigned himself to the fact that the only thing he could really expect from getting a haircut was shorter hair.
I have felt like that quite a bit in life myself. In fact, the last time I received what I would term a really great haircut was in March of 2005 and it was given to me at Wal-Mart.
Before you scoff too much, I've consistently received better haircuts at Wal-Mart's Smart-Style haircuttery than at nearly any other place I've been to. And this can be said for not only my local Wally World, but also ones in towns I've previously lived in.
The woman who gave me that last really great haircut, let's call her Melissa, was just incredible. She seemed to psychically intuit exactly how my hair would look its best, with very little instruction from me, and gave me that exact cut. I was so amazed by it that I resolved at that moment to return to Melissa and only Melissa for the rest of my life.
Unfortunately, one of Smart-Style's major drawbacks is that its a first-come-first-served sort of place. You can't make appointments and can't really ask for individual stylists, unless you want to keep letting people go ahead of you until the one you want comes up in the draw. So the next time I returned to see Melissa, I was saddled instead with the girl at the station directly next to Melissa's. And that girl, let's call her Miss Twique, was actively on drugs. I'm not kidding. She was higher than 93 octane and I was fortunate to escape with hair at all.
Of course, at first, I gave her the benefit of the doubt and tried to imagine she was just a really spacy person with very red eyes and, just to continue the automotive metaphor, a habit of talking at 150 mph. My wife the medical professional walked up mid-way through the cut, exchanged four words with Miss Twique and mouthed "She's ON something" to me. Shortly after this, both Melissa and Miss Twique ceased to work there and I've not seen either of them again.
Still, it was with great hope that I returned to Smart-Style last week with a mop of hair in need of a lopping. I was seated immediately by a stylist I'd not seen there before. She was a middle-aged woman who seemed very happy but only in a High On Life sort of way. Soon the subject of what I wanted done with my hair was broached.
"Do you usually get a clipper cut? Probably about a number 2 guard?" the hairstylist asked.
Now, I do a #2 clipper in warmer weather, but thought, what the heck, let it be a little shorter. After all, it's been pushing 60 degrees around these parts lately. So I told her a #2 blended into a #3 on the sides and back would be fine.
"What about the top?" she asked. "Just a trim?"
"Yeah. Just a trim," I said. "But I want to get rid of all this," I added pointing to the excessively shaggy widow's peak in the front that had been driving me insane.
The lady started a-clippin', making small talk all the while. I could feel that #2 clipper getting higher and higher up on the back of my head as she talked. Then she switched it out to a #3 and I felt a little better. That is, until she ran it clear across the top rear portion of my cranium. A very large chunk of my hair slid down my shoulder and I realized that I had now committed to another VERY short haircut.
As has been chronicled here before, I'm unfortunately no stranger to the odd self-inflicted shaver shark attack. And while I have actually been contemplating another VERY short haircut in recent months, I've not had the sac to actually go through with one. It's the sort of thing that, for me at least, has to occur unintentionally and then become accepted.
Well, I got my wish. When she finished with me, it was ever-so-slightly longer than the skull cap look of four years ago, and barely that. Still, I thought it looked pretty good.
Of course, as soon as I left Wally World, the temperature plummeted, snow began to fall and I now keep snuggy knit hats on my person at all times.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
B.O. at the P.O. (Dumbass Things I've Done Lately Week: Day 3)
We have loads of packages we need to mail round the "liberry," but no one asked me to haul them to the Post Office. In fact, Mrs. C took petty cash to run to Wally World, so I couldn't have taken those packages even if I wanted to. Which I didn't. Like a dumbass, though, I used my afternoon break to go to the post office anyway to do some mailing of my own.
I truly hate going to the post office as part of my work duties, because we always have 50 ILLs to mail and they and the inherent slowness of whichever postal clerk happens to help me (usually the ONLY clerk) clogs up the damned line even moreso than it's usually clogged. However, I reserve a particular hatred for going to the post office in December; for it's in December that ehhhhhveryone is doing all of their last minute Christmas package-mailing—most of the actual packing of which they could have done at home, but decided to do at the post office, cause that's inconvenient for EVERYONE—and this screws up the line even more and generally making everyone feel less merry. In kind, our local post office usually responds to the increase in traffic by putting even less people on the desk.
yaaaay.
When I arrived, there were five other people wedged into the tiny corner that the local P.O. has set aside for queueing. One of them was Mr. Stanky. He wasn't as blazingly-stinky as I've smelt him before, and his clothes, while disheveled, were not outright filthy. In such close quarters, he was still most unpleasant. Everyone else in line was trying to give him a wide berth, but there was only so far we could move in our attempt to widen the space between he and we.
There were two employees running the desk, but the people standing at their stations were insisting on doing complicated transactions that took FOREVER, so we all had to wait for several minutes before one of the lines opened. Eventually and most uncharacteristically, a third employee came up and opened a new window. I thought "Glory Be! Someone in charge is using their brain." Then one of the other employees told the next person who was able to approach to hold on, that he'd be with them in a moment. He then disappeared for five minutes, leaving the rest of us to wait.
Mr. Stanky was eventually next in line, but hadn't done his package packing at home, so he had to stop and do that and then had to fill out paperwork about it.
Finally, the second desk guy returned and the lines began moving again and I was at last able to mail my single package and flee that stank-choked, line-filled purgatory.
I truly hate going to the post office as part of my work duties, because we always have 50 ILLs to mail and they and the inherent slowness of whichever postal clerk happens to help me (usually the ONLY clerk) clogs up the damned line even moreso than it's usually clogged. However, I reserve a particular hatred for going to the post office in December; for it's in December that ehhhhhveryone is doing all of their last minute Christmas package-mailing—most of the actual packing of which they could have done at home, but decided to do at the post office, cause that's inconvenient for EVERYONE—and this screws up the line even more and generally making everyone feel less merry. In kind, our local post office usually responds to the increase in traffic by putting even less people on the desk.
yaaaay.
When I arrived, there were five other people wedged into the tiny corner that the local P.O. has set aside for queueing. One of them was Mr. Stanky. He wasn't as blazingly-stinky as I've smelt him before, and his clothes, while disheveled, were not outright filthy. In such close quarters, he was still most unpleasant. Everyone else in line was trying to give him a wide berth, but there was only so far we could move in our attempt to widen the space between he and we.
There were two employees running the desk, but the people standing at their stations were insisting on doing complicated transactions that took FOREVER, so we all had to wait for several minutes before one of the lines opened. Eventually and most uncharacteristically, a third employee came up and opened a new window. I thought "Glory Be! Someone in charge is using their brain." Then one of the other employees told the next person who was able to approach to hold on, that he'd be with them in a moment. He then disappeared for five minutes, leaving the rest of us to wait.
Mr. Stanky was eventually next in line, but hadn't done his package packing at home, so he had to stop and do that and then had to fill out paperwork about it.
Finally, the second desk guy returned and the lines began moving again and I was at last able to mail my single package and flee that stank-choked, line-filled purgatory.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
The Corduroy Conspiracy (Dumbass Things I've Done Lately Week: Day 2)
One of my favorite items of clothing that I own is my corduroy coat. It's light enough to not be bulky, but lined with a wool-like substance that keeps me warm and snuggly. Other than a hole in the lining of the left pocket (which I'm sure my long-time-reader ma-in-law would be willing to mend for me come this weekend) it's perfect. In fact, it's the only coat I took with me to Alaska, back in May, (as can be seen in the accompanying photograph) and served me very well there.
This past Autumn, it went missing.
I'd taken it with me on a trip out of town back when the weather first began to get chilly around here. However, I never actually wore it during the trip. Instead, it remained on its coat-hanger, hanging from the hanger hook in the back seat of my car. Days turned to weeks and the coat remained in my car. In late October, after another out-of-town trip in which I had to borrow the Wife Wagon (or, as my friend Joe has dubbed it, "that ugly ass Honda Element") to do some hauling of boxes back to the homestead, I returned to find that the back seat of my car was littered with pine straw. I deduced that the wife, who had been driving my car, had parked it somewhere beneath a pine tree and left the windows down long enough for the straw to collect there. It took me a few days to get around to cleaning it out and by then I noticed that in addition to the pine straw there was also, on the back seat floor, an empty coat hanger.
I didn't immediately try to do the math on this, though. Instead, I assumed I'd taken my coat in the house. Only, the next time it got cold, I couldn't find it anywhere. Maybe I'd moved it to the trunk? Nope, not there. Maybe I'd taken it with me on that out of town trip and it was still in the Wife Wagon. Nope, not there either. Eventually, my brain processed the clues of the pine straw and the empty hanger and I began to wonder if someone hadn't nicked it from my car while the windows were down. That's certainly an asshole move, but on the flipside, perhaps it was someone who really needed a warm coat.
I asked the wife where all she'd been while driving my car, days before. My guess was that she'd been to Wal-Mart, had left the windows down, allowing some jerk the opportunity to hork my coat. It certainly couldn't have been my fault, because I lock my doors EVERY time I get out of the car, regardless of whether I'm at home or at work. The wife claimed, howerver that the only time she'd gone out was to go to a baby shower and it had been at someone's house way out in the country, with plenty of pine trees around, hence the needles. No one would have stolen my coat out there.
I accepted her word, but wasn't sure I really bought it. After all, this is the same woman who frequently can't find her car keys because she's left them in the ignition of her unlocked vehicle, with her pocketbook on the seat to boot. I believed her, but still wanted to blame her, because I couldn't resolve how my coat had been stolen unless she'd been the one to leave the car unlocked. She suggested I'd left it somewhere on my out of town journies, which I supposed was possible except that I'd never actually worn it and, again, would never have left my car unlocked, allowing someone to take it.
More weeks passed and I began looking for a new coat. The only trouble is, there just aren't any clothing stores in the area that sell the sort of coat I'm looking for. Oh, there are some corduroy coats to be found, but most are cheaply made things that do nothing for me. I wanted MY coat back, the one that probably still had alder and wild sage residue in the pockets from my attempt to make Alaska potpouri.
Then, one cold December day, it began to rain. I went to my closet to find my enormous black overcoat to throw on against the chill. As soon as I'd pushed back the hanging clothes around it, though, I burst out laughing. There in my closet, where I'd looked for my corduroy jacket many times, was my corduroy jacket. It was hanging on a coat hanger, but was hidden from view due to the enormous black overcoat wrapped around it on the very same hanger. My guess is, I'd had them both in the car and had wrapped the one around the other to haul them into the house with greater efficiency. I couldn't even be mad about it, cause at last I had my coat back.
It's a good thing, too, cause it's snowing again.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Ceintures du Jus Deux (Dumbass Things I've Done Lately Week: Day 1)
It's Christmas Party season. I likes me a good Christmas Party--particularly when they're thrown by the hospital where my wife works and involve free-flowing rivers of heavy hors d'oeuvres and booze. In years past, though, I've always fussed over what I'm going to wear. Normally, I don't fret over my clothing so much, but such a swanky affair makes it feel like a high-pressure situation. I don't own any clothing even remotely festive, so I've sometimes worn a sweater. But then I always get there and feel like I've somehow dressed down, or could at least have tried for some sort of color, or should maybe have worn a suit, etc.
This year, I decided I would just wear a damn suit and be done with it. Only then I had the dilemma of what shirt and tie to wear with said suit. Naturally, I started making these choices about 30 minutes from the start of my Friday shift. Rather than rush into a bad fashion decision for the sake of getting to work on time, I just grabbed half my closet and put it in the car. I also made sure to take my black shoes, which were way too dressy for work, but which I could change into later. And I put on my black belt, which would go with the both the dress shoes and the black Chuck Taylors I was already wearing with my jeans.
As I hauled all this stuff in to the library and hung it on our coat-rack, Mrs. J rolled her eyes at me. She doesn't like her men to be fussy about fashion. Mrs. A and Mrs. C, however, delighted in helping me pick my outfit. In the end, we decided on the brown shirt and a black tie with blueishy brownishy circular designs on it. It wasn't particularly festive, but it all matched. After that it was just a waiting game for 7p to roll on by.
At some point in the afternoon, I went to the can. I reached down and undid my belt in preparation for dropping trou. Only when I got the belt unbuckled I found I couldn't feel the button of my jeans beneath it because there was something blocking it. I looked down and saw that beneath the black leather belt I had just unbuckled was a buckled brown leather belt. I stared at it for a long moment, then burst out laughing.
I still don't know how I managed such a feat, but apparently I'd put on a pair of jeans from a couple of days ago that still had my brown belt in them. It was only later that I added the black belt, and had been in too much of a hurry to get everything together that I didn't notice. It was genius, I tell you!
My coworkers have now christened me Juice Two Belts. They said it's my Indian name. Got it posted it on my locker and everything.
This year, I decided I would just wear a damn suit and be done with it. Only then I had the dilemma of what shirt and tie to wear with said suit. Naturally, I started making these choices about 30 minutes from the start of my Friday shift. Rather than rush into a bad fashion decision for the sake of getting to work on time, I just grabbed half my closet and put it in the car. I also made sure to take my black shoes, which were way too dressy for work, but which I could change into later. And I put on my black belt, which would go with the both the dress shoes and the black Chuck Taylors I was already wearing with my jeans.
As I hauled all this stuff in to the library and hung it on our coat-rack, Mrs. J rolled her eyes at me. She doesn't like her men to be fussy about fashion. Mrs. A and Mrs. C, however, delighted in helping me pick my outfit. In the end, we decided on the brown shirt and a black tie with blueishy brownishy circular designs on it. It wasn't particularly festive, but it all matched. After that it was just a waiting game for 7p to roll on by.
At some point in the afternoon, I went to the can. I reached down and undid my belt in preparation for dropping trou. Only when I got the belt unbuckled I found I couldn't feel the button of my jeans beneath it because there was something blocking it. I looked down and saw that beneath the black leather belt I had just unbuckled was a buckled brown leather belt. I stared at it for a long moment, then burst out laughing.
I still don't know how I managed such a feat, but apparently I'd put on a pair of jeans from a couple of days ago that still had my brown belt in them. It was only later that I added the black belt, and had been in too much of a hurry to get everything together that I didn't notice. It was genius, I tell you!
My coworkers have now christened me Juice Two Belts. They said it's my Indian name. Got it posted it on my locker and everything.
Dumbass Things I've Done Lately Week
I've often maintained that if a person is going to go around pointing fingers at the foibles of others, it's only fair for that person to occasionally take a look at some of their own. So, in continuance of our trend of not heaping on the "bad" patrons so much, let's spend a little time looking at some of the dumbass things I've done lately...
Friday, August 31, 2007
David Cronenberg films I'd prefer patrons didn't see
The tech boys were in recently to install some new patron computers. In the process of making updates, though, they managed to ditch the passwords from all but one of the remaining old computers, so now patrons can log themselves on willy nilly, and do. (For some reason, the techies don't seem to care if patrons have immediate unregistered access to the computers, but they won't give us the admin passwords to make any changes to the systems we see fit.)
Now the only computer that still has a password is a recycled computer we had lying around. Trouble is, we've used a couple of different logins during its lifetime and damn if any of us can remember it on the first try. This is why former Newbie Greenhorn Ms. M called me away from an important "liberry" quest to assist her when she couldn't get it to log on for a patron.
"I keep trying the usual username and password, but it just freezes like that." She pointed to the screen, where the login box was grayed out as the computer considered whether or not it would accept the password she'd just entered. We watched it, along with the young lady who was waiting for it. After thirty seconds, or so, it refused to accept the password and popped me back to the login box. I tried a new password and the box grayed out for another thirty seconds before refusing once again.
During this time, I noticed that the young lady who was waiting for the computer—a late high school or maybe early college-aged girl, seated nearby—was staring at me and not in a good way. It wasn't exactly the hairy eyeball, but there was something in her expression that clearly wasn't rating me very highly. Sure, I was an employee who evidently didn't know his own password and was therefore making her wait far longer than she might have liked to get to her MySpac3 on, but the look seemed to go beyond even that offense. Did I smell bad? Did I have a booger on my face? What?
The log in box finally ungrayed, I tried another combination, the box grayed out again, and I received yet another baleful look from the patron. Only after the box cleared, another 30 seconds later, did I recall that this particular computer actually took a different login than the one we'd been using. I typed the proper one in and managed to guess the right password for it and the system loaded just fine.
"There ya go," I said to the girl.
I left the computer bank, determined to return to my important "liberry" quest, which was to find a toilet plunger and have a look at the men's restroom toilet. An earlier patron had reported that it wasn't flushing properly and suggested a plunging was in order. I found the plunger, stepped into the restroom, plunged the toilet, but didn't find any real problem with it flushing before or after. While I was there, though, I figured I'd take the bowl for a test-drive and have a wee myself. Only when I went to unzip my fly, I found it preunzipped for my convenience.
Chills of horror ran up my spine as I did the math and realized that the young lady at the computer had likely noticed this and disapproved. Not only that, but her seated perspective had been at about my crotch height. My cows were fortunately still tucked in the barn behind the safety of their boxer-brief barn door, so it wasn't like I'd been flashing her, but still it couldn't have looked good.
What was protocol in this situation? Should I go and apologize? No, I'd technically done nothing wrong, intentional or otherwise and apologizing for it would just draw more attention to it and might bring up questions as to whether or not it had actualy been unintentional.
For a minute I considered just staying in the bathroom until she left. Then, looking in the mirror, I noticed that with my arms at my sides, my untucked t-shirt actually covered most of my crotchal area. Even from her crotch-high POV, the chances of seeing that my fly had been unzipped weren't really that great. She might not have seen it at all. Then again, she had been staring daggers at me.
I left my sanctuary and returned to work, hopeful that the chick had just been annoyed that she was having to deal with a moron who didn't know his own password rather than a moron who didn't know his own password and who was additionally trying to show off his junk.
Now the only computer that still has a password is a recycled computer we had lying around. Trouble is, we've used a couple of different logins during its lifetime and damn if any of us can remember it on the first try. This is why former Newbie Greenhorn Ms. M called me away from an important "liberry" quest to assist her when she couldn't get it to log on for a patron.
"I keep trying the usual username and password, but it just freezes like that." She pointed to the screen, where the login box was grayed out as the computer considered whether or not it would accept the password she'd just entered. We watched it, along with the young lady who was waiting for it. After thirty seconds, or so, it refused to accept the password and popped me back to the login box. I tried a new password and the box grayed out for another thirty seconds before refusing once again.
During this time, I noticed that the young lady who was waiting for the computer—a late high school or maybe early college-aged girl, seated nearby—was staring at me and not in a good way. It wasn't exactly the hairy eyeball, but there was something in her expression that clearly wasn't rating me very highly. Sure, I was an employee who evidently didn't know his own password and was therefore making her wait far longer than she might have liked to get to her MySpac3 on, but the look seemed to go beyond even that offense. Did I smell bad? Did I have a booger on my face? What?
The log in box finally ungrayed, I tried another combination, the box grayed out again, and I received yet another baleful look from the patron. Only after the box cleared, another 30 seconds later, did I recall that this particular computer actually took a different login than the one we'd been using. I typed the proper one in and managed to guess the right password for it and the system loaded just fine.
"There ya go," I said to the girl.
I left the computer bank, determined to return to my important "liberry" quest, which was to find a toilet plunger and have a look at the men's restroom toilet. An earlier patron had reported that it wasn't flushing properly and suggested a plunging was in order. I found the plunger, stepped into the restroom, plunged the toilet, but didn't find any real problem with it flushing before or after. While I was there, though, I figured I'd take the bowl for a test-drive and have a wee myself. Only when I went to unzip my fly, I found it preunzipped for my convenience.
Chills of horror ran up my spine as I did the math and realized that the young lady at the computer had likely noticed this and disapproved. Not only that, but her seated perspective had been at about my crotch height. My cows were fortunately still tucked in the barn behind the safety of their boxer-brief barn door, so it wasn't like I'd been flashing her, but still it couldn't have looked good.
What was protocol in this situation? Should I go and apologize? No, I'd technically done nothing wrong, intentional or otherwise and apologizing for it would just draw more attention to it and might bring up questions as to whether or not it had actualy been unintentional.
For a minute I considered just staying in the bathroom until she left. Then, looking in the mirror, I noticed that with my arms at my sides, my untucked t-shirt actually covered most of my crotchal area. Even from her crotch-high POV, the chances of seeing that my fly had been unzipped weren't really that great. She might not have seen it at all. Then again, she had been staring daggers at me.
I left my sanctuary and returned to work, hopeful that the chick had just been annoyed that she was having to deal with a moron who didn't know his own password rather than a moron who didn't know his own password and who was additionally trying to show off his junk.
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
Further Confessions of a Complete Goober
My moms in law is in town this week. As always, it's been fantastic! See, Ma likes to spoil us with comfort foods, including such favorites as blackberry cobbler, strawberry rhubarb crisp and her world-famous banana pudding. Also, because Ma can't stand a mess, our house is more or less spotless. I tell you, there's no downside.
Since I had the day off, and since Ma was around to provide me with transportation, I decided to take my car to the repair shop down the road to have a few of its many ailments seen to. I walked back, resumed my day off and soon discussions turned to what we were to have for dinner. We didn't have quite all of the ingredients for the chicken alfredo pizza Ma had proposed, so I agreed to take her car and head out to the store.
"I'll probably stop by the gym, first," I told her. Gotta work off some of this cobbler, after all.
I unlocked Ma's vehicle using the key fob button on her keychain, but found I couldn't open the driver's side door. Ma had warned me, though, that her driver's side door doesn't always open via the handle, so I would have to go around and open it from the passenger side. This I did.
On arriving at the gym, I found myself with a dilemma. Ma's keychain is a massive construction, largely due to the commercial-kitchen-sized canister of pepper spray she lugs around on it. Now, I have no problems going to the store and buying maxi-pads or tampons or Midol or any of the other things most guys typically have issues with being sent to the store to buy. I just don't see what the big deal is about it; after all, no one is going to assume I'm buying such items for myself, but, instead, will assume that I'm buying them for a girlfriend or wife, further indicating that I am equipped with a woman and therefore not a complete loser.
That said, damn if I was lugging a big ol' can of pepper spray into the gym on a set of gargantu-girly keys. Instead, I removed the vehicle's key from the key chain, clipped it to my own keys and went in to work out.
Afterward, I returned to Ma's car where I again had to open the driver's side door from the passenger side. I didn't even have to use the key, though, for I'd left the car unlocked.
At the grocery store, I decided to leave my MP3 player in the car. To make sure that it was still there when I returned, I hit the door lock and headed on into the store. Some 20 minutes later, I emerged, laden with groceries, and attempted to unlock the driver's side door with Ma's key. The key barely made it half-way into the lock before stopping. No amount of wiggling would allow it any further.
Oh, that's the broken door, I thought. I then tried the passenger door and had the same result. No deal.
Aw, shit, I thought. I've locked myself out of the car. How dumb. My MP3 player stared up at me from the passenger seat, as did the enormous can of pepper spray and the magic door unlocking key fob clipped to it. I stood there for a minute, the sun beating down on me, my two canisters of Minute Maid concentrated orange juice mix thawing in the plastic bags at my side. Then I dug out my cell and phoned Ma.
I've had to confess a lot of dumb things to my mother-in-law over the years. For instance, there was the time I drove from Tupelo, MS, to Hickory, NC, to see Ashley, but took a wrong turn in Atlanta and wound up taking I-75 instead of I-85. Unfortunately, I was in Chattanooga before I realized my mistake. I knew I'd need to phone Ashley to let her know I would be late, but didn't have her number at work, so I had to phone Ma to get the number, at which point she interrogated the truth out of me. Not fun, but to her credit Ma did eventually let me marry her daughter despite my repeatedly proven status as a complete goober.
Ma took the door-locking incident in stride. She admitted that she wasn't sure if there was even a door key on the ring, as she always used the key fob to unlock the door. She did say that she had an emergency back up key in her pocketbook, but since there were no other vehicles at home I would have to find a way to come get it.
"Can you get a ride with someone you know there?" she asked.
Oddly, I had seen a handful of patrons in and around the store who knew me from the "liberry." There was Mrs. French, who is a patron I like a lot and have worked with in local theatrical productions, but I'd just seen her drive away as I arrived at the car. There was also Mabel, a lady who used to be one of our resident amateur geneal0gists before Gene Gene the Geneal0gy Machine usurped her throne. I'd seen her heading into the store on my way out. And, unfortunately, there was also Mr. Perfect.
I've only written about Mr. W. Perfect peripherally in the past. He's a patron of ours who's a nice enough guy, but distinguishes himself through his insistence on using only W0rd Perfect for his word processing. He loves W0rd Perfect and, given the opportunity, will go on and on about it, praising Corel for having created the program in the first place, lecturing us on how it has enriched his life and proclaiming his undying devotion to it. I personally hate W0rd Perfect, mostly because of Corel's insistence of refusing to use the same keyboard commands as other, superior products and generally being in league with the devil. I therefore find such devotion to it irritating and kind of creepy. Whatever. Unfortunately for Mr. Perfect, only one of our patron computers still has W0rd Perfect on it and he tends to only need to use it when that computer is otherwise taken. He's always very cool about it and never raises a stink, but often fills any amount of time he has to wait for it with flowerly soliloquies about how grateful he is to live on the same planet as W0rd Perfect and his barely platonic love for the program.
Even as I stood there in the parking lot, I spied Mr. Perfect approaching his own car. I considered going over and asking him for help, but asking someone to drive you home and then back was kind of a big favor to ask, particularly of someone you're not friends with in the first place. I didn't imagine he would turn me down, or anything, but I really didn't want to owe Mr. Perfect any favors. There are patrons I like, patrons I don't like, patrons I tolerate and patrons I'm more or less indifferent to. I'm indifferent to Mr. Perfect, other than that whole vaguely creepy feeling about his lust for W0rd Perfect. But our relationship is pretty much one of cordial distance and I like it that way and don't want to upset that balance.
As I watched, Mr. Perfect opened the hood of his car and began staring into his engine. Ah, great. So he too had car problems. Maybe he was just putting in new oil.
I turned away and began searching the wheel wells for the magnetic key holder that Ma had said had been hidden in one of them at some point in the past. I didn't find it in any of them, so I lay on the pavement to check beneath the car itself, trying to ignore the strange looks I was receiving from passers by.
I considered my options. I could try calling my insurance agency, but I didn't think they would pay for a locksmith to open someone else's car. I then considered phoning Mrs. A or Mrs. C and asking them to come over. They'd probably do it, but I hated to have to ask. I could just sit there and wait for Ashley to get off from work, but she's working out of town this month so a wait for her return would be fairly lengthy. I could walk home. As the crow flies, I didn't live very far away, but there was really no crow-path to my house that didn't involve crossing angry-bull-inhabited fields.
I sighed and looked back over my shoulder toward Mr. Perfect's car. It was gone. In its place, however, was a new car driven by my church choir director, Martha. I almost wished Mr. Perfect had still been there, because I owe Martha pretty big already. I've not been to choir practice, let alone sang with the choir since before going to Alaska. Granted, I've been out of town a lot and our summer choir practice schedule has been fairly thin, but that choir is hurting for tenors and I haven't been out of town so often that I couldn't come in. Martha would never broach the subject, but I knew she was thinkin' it.
"Are you having trouble?" Martha asked.
"Uh huh," I said.
Upon hearing my tale of woe, Martha graciously offered to drive me home and back. My fear was that Ma's back up key would be another ignition key, but instead it was an emergency door key that unlocked the doors just fine. I thanked Martha and told her she was my guardian angel. And though it was never discussed, I estimate that it will take at least three months of regularly attended choir practices to pay off this debt.
Since I had the day off, and since Ma was around to provide me with transportation, I decided to take my car to the repair shop down the road to have a few of its many ailments seen to. I walked back, resumed my day off and soon discussions turned to what we were to have for dinner. We didn't have quite all of the ingredients for the chicken alfredo pizza Ma had proposed, so I agreed to take her car and head out to the store.
"I'll probably stop by the gym, first," I told her. Gotta work off some of this cobbler, after all.
I unlocked Ma's vehicle using the key fob button on her keychain, but found I couldn't open the driver's side door. Ma had warned me, though, that her driver's side door doesn't always open via the handle, so I would have to go around and open it from the passenger side. This I did.
On arriving at the gym, I found myself with a dilemma. Ma's keychain is a massive construction, largely due to the commercial-kitchen-sized canister of pepper spray she lugs around on it. Now, I have no problems going to the store and buying maxi-pads or tampons or Midol or any of the other things most guys typically have issues with being sent to the store to buy. I just don't see what the big deal is about it; after all, no one is going to assume I'm buying such items for myself, but, instead, will assume that I'm buying them for a girlfriend or wife, further indicating that I am equipped with a woman and therefore not a complete loser.
That said, damn if I was lugging a big ol' can of pepper spray into the gym on a set of gargantu-girly keys. Instead, I removed the vehicle's key from the key chain, clipped it to my own keys and went in to work out.
Afterward, I returned to Ma's car where I again had to open the driver's side door from the passenger side. I didn't even have to use the key, though, for I'd left the car unlocked.
At the grocery store, I decided to leave my MP3 player in the car. To make sure that it was still there when I returned, I hit the door lock and headed on into the store. Some 20 minutes later, I emerged, laden with groceries, and attempted to unlock the driver's side door with Ma's key. The key barely made it half-way into the lock before stopping. No amount of wiggling would allow it any further.
Oh, that's the broken door, I thought. I then tried the passenger door and had the same result. No deal.
Aw, shit, I thought. I've locked myself out of the car. How dumb. My MP3 player stared up at me from the passenger seat, as did the enormous can of pepper spray and the magic door unlocking key fob clipped to it. I stood there for a minute, the sun beating down on me, my two canisters of Minute Maid concentrated orange juice mix thawing in the plastic bags at my side. Then I dug out my cell and phoned Ma.
I've had to confess a lot of dumb things to my mother-in-law over the years. For instance, there was the time I drove from Tupelo, MS, to Hickory, NC, to see Ashley, but took a wrong turn in Atlanta and wound up taking I-75 instead of I-85. Unfortunately, I was in Chattanooga before I realized my mistake. I knew I'd need to phone Ashley to let her know I would be late, but didn't have her number at work, so I had to phone Ma to get the number, at which point she interrogated the truth out of me. Not fun, but to her credit Ma did eventually let me marry her daughter despite my repeatedly proven status as a complete goober.
Ma took the door-locking incident in stride. She admitted that she wasn't sure if there was even a door key on the ring, as she always used the key fob to unlock the door. She did say that she had an emergency back up key in her pocketbook, but since there were no other vehicles at home I would have to find a way to come get it.
"Can you get a ride with someone you know there?" she asked.
Oddly, I had seen a handful of patrons in and around the store who knew me from the "liberry." There was Mrs. French, who is a patron I like a lot and have worked with in local theatrical productions, but I'd just seen her drive away as I arrived at the car. There was also Mabel, a lady who used to be one of our resident amateur geneal0gists before Gene Gene the Geneal0gy Machine usurped her throne. I'd seen her heading into the store on my way out. And, unfortunately, there was also Mr. Perfect.
I've only written about Mr. W. Perfect peripherally in the past. He's a patron of ours who's a nice enough guy, but distinguishes himself through his insistence on using only W0rd Perfect for his word processing. He loves W0rd Perfect and, given the opportunity, will go on and on about it, praising Corel for having created the program in the first place, lecturing us on how it has enriched his life and proclaiming his undying devotion to it. I personally hate W0rd Perfect, mostly because of Corel's insistence of refusing to use the same keyboard commands as other, superior products and generally being in league with the devil. I therefore find such devotion to it irritating and kind of creepy. Whatever. Unfortunately for Mr. Perfect, only one of our patron computers still has W0rd Perfect on it and he tends to only need to use it when that computer is otherwise taken. He's always very cool about it and never raises a stink, but often fills any amount of time he has to wait for it with flowerly soliloquies about how grateful he is to live on the same planet as W0rd Perfect and his barely platonic love for the program.
Even as I stood there in the parking lot, I spied Mr. Perfect approaching his own car. I considered going over and asking him for help, but asking someone to drive you home and then back was kind of a big favor to ask, particularly of someone you're not friends with in the first place. I didn't imagine he would turn me down, or anything, but I really didn't want to owe Mr. Perfect any favors. There are patrons I like, patrons I don't like, patrons I tolerate and patrons I'm more or less indifferent to. I'm indifferent to Mr. Perfect, other than that whole vaguely creepy feeling about his lust for W0rd Perfect. But our relationship is pretty much one of cordial distance and I like it that way and don't want to upset that balance.
As I watched, Mr. Perfect opened the hood of his car and began staring into his engine. Ah, great. So he too had car problems. Maybe he was just putting in new oil.
I turned away and began searching the wheel wells for the magnetic key holder that Ma had said had been hidden in one of them at some point in the past. I didn't find it in any of them, so I lay on the pavement to check beneath the car itself, trying to ignore the strange looks I was receiving from passers by.
I considered my options. I could try calling my insurance agency, but I didn't think they would pay for a locksmith to open someone else's car. I then considered phoning Mrs. A or Mrs. C and asking them to come over. They'd probably do it, but I hated to have to ask. I could just sit there and wait for Ashley to get off from work, but she's working out of town this month so a wait for her return would be fairly lengthy. I could walk home. As the crow flies, I didn't live very far away, but there was really no crow-path to my house that didn't involve crossing angry-bull-inhabited fields.
I sighed and looked back over my shoulder toward Mr. Perfect's car. It was gone. In its place, however, was a new car driven by my church choir director, Martha. I almost wished Mr. Perfect had still been there, because I owe Martha pretty big already. I've not been to choir practice, let alone sang with the choir since before going to Alaska. Granted, I've been out of town a lot and our summer choir practice schedule has been fairly thin, but that choir is hurting for tenors and I haven't been out of town so often that I couldn't come in. Martha would never broach the subject, but I knew she was thinkin' it.
"Are you having trouble?" Martha asked.
"Uh huh," I said.
Upon hearing my tale of woe, Martha graciously offered to drive me home and back. My fear was that Ma's back up key would be another ignition key, but instead it was an emergency door key that unlocked the doors just fine. I thanked Martha and told her she was my guardian angel. And though it was never discussed, I estimate that it will take at least three months of regularly attended choir practices to pay off this debt.
Wednesday, January 05, 2005
Actual Telephone Conversations in Actual Libraries #12
SFX: (Phone dialing followed by ringing)
LADY: Hello?
ME: Hi this is JUICE from the TRI-METRO county library calling for Laura Bethman?
LADY: Who?
ME: (Annunciating heavily) Lau-ra Beth-man.
LADY: I'm sorry, you must have the wrong number.
ME: (Quickly comparing the number from the interlibrary loan print-out with the number I just dialed on the digital readout of our phone; it's exactly the same) Um, can I just confirm the number I dialed. Is this 555-6543?
LADY: Well, that's our number, but there's no Laura Bethman here. This is the George residence.
ME: (Reconsulting the ILL printout.) Ah, hah. I see that I have mistaken the author of the book with the patron who requested it.
LADY: Oh.
ME: So I'm actually calling for Elliot George. We have a book for him. By Laura Bethman.
LADY: Okay. I'll tell him.
LADY: Hello?
ME: Hi this is JUICE from the TRI-METRO county library calling for Laura Bethman?
LADY: Who?
ME: (Annunciating heavily) Lau-ra Beth-man.
LADY: I'm sorry, you must have the wrong number.
ME: (Quickly comparing the number from the interlibrary loan print-out with the number I just dialed on the digital readout of our phone; it's exactly the same) Um, can I just confirm the number I dialed. Is this 555-6543?
LADY: Well, that's our number, but there's no Laura Bethman here. This is the George residence.
ME: (Reconsulting the ILL printout.) Ah, hah. I see that I have mistaken the author of the book with the patron who requested it.
LADY: Oh.
ME: So I'm actually calling for Elliot George. We have a book for him. By Laura Bethman.
LADY: Okay. I'll tell him.
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