I arrived at 1p. Except for Ms. M, everyone else had gone to lunch and she was scheduled to leave when I arrived.
"So I guess I won't see you again?" she said sadly.
"Aw. I'll be back," I said. "I've got some web work still to do, so I'll probably be in next week."
Plus, there's the matter of the going away party that Mrs. A said she wants to throw but which will have to wait a couple weeks, cause she's out of town and I'm moving next week. The wife will still be in the area through the end of the month, though, so it won't be any big deal for me to pop over.
Soon Ms. D returned from lunch. She brought me a bag of coffee beans from a local coffee house.
"I asked the guy if he knew you and what kind of coffee you liked," Ms. D said. "He said he knew you, but had no idea on the coffee, so I got you house blend."
It's perfect.
The rest of my final day on the job went fairly smoothly with cameos by some classic "characters" from the blog.
The Bakers put in an early appearance and I told them it was my final day. They were happy for the wife's opportunity in Borderland, but sad to see me go. I'll miss them too. The kids have all practically grown up in the near 7 years I've been at the library. Oldest daughter, Katherine, is off to college. Middle child Brianna has changed from being a whiny, indecisive middle schooler and has blossomed into quite a stunning young lad. And next time I see little Olive, she'll probably be driving.
Mr. B-Natural came in a couple of times. The computers were glutted on his first visit, but he was able to negotiate with Gene Gene the Geneal0gy Machine for use of Gene's computer "for five minutes" just to check something, so Gene wouldn't have to get off. Of course, Gene's intense desire for innanet suckling only lasted about three minutes before he decided he would just leave because Mr. B-Natural was taking too long. Later Gene.
Not long after, two members of my other all-time-favorite family, The Asners, came in to pay for a fine and renew a book. It didn't occur to me in the moment, but I really should have told them that they were my favorite family. I've actually told them as much in the past, mentioning that they were a pleasure to deal with every time I saw them, but it would have been a nice parting to mention it again.
Mid-afternoon, after using the excuse of setting up the downstairs multi-purpose room for an upcoming seminar to head downstairs for a bit, Mrs. C, Mrs. B and Ms. D returned with a giant cheese cake variety pack.
"You didn't think you were getting out of here without some sort of celebration, did you?" Mrs. C asked.
"This is awesome!" I said. "Thanks."
And it was quite awesome cheesecake. We all feasted heartily.
The afternoon saw further cameos by the usual innanet crowd, including Mr. W. Perfect, Cleveland, the Hacker Family, Old Man Printer, and Germophobe Gary, who didn't even ask for a Clorox Wipe. I was really hoping for an appearance by Cap'n Crossdresser or maybe even the ghost of the Purple Nun, but at least Parka didn't show up.
And, toward the end of the day, another long lost "liberry" family member turned up in the form of Rif, the formerly high school-aged home school kid who used to hang out in the library with his sister Magenta. Rif's now a junior in college studying sports-management. His sister Magenta graduated college this year.
My duties today included checking the shelves for overdues, one last time; folding up and preparing the overdues for mailing, one last time; stuffing fund-drive envelopes, one last time; processing new magazines, one last time; and rearranging those magazines in our magazine shelf which is, as always, plagued on a daily basis by people who have no concept of putting periodicals back where they found them instead of cramming them in at random.
My final check out of the day was The Calder Game, by Blue Balliett, checked out to my writer friend Linda.
Before I clocked out, I took all of my remaining red shelving slips and pinned them to the staff bulletin board with a note that read "This color is now retired." I then gathered up my satchel ("It's not a manpurse, dammit!"), and my toiletries (toothbrush, tooth paste, bottle of Cetaphil, hair gunk, mouthwash, defunk, etc.) from my locker. I then affixed to my bag my locker's mini-post-it label of JUICE TWO-BELTS. I grabbed the remainder of my cheesecake and headed out the staff workroom door toward my car.
On my way out, I noticed that I'd left my pot of hens & chicks by the back door. I thought of stopping to get them, but I can catch `em next time. I'm not done with this place yet.
I'm also not done with this blog. There are still a few tales left to tell, not to mention a move (or two) to commence.
Showing posts with label Mr. Perfect. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mr. Perfect. Show all posts
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Monday, June 23, 2008
Actual Conversations Heard in Actual Libraries #138
SETTING: My "liberry" at the start of the Monday workday. I've taken two armloads of books from our book return when I realize the thing is as full as it could possibly be and not vomit books out of it's door. Instead of making eight trips, I figure it'll be easier to take the removable wheeled book bin from inside the book return housing and roll it inside. The only trouble with this is, it's unbelievably squeaky. My trip across the paving stones outside and then across the tile inside sounded like this...
*SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE*
*clunkCLUNKclunkCLUNK**SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE*
(opens outer door)
*CLUNKCLUNK*
*SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**clunkCLUNKclunkCLUNK*
(opens inner door)
(opens inner door)
*CLUNKCLUNK*
*SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE*(The entirety of the library's population stares at me in deep irritation at the enormity of the sound I am causing)
ME— (Looks up, shrugs) The world's loudest book return.
(Now I can either abandon the thing at the door, or drag it the rest of the way to the circ desk.)
*SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE*
*clunkCLUNKclunkCLUNK*ME— Should probably oil that.
*SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE*
*clunkCLUNKclunkCLUNK*
MS. M— You can probably put some WD-40 on those wheels.
*SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE*
*clunkCLUNKclunkCLUNK*
ME— Yeah, I know. That's what I said.
*SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE*
*clunkCLUNKclunkCLUNK*
MR. W. PERFECT— (Says something I can't hear over the noise)
ME— What?!
*SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE*
*clunkCLUNKclunkCLUNK*
*clunkCLUNKclunkCLUNK*
MR. W. PERFECT— (Shouting) You should probably oil those wheels!
ME— Yeah! I know! That's what I said!
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
The Poop List Regains a Lost Member
Yes indeedy, annoying patron Ms. Green is back on the poop list. I don't understand how a human being who is so reliant on computers to do just about everything she comes to the library to do can be so inept at operating them.
I should have known it was going to be a bad day of it with her when her kid asked to borrow the phone, called home and told his mother that he'd found a book he wanted and would be needing "the library card," and could she bring it with her when she came to pick him up? Understand, Ms. Green and her two kids have had MULTIPLE LIBRARY CARDS each throughout the years we've had our current circulation system, but now they've apparently lost all but one of them. Nice.
At around a half hour to our Monday five o'clock closing time, Ms. Green herself arrived, signed up for a computer and began typing something in Word. The other computers were packed solid with patrons, so much so that at twenty minutes from closing I had to boot Gene Gene the Geneal0gy Machine off for yet another new arrival patron. I then announced to the entire innanet crowd that we were indeed closing at five and so they would have only ten more minutes of innanet time before I needed to shut down their computers. And I noted at that moment that each of these people instantly became very concentrated on not wrapping up their shit.
At pretty much ten `til close, Ms. Green waved me over to help her. She wanted to print the document she'd composed once, then make some changes to it and print it again. However, despite all the school reports she's written and printed for her kid over the past few months, she claimed she didn't know how to print the current one. So I showed her again how to do so and then showed her how to click on the OK button in the print dialog box.
Nothing happened.
I stepped over to the printer, expecting it to be out of paper, but it was full and seemed to be at the ready. I asked Ms. Green if she'd truly hit OK and she said she had. She then tried to print a couple more times just to show me.
"Listen. Don't hit print any more. I don't know what's wrong with the printer, but it will just print multiple copies of your page when it finally starts printing if you keep doing that and we will have to charge you for them." To prevent this, I opened up the print queue on her machine and canceled out the jobs. I then personally hit print again and waited.
Nothing happened.
Then Ms. Green tried to hit print again and I had to stop her, though not by the method that immediately came to my mind. Meanwhile, it was now five minutes until closing time, which was five minutes after I had told everyone they needed to be off. Not a soul had moved. After all, I was helping another patron with a computer problem and if she got to stay on the computer, so could they. I reiterated to them that we were nearly closed. Only then did one of them begin to wrap up their shit.
"I don't know why this isn't printing," I told Ms. Green.
"So, can I save it?"
Knowing full well the answer to what I was about to say: "Only if you have a disc or a jump drive. If you save it to the machine, it will be erased when we shut it down."
"Well, can I email it to you?"
Also knowing where this was headed. "You should probably just email it to yourself."
"I know, but I tried to access my Verizon account here and I can't get into it unless I'm at home."
"Then I don't know what to tell you," I said. "If you can't access your email from our computers, then it's hard to email it to anyone."
Granted, I could have logged onto my own email and emailed it to myself, or to her, or to Al Gore, but I really wasn't feeling like being very helpful to helpless people who've been through this very situation multiple times in the past and have clearly not learned anything from the journey. I've suggested she get a Gmail account several times before, but she's not heeded, so this was the consequence.
After noting for Ms. Green that she should not try printing any more, I marched back to the printer and hit the GO button, just for shits and grins. Instantly it said it had a job in the hopper, but indicated it required legal-size paper in order to proceed. Now, I knew that Ms. Green had not chosen legal-size paper on purpose because that was far, far, FAR beyond her capabilities. What I suspected was that our printer had lost a good bit of its mind and was in need of a reboot, for it had insisted on trying to print on legal paper for another patron earlier in the day. I overrode the insistence and it spat out Ms. Green's document on regular paper. The printer then indicated it had another job that it wanted to print on legal paper. I overrode that too and out came another copy of Ms. Green's document.
I went and gave them to Ms. Green. And while I was at the computers, I began shutting down the few empty terminals we had and pointed out to the remaining innanet crowders that we were, in fact, officially closed now. Mr. W. Perfect looked up from his conversation with another `crowder and then went right back to talking. That `crowder's wife, also on a machine, then called me over and asked me how to center the phone numbers she'd lined up on a flyer she was working on. My match-strikin' hand began to itch.
"Okay, I'm printing again," Ms. Green said. I returned to the printer, hit GO again and another copy of Ms. Green's first document came out. Another followed before her second document finally printed. Soon there were five copies of it in total. (Lady, what part of "STOP. HITTING. EFFING. PRINT." don't you understand????!!!!) I passed the pile of them over to her. She looked them over, perhaps noted the wild look in my eyes and decided not to complain about paying for multiple copies of the same document.
"I'll just need to step out to the car to get the money," she said.
Again, if you've come to the library at the crack of closing time and intend on printing ANYTHING, you must have known in advance that you would have to pay for what you were going to print. On what planet, therefore, does it make any sense to leave all your money in the car?
Meanwhile, it was now five minutes past closing time, a fact I then indicated to Mr. W. Perfect and the two remaining innanet crowders when I went to shut the rest of the computers down. They looked up at me as though this was the first they'd heard of it, but they at least began paying lip service to wrapping up their shit.
The printer light was flashing again when I returned to the circ desk. I overrode the legal size again and it was another of Ms. Green's pages. The document that followed was as well, so I canceled the next one after that and the printer gave up. Now, I don't know which of the two documents I canceled actually belonged to the OTHER innanet crowder who was printing flyers, but no more documents came out so evidently I'd canceled it, too. When they came to pick up their prints, I had to then explain to them that they were basically SOL, as nothing was printing.
"Do you still have them up on your screen?" I asked.
Nope, she's shut the machine down and logged off, cause I'd told them we were closing. Ah, so now it's doubly my fault. Fortunately, they weren't mad that all the work they'd just done had vanished and said they'd come back another day.
I never saw Ms. Green return to pay us. She'd taken her initial set of prints with her, as well. My theory is that she'd gone to the car for money, discovered there wasn't any there to begin with and had done a runner, resolving to "get us next time. " Yep, back on the poop list she goes.
After we finally got rid of Mr. Perfect, who'd hung around to watch all the chaos, and then stood around making small talk with Ms. D, it was nearly fifteen minutes after closing.
On my way to check the men's room, I passed by our local history room and noted that there was still a patron sitting at the desk within it. He wore a hearing aid, which evidently wasn't in good working order, cause he'd not heard any of my many announcements about being closed. So I tapped him on the shoulder and informed him we'd closed quite some time back and apologized that this was the first time I'd noticed him. He graciously wrapped up his research, but then wanted us to look up a few more books for him before he left. I was all for being very rude to the man and kicking him out, but Ms. D stepped in and agreed to do his searches. After five minutes of this research, though, I began to wonder if I was going to have to finally give my long-chambered AFTER-CLOSING, GET-THE-EFF-OUT speech and scream, "Excuse me, but we have been closed for TWENTY MINUTES, now! You are abusing our good will!!!! I now have no alternative but to return this abuse in full!!!! Instead, I kept my back to him and busied myself counting the cash box. Mid- way through his next search request, he paused and then said he wouldn't take any more of our time and left. Wise man.
After I'd counted the cash box, we discovered a lone dollar tucked beneath one of the barcode scanners. I don't know for sure if Ms. Green left it there when I wasn't paying attention, but I'll assume she did. It was more than enough to pay for her prints, including the ones that printed after she went to get money.
The following day, I told Mrs. A we need an emergency power cutoff switch at the circ desk for not only each individual computer but the whole lot of them as well. As it stands, we'd either have to crawl under the computer desks to turn off the power strips, or go down to the basement to unplug the data cables. I want remote control Kill Switch access and I want it now.
I should have known it was going to be a bad day of it with her when her kid asked to borrow the phone, called home and told his mother that he'd found a book he wanted and would be needing "the library card," and could she bring it with her when she came to pick him up? Understand, Ms. Green and her two kids have had MULTIPLE LIBRARY CARDS each throughout the years we've had our current circulation system, but now they've apparently lost all but one of them. Nice.
At around a half hour to our Monday five o'clock closing time, Ms. Green herself arrived, signed up for a computer and began typing something in Word. The other computers were packed solid with patrons, so much so that at twenty minutes from closing I had to boot Gene Gene the Geneal0gy Machine off for yet another new arrival patron. I then announced to the entire innanet crowd that we were indeed closing at five and so they would have only ten more minutes of innanet time before I needed to shut down their computers. And I noted at that moment that each of these people instantly became very concentrated on not wrapping up their shit.
At pretty much ten `til close, Ms. Green waved me over to help her. She wanted to print the document she'd composed once, then make some changes to it and print it again. However, despite all the school reports she's written and printed for her kid over the past few months, she claimed she didn't know how to print the current one. So I showed her again how to do so and then showed her how to click on the OK button in the print dialog box.
Nothing happened.
I stepped over to the printer, expecting it to be out of paper, but it was full and seemed to be at the ready. I asked Ms. Green if she'd truly hit OK and she said she had. She then tried to print a couple more times just to show me.
"Listen. Don't hit print any more. I don't know what's wrong with the printer, but it will just print multiple copies of your page when it finally starts printing if you keep doing that and we will have to charge you for them." To prevent this, I opened up the print queue on her machine and canceled out the jobs. I then personally hit print again and waited.
Nothing happened.
Then Ms. Green tried to hit print again and I had to stop her, though not by the method that immediately came to my mind. Meanwhile, it was now five minutes until closing time, which was five minutes after I had told everyone they needed to be off. Not a soul had moved. After all, I was helping another patron with a computer problem and if she got to stay on the computer, so could they. I reiterated to them that we were nearly closed. Only then did one of them begin to wrap up their shit.
"I don't know why this isn't printing," I told Ms. Green.
"So, can I save it?"
Knowing full well the answer to what I was about to say: "Only if you have a disc or a jump drive. If you save it to the machine, it will be erased when we shut it down."
"Well, can I email it to you?"
Also knowing where this was headed. "You should probably just email it to yourself."
"I know, but I tried to access my Verizon account here and I can't get into it unless I'm at home."
"Then I don't know what to tell you," I said. "If you can't access your email from our computers, then it's hard to email it to anyone."
Granted, I could have logged onto my own email and emailed it to myself, or to her, or to Al Gore, but I really wasn't feeling like being very helpful to helpless people who've been through this very situation multiple times in the past and have clearly not learned anything from the journey. I've suggested she get a Gmail account several times before, but she's not heeded, so this was the consequence.
After noting for Ms. Green that she should not try printing any more, I marched back to the printer and hit the GO button, just for shits and grins. Instantly it said it had a job in the hopper, but indicated it required legal-size paper in order to proceed. Now, I knew that Ms. Green had not chosen legal-size paper on purpose because that was far, far, FAR beyond her capabilities. What I suspected was that our printer had lost a good bit of its mind and was in need of a reboot, for it had insisted on trying to print on legal paper for another patron earlier in the day. I overrode the insistence and it spat out Ms. Green's document on regular paper. The printer then indicated it had another job that it wanted to print on legal paper. I overrode that too and out came another copy of Ms. Green's document.
I went and gave them to Ms. Green. And while I was at the computers, I began shutting down the few empty terminals we had and pointed out to the remaining innanet crowders that we were, in fact, officially closed now. Mr. W. Perfect looked up from his conversation with another `crowder and then went right back to talking. That `crowder's wife, also on a machine, then called me over and asked me how to center the phone numbers she'd lined up on a flyer she was working on. My match-strikin' hand began to itch.
"Okay, I'm printing again," Ms. Green said. I returned to the printer, hit GO again and another copy of Ms. Green's first document came out. Another followed before her second document finally printed. Soon there were five copies of it in total. (Lady, what part of "STOP. HITTING. EFFING. PRINT." don't you understand????!!!!) I passed the pile of them over to her. She looked them over, perhaps noted the wild look in my eyes and decided not to complain about paying for multiple copies of the same document.
"I'll just need to step out to the car to get the money," she said.
Again, if you've come to the library at the crack of closing time and intend on printing ANYTHING, you must have known in advance that you would have to pay for what you were going to print. On what planet, therefore, does it make any sense to leave all your money in the car?
Meanwhile, it was now five minutes past closing time, a fact I then indicated to Mr. W. Perfect and the two remaining innanet crowders when I went to shut the rest of the computers down. They looked up at me as though this was the first they'd heard of it, but they at least began paying lip service to wrapping up their shit.
The printer light was flashing again when I returned to the circ desk. I overrode the legal size again and it was another of Ms. Green's pages. The document that followed was as well, so I canceled the next one after that and the printer gave up. Now, I don't know which of the two documents I canceled actually belonged to the OTHER innanet crowder who was printing flyers, but no more documents came out so evidently I'd canceled it, too. When they came to pick up their prints, I had to then explain to them that they were basically SOL, as nothing was printing.
"Do you still have them up on your screen?" I asked.
Nope, she's shut the machine down and logged off, cause I'd told them we were closing. Ah, so now it's doubly my fault. Fortunately, they weren't mad that all the work they'd just done had vanished and said they'd come back another day.
I never saw Ms. Green return to pay us. She'd taken her initial set of prints with her, as well. My theory is that she'd gone to the car for money, discovered there wasn't any there to begin with and had done a runner, resolving to "get us next time. " Yep, back on the poop list she goes.
After we finally got rid of Mr. Perfect, who'd hung around to watch all the chaos, and then stood around making small talk with Ms. D, it was nearly fifteen minutes after closing.
On my way to check the men's room, I passed by our local history room and noted that there was still a patron sitting at the desk within it. He wore a hearing aid, which evidently wasn't in good working order, cause he'd not heard any of my many announcements about being closed. So I tapped him on the shoulder and informed him we'd closed quite some time back and apologized that this was the first time I'd noticed him. He graciously wrapped up his research, but then wanted us to look up a few more books for him before he left. I was all for being very rude to the man and kicking him out, but Ms. D stepped in and agreed to do his searches. After five minutes of this research, though, I began to wonder if I was going to have to finally give my long-chambered AFTER-CLOSING, GET-THE-EFF-OUT speech and scream, "Excuse me, but we have been closed for TWENTY MINUTES, now! You are abusing our good will!!!! I now have no alternative but to return this abuse in full!!!! Instead, I kept my back to him and busied myself counting the cash box. Mid- way through his next search request, he paused and then said he wouldn't take any more of our time and left. Wise man.
After I'd counted the cash box, we discovered a lone dollar tucked beneath one of the barcode scanners. I don't know for sure if Ms. Green left it there when I wasn't paying attention, but I'll assume she did. It was more than enough to pay for her prints, including the ones that printed after she went to get money.
The following day, I told Mrs. A we need an emergency power cutoff switch at the circ desk for not only each individual computer but the whole lot of them as well. As it stands, we'd either have to crawl under the computer desks to turn off the power strips, or go down to the basement to unplug the data cables. I want remote control Kill Switch access and I want it now.
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
The Great Computer Exodus (a.k.a. "Resolutions Bent")
The computers were lousy with patrons upon my arrival today. Not packed completely full, but with only a couple stations to spare. Soon, I knew, these two would fill and then I'd have to figure out who was first in line to be kicked off. I consulted our sign in sheet in advance to see. We'd already filled one sheet and moved to a new one, but there were a few as yet unhighlighted lines at the bottom of the first indicating patrons still in-house. I noted the top most one, then saw that waaaay at the top of the sheet was the signature of Mr. W. Perfect, who had been on since shortly after we opened this morning. Dadgummit.
Soon after this, I decided to do my usual mid-afternoon inspection of the men's room. Everything seemed okay on first glance, but while inspecting the stall for toilet paper, I happened to spy something within the toilet that brought my blood pressure up and alerted me to yet another visit by the Copycat Shitter. So as not to entirely break my New Year's resolution, I will not describe what I saw. However, the conversation I had with Mrs. B as I went to retrieve our cleaning kit (which is complete with Clorox Cleanup, rubber gloves and a stout bristled toilet brush) went as follows:
ME-- Y'know, we have a regular male patron here who really needs to look into eating more cheese, cause his current diet of fiber and cement is pissing me off.
MRS. B-- Eww.
ME-- It's been every day this week with this guy!
And now that I think about it, most of the recent Copycat Shitter incidents have occurred on days when Mr. Perfect has spent a great deal of time with us. Hmmmmmm.
Of course, after that crisis had been scoured away and I was about to exit the restroom, I spotted another potentially disturbing sight within the restroom which caused me to return to the staff workroom for a point of inquiry.
ME-- Please tell me that one of us has already been in the men's bathroom and poured a bunch of water in front of the urinal in preparation for cleaning the floor.
MRS. B-- Uh... not that I'm aware of.
Yes, indeedy, it was a standing urine situation, no doubt caused by one of the many clients from the local Unobstructed Doors group who had been in during the morning. And let me add that this is not the first time I've had to have that particular conversation over that exact subject.
Naturally, before I could return to the restroom, armed with a mop bucket and some Comet, some other guy had come in to have a wee and was standing in the very substance I was hoping to clean up. I had to return to the circ desk to consult with Mrs. B and Ms. D.
ME-- Do we still have our "Restroom Closed" sign?
MS. D-- I think so.
ME-- What about our "Stop pissing on the goddam floor" sign?
MS. D-- Uh, I could make you one.
When I next exited the restroom, I was astounded by an even more astounding sight than those I had just witnessed within. We had only two patrons on computers, all on one side of the computer station. Glory be, at nigh onto 2 o'clock on a weekday during Spring Break, even! Such an event is unheard of.
Mrs. C asked me to stick around the circ desk while she and Mrs. B and Ms. D went to set up our multi-purpose room. They'd barely been gone for five minutes when both computer users gave up the ghost and departed, leaving nary a single computer patron in house, but for the wifi crowd. This I saw as my golden opportunity to clean the hell out of the computer stations on a real indepth basis and not just a cursory wipe down. The phone then began to ring and some book-reading patrons arrived shortly thereafter, so nearly five minutes passed before I could even seek out the Pledge multi-surface and the Clorox Wipes. Just as I was about to head that way, a college-aged female walked in, glanced at the computer sign in sheet then glanced at the desolate row of computers, then up at me.
CAF-- Is there something wrong with the computers?
ME-- Nope.
CAF-- (Pause) But... but they're never empty.
ME-- I know. Astounding, isn't it?
A minute or so passed and my fellow employees returned.
ME-- You guys missed out. A minute ago, the computers were completely empty.
(We all stare at the College Aged Female, who looks back at us guiltily)
CAF-- I'm sorry.
Soon after this, I decided to do my usual mid-afternoon inspection of the men's room. Everything seemed okay on first glance, but while inspecting the stall for toilet paper, I happened to spy something within the toilet that brought my blood pressure up and alerted me to yet another visit by the Copycat Shitter. So as not to entirely break my New Year's resolution, I will not describe what I saw. However, the conversation I had with Mrs. B as I went to retrieve our cleaning kit (which is complete with Clorox Cleanup, rubber gloves and a stout bristled toilet brush) went as follows:
ME-- Y'know, we have a regular male patron here who really needs to look into eating more cheese, cause his current diet of fiber and cement is pissing me off.
MRS. B-- Eww.
ME-- It's been every day this week with this guy!
And now that I think about it, most of the recent Copycat Shitter incidents have occurred on days when Mr. Perfect has spent a great deal of time with us. Hmmmmmm.
Of course, after that crisis had been scoured away and I was about to exit the restroom, I spotted another potentially disturbing sight within the restroom which caused me to return to the staff workroom for a point of inquiry.
ME-- Please tell me that one of us has already been in the men's bathroom and poured a bunch of water in front of the urinal in preparation for cleaning the floor.
MRS. B-- Uh... not that I'm aware of.
Yes, indeedy, it was a standing urine situation, no doubt caused by one of the many clients from the local Unobstructed Doors group who had been in during the morning. And let me add that this is not the first time I've had to have that particular conversation over that exact subject.
Naturally, before I could return to the restroom, armed with a mop bucket and some Comet, some other guy had come in to have a wee and was standing in the very substance I was hoping to clean up. I had to return to the circ desk to consult with Mrs. B and Ms. D.
ME-- Do we still have our "Restroom Closed" sign?
MS. D-- I think so.
ME-- What about our "Stop pissing on the goddam floor" sign?
MS. D-- Uh, I could make you one.
When I next exited the restroom, I was astounded by an even more astounding sight than those I had just witnessed within. We had only two patrons on computers, all on one side of the computer station. Glory be, at nigh onto 2 o'clock on a weekday during Spring Break, even! Such an event is unheard of.
Mrs. C asked me to stick around the circ desk while she and Mrs. B and Ms. D went to set up our multi-purpose room. They'd barely been gone for five minutes when both computer users gave up the ghost and departed, leaving nary a single computer patron in house, but for the wifi crowd. This I saw as my golden opportunity to clean the hell out of the computer stations on a real indepth basis and not just a cursory wipe down. The phone then began to ring and some book-reading patrons arrived shortly thereafter, so nearly five minutes passed before I could even seek out the Pledge multi-surface and the Clorox Wipes. Just as I was about to head that way, a college-aged female walked in, glanced at the computer sign in sheet then glanced at the desolate row of computers, then up at me.
CAF-- Is there something wrong with the computers?
ME-- Nope.
CAF-- (Pause) But... but they're never empty.
ME-- I know. Astounding, isn't it?
A minute or so passed and my fellow employees returned.
ME-- You guys missed out. A minute ago, the computers were completely empty.
(We all stare at the College Aged Female, who looks back at us guiltily)
CAF-- I'm sorry.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Body Check!
I body checked a rogue patron today.
Well, okay, I didn't body check them exactly. But I did hit one pretty squarely in the chest with my elbow. And I didn't apologize for it.
According to my fellow employees, we had absolutely no patron traffic in the building for nearly the first hour of our workday. At 9:45 a.m., Mr. Perfect arrived to use a computer. Like the Pied Piper of Hamlin, the innanet crowd followed in behind him and the computers remained completely packed for the next several hours. (And when Mr. Perfect finally left our building at nearly 4 o'clock in the afternoon, Mrs. C told him that we blamed him for the crowd, as they had not arrived until he did. "Please take them with you," I urged. He declined.)
By the time I arrived Mrs. C and Mrs. A were nuts from keeping up with the computers. Mrs. C, anxious to pass the crazy baton along, told me the patron on computer #6 was the next one scheduled to be booted if someone came in. And who should arrive at that moment but Mr. B-Natural.
While he was signing up, I went over to computer #6 to alert the patron that we needed her computer. What I didn't know was that Mr. B-Natural had signed the clip-board in record time and was now tailgating me, as though there somehow weren't at least a minute's lagtime between the point I tell a patron we need their computer and the point where they actually get off, not to mention the whole matter of rebooting. It's like he thought I was going to rip her out of the chair and offer it to him right then. So after I broke the news to the patron and turned back to the desk, Mr. B-Natural was RIGHT ON MY HEELS and I wound up elbowing him in the solar plexus completely by accident.
If it had been nearly anyone else, I would have apologized profusely, but my thought at the time was that getting elbowed was Mr. B-Natual's own damn fault since he was practically up my ass to begin with. I walked away without a word and he didn't complain beyond a slight "oof!" after being struck.
I told the wife about this later. She said my behavior was very rude and that I was a horrible person.
"But it was only a little very rude," I said.
"No. It was very very rude."
"But only a little."
"Nope. Very."
I think I probably lost that one.
Well, okay, I didn't body check them exactly. But I did hit one pretty squarely in the chest with my elbow. And I didn't apologize for it.
According to my fellow employees, we had absolutely no patron traffic in the building for nearly the first hour of our workday. At 9:45 a.m., Mr. Perfect arrived to use a computer. Like the Pied Piper of Hamlin, the innanet crowd followed in behind him and the computers remained completely packed for the next several hours. (And when Mr. Perfect finally left our building at nearly 4 o'clock in the afternoon, Mrs. C told him that we blamed him for the crowd, as they had not arrived until he did. "Please take them with you," I urged. He declined.)
By the time I arrived Mrs. C and Mrs. A were nuts from keeping up with the computers. Mrs. C, anxious to pass the crazy baton along, told me the patron on computer #6 was the next one scheduled to be booted if someone came in. And who should arrive at that moment but Mr. B-Natural.
While he was signing up, I went over to computer #6 to alert the patron that we needed her computer. What I didn't know was that Mr. B-Natural had signed the clip-board in record time and was now tailgating me, as though there somehow weren't at least a minute's lagtime between the point I tell a patron we need their computer and the point where they actually get off, not to mention the whole matter of rebooting. It's like he thought I was going to rip her out of the chair and offer it to him right then. So after I broke the news to the patron and turned back to the desk, Mr. B-Natural was RIGHT ON MY HEELS and I wound up elbowing him in the solar plexus completely by accident.
If it had been nearly anyone else, I would have apologized profusely, but my thought at the time was that getting elbowed was Mr. B-Natual's own damn fault since he was practically up my ass to begin with. I walked away without a word and he didn't complain beyond a slight "oof!" after being struck.
I told the wife about this later. She said my behavior was very rude and that I was a horrible person.
"But it was only a little very rude," I said.
"No. It was very very rude."
"But only a little."
"Nope. Very."
I think I probably lost that one.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Perfect Returns
We woke up to four inches of snow. My Alaska-raised wife was overjoyed. Me, not so much. And, not long after waking, Mrs. C phoned to ask if I could come in a couple hours early. We've apparently been inundated with computer patrons every afternoon this week and it's been difficult to wrangle them all with one less staff member. I didn't think there would be all that many computer users on such a snowy day, but if anyone's going to take their lives into their hands and brave icy roads to check email it's the innanet crowd.
The computers were less than half full when I arrived, but one of the fillers was Mr. Perfect. This was fine with me, though, because Mr. Perfect has been a pretty ideal patron as of late. He's proven himself a pleasant enough guy who is always friendly toward the staff and who has not complained about our continued lack of W0rd Perfect on the patron computers in months. (And, as he's not brought up that subject for months now, I've not felt the urge to set him on fire for months now either.)
Hours passed uneventfully and we weren't overwhelmed with `pooter people. The snow had done its job.
Mr. Perfect went away for a couple of hours, but returned mid-afternoon to continue whatever project it was he was working on. He'd only been back for an hour or so, though, when he approached the circ desk with a familiar frustrated gleam in his eye. I knew right away exactly which hoary old dog turd he was about to dig up and drop on the desk before me.
"Is there NO WAY the library can get W0rd Perfect for these computers?" he asked.
"I don't really see that happening," I told him. I've told him this a couple of times before, which is exactly what I've been told by my boss the times I've broached the subject on his behalf.
"This is driving me CRAZY!" he said.
Mr. Perfect explained that he was working away on his document in Micr0soft W0rd, but was very frustrated that W0rd kept helpfully trying to alter his formatting for him to put everything in lists. He claimed he had set the program to stop doing this in the formatting menus, yet it kept doing it anyway. He said he'd already cleared all formatting once before, forcing him to go in and redo all his formatting choices, only to have W0rd continue to cram it into new and unwanted shapes for him--something his blessed W0rd Perfect would never ever do. I had to agree that it sounded very frustrating.
After looking at his document and hearing his explanations, though, I saw his problem. Mr. Perfect doesn't understand how W0rd, or indeed word-processors in general, work. Sure, you can go into the guts of the program and tell it to stop offering formatting suggestions, but that in no way affects the formatting changes already present in a given document. Furthermore, any program alterations you make in the guts of W0rd are only in place for that particular program in that particular computer at that particular moment and do not save into the document itself. As soon as you move to another computer, which Mr. Perfect had already done at least once today, all those settings reset to default, which is to offer formatting suggestions.
I tried to explain all this to him, but he just became more and more angry that W0rd wouldn't just do what he wanted it to do and clearly wasn't listening. He kept repeating that he had changed the settings, then showing me how he'd changed the settings, and repeating how it still wasn't working. Again, I tried to reach him, to get the message through into his brain that any formatting alterations W0rd made for him, while admittedly annoying, could easily be removed with only a little effort. If he saw formatting on the screen that offended him, he did not, as he kept insisting, have to clear all formatting and start over. I then showed him how he could instead use the mouse to highlight the portion of text in question, pull down the Style dropdown in the toolbar and select Clear Formatting. That would wipe all suggestions from W0rd for that particular highlighted portion and he could make it do what he wanted from there, sans suggestions.
Mr. Perfect still wasn't listening. He began raising his voice in bellowing tones of irritation, saying things like, "Why won't it just let me do what I want to do?!! I just want to type this!!!"
A lady working at a laptop at a nearby table called Mr. Perfect by name and suggested he take a Valium. Then the only other computer patron, a woman in her 30s seated on the opposite side of the row from him, said, "I have an Ativan out in my truck."
Mr. Perfect declined both suggestions. And since I'd already fixed his onscreen problem of the moment, he dismissed me and I returned to the circ desk.
My down time was brief. Soon, he beckoned me over again and showed me how W0rd was insisting on putting things into list formatting for him and how it was driving him crazy and how he wished he could just type what he wanted and how he couldn't see what setting in the formatting menus he had set incorrectly. Again, I attempted to explain how the formatting menus would not help him for preexisting formatting problems. He might have fixed the previous offending paragraph, but as soon as he touched one lower down that W0rd had already decided was of a specialized format, he was back in the poop. And, again, I showed him exactly how to rid himself of the problem at hand with a two step process, but he still refused to listen.
"I just want to type this!!! Why won't it let me just type this?!!!" he shouted. Then he paused and looked around him. "I'm glad there aren't very many people here tonight, because I don't like to go off like this in public. It's just driving me SO CRAZY!"
The patron across from him reiterated her offer of an Ativan. My fingers began itching for a cigarette lighter, so I walked away. I'd told him everything he needed to know about fixing his problem and if he didn't want to listen that was his business.
I did sort of felt sorry for him. Sort of. I truly do know how infuriating it can be when you can't get a shitty word processor to do your bidding; after all, I've occasionally had to use W0rd Perfect. But for all his fury about it, it was essentially his own fault. The document in question had begun life as a W0rd Perfect document and had then been translated into W0rd format and with each new bed-partner it gathered unto itself invisible little formatting instructions that would forever be there. The only thing I could think of to remedy this was to cut all the text out, paste it into a Notepad .txt file, save it, reopen it and paste it into a brand new W0rd document, change all the settings in the guts that he liked, and then reformat the whole thing how he wanted. I did not offer this solution to him. I knew it was beyond him and he wouldn't listen anyway. He was too far gone.
By the end of his evening with us, Mr. Perfect had recruited the help of the Ativan-offering patron, who claimed she was Micr0soft certified and could easily show him what to do. From the circ-desk, I watched in amusement as she reexplained to him all the things I'd already explained to him. As this had exactly the same result as when I'd done it, though, she attempted to reexplain it all again. She worked and worked for nearly 20 minutes, but after his third throwing up of hands and reutterance of "I just want to type this!!! Why won't it let me just type this?!!!", she too gave up on him. In the end, she returned to her own computer and suggested he give it a rest for the night and go home for a hot bath.
Mr. Perfect seemed to like this suggestion, for he left a few minutes later.
The computers were less than half full when I arrived, but one of the fillers was Mr. Perfect. This was fine with me, though, because Mr. Perfect has been a pretty ideal patron as of late. He's proven himself a pleasant enough guy who is always friendly toward the staff and who has not complained about our continued lack of W0rd Perfect on the patron computers in months. (And, as he's not brought up that subject for months now, I've not felt the urge to set him on fire for months now either.)
Hours passed uneventfully and we weren't overwhelmed with `pooter people. The snow had done its job.
Mr. Perfect went away for a couple of hours, but returned mid-afternoon to continue whatever project it was he was working on. He'd only been back for an hour or so, though, when he approached the circ desk with a familiar frustrated gleam in his eye. I knew right away exactly which hoary old dog turd he was about to dig up and drop on the desk before me.
"Is there NO WAY the library can get W0rd Perfect for these computers?" he asked.
"I don't really see that happening," I told him. I've told him this a couple of times before, which is exactly what I've been told by my boss the times I've broached the subject on his behalf.
"This is driving me CRAZY!" he said.
Mr. Perfect explained that he was working away on his document in Micr0soft W0rd, but was very frustrated that W0rd kept helpfully trying to alter his formatting for him to put everything in lists. He claimed he had set the program to stop doing this in the formatting menus, yet it kept doing it anyway. He said he'd already cleared all formatting once before, forcing him to go in and redo all his formatting choices, only to have W0rd continue to cram it into new and unwanted shapes for him--something his blessed W0rd Perfect would never ever do. I had to agree that it sounded very frustrating.
After looking at his document and hearing his explanations, though, I saw his problem. Mr. Perfect doesn't understand how W0rd, or indeed word-processors in general, work. Sure, you can go into the guts of the program and tell it to stop offering formatting suggestions, but that in no way affects the formatting changes already present in a given document. Furthermore, any program alterations you make in the guts of W0rd are only in place for that particular program in that particular computer at that particular moment and do not save into the document itself. As soon as you move to another computer, which Mr. Perfect had already done at least once today, all those settings reset to default, which is to offer formatting suggestions.
I tried to explain all this to him, but he just became more and more angry that W0rd wouldn't just do what he wanted it to do and clearly wasn't listening. He kept repeating that he had changed the settings, then showing me how he'd changed the settings, and repeating how it still wasn't working. Again, I tried to reach him, to get the message through into his brain that any formatting alterations W0rd made for him, while admittedly annoying, could easily be removed with only a little effort. If he saw formatting on the screen that offended him, he did not, as he kept insisting, have to clear all formatting and start over. I then showed him how he could instead use the mouse to highlight the portion of text in question, pull down the Style dropdown in the toolbar and select Clear Formatting. That would wipe all suggestions from W0rd for that particular highlighted portion and he could make it do what he wanted from there, sans suggestions.
Mr. Perfect still wasn't listening. He began raising his voice in bellowing tones of irritation, saying things like, "Why won't it just let me do what I want to do?!! I just want to type this!!!"
A lady working at a laptop at a nearby table called Mr. Perfect by name and suggested he take a Valium. Then the only other computer patron, a woman in her 30s seated on the opposite side of the row from him, said, "I have an Ativan out in my truck."
Mr. Perfect declined both suggestions. And since I'd already fixed his onscreen problem of the moment, he dismissed me and I returned to the circ desk.
My down time was brief. Soon, he beckoned me over again and showed me how W0rd was insisting on putting things into list formatting for him and how it was driving him crazy and how he wished he could just type what he wanted and how he couldn't see what setting in the formatting menus he had set incorrectly. Again, I attempted to explain how the formatting menus would not help him for preexisting formatting problems. He might have fixed the previous offending paragraph, but as soon as he touched one lower down that W0rd had already decided was of a specialized format, he was back in the poop. And, again, I showed him exactly how to rid himself of the problem at hand with a two step process, but he still refused to listen.
"I just want to type this!!! Why won't it let me just type this?!!!" he shouted. Then he paused and looked around him. "I'm glad there aren't very many people here tonight, because I don't like to go off like this in public. It's just driving me SO CRAZY!"
The patron across from him reiterated her offer of an Ativan. My fingers began itching for a cigarette lighter, so I walked away. I'd told him everything he needed to know about fixing his problem and if he didn't want to listen that was his business.
I did sort of felt sorry for him. Sort of. I truly do know how infuriating it can be when you can't get a shitty word processor to do your bidding; after all, I've occasionally had to use W0rd Perfect. But for all his fury about it, it was essentially his own fault. The document in question had begun life as a W0rd Perfect document and had then been translated into W0rd format and with each new bed-partner it gathered unto itself invisible little formatting instructions that would forever be there. The only thing I could think of to remedy this was to cut all the text out, paste it into a Notepad .txt file, save it, reopen it and paste it into a brand new W0rd document, change all the settings in the guts that he liked, and then reformat the whole thing how he wanted. I did not offer this solution to him. I knew it was beyond him and he wouldn't listen anyway. He was too far gone.
By the end of his evening with us, Mr. Perfect had recruited the help of the Ativan-offering patron, who claimed she was Micr0soft certified and could easily show him what to do. From the circ-desk, I watched in amusement as she reexplained to him all the things I'd already explained to him. As this had exactly the same result as when I'd done it, though, she attempted to reexplain it all again. She worked and worked for nearly 20 minutes, but after his third throwing up of hands and reutterance of "I just want to type this!!! Why won't it let me just type this?!!!", she too gave up on him. In the end, she returned to her own computer and suggested he give it a rest for the night and go home for a hot bath.
Mr. Perfect seemed to like this suggestion, for he left a few minutes later.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Dear Mr. Perfect...
...I realize that you are in deep, abiding and passionate love with the word processing program W0rd Perfect.
I realize that you adore this program to a degree bordering on and possibly crossing into a religious fervor.
I realize that you miss W0rd Perfect dearly, having gone so long without seeing it on the majority of our patron computers.
I realize that you feel all other word processors are lesser programs that have only come to wide use due to a conspiracy instigated by Micr0soft in which they prefer to bundle their own suite of programs with their own operating system and do their best to block all other programs from being used, even if and possibly because, as you believe, those other programs are superior in all respects to the dreaded 0ffice suite.
I realize that while your great love of W0rd Perfect is currently chaste and chivalrous in nature, I suspect you would indeed make sweet sweet love to it if only we had the technology.
I realize these things. You do not have to explain them to me... YET. AGAIN.
I now need for you to realize that while we do still have one remaining patron computer that contains W0rd Perfect, it is currently in use by Matilde the Cranky Wiccan and I will not bust her off of it merely to allow you to suckle at your lusty, Corel-spawned teat.
No.
Please also realize that while I have spoken on your behalf to my superiors and have asked if there was any chance we could see our way fit to purchase and install W0rd Perfect on all our computers, I did so not out of any service-oriented nature but merely in the hope that if we granted your wish you might finally shut the f*ck up about it. I have since been informed by my superiors that this "ain't gonna happen," which I believe I have explained to you on one previous occasion already. Purchasing said program for each of the patron computers would be costly and redundant as those computers already contain a word-processing program that is, to our way of thinking, far superior to your particular choice of unrequited visual affection, which, incidentally, blows more goats than Halle Berry's Catwoman.
Also, note that I in no way believe that granting your wish would actually accomplish our ultimate goal of getting you to shut the aforementioned f*ck up. In fact, I am fairly certain that doing so would only lead to lengthy sessions of proselytizing to the staff, and any other patrons unfortunate enough to stray too close, as to the wonderfulness of your electronic dream-bride and how unworthy Micr0soft W0rd is of sharing four of the same letters in her name.
Please also realize that I have exhausted the avenues available to me to do anything to help you and am leaving the responsibility for bothering my superiors on this particular issue entirely in your hands from this point forward. In other words, I would appreciate it if you would leave me the hell alone about it.
You should do this, if not for my sake, then for your own...
...for there is one last thing I wish you were capable of realizing, but that I know you are not...
...you, sir, have no idea the mental gymnastics I have to go through in order to keep my limbs within my control and prevent them from setting you aflame every time you bring up your favorite topic. I do not know how much longer I can stave off the commands of the voices whispering in my head. If you must return to bother me some more, please, for your own protection, do so only while wearing fire-retardant clothing. Some kevlar couldn't hurt either.
Your greatest fan for ever and ever (but only if you go away for ever and ever),
--juice
I realize that you adore this program to a degree bordering on and possibly crossing into a religious fervor.
I realize that you miss W0rd Perfect dearly, having gone so long without seeing it on the majority of our patron computers.
I realize that you feel all other word processors are lesser programs that have only come to wide use due to a conspiracy instigated by Micr0soft in which they prefer to bundle their own suite of programs with their own operating system and do their best to block all other programs from being used, even if and possibly because, as you believe, those other programs are superior in all respects to the dreaded 0ffice suite.
I realize that while your great love of W0rd Perfect is currently chaste and chivalrous in nature, I suspect you would indeed make sweet sweet love to it if only we had the technology.
I realize these things. You do not have to explain them to me... YET. AGAIN.
I now need for you to realize that while we do still have one remaining patron computer that contains W0rd Perfect, it is currently in use by Matilde the Cranky Wiccan and I will not bust her off of it merely to allow you to suckle at your lusty, Corel-spawned teat.
No.
Please also realize that while I have spoken on your behalf to my superiors and have asked if there was any chance we could see our way fit to purchase and install W0rd Perfect on all our computers, I did so not out of any service-oriented nature but merely in the hope that if we granted your wish you might finally shut the f*ck up about it. I have since been informed by my superiors that this "ain't gonna happen," which I believe I have explained to you on one previous occasion already. Purchasing said program for each of the patron computers would be costly and redundant as those computers already contain a word-processing program that is, to our way of thinking, far superior to your particular choice of unrequited visual affection, which, incidentally, blows more goats than Halle Berry's Catwoman.
Also, note that I in no way believe that granting your wish would actually accomplish our ultimate goal of getting you to shut the aforementioned f*ck up. In fact, I am fairly certain that doing so would only lead to lengthy sessions of proselytizing to the staff, and any other patrons unfortunate enough to stray too close, as to the wonderfulness of your electronic dream-bride and how unworthy Micr0soft W0rd is of sharing four of the same letters in her name.
Please also realize that I have exhausted the avenues available to me to do anything to help you and am leaving the responsibility for bothering my superiors on this particular issue entirely in your hands from this point forward. In other words, I would appreciate it if you would leave me the hell alone about it.
You should do this, if not for my sake, then for your own...
...for there is one last thing I wish you were capable of realizing, but that I know you are not...
...you, sir, have no idea the mental gymnastics I have to go through in order to keep my limbs within my control and prevent them from setting you aflame every time you bring up your favorite topic. I do not know how much longer I can stave off the commands of the voices whispering in my head. If you must return to bother me some more, please, for your own protection, do so only while wearing fire-retardant clothing. Some kevlar couldn't hurt either.
Your greatest fan for ever and ever (but only if you go away for ever and ever),
--juice
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.
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