A female patron, late 30's early 40's, enters the “liberry” around 6p, clearly holding three library books. She browses for a while then approaches the desk with her three books and a stack of several other books.
OLD WHITE WOMAN PATRON IN TRAINING— I’m returning these (places three books she brought in on counter) and I want to check these out. But I don’t have my card, so I was hoping you could just check those in and bring up my account.
ME— I’m sorry, but we do need the actual card to access your record.
OWWPIT— What? But they’ve let me do this here before.
(No, we haven't, unless by "before" she actually meant, "three years ago when we used to.")
ME— I’m sorry, but our policy is that we have to have the card.
OWWPIT— (Looks around for a person of authority) Well, is anyone else here?
(Ah, I see. She can't get through me so she's going to try and go over my head. Too bad you showed up after 5p, lady, not that it would have worked.)
ME— No, it’s just us. (I indicate newbie Ms. D in staff workroom behind me.)
OWWPIT— (Most irritated) Well, what if I’d lost my card? What would you do then?
ME— (Polite as can be) We can issue a replacement card, but we do charge a dollar.
OWWPIT— (With dripping irritation) I’ll do that, then.
ME— (Sensing that she believes buying a replacement card will allow her to have TWO library cards, I add…) And if you find your old card, you should throw it away because it will no longer work.
(Pause)
OWWPIT— (Icily defeated tone) Fine.
ME— (Still bitingly polite) Very well. I just need to see a driver’s license.
OWWPIT— (Huffs in irritation) It’s in the car…
(Marches out the door to go fetch pocketbook. She returns a minute later and slaps her license on the counter and then hurls down a dollar. I look her up by name, confirm her license number in the account and pull out our two types of library card.)
ME— Would you like a wallet card or a key card?
OWWPIT— (Angry) It doesn’t matter.
(I grab a blank wallet card. I start to scan its code into her account when she stops me.)
OWWPIT— No. On second thought, I want a key card. Cause that’s what I have here.
(I look up to find the patron holding up her keychain on which is one of our key cards.)
ME— That’s your library card?
OWWPIT— I guess.
ME— Well, I’ll can just go ahead and use that.
OWWPIT— No. Just go ahead with that.
ME— But if you have your card already, I can use it.
OWWPIT— No, just go ahead. Just go.
(Long seething pause)
ME— Ma’am. If you have your library card here now, there is no reason for me to replace it. I can check your books out on it.
OWWPIT— Fine! (Practically flings her keys at me.)
(I use her key card to bring up an account, which turns out to be her son’s.)
ME— Oh, this is your son’s card.
OWWPIT— (Huffs and rolls her eyes as though this had been obvious.)
(I start to check the books out on the card, then decide that, no, I’m going to check them out on her account after all. I reopen her account, replace her library card number with the new key card, as I had been about to, then check all the books out. As I'm doing this, I realize that this was perhaps unwise, because the lady has now retrieved her dollar, creating the awkward situation in which I will have to ask for it again since I was doing a replacement card after all. I can't undo my card replacement because the new number has already been saved in place and I don't have her old one to rereplace it with. I consider just letting the matter drop and checking them out on her new card while letting her think I was checking them out on her son's card, but then there's the whole matter of the new card already having been created, plus the fact that she's been an unmitigated bitch to me. It is NOT our fault that she can't remember to bring her card with her when she wants to check out library books.)
ME— (Sliding books across desk to her) And here are your books, checked out on your new card.
(She is instantly furious and rips open her pocketbook, snatching up the dollar and flinging it onto the circ-desk. She gathers up her books and heads for the door.)
ME— (As sweet as pie) Have a good evening.
OWWPIT— (In a tone that suggests she would sooner eat dog vomit than mean it) Yeah! You have a Good! Evening! Too!
Showing posts with label Old White Women. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Old White Women. Show all posts
Thursday, July 03, 2008
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
The Perfect Storm of Extremely High-Maintainance, Needy, Old White Women (PART 2)
So I explained the whole deal with why we need the driver's license number to the Old White Woman. The OWW, of course, then reiterated having been told never to give hers to anyone at all. And rather than resorting to obstinate insistence as her weapon of choice, she instead played a different card and began blinking up at me pitifully, as though hoping I might reconsider doing my job out of sympathy.
While I understood her concern for identity protection, as far as I could see the choice was very very simple: she could either give us her number and get a card, or she could decline to give her number and we would then decline to issue her a card. I'm so completely sick of people—Old White Women especially—who insist we treat them differently than everyone else because they have a wild hair up their ass about something. Some of my fellow employees give in to such behavior, which has ALWAYS come back to bite them. I, however, would not be doing so.
I explained again to the OWW that we really did need the driver's license number before we could issue her a card. The OWW looked worried, then concerned. She then opened her wallet to its card section and started to write something in the license blank, presumably her number from her license within the wallet. Then she stopped, seemed to think better of it, scratched out what she'd started to write and withdrew the pen.
"I don't have my license with me, today," she said. Said it to my very face, she did. "Could I just call you with it from home?"
I was staggered at how dumb she thought I was. And while, on rare occasions in the past, we've allowed people to phone us with their license when they didn't have it on them, (and who the hell are all these people driving around without their %#$&ing licenses?) this lady would not be receiving that treatment. If she was allowed to leave the building without supplying it, we'd never hear of it again.
"No, ma'am," I told her.
"So I can't check anything out, then?" she said pitifully.
I began then to explain the rules of cause and effect to her, in only the politest of terms, when I was interrupted by the other Old White Woman, who stepped up to her friend's defense.
"Well, TOWN-C doesn't require a driver's license."
"Yes, ma'am, they do," I said.
Her eyes flashed, perhaps that I had dared deny the truthfulness of her claim.
"No, they don't," she said.
"Yes, ma'am. They do," I said, again remaining polite. "They're part of the same library consortium that we are and are required to take exactly the same information that we do."
The OWW thought on this and then admitted that maybe it was replacement cards they didn't require it for, as she'd recently had her card replaced there. And since she had her replaced card on her person at that very moment (Way to go, OWW!) she would simply allow her friend to check out materials on it. That was fine by me.
The above transaction took around five minutes and was actually still in progress when other patrons began to pile up behind the crew. Mrs. B took some of them at the auxiliary circ computer, but more kept coming. Some of them were giving me the stink eye, probably for not just giving in to the Old White Women's demands and speeding things along. They were even less thrilled when Tool T-Shirt finally got his application filled out and passed it over for his own card, not to mention ICP and the third kid, who were also standing there with books.
As I was processing Tool T-Shirt's card, there was a shout from the back of the line.
"Is this the line for the desk?!" a third Old White Woman said very loudly. She was standing next to a fourth, not-quite-so-Old White Woman, perhaps an apprentice. Ah, the third wave had hit and at last the storm of OWWs had reached perfection.
"Yes, ma'am," I said. I gestured to the four deep line of people directly in front of her. "I'm afraid we're a bit busy, so it may be a moment before we can help you. We have to go one person at a time." The OWW didn't huff, but looked like she really wanted to.
Soon, I had Tool T-Shirt's card finished and his book checked out. I was amazed the OWW hadn't given me crap for the fact that we didn't require a driver's license from him, but being as how he didn't have one maybe she did the math herself. I took care of the checkouts for the rest of her crew and they started to depart. And in her defense, before she left the desk the first Old White Woman thanked me for my courtesy.
The third Old White Woman was actually more of the typical loud, demanding and fairly unpleasant variety, but she held it in check for the most part. She too wanted a library card. And while she did have a license on her and was willing to supply it, she was also a recent transplant to the area and still had an out of state license with her former address. As we require proof of local address, I thought she was out of luck. She then supplied a small white name card, printed with her local contact information. Wow, she was truly an Old School OWW. I decided to let that serve and she soon left with a library card and, no doubt, some satisfaction at having won the day.
We learned later that the boys who came in with the first two OWWs were not their grandchildren at all but were actually residents of one of the local homes for troubled youth. Which means the local homes for troubled youth have now taken to employing Old White Women as minders for the troubled youth rather than the hulking linebacker types they've traditionally employed.
And that, my friends, is an astounding example of true genius at work.
While I understood her concern for identity protection, as far as I could see the choice was very very simple: she could either give us her number and get a card, or she could decline to give her number and we would then decline to issue her a card. I'm so completely sick of people—Old White Women especially—who insist we treat them differently than everyone else because they have a wild hair up their ass about something. Some of my fellow employees give in to such behavior, which has ALWAYS come back to bite them. I, however, would not be doing so.
I explained again to the OWW that we really did need the driver's license number before we could issue her a card. The OWW looked worried, then concerned. She then opened her wallet to its card section and started to write something in the license blank, presumably her number from her license within the wallet. Then she stopped, seemed to think better of it, scratched out what she'd started to write and withdrew the pen.
"I don't have my license with me, today," she said. Said it to my very face, she did. "Could I just call you with it from home?"
I was staggered at how dumb she thought I was. And while, on rare occasions in the past, we've allowed people to phone us with their license when they didn't have it on them, (and who the hell are all these people driving around without their %#$&ing licenses?) this lady would not be receiving that treatment. If she was allowed to leave the building without supplying it, we'd never hear of it again.
"No, ma'am," I told her.
"So I can't check anything out, then?" she said pitifully.
I began then to explain the rules of cause and effect to her, in only the politest of terms, when I was interrupted by the other Old White Woman, who stepped up to her friend's defense.
"Well, TOWN-C doesn't require a driver's license."
"Yes, ma'am, they do," I said.
Her eyes flashed, perhaps that I had dared deny the truthfulness of her claim.
"No, they don't," she said.
"Yes, ma'am. They do," I said, again remaining polite. "They're part of the same library consortium that we are and are required to take exactly the same information that we do."
The OWW thought on this and then admitted that maybe it was replacement cards they didn't require it for, as she'd recently had her card replaced there. And since she had her replaced card on her person at that very moment (Way to go, OWW!) she would simply allow her friend to check out materials on it. That was fine by me.
The above transaction took around five minutes and was actually still in progress when other patrons began to pile up behind the crew. Mrs. B took some of them at the auxiliary circ computer, but more kept coming. Some of them were giving me the stink eye, probably for not just giving in to the Old White Women's demands and speeding things along. They were even less thrilled when Tool T-Shirt finally got his application filled out and passed it over for his own card, not to mention ICP and the third kid, who were also standing there with books.
As I was processing Tool T-Shirt's card, there was a shout from the back of the line.
"Is this the line for the desk?!" a third Old White Woman said very loudly. She was standing next to a fourth, not-quite-so-Old White Woman, perhaps an apprentice. Ah, the third wave had hit and at last the storm of OWWs had reached perfection.
"Yes, ma'am," I said. I gestured to the four deep line of people directly in front of her. "I'm afraid we're a bit busy, so it may be a moment before we can help you. We have to go one person at a time." The OWW didn't huff, but looked like she really wanted to.
Soon, I had Tool T-Shirt's card finished and his book checked out. I was amazed the OWW hadn't given me crap for the fact that we didn't require a driver's license from him, but being as how he didn't have one maybe she did the math herself. I took care of the checkouts for the rest of her crew and they started to depart. And in her defense, before she left the desk the first Old White Woman thanked me for my courtesy.
The third Old White Woman was actually more of the typical loud, demanding and fairly unpleasant variety, but she held it in check for the most part. She too wanted a library card. And while she did have a license on her and was willing to supply it, she was also a recent transplant to the area and still had an out of state license with her former address. As we require proof of local address, I thought she was out of luck. She then supplied a small white name card, printed with her local contact information. Wow, she was truly an Old School OWW. I decided to let that serve and she soon left with a library card and, no doubt, some satisfaction at having won the day.
We learned later that the boys who came in with the first two OWWs were not their grandchildren at all but were actually residents of one of the local homes for troubled youth. Which means the local homes for troubled youth have now taken to employing Old White Women as minders for the troubled youth rather than the hulking linebacker types they've traditionally employed.
And that, my friends, is an astounding example of true genius at work.
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
The Perfect Storm of Extremely High-Maintainance, Needy, Old White Women (PART 1)
This is a tale from a few weeks back—a tale in which my co-worker Mrs. B and I were assaulted by a perfect storm of extremely high-maintenance, needy, Old White Women.
The afternoon had been going well enough until that point. We'd wrestled with the heating system, weathered a brief downpour of innanet patrons and survived the sinful temptations of a king-sized Snickers bar left in our possession by Mr. Rob, the librarian at the community college. Then, the doors opened and the first assault of Old White Women marched in.
There were two OWWs in this first wave, accompanied by a small battalion of high school-aged boys, who I initially took to be grandchildren. The OWW's didn't make trouble right away. Instead, they fell back, allowing their footsoldiers to approach the circ desk.
One of the boys, a stout lad who was dressed as though he aspired to be "Metal" but was not quite pulling it off, asked me if we had the book ICP: Behind the Paint.
"Insane Clown Posse?" I asked, shocked that the ICP were even still alive, let alone making albums or warranting books written about them. Even more shocking was that I knew what the acronym stood for without having to ask.
"Yeah," the kid said.
"No, we don't have that," I said, without even moving a finger toward the OPAC. I knew there was no way in hell Mrs. A had ever ordered that book. I then glanced at one of the kid's two fellow foot soldiers, a boy of no more than 16 who was somehow clad in a t-shirt advertising Tool's album Undertow. I began to wonder if maybe this whole group had slipped through a hole in the space/time continuum from, say, 1997.
They lurked away and the Old White Women followed them.
We thought the attack was over, but that had only been the first wave.
After fifteen minutes or so, one of the two Old White Woman returned with books on tape. Now, I'm not sure what she actually said when she approached because it was noisy around the desk, but the phrases "I don't have my card" and "look me up" were clearly heard among the other words I couldn't make out. I explained politely that we did require an actual library card to check out items. She seemed a little confused at this, though, so I began to inwardly question what she had actually said before. It might have been something like "I don't have my card so you're going to have to look me up" or could have been more of a, "I'm not sure if I'm still in your system, I don’t have my card, could you look me up and see if I need to get a new one?”
“Um… Do you have a card with us?” I asked.
“I… I did have a card. I don’t know,” the woman said.
“Well, I can look you up to see if you’re in the system, but I can’t check anything out to you without a card. Or a replacement card,” I added. I looked her up. Oddly, she didn’t have a card at all, meaning if she did at one time she was now one of the remaining holdovers from the old pre-2004 system. I "liberry"-ninja-flipped her an application and a pen. Meanwhile the boys returned to the desk each with selections. Tool T-Shirt really really wanted some book he'd found and was trying to demonstrate his excitement about it to the OWW. He'd read the first page and everything and loved it! The first OWW told him he could get his own card after she'd received hers.
I started in making her card, that is until I reached the blank line where a driver's license number should go. She might be an Old White Woman, but she didn't look old enough to have never had one nor to have had hers taken away yet. I asked her about it.
"Oh, do you really need that?" she asked. "My credit-protection service warned me never to give it out."
I'd been waiting for this moment. I'd seen it coming. And here was where I would make my stand.
(TO BE CONTINUED...)
The afternoon had been going well enough until that point. We'd wrestled with the heating system, weathered a brief downpour of innanet patrons and survived the sinful temptations of a king-sized Snickers bar left in our possession by Mr. Rob, the librarian at the community college. Then, the doors opened and the first assault of Old White Women marched in.
There were two OWWs in this first wave, accompanied by a small battalion of high school-aged boys, who I initially took to be grandchildren. The OWW's didn't make trouble right away. Instead, they fell back, allowing their footsoldiers to approach the circ desk.
One of the boys, a stout lad who was dressed as though he aspired to be "Metal" but was not quite pulling it off, asked me if we had the book ICP: Behind the Paint.
"Insane Clown Posse?" I asked, shocked that the ICP were even still alive, let alone making albums or warranting books written about them. Even more shocking was that I knew what the acronym stood for without having to ask.
"Yeah," the kid said.
"No, we don't have that," I said, without even moving a finger toward the OPAC. I knew there was no way in hell Mrs. A had ever ordered that book. I then glanced at one of the kid's two fellow foot soldiers, a boy of no more than 16 who was somehow clad in a t-shirt advertising Tool's album Undertow. I began to wonder if maybe this whole group had slipped through a hole in the space/time continuum from, say, 1997.
They lurked away and the Old White Women followed them.
We thought the attack was over, but that had only been the first wave.
After fifteen minutes or so, one of the two Old White Woman returned with books on tape. Now, I'm not sure what she actually said when she approached because it was noisy around the desk, but the phrases "I don't have my card" and "look me up" were clearly heard among the other words I couldn't make out. I explained politely that we did require an actual library card to check out items. She seemed a little confused at this, though, so I began to inwardly question what she had actually said before. It might have been something like "I don't have my card so you're going to have to look me up" or could have been more of a, "I'm not sure if I'm still in your system, I don’t have my card, could you look me up and see if I need to get a new one?”
“Um… Do you have a card with us?” I asked.
“I… I did have a card. I don’t know,” the woman said.
“Well, I can look you up to see if you’re in the system, but I can’t check anything out to you without a card. Or a replacement card,” I added. I looked her up. Oddly, she didn’t have a card at all, meaning if she did at one time she was now one of the remaining holdovers from the old pre-2004 system. I "liberry"-ninja-flipped her an application and a pen. Meanwhile the boys returned to the desk each with selections. Tool T-Shirt really really wanted some book he'd found and was trying to demonstrate his excitement about it to the OWW. He'd read the first page and everything and loved it! The first OWW told him he could get his own card after she'd received hers.
I started in making her card, that is until I reached the blank line where a driver's license number should go. She might be an Old White Woman, but she didn't look old enough to have never had one nor to have had hers taken away yet. I asked her about it.
"Oh, do you really need that?" she asked. "My credit-protection service warned me never to give it out."
I'd been waiting for this moment. I'd seen it coming. And here was where I would make my stand.
(TO BE CONTINUED...)
Monday, January 07, 2008
"Liberry" Glossary: Old White Women
Old White Women
-collective noun
-collective noun
A loose affiliation of elderly Caucasian females who continually demonstrate themselves to be the fussiest, least easy-to-please human beings on the planet. Members of the Old White Women collective come well-armored with a thick and chitinous shell of entitlement that cannot be cracked by mere mortals. They are either used to people jumping at their merest whim or are forever longing for the days of yore when people jumped at their merest whim. They are completely unaccustomed to not getting their way and being told they cannot do that which they wish to do and become quite put out when such situations inevitably occur. Their most favored attack posture in these circumstances is a deftly-wielded, razor-sharp, obstinate insistence that they be allowed to do whatever it is they want to do anyway and despite all logic and policy that might say otherwise. Very often, it is all the weaponry they need, for it can be a powerful force indeed. The most frequent obstacle they face at the "liberry," therefore, is their inability to check out library materials without their library card or the requirement of a drivers license number to get said card. Old White Women are rarely seen to be happy about anything at all.
While there is no obvious organizational structure to their ranks, (much as in the case with a similar loose affiliation of the elderly, The Grampy Patrol) there is definitely something of an exclusive membership present. Membership in the order of Old White Women is not compulsory by any means, for the vast majority of the world's population of both old women and white women are not members. However, membership in the ranks of the Old White Women does seem to be dependent upon being both old and white. Wealth and privilege is also a traditional characteristic of the membership majority, particularly at levels which elevate the individual old white woman above the reality experienced by most other human beings. Abbreviations: OWW (Old White Women); OWL (Old White Lady/Ladies)
(Famous Old White Women: Mrs. Owl, Mrs. Delva Poopoohead of the New England Poopooheads, Mrs. Manic, Mrs. Carol Satan, Hillary Clinton, Queen Elizabeth II)
(Honoray Old White Women: Ann Coulter, Mr. Crab)
Monday, September 10, 2007
Actual Conversations Heard in Actual Libraries #90
(SETTING: My "Liberry" where an Early Middle-Aged White Lady approaches the circ desk.)
EARLY MIDDLE-AGED WHITE LADY— Can I have two tickets for LOCAL EVENT WE'RE SELLING TICKETS FOR?
ME— Sure thing. (Gets tickets) That will be $50.
EMAWL— (Plunks down a credit card)
ME— I'm sorry, ma'am but...
EMAWL— (Irritated, yet still making this as a statement and not an inquiry) You can't take them.
ME— I'm afraid not.
EMAWL— (Fishes in pocketbook) I don't see how you can't take them. How do you ever deal with fund-raising if you can't take them?
(Not being rude enough to say, "Most people just write us a check," I merely shrug. The lady frowns and plunks down $60 cash and I fetch her $10 change. Meanwhile her husband, a regular book-reading patron who has always been nice to us, approaches the circ desk, book selection and library card in hand.)
EMAWL— (Peers over her husband's offered card) I suppose I need a library card as well.
ME— Sure thing. I can whip one up for you quick.
(While she's filling out her application, I check out her husband's book. It occurs to me that while this early middle-aged white lady is still a good twenty years away from being "old", she's well on her way to becoming an Old White Woman all the same. She clearly has the attitude of entitlement brewing away in a great heaping kettle on the stovetop of her persona. This being the case, I know that when she reaches the line on our application requiring a driver's license, she's going to gift me with a consignment of shit. And as with most Old White Women, this consignment will not be delivered due to any sort of mistrust of giving us that particular information, but will be due to her deep-seated feeling that she, herself, should be immune from having to supply it. She'll be fine with it on a conceptual level and is probably content with everyone else in the world supplying it; she just doesn't think SHE should have to on a strictly personal level.)
EMAWL— (Reaching the driver's license blank and pausing there, pen hovering in the air, eyebrow raised...) So, if I don't have a driver's license, I can't have a library card?
(I start to explain our reasoning behind requiring that unique identification number, but can tell from her expression that nothing I have to say on the matter is of any consequence to her. My salvation comes from her husband, who at that moment interrupts her, adopting the perfect tone of a man who's not going to put up with his wife's unnecessary crap THIS time, and says...)
HUSBAND— But ya DO have one.
(I detect an icy chill in the air following this, but the Early Middle-Aged White Lady has no counter-argument that can defeat this logic. Instead, she sniffs, writes down her number and passes me the form. Shortly she departs with her new card, which I'm absolutely certain will never, EVER be used.)
EARLY MIDDLE-AGED WHITE LADY— Can I have two tickets for LOCAL EVENT WE'RE SELLING TICKETS FOR?
ME— Sure thing. (Gets tickets) That will be $50.
EMAWL— (Plunks down a credit card)
ME— I'm sorry, ma'am but...
EMAWL— (Irritated, yet still making this as a statement and not an inquiry) You can't take them.
ME— I'm afraid not.
EMAWL— (Fishes in pocketbook) I don't see how you can't take them. How do you ever deal with fund-raising if you can't take them?
(Not being rude enough to say, "Most people just write us a check," I merely shrug. The lady frowns and plunks down $60 cash and I fetch her $10 change. Meanwhile her husband, a regular book-reading patron who has always been nice to us, approaches the circ desk, book selection and library card in hand.)
EMAWL— (Peers over her husband's offered card) I suppose I need a library card as well.
ME— Sure thing. I can whip one up for you quick.
(While she's filling out her application, I check out her husband's book. It occurs to me that while this early middle-aged white lady is still a good twenty years away from being "old", she's well on her way to becoming an Old White Woman all the same. She clearly has the attitude of entitlement brewing away in a great heaping kettle on the stovetop of her persona. This being the case, I know that when she reaches the line on our application requiring a driver's license, she's going to gift me with a consignment of shit. And as with most Old White Women, this consignment will not be delivered due to any sort of mistrust of giving us that particular information, but will be due to her deep-seated feeling that she, herself, should be immune from having to supply it. She'll be fine with it on a conceptual level and is probably content with everyone else in the world supplying it; she just doesn't think SHE should have to on a strictly personal level.)
EMAWL— (Reaching the driver's license blank and pausing there, pen hovering in the air, eyebrow raised...) So, if I don't have a driver's license, I can't have a library card?
(I start to explain our reasoning behind requiring that unique identification number, but can tell from her expression that nothing I have to say on the matter is of any consequence to her. My salvation comes from her husband, who at that moment interrupts her, adopting the perfect tone of a man who's not going to put up with his wife's unnecessary crap THIS time, and says...)
HUSBAND— But ya DO have one.
(I detect an icy chill in the air following this, but the Early Middle-Aged White Lady has no counter-argument that can defeat this logic. Instead, she sniffs, writes down her number and passes me the form. Shortly she departs with her new card, which I'm absolutely certain will never, EVER be used.)
Wednesday, August 25, 2004
The Manglehoffen Bluff
One of our semi-frequent patrons, Mrs. Manglehoffen (not her real
name) came in yesterday. She dropped her books on the circulation desk
and went to browse some while I checked them in. One by one, the books
checked in bringing up her name on my screen as they did.
Presently, Mrs. Manglehoffen wanted to search for some interlibrary loans and asked if I could look them up for her. Sure thing. I helped her out, found the books at other libraries and put ILL requests in for them. Meanwhile, Mrs. Manglehoffen had picked out a few new books and walked up to the desk to check them out.
"Do you have your card?" I asked.
"My card? Oh, no. I don't. But I'm in there," she said, pointing to my screen. "It's Stella Manglehoffen."
"I'm sorry, but we do require an actual card to check out books now."
Mrs. Manglehoffen stared at me for a second, making some careful calculations. "I don't have a card," she repeated.
"Yes, ma'am. I realize you don't have your card, but we do require that you have it to check out books."
"But I'm in there," she said.
"Yes, ma'am. But we do need a card. If you like, we can hold your books here at the desk and you can look for it."
"Oh, no. That won't do," she said. "I don't have time to come back to town tonight."
I was fully prepared for Mrs. Manglehoffen to do the typical Old White Lady Stands There Staring at You, Waiting for you to Accede to her Wishes bit, but she didn't even try it on for size. She just stacked her books neatly on top of one another and slid them to one side of the desk and left the building. She wasn't even angry about it, which I thought was mighty nice of her. I felt a little bit bad for her, but we've really been cracking down on actual physical card presence recently.
A couple of weeks ago, Mrs. A allowed a patron to check out books without a card due to the fact that Mrs. A had forgotten to close out the patron's record and it was already on the screen. That patron rewarded her generosity by going around to other area libraries and telling them that we'd let her check out without a card, so why were they getting so snotty about requiring one? The libraries then, in turn, got snotty with us about it, so we've been card Nazis ever since.
A few minutes later Mrs. Manglehoffen reappeared at the desk. She had her purse out and had evidently been searching through it, as she was clutching several stray pieces of paper that she likely found during the search.
"I've looked. I don't have one," she said.
I started to explain to her once again that I understood that she didn't have it with her, but that she couldn't check out without it when she stopped me and threw a new wrinkle into the mix.
"No, I mean don't have one at all," Mrs. Manglehoffen said. "I was never given a card."
Did my ears deceive me? Was she really trying this? Was this really the hand she was attempting to bluff her way through with?
"Uh, yes, ma'am, you were," I said.
"No. No. I never got a card."
"Ma'am, when I checked your books in, your name came up on my screen. That means you DO have a card with us."
"No, I never got one," Mrs. Manglehoffen said again. "She wouldn't give me one that day because I didn't have my drivers license."
By "she" Mrs. Manglehoffen likely meant Mrs. A, who wasn't there to defend herself. Didn't matter, because I've witnessed Mrs. A issue plenty of cards to people who forgot their drivers licenses, telling them to phone the number in later. We're not in the business of entering patrons into the database and then not giving them their cards. Occasionally, we've had patrons walk off and forget their cards, at which point we save them in a little card box at the desk, but Mrs. Manglehoffen was not one of them. I checked.
I tried to explain all this to Mrs. Manglehoffen, but she didn't care. She just wanted a new card.
Fine! But I wasn't giving it away for free. We're already getting plenty of people who "forget" to bring their cards and suddenly claim that they've "lost" the card in order to get a new one and check out books. So we've decided to charge them $1 for the first replacement card and $5 for each additional. I explained this to Mrs. Manglehoffen and she forked out a dollar for her new card, no arguments at all.
After Mrs. Manglehoffen had left, Mrs. C stepped over from her desk, where she'd kept herself deeply involved in a telephone conversation while all this had gone on. She suggested a very real possibility for why Mrs. Manglehoffen didn't have her card. It seems earlier in the week, our very own Mrs. J was attempting to check out books and was lamenting that she had already managed to lose her own card. She'd looked everywhere for it, searched her purse inside and out, trashed her house trying to find it and came up blank.
Mrs. B had just smiled as Mrs. J told her story, then said, "It's on your keys."
Sure enough, Mrs. J had one of our key-card models instead of the full-size wallet card. I'm willing to bet Mrs. Manglehoffen does too.
D-MINUS: 9
Presently, Mrs. Manglehoffen wanted to search for some interlibrary loans and asked if I could look them up for her. Sure thing. I helped her out, found the books at other libraries and put ILL requests in for them. Meanwhile, Mrs. Manglehoffen had picked out a few new books and walked up to the desk to check them out.
"Do you have your card?" I asked.
"My card? Oh, no. I don't. But I'm in there," she said, pointing to my screen. "It's Stella Manglehoffen."
"I'm sorry, but we do require an actual card to check out books now."
Mrs. Manglehoffen stared at me for a second, making some careful calculations. "I don't have a card," she repeated.
"Yes, ma'am. I realize you don't have your card, but we do require that you have it to check out books."
"But I'm in there," she said.
"Yes, ma'am. But we do need a card. If you like, we can hold your books here at the desk and you can look for it."
"Oh, no. That won't do," she said. "I don't have time to come back to town tonight."
I was fully prepared for Mrs. Manglehoffen to do the typical Old White Lady Stands There Staring at You, Waiting for you to Accede to her Wishes bit, but she didn't even try it on for size. She just stacked her books neatly on top of one another and slid them to one side of the desk and left the building. She wasn't even angry about it, which I thought was mighty nice of her. I felt a little bit bad for her, but we've really been cracking down on actual physical card presence recently.
A couple of weeks ago, Mrs. A allowed a patron to check out books without a card due to the fact that Mrs. A had forgotten to close out the patron's record and it was already on the screen. That patron rewarded her generosity by going around to other area libraries and telling them that we'd let her check out without a card, so why were they getting so snotty about requiring one? The libraries then, in turn, got snotty with us about it, so we've been card Nazis ever since.
A few minutes later Mrs. Manglehoffen reappeared at the desk. She had her purse out and had evidently been searching through it, as she was clutching several stray pieces of paper that she likely found during the search.
"I've looked. I don't have one," she said.
I started to explain to her once again that I understood that she didn't have it with her, but that she couldn't check out without it when she stopped me and threw a new wrinkle into the mix.
"No, I mean don't have one at all," Mrs. Manglehoffen said. "I was never given a card."
Did my ears deceive me? Was she really trying this? Was this really the hand she was attempting to bluff her way through with?
"Uh, yes, ma'am, you were," I said.
"No. No. I never got a card."
"Ma'am, when I checked your books in, your name came up on my screen. That means you DO have a card with us."
"No, I never got one," Mrs. Manglehoffen said again. "She wouldn't give me one that day because I didn't have my drivers license."
By "she" Mrs. Manglehoffen likely meant Mrs. A, who wasn't there to defend herself. Didn't matter, because I've witnessed Mrs. A issue plenty of cards to people who forgot their drivers licenses, telling them to phone the number in later. We're not in the business of entering patrons into the database and then not giving them their cards. Occasionally, we've had patrons walk off and forget their cards, at which point we save them in a little card box at the desk, but Mrs. Manglehoffen was not one of them. I checked.
I tried to explain all this to Mrs. Manglehoffen, but she didn't care. She just wanted a new card.
Fine! But I wasn't giving it away for free. We're already getting plenty of people who "forget" to bring their cards and suddenly claim that they've "lost" the card in order to get a new one and check out books. So we've decided to charge them $1 for the first replacement card and $5 for each additional. I explained this to Mrs. Manglehoffen and she forked out a dollar for her new card, no arguments at all.
After Mrs. Manglehoffen had left, Mrs. C stepped over from her desk, where she'd kept herself deeply involved in a telephone conversation while all this had gone on. She suggested a very real possibility for why Mrs. Manglehoffen didn't have her card. It seems earlier in the week, our very own Mrs. J was attempting to check out books and was lamenting that she had already managed to lose her own card. She'd looked everywhere for it, searched her purse inside and out, trashed her house trying to find it and came up blank.
Mrs. B had just smiled as Mrs. J told her story, then said, "It's on your keys."
Sure enough, Mrs. J had one of our key-card models instead of the full-size wallet card. I'm willing to bet Mrs. Manglehoffen does too.
D-MINUS: 9
Monday, August 09, 2004
Boy, someone needs a nap
Our major problem patron of the day was a
middle-aged lady who seemed somehow offended that all of our computers
were full and she couldn't immediately have one. Offended. That's the best way I can
think to describe her ire. I told her she could have one in two
minutes, when Mr. B-Natural's time ran out. I said this in earshot of
Mr. B-Natural, though I didn't mention him by name. Happily, he took it
as the hint it was meant to be and relinquished his computer without
having to be asked. I put her on it and started the timer for her half
hour.
Slightly over half an hour later, we had another rush on the computers and I went back to tell her that her time was up. Again, she was instantly offended.
"But I'm not out of time!" she said.
"Yes, ma'am. I'm afraid you are."
"No, I'm not."
"Ma'am, I was timing you. You got over half an hour."
"Well, I'm used to getting the full hour," she huffed.
"Ma'am, we give patrons half an hour."
"Every time I've come here I've gotten a full hour!"
"That may be the case, ma'am, but it was probably because we don't ask patrons to get off unless someone is waiting."
The woman adopted an even huffier tone. "Well, I've never been told there was a half hour limit."
I calmly reached over and flipped down the orange sign taped to the monitor and pointed to the line that said "TIME LIMIT: 30 MINUTES." I was waiting for her to say that she hadn't seen it, just so I could say that I wasn't responsible for glaringly obvious policy signs that our patrons don't read. (Course, that's technically not true, as I was responsible for creating that particular policy sign that patrons never read.) She declined to go that route. Instead, she took a much more childish one.
"But I'm not finished. I have a lot more to read here and my husband won't be back to pick me up for another half hour!"
My voice remained admirably calm as I said, "Regardless, ma'am, we DO have someone waiting to use this computer and your time IS up." Then I turned and walked away. If she wanted to argue more, she could do so without me. It's the same tactic I used to use on Mr. B-Natural, back when he was a much surlier patron.
Within a minute, the lady had signed off and stomped up front. Just to further irritate her, I decided to continue being terribly nice to her. I cheerfully told her she could sign on for another computer, since we'd have one opening up in about ten minutes. She groused that she wouldn't have enough time, since her husband was coming to get her soon. That's when I realized the joke was on me, since she was going to determinedly stand there in the middle of the room and wait for him for the full half-hour, subjecting me to her unpleasantness. Fortunately, hubby turned up early, but not before she could try to make sour prune small talk, inquiring about the best time of day to try and use the internet here and how she went to college with Mrs. A, my boss.
If that was meant as a veiled threat, I'm not threatened. Mrs. A does not suffer grumpy fools lightly, and I can't imagine her actually being friends with such a grumpy fool as this woman,let alone getting angry with me that I hadn't let her grumpy "friend" violate library policy.
Slightly over half an hour later, we had another rush on the computers and I went back to tell her that her time was up. Again, she was instantly offended.
"But I'm not out of time!" she said.
"Yes, ma'am. I'm afraid you are."
"No, I'm not."
"Ma'am, I was timing you. You got over half an hour."
"Well, I'm used to getting the full hour," she huffed.
"Ma'am, we give patrons half an hour."
"Every time I've come here I've gotten a full hour!"
"That may be the case, ma'am, but it was probably because we don't ask patrons to get off unless someone is waiting."
The woman adopted an even huffier tone. "Well, I've never been told there was a half hour limit."
I calmly reached over and flipped down the orange sign taped to the monitor and pointed to the line that said "TIME LIMIT: 30 MINUTES." I was waiting for her to say that she hadn't seen it, just so I could say that I wasn't responsible for glaringly obvious policy signs that our patrons don't read. (Course, that's technically not true, as I was responsible for creating that particular policy sign that patrons never read.) She declined to go that route. Instead, she took a much more childish one.
"But I'm not finished. I have a lot more to read here and my husband won't be back to pick me up for another half hour!"
My voice remained admirably calm as I said, "Regardless, ma'am, we DO have someone waiting to use this computer and your time IS up." Then I turned and walked away. If she wanted to argue more, she could do so without me. It's the same tactic I used to use on Mr. B-Natural, back when he was a much surlier patron.
Within a minute, the lady had signed off and stomped up front. Just to further irritate her, I decided to continue being terribly nice to her. I cheerfully told her she could sign on for another computer, since we'd have one opening up in about ten minutes. She groused that she wouldn't have enough time, since her husband was coming to get her soon. That's when I realized the joke was on me, since she was going to determinedly stand there in the middle of the room and wait for him for the full half-hour, subjecting me to her unpleasantness. Fortunately, hubby turned up early, but not before she could try to make sour prune small talk, inquiring about the best time of day to try and use the internet here and how she went to college with Mrs. A, my boss.
If that was meant as a veiled threat, I'm not threatened. Mrs. A does not suffer grumpy fools lightly, and I can't imagine her actually being friends with such a grumpy fool as this woman,let alone getting angry with me that I hadn't let her grumpy "friend" violate library policy.
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