SETTING: MY "LIBERRY", YESTERDAY.
MRS. C: Hey, JUICE. Got an internet question for you.
ME: Okay.
MRS. C: What's a blog?
(My
heart does that thing where it stops beating for several seconds. All
the blood backs up into my eyes making them go all tingley and stuff.
Mrs. C walks over with a piece of paper that turns out to be from some
library-related place, possibly from the library commission, but I
didn't get a good look at it cause I was too busy trying to get my
blood-engorged eyes to focus on anything that might look like it leads
back to me. I can't find anything. Finally, I see that Mrs. C is
pointing to a listing for Blogs that's nestled among those for other
such online creatures.)
ME: (Adopting what I hope is a nonchalant tone.) They're like online journals.
MRS. C: Oh, like diaries.
ME: Yeah.
MRS. C: (Taking paper away.) Okay. I just wondered and figured you would know.
Friday, March 11, 2005
Thursday, March 10, 2005
I'll take "Albums By the Police" for $400, Alex
Despite the many many times I've seen it
happen, it still never fails to astonish me when we the "liberry" staff
can be talking about a person we haven't seen in months only to have
them walk through the door hours or even minutes later. I call it Don't Say The Name, It Gives Them Power syndrome.
Wednesday afternoon, the subject of Conspiracy Guy came up. I don't even recall how it came up, exactly. I think Mrs. B was telling Mrs. A about Conspiracy Guy's last appearance as an example of patrons who get upset when asked to provide a driver's license number to get a library card. We all laughed.
Two hours later, after the rest of the staff had departed for the day, in he walked. It almost startled me to see him, as though he had known we were talking about him and was coming in to get angry about it. Nope.
"Do you guys have one of those... um. It's about this big," he said, holding his hands out about two feet apart, "and you use it to... You put the pages together and it clips them with the little plastic thing?"
"Uhhhh, do you mean one of those report covers, with the clear cover and the little plastic clip on the end?"
"No. No. This is big. About this big." Again, with the hands out. "You bind pages together with it, for like, booklets."
"Mmmm, I don't think so."
"They're about $100 bucks—more than a person could really pay for. The college used to have one, but theirs is broke. Do you guys have one?"
"Uh, no. No, I don't think so," I said again, still not entirely sure what he was talking about. Conspiracy Guy just stood there looking at me for ten seconds or so, as though I was suddenly going to realize that, Oh! Yes, indeed we do have such a device. And, what do ya know, here it is behind the counter! You can have it!
"No, that doesn't sound like anything we have," I added. He stared at me some more, but eventually gave up on that quest and turned toward the floor shelf where we keep our library card applications.
"Do ya'll still have that policy that you have to have a driver's license number to get a card?"
"Yes," I said. "We do still require that."
Conspiracy Guy looked like he might snarl. "That's just..." His voice trailed off, but I got the impression he was about to say "crazy."
"You know, they just passed it into law that we all have to have bio-metric drivers licenses. It's a national database."
"Yeah, I heard something about that recently, but I haven't looked into it in depth," I said. I'd actually heard exactly what he had just said, but it was in the traditional Internet Rumor Spam format, so I hadn't given it much thought.
"They said it was just the states doing it on their own, but now they've had to admit it's H0meland Secur!ty doing it. That's why I wanted the binding thing, so I could put some books together and maybe try to tell people about the rights they're about to lose. Not that they'll do anything about it."
"Ah," I said. I could feel my lips, cheeks and forehead tightening up in preparation for a good bout of stone-facedness. It was for naught, though. Conspiracy Guy turned away and said he would go have a look around upstairs. And I'm almost certain he was going to go have a look around for the mystery binding device that we were clearly hiding from him.
While he was gone, I figured I'd look into this driver's license national ID card to see what was up with it. I had heard some news stories about some standardization being legislated, but until the rumor-esque e-mail that had been circulated to me, I'd not heard about bio-metrics being legislated.
After a cursory Google search, I found a few sites with news about it, but nothing that startled me too much. I initially found: From Christian Science Monitor, Joe Huffman's Blog, International Card Manufacturer's Association, and two links to reports on how my very state of residence is jumping into the bio-metrics pool with both feet, at Find Biometrics.com and HomelandDefenseStocks.com.
I've since gone out and tried to find actual conspiracy-related links about them. Most of what I've found is about state's allowing illegal aliens to have drivers licenses, but I did find a few more traditional conspiracy pages in this vein by Googling "national i d card con spiracy". If you're interested, you can go look and make up your own mind. Most of the sites I found read like semi-delusional ramblings from people, some of whom cannot spell the word NATIONAL, jumping with great force to as many sinister conclusions as they can reach. Doesn't mean they're wrong, per se, but I have no difficulty imagining a dozen Conspiracy Guy clones sitting at their computers, banging out this stuff in between trips to their local "liberry" to inquire about the use of mystery binding-devices.
Even more alarming, many of these sites currently seem to be big supporters of Hilary in 2008.
Conspiracy guy came back down after half an hour. He declined to say anything more to me. We'd hidden his binding device too well.
Well-played, Clerks.
Wednesday afternoon, the subject of Conspiracy Guy came up. I don't even recall how it came up, exactly. I think Mrs. B was telling Mrs. A about Conspiracy Guy's last appearance as an example of patrons who get upset when asked to provide a driver's license number to get a library card. We all laughed.
Two hours later, after the rest of the staff had departed for the day, in he walked. It almost startled me to see him, as though he had known we were talking about him and was coming in to get angry about it. Nope.
"Do you guys have one of those... um. It's about this big," he said, holding his hands out about two feet apart, "and you use it to... You put the pages together and it clips them with the little plastic thing?"
"Uhhhh, do you mean one of those report covers, with the clear cover and the little plastic clip on the end?"
"No. No. This is big. About this big." Again, with the hands out. "You bind pages together with it, for like, booklets."
"Mmmm, I don't think so."
"They're about $100 bucks—more than a person could really pay for. The college used to have one, but theirs is broke. Do you guys have one?"
"Uh, no. No, I don't think so," I said again, still not entirely sure what he was talking about. Conspiracy Guy just stood there looking at me for ten seconds or so, as though I was suddenly going to realize that, Oh! Yes, indeed we do have such a device. And, what do ya know, here it is behind the counter! You can have it!
"No, that doesn't sound like anything we have," I added. He stared at me some more, but eventually gave up on that quest and turned toward the floor shelf where we keep our library card applications.
"Do ya'll still have that policy that you have to have a driver's license number to get a card?"
"Yes," I said. "We do still require that."
Conspiracy Guy looked like he might snarl. "That's just..." His voice trailed off, but I got the impression he was about to say "crazy."
"You know, they just passed it into law that we all have to have bio-metric drivers licenses. It's a national database."
"Yeah, I heard something about that recently, but I haven't looked into it in depth," I said. I'd actually heard exactly what he had just said, but it was in the traditional Internet Rumor Spam format, so I hadn't given it much thought.
"They said it was just the states doing it on their own, but now they've had to admit it's H0meland Secur!ty doing it. That's why I wanted the binding thing, so I could put some books together and maybe try to tell people about the rights they're about to lose. Not that they'll do anything about it."
"Ah," I said. I could feel my lips, cheeks and forehead tightening up in preparation for a good bout of stone-facedness. It was for naught, though. Conspiracy Guy turned away and said he would go have a look around upstairs. And I'm almost certain he was going to go have a look around for the mystery binding device that we were clearly hiding from him.
While he was gone, I figured I'd look into this driver's license national ID card to see what was up with it. I had heard some news stories about some standardization being legislated, but until the rumor-esque e-mail that had been circulated to me, I'd not heard about bio-metrics being legislated.
After a cursory Google search, I found a few sites with news about it, but nothing that startled me too much. I initially found: From Christian Science Monitor, Joe Huffman's Blog, International Card Manufacturer's Association, and two links to reports on how my very state of residence is jumping into the bio-metrics pool with both feet, at Find Biometrics.com and HomelandDefenseStocks.com.
I've since gone out and tried to find actual conspiracy-related links about them. Most of what I've found is about state's allowing illegal aliens to have drivers licenses, but I did find a few more traditional conspiracy pages in this vein by Googling "national i d card con spiracy". If you're interested, you can go look and make up your own mind. Most of the sites I found read like semi-delusional ramblings from people, some of whom cannot spell the word NATIONAL, jumping with great force to as many sinister conclusions as they can reach. Doesn't mean they're wrong, per se, but I have no difficulty imagining a dozen Conspiracy Guy clones sitting at their computers, banging out this stuff in between trips to their local "liberry" to inquire about the use of mystery binding-devices.
Even more alarming, many of these sites currently seem to be big supporters of Hilary in 2008.
Conspiracy guy came back down after half an hour. He declined to say anything more to me. We'd hidden his binding device too well.
Well-played, Clerks.
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
Parka Engulfed
At 6:35 yesterday—that’s 25 minutes to close for those playing at home—Parka rolled in for his daily online skank-chat. He didn’t even bother signing up on our clip-board at the desk. He
just followed me on back, like I was really going to let him get away
with that.
“Uh, did you sign in?” I asked.
“Oh. I forgot. Sorry,” he said.
He went back to sign in while I logged him on the little computer by the stairs. This might seem an act of malice on my part, as Parka has had a long-standing hatred for the little computer by the stairs. However, since we bought two new Dells to replace the other two patron computers a few weeks back, Parka has preferred the old one by the stairs. This is because when our tech guys set up the new machines they reset all the passwords, failed to tell us the new admin password and then promptly left town without installing Microsoft Office nor several other programs our patrons are used to having access to. In their defense, the tech’s didn’t have any of those programs with them at the time of installation. But there seems to be no timetable as to when they’re going to come back and do the job nor whether or not we can just have the admin password so that we can do so ourselves. (In fact, from what I’m told, the techs have even gone so far as to suggest that they cannot install Office on the new systems because of some security issues and that they will instead be installing Wordperfect—a.k.a. The Devil. That sounds like a load of stall-tactic crap to me, so perhaps the person I heard this from was misinformed.) The new machines, things of speed and beauty that they are, thus have no word processing, nor some sort of Sound/Chat program that Parka likes to use when chatting with his e-skanks. He now almost always requests to be put on the little old computer by the stairs, cause it still has what he wants. I graciously obliged, despite his attempt not to sign in first.
At 6:55, I went back at let Parka know that he only had 5 minutes until we closed. He acknowledged what I’d said by saying, “Okay.”
At 7 p.m. straight up, I went back and told him, “It’s about that time.” Again, he acknowledged what I’d said by saying, “Okay.” However, as I returned to the front room, I heard him return to typing in his e-skank chat window.
In the front room, I noticed the runner carpet was filthy from all the snow/mud traffic we’ve had today. It would have to be vacuumed. I waited for a little, hoping Parka would come on and leave so I could lock up and vacuum in peace, but the sounds of his incredibly loud typing did not ease up as though he were planning to stop any time soon.
At 7:01, I went back to get the vacuum from the Hobbit door beneath the stairs. The Hobbit door is located directly beside Parka’s computer. He didn’t even slow in his chatting as I lugged the vacuum out.
“It really IS that time now,” I said as Parka’s second warning. He didn’t even look up.
I returned to the front room with the vacuum, but I was getting progressively more pissed as the seconds and typing sounds ticked by. Parka wasn’t planning to move. Instead, he was back there thinking: “What grand fortune! Library boy’s gonna be busy vacuuming for at least a minute, giving me extra time to chat with my e-skanks. And I won’t make any move to leave until at least a minute after he stops. Puh-puh-puh-Parkaaaa Powerrrrr!”
I gritted my teeth and marched back to the computer hall where Parka was still typing away.
“Uh, no, really, it IS. THAT. TIME. NOW,” I said. I saw him look up at this, but he didn’t say anything. I returned to the front and began vacuuming, determined that if Parka hadn’t moved by the time I finished I was going to shut the computer off in his face and let him know he would never again be allowed to stay all the way until close. Hell, our official computer policy is that computers are to be turned off at 15 til close anyway. I was being more than generous in letting him stay til 7.
About mid-way through my vacuuming job, Parka came out. He said something to me that I couldn’t hear over the vacuum. I turned it off.
“What?”
“I said, what were you trying to say back there? I didn’t hear you.”
Bull, and might I add, shit. Sure, he’d had his headphones on, but even if he couldn’t hear my exact words there’s NO FREAKIN’ WAY he didn’t know exactly what the message was. Not as many times as this little closing-time scenario’s played out.
I blinked at him for a moment, then said, “I was letting you know, again, that we’re closed.”
“Oh. Okay,” he said. “Sorry. I had the headphones on and was kind of engulfed.”
“Uh huh.”
So let the word ring out. Officially, when Parka’s in house, I am forever more shutting off the computers at 15 til, just like our rules say we're supposed to. No more coasting past closing time for Mr. Parka A. Hole. And Lord help the man if he says a word about it.
“Uh, did you sign in?” I asked.
“Oh. I forgot. Sorry,” he said.
He went back to sign in while I logged him on the little computer by the stairs. This might seem an act of malice on my part, as Parka has had a long-standing hatred for the little computer by the stairs. However, since we bought two new Dells to replace the other two patron computers a few weeks back, Parka has preferred the old one by the stairs. This is because when our tech guys set up the new machines they reset all the passwords, failed to tell us the new admin password and then promptly left town without installing Microsoft Office nor several other programs our patrons are used to having access to. In their defense, the tech’s didn’t have any of those programs with them at the time of installation. But there seems to be no timetable as to when they’re going to come back and do the job nor whether or not we can just have the admin password so that we can do so ourselves. (In fact, from what I’m told, the techs have even gone so far as to suggest that they cannot install Office on the new systems because of some security issues and that they will instead be installing Wordperfect—a.k.a. The Devil. That sounds like a load of stall-tactic crap to me, so perhaps the person I heard this from was misinformed.) The new machines, things of speed and beauty that they are, thus have no word processing, nor some sort of Sound/Chat program that Parka likes to use when chatting with his e-skanks. He now almost always requests to be put on the little old computer by the stairs, cause it still has what he wants. I graciously obliged, despite his attempt not to sign in first.
At 6:55, I went back at let Parka know that he only had 5 minutes until we closed. He acknowledged what I’d said by saying, “Okay.”
At 7 p.m. straight up, I went back and told him, “It’s about that time.” Again, he acknowledged what I’d said by saying, “Okay.” However, as I returned to the front room, I heard him return to typing in his e-skank chat window.
In the front room, I noticed the runner carpet was filthy from all the snow/mud traffic we’ve had today. It would have to be vacuumed. I waited for a little, hoping Parka would come on and leave so I could lock up and vacuum in peace, but the sounds of his incredibly loud typing did not ease up as though he were planning to stop any time soon.
At 7:01, I went back to get the vacuum from the Hobbit door beneath the stairs. The Hobbit door is located directly beside Parka’s computer. He didn’t even slow in his chatting as I lugged the vacuum out.
“It really IS that time now,” I said as Parka’s second warning. He didn’t even look up.
I returned to the front room with the vacuum, but I was getting progressively more pissed as the seconds and typing sounds ticked by. Parka wasn’t planning to move. Instead, he was back there thinking: “What grand fortune! Library boy’s gonna be busy vacuuming for at least a minute, giving me extra time to chat with my e-skanks. And I won’t make any move to leave until at least a minute after he stops. Puh-puh-puh-Parkaaaa Powerrrrr!”
I gritted my teeth and marched back to the computer hall where Parka was still typing away.
“Uh, no, really, it IS. THAT. TIME. NOW,” I said. I saw him look up at this, but he didn’t say anything. I returned to the front and began vacuuming, determined that if Parka hadn’t moved by the time I finished I was going to shut the computer off in his face and let him know he would never again be allowed to stay all the way until close. Hell, our official computer policy is that computers are to be turned off at 15 til close anyway. I was being more than generous in letting him stay til 7.
About mid-way through my vacuuming job, Parka came out. He said something to me that I couldn’t hear over the vacuum. I turned it off.
“What?”
“I said, what were you trying to say back there? I didn’t hear you.”
Bull, and might I add, shit. Sure, he’d had his headphones on, but even if he couldn’t hear my exact words there’s NO FREAKIN’ WAY he didn’t know exactly what the message was. Not as many times as this little closing-time scenario’s played out.
I blinked at him for a moment, then said, “I was letting you know, again, that we’re closed.”
“Oh. Okay,” he said. “Sorry. I had the headphones on and was kind of engulfed.”
“Uh huh.”
So let the word ring out. Officially, when Parka’s in house, I am forever more shutting off the computers at 15 til, just like our rules say we're supposed to. No more coasting past closing time for Mr. Parka A. Hole. And Lord help the man if he says a word about it.
Monday, March 07, 2005
Flat Monday
Here I was, fresh out of the bed this morning, had time to make
coffee for me and the wife, rub her shoulders and help her get her stuff
together for her long 50 minute trek to Town-R where she's doing her
family practice rotation this month. I smooched her goodbye and she went
out the back door. I figured I'd have some coffee, do some blogging
about how my Sunday shift went yesterday, and then head to work
at 12:30 myself.
"I've got a flat!" I heard the wife call from the driveway.
Sure enough, the back left tire of her Ford Escort station wagon was completely flat. I threw on some warm clothes and shoes and went down to help with what I knew would be an incredibly frustrating task.
Unlike, say, my car, the Escort is just a beeyotch when it comes to changing its tires. The lug-nuts fuse with their posts and it takes much cursing and sweat and pain and more cursing in order to get them off. We worked at it for fifteen minutes and not one of them would budge despite my liberal cursing and caveman growls of frustration.
"Do we have WD-40?" she asked. Yes, we did. I fetched it and sprayed hell out of the lug-nuts. Still no dice.
"Why don't we just have it towed?" I said. After all, our deliciously good auto-insurance covers towing. She didn't want to do this, though. Not for a tire.
We worked at it some more, taking turns grunting against the four spoke tire-tool, our hands burning with effort. Nothing.
"Maybe I can jack the car up just a little," the wife said. "Maybe there's too much pressure from the weight of the car itself." She got her jack out and slid it under the car, turning the crank until the car lifted off of the asphalt driveway a couple of inches. I then took the tire-tool and stuck one of its spokes onto the top lug-nut. I turned it and it gave with a jerk.
"Bless your brain!" I told her. I moved the tool to the next nut. It too gave with a jerk. I then went around each of the nuts like this until I got to the final one, which I continued to try and turn after the initial jerking give. The gives continued to jerk. It was only then that I realized that I had been using the wrong size socket on the tire tool the whole time, using one that was big enough to let the nuts slip around within its grasp, giving us the illusion that things were turning when they most certainly were not.
I turned my cursing up a notch at this, invoking an unpleasant image that involved a dog and, perhaps, a condom.
"We have to have this towed!" I said.
Nope. She still didn't want to tow it over a flat tire. Instead, she said we should let it soak in WD-40 for the day, applying new coats as needed, and if we still couldn't get the thing changed by tomorrow morning, then we'd call a tow. Meanwhile, I would need to drive her to work.
No worries there. I don't mind doing that at all.
I suspected, though, that this would only be the FIRST frustrating thing to happen to me today. It was, after all, a MONDAY.
Turned out, though, it wasn't so bad after all. It was certainly hectic, but nothing two people can't handle. In fact, Mrs. A said that she'd never before seen more people pounding on the door to get in before our Monday opening time of 1p. I saw two more of them myself at 12:55. Can people not see the GIANT white sign pinned to the door that reads "THE LIBRARY OPENS AT 1 P.M."? No, they can't, or just obstinately try the door anyway, just in case.
The only real chaos came when some girls from one of the local homes for wayward youth came in with their guardian. Actually, they weren't even all that chaotic, except that they each wanted a library card, which made the desk kind of busy for a while. They all seemed nice enough, if a bit too made up in some cases. (I mean, come on; what 15 year old really needs half-inch eyelash extensions mascaraed out to darn nigh a full inch? Even Paris Hilton would have been startled by these.)
Three of the girls were looking for How-To books on witchcraft. ("Not the bad kind of witchcraft. The good kind," one of them said.) I knew they were SOL on this front, but did a search for them anyway just for show. We only own one book that comes anywhere close and that's the Dictionary of Witchcraft. It's hardly a How-To guide. We also have to keep it behind the circulation desk because whenever we actually shelve it upstairs it turns up stolen within a very short time and we have to buy another. I used to think it was being horked by would-be witches, but now I'm pretty sure it's more likely that non-Pagan patrons are doing the stealing, which seems somehow even more wrong. After all, the Ten Commandments don't say, Thou Shalt Not Steal, Unless Something Really Sticks in Thy Craw.
One of the girls already had a library card, but she had neglected to bring it with her. I know this because she opened her checkout attempt with, "You'll have to look my name up, because I left my library card in my locker." I looked her up and she did have a patron record, but I told her I couldn't check anything out to her without a card. She then suddenly remembered that she lost her card and how could she get a new one? Sorry, chick, not gonna fly. You already told me you left it in your locker and since I now know you have a card I'm not giving you a new one cause you inconveniently left yours elsewhere.
Other than nearly locking a slow-moving patron in the building trying to get the place closed at 5, work went pretty good.
I got home at 5:15 and sprayed down the lug-nuts with WD-40 again. Probably the fifth coat of the day. Then, with a little English behind it, I was able to genuinely loosen all but one of the lug-nuts. I soaked it good and waited. After picking the wife up at 8:20 and returning home by 9:20, we tried again and it finally gave too. Tomorrow I get to go find a tire place to repair the nail gouge in the
tire while she takes my car in to work.
"I've got a flat!" I heard the wife call from the driveway.
Sure enough, the back left tire of her Ford Escort station wagon was completely flat. I threw on some warm clothes and shoes and went down to help with what I knew would be an incredibly frustrating task.
Unlike, say, my car, the Escort is just a beeyotch when it comes to changing its tires. The lug-nuts fuse with their posts and it takes much cursing and sweat and pain and more cursing in order to get them off. We worked at it for fifteen minutes and not one of them would budge despite my liberal cursing and caveman growls of frustration.
"Do we have WD-40?" she asked. Yes, we did. I fetched it and sprayed hell out of the lug-nuts. Still no dice.
"Why don't we just have it towed?" I said. After all, our deliciously good auto-insurance covers towing. She didn't want to do this, though. Not for a tire.
We worked at it some more, taking turns grunting against the four spoke tire-tool, our hands burning with effort. Nothing.
"Maybe I can jack the car up just a little," the wife said. "Maybe there's too much pressure from the weight of the car itself." She got her jack out and slid it under the car, turning the crank until the car lifted off of the asphalt driveway a couple of inches. I then took the tire-tool and stuck one of its spokes onto the top lug-nut. I turned it and it gave with a jerk.
"Bless your brain!" I told her. I moved the tool to the next nut. It too gave with a jerk. I then went around each of the nuts like this until I got to the final one, which I continued to try and turn after the initial jerking give. The gives continued to jerk. It was only then that I realized that I had been using the wrong size socket on the tire tool the whole time, using one that was big enough to let the nuts slip around within its grasp, giving us the illusion that things were turning when they most certainly were not.
I turned my cursing up a notch at this, invoking an unpleasant image that involved a dog and, perhaps, a condom.
"We have to have this towed!" I said.
Nope. She still didn't want to tow it over a flat tire. Instead, she said we should let it soak in WD-40 for the day, applying new coats as needed, and if we still couldn't get the thing changed by tomorrow morning, then we'd call a tow. Meanwhile, I would need to drive her to work.
No worries there. I don't mind doing that at all.
I suspected, though, that this would only be the FIRST frustrating thing to happen to me today. It was, after all, a MONDAY.
Turned out, though, it wasn't so bad after all. It was certainly hectic, but nothing two people can't handle. In fact, Mrs. A said that she'd never before seen more people pounding on the door to get in before our Monday opening time of 1p. I saw two more of them myself at 12:55. Can people not see the GIANT white sign pinned to the door that reads "THE LIBRARY OPENS AT 1 P.M."? No, they can't, or just obstinately try the door anyway, just in case.
The only real chaos came when some girls from one of the local homes for wayward youth came in with their guardian. Actually, they weren't even all that chaotic, except that they each wanted a library card, which made the desk kind of busy for a while. They all seemed nice enough, if a bit too made up in some cases. (I mean, come on; what 15 year old really needs half-inch eyelash extensions mascaraed out to darn nigh a full inch? Even Paris Hilton would have been startled by these.)
Three of the girls were looking for How-To books on witchcraft. ("Not the bad kind of witchcraft. The good kind," one of them said.) I knew they were SOL on this front, but did a search for them anyway just for show. We only own one book that comes anywhere close and that's the Dictionary of Witchcraft. It's hardly a How-To guide. We also have to keep it behind the circulation desk because whenever we actually shelve it upstairs it turns up stolen within a very short time and we have to buy another. I used to think it was being horked by would-be witches, but now I'm pretty sure it's more likely that non-Pagan patrons are doing the stealing, which seems somehow even more wrong. After all, the Ten Commandments don't say, Thou Shalt Not Steal, Unless Something Really Sticks in Thy Craw.
One of the girls already had a library card, but she had neglected to bring it with her. I know this because she opened her checkout attempt with, "You'll have to look my name up, because I left my library card in my locker." I looked her up and she did have a patron record, but I told her I couldn't check anything out to her without a card. She then suddenly remembered that she lost her card and how could she get a new one? Sorry, chick, not gonna fly. You already told me you left it in your locker and since I now know you have a card I'm not giving you a new one cause you inconveniently left yours elsewhere.
Other than nearly locking a slow-moving patron in the building trying to get the place closed at 5, work went pretty good.
I got home at 5:15 and sprayed down the lug-nuts with WD-40 again. Probably the fifth coat of the day. Then, with a little English behind it, I was able to genuinely loosen all but one of the lug-nuts. I soaked it good and waited. After picking the wife up at 8:20 and returning home by 9:20, we tried again and it finally gave too. Tomorrow I get to go find a tire place to repair the nail gouge in the
tire while she takes my car in to work.
Friday, March 04, 2005
The Near-Miss Returns of Barbara Turdmurkle
I was at the circ-desk on a Wednesday night, a couple weeks back. All
of my fellow employees had departed, including Mrs. A who had just
walked out the door. After a minute, the phone rang.
*RING*
ME: Tri-Metro County Library.
MRS. A: (From her car outside) Hey, it's me. I just wanted to warn you, Barbara TURDMURKLE may be on her way in.
ME: Mmm boy.
MRS. A: She's sitting in a car in front of the lib... oh, wait, no. She's getting out now. Just thought I'd warn you.
ME: Thanks.
MRS. A: Good luck!
There passed several tense seconds as I waited for Barbara Turdmurkle to show her face. I don't rightly recall what she looks like, as I have rarely had to deal with her beyond phone calls. Oddly, though, Barbara Turdmurkle never appeared at all. I don't know if she just parked out front and walked somewhere else or what, but she never came inside. Kind of a nice near-miss situation. (We'd had another earlier that day, when Mr. Stanky drove up, failed to find a good parking place for his Stankmobile and then drove away to befoul greener pastures.)
Though I haven't had to personally deal with Barbara Turdmurkle much in the past, I have heard tales from my co-workers that could curdle your blood. From all accounts, she is stark-raving mad but feels a deep-seated compulsion to convince everyone she meets that she's not. And if that involves producing documentation, often in the form of photographs of herself from back when she was "normal-looking,"--her words--she'll do it. (Again, I can't even say that she looks abnormal now, I see her so little.)
When not trying to convince everyone of her sanity, Barbara spends her spare time eavesdropping on the activities of her 20-something neighbor in the apartment next door to hers and phones the police to complain whenever she hears the girl having sex. We know this, because Barbara has made it a point to tell us that she frequently does this.
I say "us" but what I really mean is "Mrs. B," who is kind of Barbara's ambassador to the world.
See, crazy people looooove Mrs. B. This is probably because, unlike the rest of us, Mrs. B actually pays attention to the crazy people, sometimes give them rides places, and almost always returns their phone calls. You do that enough and you develop a reputation among the crazy populace as the go-to gal. Barbara is no exception. Barbara likes telling Mrs. B of her many problems, and about all the people she knows who either think she's crazy or otherwise aren't behaving as they should. It seems to come in cycles, though, for she's not a regular patron. Just every few months she gets it in her bonnet to come talk to Mrs. B and any other employees who happen to be there too. I have, unfortunately for this blog, missed out on most of her appearances. But I do get to talk to her on the phone.
For instance, the day after the above near miss with Barbara Turdmurkle, I had another one. I was running the desk for Mrs. C and Mrs. B while they were engaged with Thursday morning story hour.
*RING*
ME: Tri-Metro County Library.
BARBARA TURDMURKLE: Um. Yes. Is MRS. B... no, wait... that's not right. Is that right? What's that girl's name? MRS. B? Yes. Is MRS. B available?
ME: I'm sorry, she's not. She's in the middle of story hour right now.
(This, by the way, was the 5th such call I'd fielded for Mrs. B and/or Mrs. C, both of whom were engaged in separate story-hour groups. I'll give Barbara a pass on this, but all the other calls had been from people, often other librarians, who knew bloody well better than to call them during story hour.)
BARBARA TURDMURKLE: When will she be finished?
ME: Uhhh, I'd say 11:30 would be safe.
BARBARA TURDMURKLE: Oh. I see. Well then. This is BARBARA TURDMURKLE and I just wanted to ask her a question. So if you could give her my number and tell her to give me a call when she's finished.
Mrs. B did finish up around 11:30 and noticed the note I'd left her to call B.Turdmurkle. She sighed and picked up the phone.
Would ya like to take a guess as to what Barbara Turdmurkle wanted to ask Mrs. B about? Why, yes, you're right. She wanted to ask Mrs. B to renew the same bloody book I'd already assured her days earlier was NOT on her card in the first place. And the REASON it wasn't there? Turns out it's because when Barbara tried to check it out, she neglected to bring her library card and Mrs. B had checked it out on her own personal card in order to get Barbara to simply leave without a big scene. Now my own policy is that I never check books out to patrons on it unless they're sweet little old ladies who genuinely forgot theirs, and Never. To. Crazy. People. However, I can see the logic in resorting to such a move in order to get rid of someone as troublesome as Barbie T.
It took Mrs. B nearly a minute to explain the situation to Barbara in a way that finally seemed to convince her. After that, Mrs. B asked how things were going in Barbara's life, which lead to the latest installment of Barbara's ongoing battle with her over-sexed neighbor and how the police chief himself had now told Barbara to stop calling him about it and how she couldn't speak to the girl about it again because anything they said to one another these days came from a place of anger and was not constructive.
Barbara's latest mission is to find someone gullible enough to come hang curtains for her. She's told this to Mrs. B several times, but Mrs. B has wisely not taken the bait.
I might do it just to have material to blog about if I didn't know that such an act would get my name put on the Crazy People Go-To list for life. The less Barbara Turdmurkle knows my name the better.
*RING*
ME: Tri-Metro County Library.
MRS. A: (From her car outside) Hey, it's me. I just wanted to warn you, Barbara TURDMURKLE may be on her way in.
ME: Mmm boy.
MRS. A: She's sitting in a car in front of the lib... oh, wait, no. She's getting out now. Just thought I'd warn you.
ME: Thanks.
MRS. A: Good luck!
There passed several tense seconds as I waited for Barbara Turdmurkle to show her face. I don't rightly recall what she looks like, as I have rarely had to deal with her beyond phone calls. Oddly, though, Barbara Turdmurkle never appeared at all. I don't know if she just parked out front and walked somewhere else or what, but she never came inside. Kind of a nice near-miss situation. (We'd had another earlier that day, when Mr. Stanky drove up, failed to find a good parking place for his Stankmobile and then drove away to befoul greener pastures.)
Though I haven't had to personally deal with Barbara Turdmurkle much in the past, I have heard tales from my co-workers that could curdle your blood. From all accounts, she is stark-raving mad but feels a deep-seated compulsion to convince everyone she meets that she's not. And if that involves producing documentation, often in the form of photographs of herself from back when she was "normal-looking,"--her words--she'll do it. (Again, I can't even say that she looks abnormal now, I see her so little.)
When not trying to convince everyone of her sanity, Barbara spends her spare time eavesdropping on the activities of her 20-something neighbor in the apartment next door to hers and phones the police to complain whenever she hears the girl having sex. We know this, because Barbara has made it a point to tell us that she frequently does this.
I say "us" but what I really mean is "Mrs. B," who is kind of Barbara's ambassador to the world.
See, crazy people looooove Mrs. B. This is probably because, unlike the rest of us, Mrs. B actually pays attention to the crazy people, sometimes give them rides places, and almost always returns their phone calls. You do that enough and you develop a reputation among the crazy populace as the go-to gal. Barbara is no exception. Barbara likes telling Mrs. B of her many problems, and about all the people she knows who either think she's crazy or otherwise aren't behaving as they should. It seems to come in cycles, though, for she's not a regular patron. Just every few months she gets it in her bonnet to come talk to Mrs. B and any other employees who happen to be there too. I have, unfortunately for this blog, missed out on most of her appearances. But I do get to talk to her on the phone.
For instance, the day after the above near miss with Barbara Turdmurkle, I had another one. I was running the desk for Mrs. C and Mrs. B while they were engaged with Thursday morning story hour.
*RING*
ME: Tri-Metro County Library.
BARBARA TURDMURKLE: Um. Yes. Is MRS. B... no, wait... that's not right. Is that right? What's that girl's name? MRS. B? Yes. Is MRS. B available?
ME: I'm sorry, she's not. She's in the middle of story hour right now.
(This, by the way, was the 5th such call I'd fielded for Mrs. B and/or Mrs. C, both of whom were engaged in separate story-hour groups. I'll give Barbara a pass on this, but all the other calls had been from people, often other librarians, who knew bloody well better than to call them during story hour.)
BARBARA TURDMURKLE: When will she be finished?
ME: Uhhh, I'd say 11:30 would be safe.
BARBARA TURDMURKLE: Oh. I see. Well then. This is BARBARA TURDMURKLE and I just wanted to ask her a question. So if you could give her my number and tell her to give me a call when she's finished.
Mrs. B did finish up around 11:30 and noticed the note I'd left her to call B.Turdmurkle. She sighed and picked up the phone.
Would ya like to take a guess as to what Barbara Turdmurkle wanted to ask Mrs. B about? Why, yes, you're right. She wanted to ask Mrs. B to renew the same bloody book I'd already assured her days earlier was NOT on her card in the first place. And the REASON it wasn't there? Turns out it's because when Barbara tried to check it out, she neglected to bring her library card and Mrs. B had checked it out on her own personal card in order to get Barbara to simply leave without a big scene. Now my own policy is that I never check books out to patrons on it unless they're sweet little old ladies who genuinely forgot theirs, and Never. To. Crazy. People. However, I can see the logic in resorting to such a move in order to get rid of someone as troublesome as Barbie T.
It took Mrs. B nearly a minute to explain the situation to Barbara in a way that finally seemed to convince her. After that, Mrs. B asked how things were going in Barbara's life, which lead to the latest installment of Barbara's ongoing battle with her over-sexed neighbor and how the police chief himself had now told Barbara to stop calling him about it and how she couldn't speak to the girl about it again because anything they said to one another these days came from a place of anger and was not constructive.
Barbara's latest mission is to find someone gullible enough to come hang curtains for her. She's told this to Mrs. B several times, but Mrs. B has wisely not taken the bait.
I might do it just to have material to blog about if I didn't know that such an act would get my name put on the Crazy People Go-To list for life. The less Barbara Turdmurkle knows my name the better.
Thursday, March 03, 2005
And on that Rogue related note...
...I nearly saw Chester get run over yesterday.
He was inside his Fugly at the time, but if he'd been two seconds quicker he would have gotten schmacked in the driver's side door.
I was on my way to the comic shop when I had to stop at our most hectic intersection to wait to cross the street. While there, a north bound car tried to make a last second left turn through the yellow light they had. They had assumed that the approaching south bound car (i.e. Chester in his Fugly) was going to stop and let them do this. Chester, however, didn't even look at them and decided to make a last second right turn on the yellow light before it could change to red, at which point he would have been legally bound to pay attention to the "DO NOT TURN RIGHT ON RED AT THIS INTERSECTION" signs hanging everywhere. He had nearly made his turn when he glanced up and noticed that the north bound car was about to crunk him a good one and he slammed on his brakes. He looked quite put out about it.
I'm actually glad he didn't get hit, though. As a witness to the incident, I would have been obligated to stick around and tell the police what I'd seen and I wasn't entirely sure if Chester was at fault. I would really have hated to lend his dumb ass any support. It might have lead to yet another sad attempt on his part to get me to shake his paw.
He was inside his Fugly at the time, but if he'd been two seconds quicker he would have gotten schmacked in the driver's side door.
I was on my way to the comic shop when I had to stop at our most hectic intersection to wait to cross the street. While there, a north bound car tried to make a last second left turn through the yellow light they had. They had assumed that the approaching south bound car (i.e. Chester in his Fugly) was going to stop and let them do this. Chester, however, didn't even look at them and decided to make a last second right turn on the yellow light before it could change to red, at which point he would have been legally bound to pay attention to the "DO NOT TURN RIGHT ON RED AT THIS INTERSECTION" signs hanging everywhere. He had nearly made his turn when he glanced up and noticed that the north bound car was about to crunk him a good one and he slammed on his brakes. He looked quite put out about it.
I'm actually glad he didn't get hit, though. As a witness to the incident, I would have been obligated to stick around and tell the police what I'd seen and I wasn't entirely sure if Chester was at fault. I would really have hated to lend his dumb ass any support. It might have lead to yet another sad attempt on his part to get me to shake his paw.
Rogue Rumors & Confirmations
Been a lot of news on the Rogue Rumor front this week.
According to Mr. Rob, the librarian over at the local community college, The Patron Who Must Not Be Named, a.k.a. Chester the (Potential) Molester/Community College Janitor, has been ordered by his superiors that he is not to set foot on the grounds of the community college unless he's actually scheduled to work that day and actually working. Another way to put this is that all of Chester's off-hours are to be spent ogling women elsewhere rather than on community college grounds. I suppose by inference this means that he's free to ogle-away provided he's on the clock, but they don't want to see his face otherwise.
That's actually the rumor portion of the message, as Mr. Rob is uncertain as to whether the janitor in question is one in the same as our Chester. We know it has to be, as we have other sources who've confirmed that Chester's employed there. If the janitor Mr. Rob has mentioned isn't Chester, then they seem to have something of a pervert-hiring policy.
The other pervert sighting came Monday, when Parka stopped by (clad, of course, in his namesake big puffy white parka) to look at as much porn as our internet filters will allow him to. It's apparently more than we'd usually care for and has caused me to wonder whether the filters are working properly on the new patron computers we recently purchased.
Parka was in there for a couple of hours that afternoon. During this time, a 20-something woman who looked very familiar to me came in and used a computer too. After about 15 minutes, she came up to the circ-desk, smiled and in a low voice said, "The, uh, `gentleman' on the middle computer back there..."
"Uh huuuuh?" I said, adopting my best I know what's coming next tone.
"He's, um, well... I don't know what your policy is about this, or if you have one, but he's back there looking at... well, pornography."
"Uh huh."
"I know he's doing that because he's been asked to leave the ORNATHOLOGICAL COFFEE SHOP (Not Its Real Name) for doing that on our computers. I know. I work there."
"Uh huhhhh," I said, both at the revelation of Parka getting kicked out of one of our local coffee shops and from the revelation that that's where I knew this girl from. I told her, "Well, we don't really have any policy against it, but we are well aware of what he does back there."
She smiled knowingly, nodded and then departed.
It somehow warms my heart to know that we're not the only folks in town that are annoyed by Parka.
I think Parka's still out of work. Maybe I should tell him the community college is hiring.
According to Mr. Rob, the librarian over at the local community college, The Patron Who Must Not Be Named, a.k.a. Chester the (Potential) Molester/Community College Janitor, has been ordered by his superiors that he is not to set foot on the grounds of the community college unless he's actually scheduled to work that day and actually working. Another way to put this is that all of Chester's off-hours are to be spent ogling women elsewhere rather than on community college grounds. I suppose by inference this means that he's free to ogle-away provided he's on the clock, but they don't want to see his face otherwise.
That's actually the rumor portion of the message, as Mr. Rob is uncertain as to whether the janitor in question is one in the same as our Chester. We know it has to be, as we have other sources who've confirmed that Chester's employed there. If the janitor Mr. Rob has mentioned isn't Chester, then they seem to have something of a pervert-hiring policy.
The other pervert sighting came Monday, when Parka stopped by (clad, of course, in his namesake big puffy white parka) to look at as much porn as our internet filters will allow him to. It's apparently more than we'd usually care for and has caused me to wonder whether the filters are working properly on the new patron computers we recently purchased.
Parka was in there for a couple of hours that afternoon. During this time, a 20-something woman who looked very familiar to me came in and used a computer too. After about 15 minutes, she came up to the circ-desk, smiled and in a low voice said, "The, uh, `gentleman' on the middle computer back there..."
"Uh huuuuh?" I said, adopting my best I know what's coming next tone.
"He's, um, well... I don't know what your policy is about this, or if you have one, but he's back there looking at... well, pornography."
"Uh huh."
"I know he's doing that because he's been asked to leave the ORNATHOLOGICAL COFFEE SHOP (Not Its Real Name) for doing that on our computers. I know. I work there."
"Uh huhhhh," I said, both at the revelation of Parka getting kicked out of one of our local coffee shops and from the revelation that that's where I knew this girl from. I told her, "Well, we don't really have any policy against it, but we are well aware of what he does back there."
She smiled knowingly, nodded and then departed.
It somehow warms my heart to know that we're not the only folks in town that are annoyed by Parka.
I think Parka's still out of work. Maybe I should tell him the community college is hiring.
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
Phone call from Dad
When you live nearly 700 miles away from your parents, it's always a
bit disconcerting to receive a call from one of them at work. You
immediately think the worst has happened and start preparing your heart
for a bad fall. That's what I did with my heart, at least, when my dad
phoned me at work today. Nothing at all was wrong, though. Dad merely
wanted to know what name I went by back when I was DJing on the radio in
Charlotte, NC.
Dad said he'd been doing his morning check of Statcounter for his website when he noticed someone from the The Charlotte Observer had come by for a look at some of his favorite sub-pages. Dad was quite curious as to what a major newspaper would be doing at his site. So much so that he gave them a call to find out. Nothing major was up on that front either. It turns out the visit came from a couple of guys down in the mail-room who were goofing around on the net and stumbled on the page by mistake. However, during the conversation(s) Dad had in order to gain that tidbit of information, he managed to mention that he had a son who used to work in radio in Charlotte a few years back. At that point, the person at the paper asked what my on-air name was, in case they knew me. Dad wasn't sure, but promised to call them back once he'd found out.
"It was Erik Winston," I told him. "Just like it was when I worked in Tupelo. I doubt they know anything about me, though, cause I only DJed on the weekends."
Dad seemed happy with this and we soon hung up. Less than a minute later, he phoned again to ask what station I'd worked at.
"107.9 The Link," I said. He hung up again and was off on his next adventure.
At that point, I looked up at Mrs. C and said, "How come my dad in Mississippi can manage to find the phone number here without a phone book, yet nobody in town can manage to find it with one?"
"That's a good question," Mrs. C said.
I say "nobody" can find our number in the phone book, but from the number of calls we receive each day obviously some people are able to find it. However, we do get quite a few calls from people who've had to phone other libraries in order to get our number because "It ain't nowhere in the phone book." They're always real loud about letting us know this, too. That's when we politely ask them to take their phone book out and turn to the business section and look up TRI-METRO County Public Library, `bout mid way down the second column on the page. They get a lot quieter then, but often still insist that they looked there before and we weren't listed then.
Dad said he'd been doing his morning check of Statcounter for his website when he noticed someone from the The Charlotte Observer had come by for a look at some of his favorite sub-pages. Dad was quite curious as to what a major newspaper would be doing at his site. So much so that he gave them a call to find out. Nothing major was up on that front either. It turns out the visit came from a couple of guys down in the mail-room who were goofing around on the net and stumbled on the page by mistake. However, during the conversation(s) Dad had in order to gain that tidbit of information, he managed to mention that he had a son who used to work in radio in Charlotte a few years back. At that point, the person at the paper asked what my on-air name was, in case they knew me. Dad wasn't sure, but promised to call them back once he'd found out.
"It was Erik Winston," I told him. "Just like it was when I worked in Tupelo. I doubt they know anything about me, though, cause I only DJed on the weekends."
Dad seemed happy with this and we soon hung up. Less than a minute later, he phoned again to ask what station I'd worked at.
"107.9 The Link," I said. He hung up again and was off on his next adventure.
At that point, I looked up at Mrs. C and said, "How come my dad in Mississippi can manage to find the phone number here without a phone book, yet nobody in town can manage to find it with one?"
"That's a good question," Mrs. C said.
I say "nobody" can find our number in the phone book, but from the number of calls we receive each day obviously some people are able to find it. However, we do get quite a few calls from people who've had to phone other libraries in order to get our number because "It ain't nowhere in the phone book." They're always real loud about letting us know this, too. That's when we politely ask them to take their phone book out and turn to the business section and look up TRI-METRO County Public Library, `bout mid way down the second column on the page. They get a lot quieter then, but often still insist that they looked there before and we weren't listed then.
Friday, February 25, 2005
Actual Conversations Heard in Actual Libraries #20
ME: Can I help you?
MALE PATRON: Yeah. I was looking to see if you had the armed services entrance exam book.
ME: (I reach over to our deposit book shelf and grab up our copy.) Sure do.
PATRON: I just need to borrow it for a couple of days.
ME: Very well. Do you have your library card?
PATRON: Uh, no. I'm from OTHER county.
ME: Okay. Well do you have your OTHER county library card.
PATRON: No. I don't have one.
ME: (Passes patron a library card application form) That's all right. If you wouldn't mind filling out this form...
PATRON: No. I don't want a card. I just want to borrow the book for a couple of days.
ME: I understand that, but you'll need to have a library card.
PATRON: You mean I can't borrow books without a library card?
ME: No. No, you can't.
PATRON: You mean I gotta wait to get the library card before I can come and borrow the book?
ME: (Realizing that this guy thinks it's going to take weeks for his library card to be processed and mailed to him before he can use it, or something) Yes. But if you'll just fill out that application, it will only take me a couple of minutes to make one for you.
PATRON: Oh. Um... Okay.
MALE PATRON: Yeah. I was looking to see if you had the armed services entrance exam book.
ME: (I reach over to our deposit book shelf and grab up our copy.) Sure do.
PATRON: I just need to borrow it for a couple of days.
ME: Very well. Do you have your library card?
PATRON: Uh, no. I'm from OTHER county.
ME: Okay. Well do you have your OTHER county library card.
PATRON: No. I don't have one.
ME: (Passes patron a library card application form) That's all right. If you wouldn't mind filling out this form...
PATRON: No. I don't want a card. I just want to borrow the book for a couple of days.
ME: I understand that, but you'll need to have a library card.
PATRON: You mean I can't borrow books without a library card?
(Long pause.)
ME: No. No, you can't.
PATRON: You mean I gotta wait to get the library card before I can come and borrow the book?
ME: (Realizing that this guy thinks it's going to take weeks for his library card to be processed and mailed to him before he can use it, or something) Yes. But if you'll just fill out that application, it will only take me a couple of minutes to make one for you.
PATRON: Oh. Um... Okay.
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
Weird Wednesday
Yesterday was Weird Wednesday.
Not every Wednesday is a Weird Wednesday, but when we have more than our usual share of mentally unbalanced or otherwise questionable patrons who weird us out, they are. It's not always on a Wednesday either. Sometimes we have Terrible Tuesdays, In Need of Therapy Thursdays and Freaky Fridays. Oh, and of course, Manic Mondays.
Yesterday didn't even have all THAT much weirdness, but still more than qualifies because of the appearance of two people, one of which was Ron the Ripper.
We've not seen Ron in several months now and the past few times he's been in he has been startlingly well-behaved and failed to rip anything, let alone a magazine. The only really notable thing about Ron's appearance today is that accompanying him was a woman who had to have been his mother (Ma Ripper) because she looked exactly like Ron except 20 years older; which is to say, a stout fellow around 5'7" with salt & pepper hair, well-shaven (for once) and not quite as manic a gleam in the eye as he once had.
The two of them went upstairs where I imagined they would both snatch up a couple of our good magazines before sitting together at one of our tables where they would both proceed to page-flip the magazines to death. I wondered if maybe Ma Ripper would emit caveman growls like her son when confronted about their destruction.
Alas, nothing so colorful happened. From what I'm told by my fellow staff members who observed them, Ron and Ma Ripper sat upstairs in the chairs by our magazine rack where Ma Ripper flipped very slowly and carefully through a magazine while Ron sat obediently in his own chair with no magazine whatsoever and seemed happy for the opportunity.
That guy has really mellowed out.
The other Weird Wednesday qualifier came just half an hour into my shift, when we were visited by yet another in our long string of computer illiterate technophobes.
Two Mondays ago (Manic Monday!) a gentleman phoned the library toward the end of one of the many bursts of Monday chaos to ask if we had internet access.
"Yes, we do," I told him.
He then politely explained that he was not at all familiar with how to use the internet and asked if we would show him how to use it should he come by. He said he needed some tax information from the IRS website. I explained that that particular day, again, a Monday, we would be unable to assist him in that regard being as how we was really just me and I was stranded at the circ-desk dealing with the Monday and wouldn't be able to slip away, even to take myself a whiz. However, if he wouldn't mind coming in on nearly any other weekday, we'd be happy to help him out.
This may seem strange behavior for me, as I've done my share of complaining bitterly in the past about computer illiterates and the techniques they employ toward their ultimate goal of driving me insane. (See: Ms. I.N. Phyte and Mr. Little Stupid.) However, this man was at least not delusional about having any computer skills and was willing to admit it, politely, and ask for my help. He hadn't just buzzed on by that Monday afternoon to insist upon it nor did he pretend he knew what he was doing and just plop down and stare at the screen for 20 minutes until someone noticed he was a moron. No, this gentleman had phoned, in advance, to inquire if we would be willing to help him! Now that's refreshing!!!
I told the man to come on down Tuesday through Friday, preferably in the afternoon when we have the most available staff. And, at this, he thanked me for my time and help.
Yesterday was his chosen day. Once again, he phoned ahead and spoke with Mrs. A, asking her if we could help put him on the internet should he come down. I know this because as soon as he'd asked it, Mrs. A looked to me--the guy who would be doing the actual helping--and asked if I was willing. "Sure thing," I said.
Fifteen minutes later, the man arrived. He had evidently been working out or jogging or was preparing to go workout or jog, for he was wearing nylon exercise pants beneath a pair of shorts. I've seen this look before and I've never understood it. What are people who do this trying to say? Is it: "Hey, check out these cool shorts I'd really like to be wearing except that it's too EFFing cold to just wear shorts, so I put `em on over my fancy nylon workout britches! "? Sorry. I just don't understand the look.
Anyway, we signed Mr. Shorts in at the clip board and I took him on back where I thought I would have to hand hold him through the process. Once in the computer hall, the man explained that he owned a computer but it wasn't hooked up to the internet at all. You might think this would make him a candidate for at least SOME computer skills, but, alas, no. Evidently Mr. Shorts's computer was not only not hooked up to the internet but it wasn't hooked up to a mouse either, cause he had quite a bit of trouble using ours. I explained the whole left click & drag the scroll bar thing in order to let him scroll down our home page to the IRS links I've helpfully placed there. It took him a few tries and I still don't think he was left-clicking properly. Eventually, he decided instead of dragging the scroll bar, he'd just click in the space beneath it so it would jump down to meet the mouse. He still wasn't left clicking properly, though, so it didn't work the first time either. Finally we got to the bottom of the page and he successfully clicked (double) on the IRS link.
Mr. Shorts explained he was looking for a publication that would help him with charitable deductions. I showed him where the forms & publications page was and how to search for things with the IRS search engine. I suggested some search terms and was prepared to stand there and further assist, but dude indicated that I'd helped enough and he thought he could handle it from there, so I told him to let me know if I could help further and returned to the circ desk.
For the most part, he was right. It took him ten minutes or so, but he did mange to find the publication he was searching for. However, he was mystified about how to get to the publication from the search page. He didn't realize that the linked publication title could be clicked to take him there. My fault for assuming he knew how.
Now, it might seem that I'm making fun of the man at this point, but I'm really not. I understand that there are people who don't know anything about the internet, even people as young as this guy (who was in his 40's, I'd say). I also understand that there are people who think it's fine and dandy to wear shorts on top of their pants regardless of how retarded it might look. Whatever. I'm still not making fun of him; just observing. The part where I actually make fun of him is coming up.
After he finished copying down the information he needed from the online publication, Mr. Shorts came back up front and once again thanked me for my time and for helping him out. Again, mighty nice of him. He then began browsing through some of our new non-fiction. This is when warning bells began to go off in my head and I became preoccupied in typing up spine-labels for some incoming new books in order to keep as far away from the circulation desk as possible. Mrs. A and C were both in proximity to the desk, so I was hoping they would be the ones who had to deal with what I knew was coming next.
After a few minutes, Mr. Shorts began to look as though he was ready to check out. That's when I took my avoidance of the circ-desk a step further by hauling ass out of the room with an armload of non-fiction to take to the book cart upstairs.
See I knew there was no way in hell this guy actually had a library card with us, except maybe on the old defunct system and not the new freshness. And as techno-phobic as he'd seemed before, I also knew there was no way he was going to want to jump through the hoops we require to get a library card without some kind of paranoid tantrum. Upon returning from upstairs, I discovered that I was very very right on this count.
Mrs. A was at the desk, peering down as Mr. Shorts filled out his application for a library card. He had only made it as far as the drivers' license number.
"That's a drivers license number. That's personal information," he was saying. "That's just as dangerous as giving out your Social Security number! There's no way you can guarantee me that that this system is secure!"
Mrs. A didn't even attempt to guarantee him that our system is secure. After all, it's not our job to have a secure system; that's the job of the tech-boys back at the head office. They say it is, we have to take their word on it. What Mrs. A did do was politely explain to dude the reasons why we insist upon having a drivers license number in the first place. I knew it was futile to do so. It always is.
Dude didn't hear a bit of it. He was too busy waiting to say what he said next, which was, "All a thief needs is your social security number and your drivers license number and he can steal your identity. I don't even put that information in my own computer."
That's right.
He said he didn't put that information in his own computer.
Y'know, the one that's not even hooked up to the internet in the first place.
Mrs. A continued to skillfully ignore his rants. She'd given her explanation to him and he hadn't torn up his application. In fact, he'd gone ahead and written down his license number for her, which she confirmed from his license, so he wasn't so bent out of shape that he didn't want the card anyway.
My master plan of not being the guy on the desk when Mr. Shorts did what I knew Mr. Shorts was gonna do worked like a charm. Mrs. A is far better suited to not going off on people than I am in such situations. Her philosophy of answering the questions she can and politely ignoring the rants in between seems to work for her pretty well.
Not every Wednesday is a Weird Wednesday, but when we have more than our usual share of mentally unbalanced or otherwise questionable patrons who weird us out, they are. It's not always on a Wednesday either. Sometimes we have Terrible Tuesdays, In Need of Therapy Thursdays and Freaky Fridays. Oh, and of course, Manic Mondays.
Yesterday didn't even have all THAT much weirdness, but still more than qualifies because of the appearance of two people, one of which was Ron the Ripper.
We've not seen Ron in several months now and the past few times he's been in he has been startlingly well-behaved and failed to rip anything, let alone a magazine. The only really notable thing about Ron's appearance today is that accompanying him was a woman who had to have been his mother (Ma Ripper) because she looked exactly like Ron except 20 years older; which is to say, a stout fellow around 5'7" with salt & pepper hair, well-shaven (for once) and not quite as manic a gleam in the eye as he once had.
The two of them went upstairs where I imagined they would both snatch up a couple of our good magazines before sitting together at one of our tables where they would both proceed to page-flip the magazines to death. I wondered if maybe Ma Ripper would emit caveman growls like her son when confronted about their destruction.
Alas, nothing so colorful happened. From what I'm told by my fellow staff members who observed them, Ron and Ma Ripper sat upstairs in the chairs by our magazine rack where Ma Ripper flipped very slowly and carefully through a magazine while Ron sat obediently in his own chair with no magazine whatsoever and seemed happy for the opportunity.
That guy has really mellowed out.
The other Weird Wednesday qualifier came just half an hour into my shift, when we were visited by yet another in our long string of computer illiterate technophobes.
Two Mondays ago (Manic Monday!) a gentleman phoned the library toward the end of one of the many bursts of Monday chaos to ask if we had internet access.
"Yes, we do," I told him.
He then politely explained that he was not at all familiar with how to use the internet and asked if we would show him how to use it should he come by. He said he needed some tax information from the IRS website. I explained that that particular day, again, a Monday, we would be unable to assist him in that regard being as how we was really just me and I was stranded at the circ-desk dealing with the Monday and wouldn't be able to slip away, even to take myself a whiz. However, if he wouldn't mind coming in on nearly any other weekday, we'd be happy to help him out.
This may seem strange behavior for me, as I've done my share of complaining bitterly in the past about computer illiterates and the techniques they employ toward their ultimate goal of driving me insane. (See: Ms. I.N. Phyte and Mr. Little Stupid.) However, this man was at least not delusional about having any computer skills and was willing to admit it, politely, and ask for my help. He hadn't just buzzed on by that Monday afternoon to insist upon it nor did he pretend he knew what he was doing and just plop down and stare at the screen for 20 minutes until someone noticed he was a moron. No, this gentleman had phoned, in advance, to inquire if we would be willing to help him! Now that's refreshing!!!
I told the man to come on down Tuesday through Friday, preferably in the afternoon when we have the most available staff. And, at this, he thanked me for my time and help.
Yesterday was his chosen day. Once again, he phoned ahead and spoke with Mrs. A, asking her if we could help put him on the internet should he come down. I know this because as soon as he'd asked it, Mrs. A looked to me--the guy who would be doing the actual helping--and asked if I was willing. "Sure thing," I said.
Fifteen minutes later, the man arrived. He had evidently been working out or jogging or was preparing to go workout or jog, for he was wearing nylon exercise pants beneath a pair of shorts. I've seen this look before and I've never understood it. What are people who do this trying to say? Is it: "Hey, check out these cool shorts I'd really like to be wearing except that it's too EFFing cold to just wear shorts, so I put `em on over my fancy nylon workout britches! "? Sorry. I just don't understand the look.
Anyway, we signed Mr. Shorts in at the clip board and I took him on back where I thought I would have to hand hold him through the process. Once in the computer hall, the man explained that he owned a computer but it wasn't hooked up to the internet at all. You might think this would make him a candidate for at least SOME computer skills, but, alas, no. Evidently Mr. Shorts's computer was not only not hooked up to the internet but it wasn't hooked up to a mouse either, cause he had quite a bit of trouble using ours. I explained the whole left click & drag the scroll bar thing in order to let him scroll down our home page to the IRS links I've helpfully placed there. It took him a few tries and I still don't think he was left-clicking properly. Eventually, he decided instead of dragging the scroll bar, he'd just click in the space beneath it so it would jump down to meet the mouse. He still wasn't left clicking properly, though, so it didn't work the first time either. Finally we got to the bottom of the page and he successfully clicked (double) on the IRS link.
Mr. Shorts explained he was looking for a publication that would help him with charitable deductions. I showed him where the forms & publications page was and how to search for things with the IRS search engine. I suggested some search terms and was prepared to stand there and further assist, but dude indicated that I'd helped enough and he thought he could handle it from there, so I told him to let me know if I could help further and returned to the circ desk.
For the most part, he was right. It took him ten minutes or so, but he did mange to find the publication he was searching for. However, he was mystified about how to get to the publication from the search page. He didn't realize that the linked publication title could be clicked to take him there. My fault for assuming he knew how.
Now, it might seem that I'm making fun of the man at this point, but I'm really not. I understand that there are people who don't know anything about the internet, even people as young as this guy (who was in his 40's, I'd say). I also understand that there are people who think it's fine and dandy to wear shorts on top of their pants regardless of how retarded it might look. Whatever. I'm still not making fun of him; just observing. The part where I actually make fun of him is coming up.
After he finished copying down the information he needed from the online publication, Mr. Shorts came back up front and once again thanked me for my time and for helping him out. Again, mighty nice of him. He then began browsing through some of our new non-fiction. This is when warning bells began to go off in my head and I became preoccupied in typing up spine-labels for some incoming new books in order to keep as far away from the circulation desk as possible. Mrs. A and C were both in proximity to the desk, so I was hoping they would be the ones who had to deal with what I knew was coming next.
After a few minutes, Mr. Shorts began to look as though he was ready to check out. That's when I took my avoidance of the circ-desk a step further by hauling ass out of the room with an armload of non-fiction to take to the book cart upstairs.
See I knew there was no way in hell this guy actually had a library card with us, except maybe on the old defunct system and not the new freshness. And as techno-phobic as he'd seemed before, I also knew there was no way he was going to want to jump through the hoops we require to get a library card without some kind of paranoid tantrum. Upon returning from upstairs, I discovered that I was very very right on this count.
Mrs. A was at the desk, peering down as Mr. Shorts filled out his application for a library card. He had only made it as far as the drivers' license number.
"That's a drivers license number. That's personal information," he was saying. "That's just as dangerous as giving out your Social Security number! There's no way you can guarantee me that that this system is secure!"
Mrs. A didn't even attempt to guarantee him that our system is secure. After all, it's not our job to have a secure system; that's the job of the tech-boys back at the head office. They say it is, we have to take their word on it. What Mrs. A did do was politely explain to dude the reasons why we insist upon having a drivers license number in the first place. I knew it was futile to do so. It always is.
Dude didn't hear a bit of it. He was too busy waiting to say what he said next, which was, "All a thief needs is your social security number and your drivers license number and he can steal your identity. I don't even put that information in my own computer."
That's right.
He said he didn't put that information in his own computer.
Y'know, the one that's not even hooked up to the internet in the first place.
Mrs. A continued to skillfully ignore his rants. She'd given her explanation to him and he hadn't torn up his application. In fact, he'd gone ahead and written down his license number for her, which she confirmed from his license, so he wasn't so bent out of shape that he didn't want the card anyway.
My master plan of not being the guy on the desk when Mr. Shorts did what I knew Mr. Shorts was gonna do worked like a charm. Mrs. A is far better suited to not going off on people than I am in such situations. Her philosophy of answering the questions she can and politely ignoring the rants in between seems to work for her pretty well.
Monday, February 21, 2005
B's Fleas
Mr. B-Natural
was in Thursday. He's been back intermittently over the past couple
weeks, but it seems like he's probably going to be a regular again.
On his way out, he couldn't resist stopping by the circulation desk to take a quick verbal jab at Mrs. A for banning his dog Bubba for spreading fleas in the library. He told her that Bubba misses us and that when he last drove up to park at the library with his dog in the car, Bubba became excited that he was about to go in again until Mr. B told him, "Nope. Ya gotta stay. MRS. A has fleas."
Mrs. A laughed heartily at this, then told Mr. B-Natural, "We'd love to see Bubba too. He can come up to the front step and we'll all come out and pet him. But he still can't come in."
"That dog didn't have fleas," Mr. B-Natural said.
"Well, think of it like this," Mrs. A said. "Not bringing him in here kept him from getting them, because we certainly had them in here."
Mr. B-Natural grumbled a bit, then said, "People can carry fleas too."
After he said that, there was a long pause among the employees of the library. I'm almost certain that if there were a comic book version of that moment, there would have been a large collective thought balloon drawn above all our heads with a picture of Mr. Stanky in the center of it.
On his way out, he couldn't resist stopping by the circulation desk to take a quick verbal jab at Mrs. A for banning his dog Bubba for spreading fleas in the library. He told her that Bubba misses us and that when he last drove up to park at the library with his dog in the car, Bubba became excited that he was about to go in again until Mr. B told him, "Nope. Ya gotta stay. MRS. A has fleas."
Mrs. A laughed heartily at this, then told Mr. B-Natural, "We'd love to see Bubba too. He can come up to the front step and we'll all come out and pet him. But he still can't come in."
"That dog didn't have fleas," Mr. B-Natural said.
"Well, think of it like this," Mrs. A said. "Not bringing him in here kept him from getting them, because we certainly had them in here."
Mr. B-Natural grumbled a bit, then said, "People can carry fleas too."
After he said that, there was a long pause among the employees of the library. I'm almost certain that if there were a comic book version of that moment, there would have been a large collective thought balloon drawn above all our heads with a picture of Mr. Stanky in the center of it.
Actual Semi-Paraphrased Telephone Conversations Heard in Actual Libraries #18
H&R BLOCK RECEPTIONIST: H&R Block.
MRS. C: Hi. This is MRS. C at the TRI-METRO County Public Library. We've had a several patrons come in who said you told them we had free tax preparation help. I just wanted to let you know that we don't offer that here. Only TOWN-C's branch does that and we're TOWN-A.
RECEPTIONIST: (Most defensively and pissily) We already know that! No one here has said anything like that. We haven't told anybody that.
MRS. C: Well, our patrons seem to think otherwise.
RECEPTIONIST: No one here would have said that!
MRS. C: Okay, then. Just wanted to make sure you knew.
RECEPTIONIST: We do. We know that.
MRS. C: Hi. This is MRS. C at the TRI-METRO County Public Library. We've had a several patrons come in who said you told them we had free tax preparation help. I just wanted to let you know that we don't offer that here. Only TOWN-C's branch does that and we're TOWN-A.
RECEPTIONIST: (Most defensively and pissily) We already know that! No one here has said anything like that. We haven't told anybody that.
MRS. C: Well, our patrons seem to think otherwise.
RECEPTIONIST: No one here would have said that!
MRS. C: Okay, then. Just wanted to make sure you knew.
RECEPTIONIST: We do. We know that.
Thursday, February 17, 2005
Tweet tweet tweet... the bird.
Allow me to send out a rousing middle finger to Verizon DSL.
We used to have Verizon DSL back when we lived across town. It was okay, as far as DSL goes, but its frequent freezeups and refusal to work with any program other than Netscape 4.0 made me long for the days of my old cable modem in Charlotte.
Shortly after we moved into our current house, in April of `03, Verizon let us know that we could no longer have DSL because our new place was too far from the local whatchamadoochie that makes DSL possible. Whatever. I didn't like it, but I understood it. For months after that, I kept checking Verizon's site to see if our number qualified for DSL, but it never did. Then, nearly a year ago, Verizon sent me a card in the mail saying "HEY, YOU CAN HAVE DSL!" Whoo hoo! Unfortunately, this coincided with a period of time when we had very little extra money for such luxuries, so I declined to give them a call to set it up. Instead, I ordered Callwave so that I could get calls that I might have missed while online.
In the time since then, I've come to really hate Callwave. Oh, it's useful and all, but now it shows me exactly who's calling to interrupt my internet connection, allowing me the ability to know who I should be pissed at. This atop of the anger that flares up EVERY time the damn phone rings at work is just too much phone anger for one human being to have and remain healthy; I decided DSL was affordable after all.
I went to Verizon's DSL site, rechecked my phone number and was assured by their system that I could in fact have DSL. I ordered it. I even started trolling ebay for wireless modems so that I could do up a home network and let the wife use her laptop with DSL too.
Two weeks ago, my DSL modem finally arrived, though I received both an e-mail and a telephone message telling me that we still couldn't use it until its switch-on date of Feb 8.
Then, one evening we received a message on our answering machine saying, "SORRY, PEPE, YOU CAN'T HAVE IT!" I'm paraphrasing, sure, but that was the gist. The message said they had tested the line and it turned out not to be compatible with DSL after all, so they were real sorry they'd gotten me all worked up about it and had sent me the modem, and all, but we still couldn't have it. Oh, and could I please send back their modem? Jankiee bastards!
A few days later, a Verizon return mailing label came in the mail, allowing me to send it back for free. I let the modem sit right where it was on the kitchen table for several more days before deciding to actually return it to them.
And what do you suppose arrived in my mailbox two days ago? Why, yes, it was yet another of Verizon's "HEY, YOU CAN HAVE DSL" cards.
I think I'll sign up for it again and then let em spend lots of postage mailing and return mailing their modem back and forth.
We used to have Verizon DSL back when we lived across town. It was okay, as far as DSL goes, but its frequent freezeups and refusal to work with any program other than Netscape 4.0 made me long for the days of my old cable modem in Charlotte.
Shortly after we moved into our current house, in April of `03, Verizon let us know that we could no longer have DSL because our new place was too far from the local whatchamadoochie that makes DSL possible. Whatever. I didn't like it, but I understood it. For months after that, I kept checking Verizon's site to see if our number qualified for DSL, but it never did. Then, nearly a year ago, Verizon sent me a card in the mail saying "HEY, YOU CAN HAVE DSL!" Whoo hoo! Unfortunately, this coincided with a period of time when we had very little extra money for such luxuries, so I declined to give them a call to set it up. Instead, I ordered Callwave so that I could get calls that I might have missed while online.
In the time since then, I've come to really hate Callwave. Oh, it's useful and all, but now it shows me exactly who's calling to interrupt my internet connection, allowing me the ability to know who I should be pissed at. This atop of the anger that flares up EVERY time the damn phone rings at work is just too much phone anger for one human being to have and remain healthy; I decided DSL was affordable after all.
I went to Verizon's DSL site, rechecked my phone number and was assured by their system that I could in fact have DSL. I ordered it. I even started trolling ebay for wireless modems so that I could do up a home network and let the wife use her laptop with DSL too.
Two weeks ago, my DSL modem finally arrived, though I received both an e-mail and a telephone message telling me that we still couldn't use it until its switch-on date of Feb 8.
Then, one evening we received a message on our answering machine saying, "SORRY, PEPE, YOU CAN'T HAVE IT!" I'm paraphrasing, sure, but that was the gist. The message said they had tested the line and it turned out not to be compatible with DSL after all, so they were real sorry they'd gotten me all worked up about it and had sent me the modem, and all, but we still couldn't have it. Oh, and could I please send back their modem? Jankiee bastards!
A few days later, a Verizon return mailing label came in the mail, allowing me to send it back for free. I let the modem sit right where it was on the kitchen table for several more days before deciding to actually return it to them.
And what do you suppose arrived in my mailbox two days ago? Why, yes, it was yet another of Verizon's "HEY, YOU CAN HAVE DSL" cards.
I think I'll sign up for it again and then let em spend lots of postage mailing and return mailing their modem back and forth.
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
The Good News Is...
Last month, I let you guys n' gals in on a few of the huge news items
taking place in my real life. One of those had to do with the decision
we'd made as to where we wanted to spend the next three years of our
lives (and possibly beyond) for my wife's medical school
residency and internship. Our ideal choices were either here in
Tri-Metro or in Clarksburg, WV. I also mentioned that we had made our
decision between these two only to change it at the last possible moment. Once our decision was made for
good we only had to wait to see which if any of the above choices chose
us in the residency match.
Long story short, we chose Tri-Metro. And as of this past Monday, we learned that Tri-Metro also chose us. This means that we will be remaining in the area for the next three years and conceivably longer. (It also means I don't have to change the title of this blog from Tales from the "Liberry" to Tales from the Unemployed Liberry Ass.)
We're very happy that things came down this way, but the various decisions we made concerning it were extremely difficult and came very close to going differently.
Originally we had chosen Clarksburg. Actually, it's more acurate to say that we chose it, then changed our minds, then chose it again, and then changed our minds for keepsies at the very last second. It's not that we ever wanted to leave Tri-Metro, it's just that we felt that the residency program in Clarksburg was the better choice of the two. She had heard great things about them and decided to spend three months rotating there so she could get a better feel of the program and so the folks there could get to know her. Their family practice residency program is, after all, more established and well oiled than Tri-Metro's to this point. And after getting to know her, they basically told her that if she wanted a position there it was hers.
My feeling was that if Clarksburg was the better program then we should go there. After all, getting the best medical education possible is our whole purpose for being here in the first place. It's the goal she's been working toward for nearly a decade now. She owes it to her future patients to go where she thinks she’ll be best trained. So at that point, months and months ago, we’d pretty much decided that Clarksburg was the way to go. Granted, I hated the thought of having to do all the work required to move all our stuff, but I was willing to do it.
Of course, it can never be that simple.
After four months of being moved and shuffled around on rotations away from home, the wife began to see the benefits of staying put in one place and putting down roots. She told me about her new doubts about moving. Did we really want to leave Tri-Metro? No. Did we want roots in Clarksburg. Not necessarily. We had talked about returning to Tri-Metro after her residency, anyway. That woudl be yet another move.
Add to this that about the same time that Clarksburg told her they wanted her for their program, Tri-Metro’s hospital told her exactly the same thing. People I know there even began pestering me to help recruit her. I passed on their words, but at the same time told them that we were pretty well decided.
We began talking to friends about our doubts. And we started making pros and cons lists about the two programs and cities. The pay was about the same when you factored in signing bonuses. We already have equity in the community, from my work and friends, to the theatre scene I'm involved with, and our church. And then there were the really important factors, like that Tri-Metro has a good comic shop while Clarksburg doesn't.
When we finished making our lists, the pros for staying outweighed the cons. Not by much, but they were outweighed. And, after more weeks of deliberation, hemming and/or hawing, we decided to stay. (Decisive bunch, we are.)
And thankfully, the hospital here felt the same.
Long story short, we chose Tri-Metro. And as of this past Monday, we learned that Tri-Metro also chose us. This means that we will be remaining in the area for the next three years and conceivably longer. (It also means I don't have to change the title of this blog from Tales from the "Liberry" to Tales from the Unemployed Liberry Ass.)
We're very happy that things came down this way, but the various decisions we made concerning it were extremely difficult and came very close to going differently.
Originally we had chosen Clarksburg. Actually, it's more acurate to say that we chose it, then changed our minds, then chose it again, and then changed our minds for keepsies at the very last second. It's not that we ever wanted to leave Tri-Metro, it's just that we felt that the residency program in Clarksburg was the better choice of the two. She had heard great things about them and decided to spend three months rotating there so she could get a better feel of the program and so the folks there could get to know her. Their family practice residency program is, after all, more established and well oiled than Tri-Metro's to this point. And after getting to know her, they basically told her that if she wanted a position there it was hers.
My feeling was that if Clarksburg was the better program then we should go there. After all, getting the best medical education possible is our whole purpose for being here in the first place. It's the goal she's been working toward for nearly a decade now. She owes it to her future patients to go where she thinks she’ll be best trained. So at that point, months and months ago, we’d pretty much decided that Clarksburg was the way to go. Granted, I hated the thought of having to do all the work required to move all our stuff, but I was willing to do it.
Of course, it can never be that simple.
After four months of being moved and shuffled around on rotations away from home, the wife began to see the benefits of staying put in one place and putting down roots. She told me about her new doubts about moving. Did we really want to leave Tri-Metro? No. Did we want roots in Clarksburg. Not necessarily. We had talked about returning to Tri-Metro after her residency, anyway. That woudl be yet another move.
Add to this that about the same time that Clarksburg told her they wanted her for their program, Tri-Metro’s hospital told her exactly the same thing. People I know there even began pestering me to help recruit her. I passed on their words, but at the same time told them that we were pretty well decided.
We began talking to friends about our doubts. And we started making pros and cons lists about the two programs and cities. The pay was about the same when you factored in signing bonuses. We already have equity in the community, from my work and friends, to the theatre scene I'm involved with, and our church. And then there were the really important factors, like that Tri-Metro has a good comic shop while Clarksburg doesn't.
When we finished making our lists, the pros for staying outweighed the cons. Not by much, but they were outweighed. And, after more weeks of deliberation, hemming and/or hawing, we decided to stay. (Decisive bunch, we are.)
And thankfully, the hospital here felt the same.
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
As in accordance with tradition
The past few Mondays have been fairly tame as far as Mondays
go. The traffic has seemed lighter than usual, but then even the heavy traffic
and phones have not been as bad since both Mrs. C and I have been working the
desk. I can still tell when things would be unbearable were I there solo, but
it's been far easier with another person there.
Yesterday, however, Mrs. C and Mrs. A were both out of town
at meetings, so I really was running solo. Well, I say solo, but Lennie had
come in for his Monday shift, so he was there to help load the book cart.
Otherwise, it was just me staring in the face of one of the most irritating
Mondays in recent memory.
Starting at about 1:10, the patrons began pouring in. And
not just regular patrons, but needy patrons.
Our first two patrons through the door needed a beginner's
guide to Buddhism. No big deal, except they didn't want the closest thing we
had to one and stood there trying to make suggestions to me for other searches.
One of them also seemed to think that we had a book on hold for her, though she
admitted that we had not actually called her about it. She just assumed it
would be there. It wasn't, but I still had to look around for a minute to make
sure. The other lady needed a library card, even though she wasn't going to
check out the Buddhism book we have after all. Again, no problem, but she
couldn't decide whether she wanted a key card or a wallet card and kept saying
things like, "Well, I'll take the key card for now" as though we're
real keen on people switching down the road. Her friend kept trying to explain
that she needed to choose the kind she really wanted NOW. Meanwhile, four other
equally needy patrons had piled up behind them as their time at the desk
stretched on into the five minute range.
After they left, and I was at last able to start dealing with
the other patrons in line, the phone began ringing.
The first call was from Town-M's librarian, Mr. T, who
phoned to tell us that he wanted to send us a few ILL books that some pitiful
foolish patrons of ours had requested, but somehow our library's patron record
had vanished from the database. I looked. It was indeed missing. He noted that
several of his patrons' records had vanished over the weekend too, so perhaps
we'd done so as well. I tried to explain to Mr. T that I couldn't do a whole
lot about this as both librarians are out of town and I have no way to contact
them nor any idea who to call about this sort of thing. The most I could do is
make a new card for the library so he could check things out to it.
I located books for the next two patrons in line, but both
of them needed library cards and more patrons were filing in behind them and the
phone rang.
ARGH!!
This call was, of course, from Mr. Kreskin, who'd called to
talk to Mrs. A who is rarely at the library on most Mondays, let alone on this
Monday when she’d announced to one and all she and Mrs. C would be out of
town. Hence his call. Fortunately, he didn't get upset that both
she and Mrs. C were gone. He just said he'd call back tomorrow.
A lady patron in line came up and said, "I was just
down at H&R Block and they said you'd do my taxes."
"No, ma'am," I said, rather emphatically. "We
do NOT do that here."
She looked shocked and offended at this. But I told her that
I'd heard, though could not swear to be true, that Town-C's library has someone
that helps with taxes by appointment. She seemed distraught over this, but
mostly because she didn't know where Town-C's library was. I told her and sent
her on her way.
*PHONE RINGS*
It was from Mrs. H over at Town-D's library. She had a
patron who was looking for books on New Jersey and she wanted to send them over
to check out the two we owned but she had no way of knowing for sure that those
books were actually on the shelf despite the fact that the catalog claimed they
were both available. Could I go check?
"I might be able to check in a while," I said,
"but right now it's Monday." Mrs. H said she understood and they were
pretty swamped too.
Then Mrs. C phoned. She needed me to fire up her new
computer and activate the remote access program so one of the tech guys could
load programs on it. I groaned at this, staring at a sea of impatient looking
patrons. "I'll try to get over there and do it in the next few minutes. I'm
eat up here at the moment." Once I was able to get to it, I had to keep
going back and doing it over again because her screensaver kept kicking them
out.
After about an hour things began to calm down and then
turned into intermittent bursts of chaos throughout the afternoon and on past
closing. It took me more than an hour to get the book return cleaned out and
all the books from it shelved. Every time I would try to check any in or put
any on the shelf, the phone would ring and I'd have to stop.
Finally, it was nearly closing time. And that's when the real rush began.
After damn near a decade and a half of closing at 5p on
Mondays, many of our patrons have finally realized that this is when we
close. However,
this doesn't keep them
from coming to the library at the crack of 5p by any means. No. Patrons
now
view the 5 p.m. deadline as the time by which they need to be through
the
library's door. And once they've rushed across town and passed through
it, they
become quite leisurely in their book searching activity. Such as the
mom and her three kids, who came in and began slowly browsing the
children's room at 4:55. At 2 minutes til close,
I let them know that, while I wasn't trying to rush them (liar!), we
were
closing in a couple of minutes. Didn't phase `em one bit. They leafed
and
looked until well past 5 p.m. and finally came to check out at nearly 5
minutes
after 5.
"The name's Holland," the mom said. This told me
that mom didn't have a new library card and had not been in since before the
summer and was assuming we could still look up her record by her name. I asked
her name and confirmed that we didn't have a card for her. I offered to make
her a new card and she even began filling out an application before deciding
she really didn't want the hassle.
"Well, the kids are probably in there," she said
with a dismissive wave toward the computer. "The name's Holland."
"Did you bring your cards?" I asked the kids.
Nope, they hadn't.
"So you're trying to say we can't have any books today?" mom said, adopting just a little more attitude than I appreciated.
"No, ma'am. You can still have books, but it will need to be on your new card."
Mom sighed and finished filling it out. By the time I'd finished checking them out it was nearly 13 minutes after closing.
So, yes, it was another traditional infuriating Monday. I did not allow it to infuriate me, however, for I was still living off the glow of the great news my wife and I received regarding where we're going to be spending the next three years of our lives.
(To be continued...)
Friday, February 11, 2005
Disturbing Behavior
Mrs. C told me the other day that she was her local health club a week or so back when she once again saw Chester the (Potential) Molester doing his usual half-assed job at working out, his little knit cap perched on his head all the while.
Later, in another part of the health club well out of Chester's earshot, Mrs. C and her husband were discussing whether or not Chester EVER takes off that stupid hat.
"No, he doesn't," one of the health-club employees reportedly said.
The three of them then entered into a discussion about Chester and just how unbelievably creepy he is. During this, the health club employee mentioned that he knows for a fact that Chester has memberships at EVERY health club in town and goes to them specifically so he can girl-watch, only attempting a cursory workout for himself so he'll at least have an excuse to hang around. (Granted, there are only, like, three other health-clubs in town, but memberships to those places tend toward the expensive.)
And so the list of people who cannot stand the sight of that man continues to grow.
Later, in another part of the health club well out of Chester's earshot, Mrs. C and her husband were discussing whether or not Chester EVER takes off that stupid hat.
"No, he doesn't," one of the health-club employees reportedly said.
The three of them then entered into a discussion about Chester and just how unbelievably creepy he is. During this, the health club employee mentioned that he knows for a fact that Chester has memberships at EVERY health club in town and goes to them specifically so he can girl-watch, only attempting a cursory workout for himself so he'll at least have an excuse to hang around. (Granted, there are only, like, three other health-clubs in town, but memberships to those places tend toward the expensive.)
And so the list of people who cannot stand the sight of that man continues to grow.
Thursday, February 10, 2005
Lovely Spam, Wonderful Spam
This is the funniest spam I've received in a long while.
It reads like chopstick instructions, yet retains a level of white-trashosity that can only be aspired to.
It reads like chopstick instructions, yet retains a level of white-trashosity that can only be aspired to.
FROM: whale-mail.com
SUBJECT: Hey, me again
Wanted to interest you in keeping me some company. My Sack of shit husband works night shifts, which makes me very lonely at night.
To contact me please go here: XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
P.S. it's me
Chelsea x
E-Filed
Our former employee turned rogue, Miss E, has made a few appearances as of late.
A few weeks back, Mrs. C and her husband, Mr. C, spied Miss E at Wal-Mart. Mr. C was the one who did the actual spotting, having come around an aisle only to find himself sharing it with Miss E. As soon as she saw him, she dashed away, so that Mrs. C never actually saw her. I'd been wondering when one of us would have such an encounter, as this is a pretty small town and running into folks at Wal-Mart is a regular occurrence.
Mrs. C has also had some dealings with Miss E's mother, Mrs. E, as they both belong to a local group that meets in our "liberry's" activities room. Mrs. E has only slightly more contact with her daughter than we do these days. She did, however, try to offer some words of explanation as to Miss E's sudden and as yet unexplained exodus from her job here. While she didn't offer up any real reasons behind it, Mrs. E says that Miss E feels terrible about abandoning her job like that and wishes she had done things differently. Mrs. C told Mrs. E that we're still willing to be friends with her and that while mistakes were made this was not a deal-breaker as far as our relationship with Miss E goes. We would, however, like to have the library books that Miss E checked out from us back, not to mention the interlibrary loan from another library that she still has and that we've been billed for.
That all happened a month or two back. We've still seen no books.
Last Thursday afternoon, Mrs. C told me that she had spoken on the phone to Miss E's mother earlier in the day on unrelated matters. At the end of their conversation, she brought up the fact that we still haven't gotten our books back nor the ILL from Miss E. Mrs. E said she'd packed up all of Miss E's books and sent them over to her other daughter's house, where Miss E now stays. That's all I heard about Miss E from Mrs. C
Then, last Thursday night, I had my own encounter with Miss E...
ACTUAL TELEPHONE CONVERSATIONS HEARD IN ACTUAL LIBRARIES # 14.5
*RING*
ME: Tri-Metro Public Library.
MISS E: Hey, JUICE, it's MISS E.
ME: Oh. Hi.
MISS E: I talked to MRS. C earlier and she said she was leaving my W-2 form there. She had to reprint it cause the social security number was wrong on it. I don't think I'm going to get there before you close. Could you leave it in the mailbox?
(I LOOK AROUND FOR THE W-2 BUT IT'S NOT WHERE THE W-2'S USUALLY ARE)
ME: Uh, well I don't see it here.
MISS E: Well, MRS. C said she'd leave it there for me.
ME: Let me look some more. (I search the entire desk area and all the usual place stuff hides, but it's not to be found at all. I then search Mrs. C's desk area, but still no dice.) Sorry, it doesn't seem to be here. Maybe give MRS. C a call in the morning.
Miss E didn't sound as though she believed me. Perhaps she suspected that we were trying to delay getting her W-2 to her in order to punish her for running out on us. I even considered this as a possibility for a bit. After all, Mrs. C had not told me that she'd spoken with Miss E, only that she'd talked to her mother. Perhaps she was giving me plausible deniability when I couldn't find the W-2. As I learned this week, though, this was not the case. It turns out that Mrs. C had NOT talked to Miss E at all, but only to her mother. (Therefore Miss E was lying when she said she'd talked to Mrs. C.) And the reason Miss E's W-2 was not present was that Mrs. C had given it to Mrs. A to look over and Mrs. A didn't realize she needed to bring it back downstairs afterward.
While I imagine that Miss E truly is sorry for the way she departed, she doesn't appear to be sorry enough to quit being aggressively deceptive toward us. We have come to suspect in the intervening months that the money that went missing in May of last year, just three months before Miss E abandoned her post, may have been taken by her in the first place. We've certainly had no massive amounts of cash missing since she left.
A few weeks back, Mrs. C and her husband, Mr. C, spied Miss E at Wal-Mart. Mr. C was the one who did the actual spotting, having come around an aisle only to find himself sharing it with Miss E. As soon as she saw him, she dashed away, so that Mrs. C never actually saw her. I'd been wondering when one of us would have such an encounter, as this is a pretty small town and running into folks at Wal-Mart is a regular occurrence.
Mrs. C has also had some dealings with Miss E's mother, Mrs. E, as they both belong to a local group that meets in our "liberry's" activities room. Mrs. E has only slightly more contact with her daughter than we do these days. She did, however, try to offer some words of explanation as to Miss E's sudden and as yet unexplained exodus from her job here. While she didn't offer up any real reasons behind it, Mrs. E says that Miss E feels terrible about abandoning her job like that and wishes she had done things differently. Mrs. C told Mrs. E that we're still willing to be friends with her and that while mistakes were made this was not a deal-breaker as far as our relationship with Miss E goes. We would, however, like to have the library books that Miss E checked out from us back, not to mention the interlibrary loan from another library that she still has and that we've been billed for.
That all happened a month or two back. We've still seen no books.
Last Thursday afternoon, Mrs. C told me that she had spoken on the phone to Miss E's mother earlier in the day on unrelated matters. At the end of their conversation, she brought up the fact that we still haven't gotten our books back nor the ILL from Miss E. Mrs. E said she'd packed up all of Miss E's books and sent them over to her other daughter's house, where Miss E now stays. That's all I heard about Miss E from Mrs. C
Then, last Thursday night, I had my own encounter with Miss E...
ACTUAL TELEPHONE CONVERSATIONS HEARD IN ACTUAL LIBRARIES # 14.5
*RING*
ME: Tri-Metro Public Library.
MISS E: Hey, JUICE, it's MISS E.
ME: Oh. Hi.
MISS E: I talked to MRS. C earlier and she said she was leaving my W-2 form there. She had to reprint it cause the social security number was wrong on it. I don't think I'm going to get there before you close. Could you leave it in the mailbox?
(I LOOK AROUND FOR THE W-2 BUT IT'S NOT WHERE THE W-2'S USUALLY ARE)
ME: Uh, well I don't see it here.
MISS E: Well, MRS. C said she'd leave it there for me.
ME: Let me look some more. (I search the entire desk area and all the usual place stuff hides, but it's not to be found at all. I then search Mrs. C's desk area, but still no dice.) Sorry, it doesn't seem to be here. Maybe give MRS. C a call in the morning.
Miss E didn't sound as though she believed me. Perhaps she suspected that we were trying to delay getting her W-2 to her in order to punish her for running out on us. I even considered this as a possibility for a bit. After all, Mrs. C had not told me that she'd spoken with Miss E, only that she'd talked to her mother. Perhaps she was giving me plausible deniability when I couldn't find the W-2. As I learned this week, though, this was not the case. It turns out that Mrs. C had NOT talked to Miss E at all, but only to her mother. (Therefore Miss E was lying when she said she'd talked to Mrs. C.) And the reason Miss E's W-2 was not present was that Mrs. C had given it to Mrs. A to look over and Mrs. A didn't realize she needed to bring it back downstairs afterward.
While I imagine that Miss E truly is sorry for the way she departed, she doesn't appear to be sorry enough to quit being aggressively deceptive toward us. We have come to suspect in the intervening months that the money that went missing in May of last year, just three months before Miss E abandoned her post, may have been taken by her in the first place. We've certainly had no massive amounts of cash missing since she left.
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
Actual Telephone Conversations Heard in Actual Libraries #17
*RING*
ME: Tri-Metro County Public Library.
BARBARA TURDMURKLE (NOT HER REAL NAME): Yeah, this is Barbara Turdmurkle. I have a book out that I need to renew.
ME: (Looks up Barbara Turdmurkle in the computer. There are NO books checked out to her account) You said "Barbara Turdmurkle," right?
BARBARA TURDMURKLE: Yeah.
ME: It doesn't look like there are any books checked out to that...
BARBARA TURDMURKLE: (Interrupting) It might be under B. Turdmurkle.
ME: (Misunderstanding) Dee? D-E-E?
BARBARA TURDMURKLE: No, "B"... B. Turdmurkle.
ME: B, as in Boy?
BARBARA TURDMURKLE: Yes. B... B. Turdmurkle.
ME: Ma'am, we don't allow initials to be used in our patron records.
BARBARA TURDMURKLE: Then it's Barbara Turdmurkle.
ME: (For further confirmation) And can I have your mailing address?
BARBARA TURDMURKLE: P.O. Box 882, Tri-Metro. It's Barbara Turdmurkle.
ME: Yes, ma'am. I understood that. I was just trying to explain earlier that there are no books checked out under Barbara Turdmurkle.
BARBARA TURDMURKLE: Well, I have it right here. It says it's due today, but I want to extend it.
ME: Is this an interlibrary loan, ma'am?
BARBARA TURDMURKLE: (Not listening whatsoever) I checked it out on January 20.
ME: I understand that, ma'am. I'm just asking if this was an interlibrary loan.
BARBARA TURDMURKLE: Well, no I don't think so.
ME: So this was a book that we own here. You got it from our collection?
BARBARA TURDMURKLE: Yes. I got it there on the 20th.
ME: Okay. Well, like I said, there are no books checked out to your patron record. So either we didn't manage to check your book out to you here or it's an interlibrary loan.
(Long pause)
BARBARA TURDMURKLE: But I have it right here.
ME: I understand that, ma'am. We still don't have it checked out to you on your card. You're sure you didn't get this on interlibrary loan?
BARBARA TURDMURKLE: No! I got it there! At the library! I just wanted to renew it for a few days because I'm not finished with it yet.
ME: Okay. Well, like I said, it's not checked out to you on your card. This means we won't be able to charge you any fines if it's late, so just bring it back when you're finished.
BARBARA TURDMURKLE: So I can have it renewed?
ME: (Sighing over the impossibility of ever cracking the walls of understanding with this woman) Yes. It's renewed.
ME: Tri-Metro County Public Library.
BARBARA TURDMURKLE (NOT HER REAL NAME): Yeah, this is Barbara Turdmurkle. I have a book out that I need to renew.
ME: (Looks up Barbara Turdmurkle in the computer. There are NO books checked out to her account) You said "Barbara Turdmurkle," right?
BARBARA TURDMURKLE: Yeah.
ME: It doesn't look like there are any books checked out to that...
BARBARA TURDMURKLE: (Interrupting) It might be under B. Turdmurkle.
ME: (Misunderstanding) Dee? D-E-E?
BARBARA TURDMURKLE: No, "B"... B. Turdmurkle.
ME: B, as in Boy?
BARBARA TURDMURKLE: Yes. B... B. Turdmurkle.
ME: Ma'am, we don't allow initials to be used in our patron records.
BARBARA TURDMURKLE: Then it's Barbara Turdmurkle.
ME: (For further confirmation) And can I have your mailing address?
BARBARA TURDMURKLE: P.O. Box 882, Tri-Metro. It's Barbara Turdmurkle.
ME: Yes, ma'am. I understood that. I was just trying to explain earlier that there are no books checked out under Barbara Turdmurkle.
BARBARA TURDMURKLE: Well, I have it right here. It says it's due today, but I want to extend it.
ME: Is this an interlibrary loan, ma'am?
BARBARA TURDMURKLE: (Not listening whatsoever) I checked it out on January 20.
ME: I understand that, ma'am. I'm just asking if this was an interlibrary loan.
BARBARA TURDMURKLE: Well, no I don't think so.
ME: So this was a book that we own here. You got it from our collection?
BARBARA TURDMURKLE: Yes. I got it there on the 20th.
ME: Okay. Well, like I said, there are no books checked out to your patron record. So either we didn't manage to check your book out to you here or it's an interlibrary loan.
(Long pause)
BARBARA TURDMURKLE: But I have it right here.
ME: I understand that, ma'am. We still don't have it checked out to you on your card. You're sure you didn't get this on interlibrary loan?
BARBARA TURDMURKLE: No! I got it there! At the library! I just wanted to renew it for a few days because I'm not finished with it yet.
ME: Okay. Well, like I said, it's not checked out to you on your card. This means we won't be able to charge you any fines if it's late, so just bring it back when you're finished.
BARBARA TURDMURKLE: So I can have it renewed?
ME: (Sighing over the impossibility of ever cracking the walls of understanding with this woman) Yes. It's renewed.
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Untrapped
Ahh. It arrived. Of course, it arrived just AFTER the post office
closed, but at least it was here today. I've now installed my new power
supply and it is enjoyably less loud than my previous one. (Actually,
the previous one was pretty quiet, once it finally died, but I digress.)
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