Misty Water Colored Memories

When you're a librarian, having a good memory is essential, and having a great memory works wonders. Having that instant recall is one of the many things that can help you with your work and really wow a patron. When they can say something as vague as "there's a La-Z-Boy commercial with a guy on it that I think wrote a crafty book" and you can reply "do you mean Handmade Modern by Todd Oldham?", it truly awes people."How did you know that Patrick Swayze was a dance extra in "Staying Alive" starring John Travolta? That's amazing!" Obviously, you always want to back up your memory with an actual citation that can corroborate what you think you remember, but the fact that you remember it is better than being able to hang a spoon off the end of your nose, as far as most people are concerned. Even facts that are pretty basic librarian knowlege can seem Amazing-Kreskin-like to the non-librarian crowd. Biology Girl threw a party with all her sciencey friends once, and a woman there haltingly half-remembered a book she had read as a child as "something about Sally J." to which I replied "Starring Sally J. Friedman As Herself, by Judy Blume?" and it was like I had pooped a diamond onto the carpet. Everyone thought that was great, and proceeded to quiz me for a few minutes more, just for kicks.

There are those who absolutely stink at this type of factual recall. If you have a bad memory, you can still get by with being a librarian, but it certainly takes a little of the sparkle out of things. The one thing you don't want to do is to just make something up that sounds right to you and is somewhat related to the correct fact, but is not the correct fact at all. If you're someone who does this, librarianship is not for you. For example, my dear Nordic Boy. I love the spit out of him, but there are facts about things that he doesn't retain well. Like names of books, movies, songs, things like that. And not only does he not retain this information, when pressed he'll just make something up that sounds vaguely similar. This makes for some interesting conversations. Recently we were talking with Neighbor J and Neighbor B about a play that's coming soon to our town called "The Charred Underbelly of the Yule Log," which is the show by one of those NPR-type humorists. We all laughed about what a funny name that is for a show. A couple of days later, the topic came up again. Instead of just saying he didn't remember what the title was, he just did his best, god bless him.

Him: Oh yeah. So are we going to see that show when it comes to town?
Me: What show?
Him: The one we were talking about the other night: The Smelly Underpit of the Christmas Troll.
Me: The whaaat?

This is why he should not be a librarian. He just HAS TO bust out with something, even if he knows he doesn't know. Just to try. He just can't help himself from hitting me with his best shot. It's a very hopeful gesture, really. He even does this when it gets to a level of such randomness as to make me wonder how it's related at all to the original thought in the slightest. Last night, he complimented me on a bracelet I was wearing that I bought at a store called the Three Monkeys in Portland.

Me: Thanks. I got this the last time we went to Portland.
Him: Oh, yeah- I remember that store. What's it called- the Spanky Poodle?

The Spanky Poodle. Not the Three Monkeys, but the Spanky Poodle. It's like he's playing Telephone with himself and the fact gets more and more messed up as each day goes by. Neighbor J and I bond over this, because her honey does the same thing. A couple of years ago, when no one could escape the monstrosity that was the Titanic theme song, Neighbor B said: "You know that song...the one by Cilantro Diaz?" Yet another person that should not persue librarianship. It would just be too confusing for patrons. Can you imagine? "Oh, yes. The novel about the dwarf in the German town during the Holocaust. Stoned on the Liver." It would be a disaster.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Shop Suey

This weekend Neighbor J and I went a-shopping. There are many ways that she and I have an uncanny connection (like being able to remember every single episode of Little House on the Prairie with alarming savant-like detail), and shopping is one of them. It goes beyond liking the same stores (we do) and spending hours on sites like Zappos, Nanette Lepore, and Betsey Johnson and emailing each other outfits with accompanying commentary (we do that too). It's a shopping-behavior connection. You know all those studies that talk about information-seeking behavior and how there are patterns depending on the variables involved? Well Neighbor J and I have identical fashion-seeking behavior. We browse the same way, we pick out the same way, we need a snack at the same time. It's honestly a little eerie. We have the same understandings about color, lines, texture, and craftsmanship. If something's badly sewn, we both pick up on the same seam. We can break a piece of clothing down within five minutes. We can say things like "I'm not feeling the shoulder straps, they're too slopey for my shoulders, and the ruching is too high on the midsection, but the tie-behind brings out the backline well and the bias-cut makes a good shelf-butt" and the other person will know exactly what that means. On the other hand, we can also try something on, and just say '"it's cute, right?" and the other person will say "yeah, totally" and we're done. D-U-N, done. It's a meeting of the minds, I tell you, and I treasure it. This girl can speak-a my language, but not give me a vegamite sandwich, which is always appreciated.

One of the things we always do is make a sweep through the stores that we totally can't afford. Some of the stuff in there is so crazy-strange, we wonder what kind of gajillionaire is paying for it. This time around we found a pair of denim short-shorts, that had tight, bunchy elastic around the bottoms. That's right- basically it was a pair of adult Huggies, without the absorbency. Who's going to pay ten bucks for that, let alone the two hundred smackers it was going for? I mean, at least throw in some wetness protection or something. We also once found a blazer that had a gigantic fake branch sewn onto the lapel, with big purple cloth radishes entwined in it. Just as I yelled out "Ha ha! This one has radishes on it!" the saleslady walked by wearing the exact blazer and gave us an evil look. It was like we were Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman trying to shop on Rodeo Drive. No offense, lady. But you do have a salad on your coat there. In BCBG, we saw an entire ritzy-looking family in London Fog style trench coats. A mom who looked like Leona Helmsley, a daughter that looked like Paris Hilton, and a son who looked like Ashley Hamilton. Inspector Gadget times three. Why the three matching coats? The family who trenches together, stays together? Apparently so. We also were appalled at the safari-wear that's coming back in style in some places. What's up with that? Only Indiana Jones should dress like Indiana Jones. And maybe not even then. Lastly, Neighbor J is the only person that I write about on this blog whose blog-nickname is her actual real-life nickname. I really call her "Neighbor." We were next-door neighbors for a long time, and so we started calling each other "Neighbor" in jest, and it never stopped. So as we shop, we call this out. "Hey Neighbor! Look at this!" "Oh my gawd, Neighbor, that's sick!" "Oh I can totally see this on my Neighbor." I never really thought about how odd this must seem to those who overhear us. It's like a cross between Sex in the City and Mr. Rogers. Fashion fabulousness and neighborly niceness all in one. It doesn't seem quite right. But it's just who we are. Shoppy soulmates. Now all we need are the matching trench coats.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

You So Naaaaasty

I got an obscene phone call at the reference desk today. Ob-siggedy-scene. I just have to tell y'all about it because it was weird. I mean, calling someone to say something nasty to them is already a behavior that gets you oddball status. But even for a nasty dude, this guy was strange. I don't know. Maybe I'm just imagining that there are rules of engagement when it comes to dirty calls, but what do I know. To me, if your objective is to call someone and shock them with the lewd-n'-crude, then let's go. Let's do this. Cut to the chase already. Over the course of my life I've gotten the unwanted dirty call or two (as opposed to the wanted dirty call, which is totally different, obviously) and usually they just let it rip. They're ready with their dirrty lines and they go ahead with it. Not this guy.

First of all, he called during a particularly busy moment, so my colleague had to put him on hold. And we didn't get back to him for maybe 5-10 minutes. So weird thing #1: this ODB sat there and waited patiently, listening to the piped in easy listening music. His K.Y. was probably in need of replenishing by the time I finally picked up the phone. So here's how it went. I just need to break this down, people. Share the joy, won't you?

Me: Thanks for waiting, how may I help you?

ODB: (Enthusiastically) Hello! It was no problem waiting!
(Aren't these dirty dudes supposed to be breathing heavily, and not so damn chipper?)

Me: Is there something I can help you with?

Dirt McGirt: I'm sorry. I'm not sure who I dialed. Where did I call?
(Ok, so this establishes that he's calling random numbers, not actually stalking me personally. Good to know).

Me: This is the library. Do you have a question?

Dirty Bird: Yes. Are you familiar with the overall aura of your neighborhood?
(Hmmm. A New Age ODB. Maybe it's Ramtha on a particularly frisky day).

Me: No, I'm not personally familiar with that. Perhaps there's a way I can look that up for you? (See me stretching those LIS skills?)

Dirt Bacharach: No, that's ok. Do you know any information about the high school basketball teams in your area?

Me: What sort of information about that do you need?

Dirt Cobain: I'm wondering-- is this call being recorded?

Me: No.

Dirt Loder: You have such a beautiful voice. Are you married?

Me: I'm sorry, I'm not going to answer that. Do you have a research question?

Nastity Bono: So this is like a quick information hotline?

Me: Sort of. It's the library.

Ron Jeremy: But you do give out information?

Me: Yes. Do you have a question?

Dick Trickle: (I'm not going to tell you what he said next verbatim because it is too grotty. Suffice it to say it had something to do with asking me if I prefer R. Kelly style antics with Number 1 or Number 2, and if it's preferable to me on this or that part of the anatomy.)

Me: (so so typical of me) hahahahahaha

Him: Hello? Hello? (he hangs up)

So that's that. I made an obscene phone caller hang up. I think it's part of the thrill for them to make the callee hang up, so take that, Disgusto. I win. And I'm sorry, I know it's probably pointless to try and decipher this situation, but I can't help it. Enquiring minds want to know. Was he really committed to the idea of the dirt-flirt? Or was all that chitchat in the beginning him getting his (ahem) nerve up? It was almost as if, as he was talking to me, he was connecting the dots that this was a library or some other information-giving-type place, and he was actually trying to come up with questions to ask me, hence the aura and basketball stuff. Or maybe that was just his way of small talk before the grand finale, like when you're on a date and you talk about movies but what you really are waiting for is the making out. And when I laughed at him, why did he say "hello? hello?" like we were having a bad connection or something? It's all so confusing. I'm sort of distraught, but not in the way he wants me to be. Well, at the very least I guess he learned he shouldn't mess with this Librarian. Miss Girl if you're nasty.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

"Fashion! Turn to the Left!"

I know that amongst young, hipster librarians, a favorite topic of conversation is the lack of fashion sense that can run rampant in our profession. The socks and sandals jokes, the holiday-scene sweaters, the gunny sack dresses, the bunheads. I've heard about it a million times. I've talked about it a million times. When I first got my job, I read a book of essays that gave advice to new librarians, and one of the essays actually said that wearing sweats to work is not really the best idea. In a book that intelligently discussed ideas about patron service, cataloging theory and practice, and the underpinnings of intellectual freedom, this book had to spell that mess out. "If the predominant author is not indicated, tag 100 is to be made under the first author, and tag 700 for the rest. And fool, don't wear sweats to work." Boggles the mind, no?

When I think about this phenomenon a bit more, I come to the conclusion that part of what this is about is purely generational. As much as anyone is loathe to admit it, there was a time when gunny sack dresses with plastic headbands were completely in. During the time when Melissa Gilbert ruled the airwaves, prairie-wear was stylin', at least much more so than it is now. And I remember when Maddie Hayes used to wear those triangle-shaped blazers with the huge shoulder pads in shades of Pepto or Mylanta, and it was chic as can be. So when I see my colleagues wearing these types of things, it's just a reflection of the time warp that many people get caught in. And that phase, if you calculate it, usually falls into the era of whenever that particular person was in their 20s. Think about it.

Take my dad as an example. He was in his 20s during the 1950s, and much of his fashion sense is frozen in that time period. Tailored suits, neckties in a windsor knot, cuff links. To dress down, he likes his newsie cap and linen pants. He's not going to change that. It's the same with our librarian colleagues. If they were hippies who wore birkenstocks with socks while they had folksy singalongs with their friends when they were 25, they are greying librarians who wear birkenstocks with socks as they do their story times now.

As I just recently left my 20s, I am noticing that my peers are starting to settle into their look and I wonder what the future holds for us. I have friends who were in their early 20s when big, chunky, neo-platform shoes were all the rage, and they are sticking to those chunksters with hardcore committment, right through the kitten-heel/wedge extravaganza that's going on right now. What else is in store for us? Will you be the 60 year old man in the jean jacket with the hoodie underneath? Will I be the 72 year old lady with the long Lucy Liu hair and fishnet Spanx? Will your lower back tattoo peek through the top of your pants as you sit at the park bench feeding the birds? Will we rock the bingo parlor in our Converse and Mac eyeliner?

I guess what I'm saying is that I am feeling much more compassion when I look at the socks and sandals I see paraded before me. I see it as an homage to lost youth. I imagine what you were doing when you first donned those Sally Jessie glasses. Did you wear those corduroy dress shorts with nude nylons underneath the first time you fell in love? Did you hike up those high-waisters to your ribcage on your first day of college? Is that the perm with stand-up bangs you got styled especially for graduation? I see those moments in you. I'm old enough now to get how we all want to hold onto that, at least a little. I really do.

So if I'm still showing up to work in my United Nude cork shoes in 20 years, please be nice to me. And if I show up to work in my sweats, laugh with good nature and tell me to go home and change. And be nice about my Lucy Liu hair. It was stylin' back in the day.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Birthday Cuz

Today's birthday shout-out is for my cousin R. She's not just my cousin, she is my all-time favorite, most special, rockin'-est fabu cousin. And that is saying something because I have, like, a bajillion first cousins. So it's not like best out of three or something lame like that. She's gorgeous, fun, talented, smart, and stylin'. And best of all, hi-larious.

One time she flew out to visit me during a spring break from college, and between all the running around that we did together, we spent an evening watching a bunch of tv in our pajamas. This particular year, there was a VW car commercial that was airing that had that Geggy Tah song on it that went: "All I wanna do is to thank you, even though I don't know who you are, you let me change lanes, when I was driving in my car..." It's kind of an annoying song. And for some reason, that night, it was on the heaviest rotation on the planet. It played every commercial break, sometimes twice, until I was on the verge of conniption. However, during one of the times it played, R started to tap her foot and nod her head along with the song. That's cute, I thought to myself, she's feeling the song. The next time it played, she hummed along, giving me a sidelong glance. By the fourth or fifth time, she sang softly along, looking at me with a serene smile. The next time it played, I sang it with her. And people, by the end of the night, we were just WAITING for that commercial to play each time, because we were seriously belting it OUT. Both of us, sofa dancing, pajama-wearing fools, channeling old Geggy and not caring if the neighbors heard us. "ALL I WANNA DO IS TO THANK YOU, EVEN THOUGH I DON'T KNOW WHO YOU ARE..."

This is the kind of chick my cousin is. She will take an annoying situation and turn it into a funfest no matter what happens. This is an awesome quality to have in any situation, but to have her around in family-type-situations, where annoying, endearing, confusing, surreal things happen often, is a life-saver. You know how Holly Hunter and Robert Downey Jr. get through Thanksgiving together with their crazy family just by sticking together? That's us. And I love her like crazy. Happy birthday, cousin. Kiss kiss.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Grapes of Stone

Apparently the cold I had yesterday has peaked and receded all on one day, which hardly ever happens to me. Cold Lite, is what Neighbor J and I call this. I went back to work today, and realized that although I am almost all the way better, I still have a little bit of that hazy, underwatery feeling in my head, which seems kind of ok when I am at home sipping Earl Grey and watching Little House on the Prairie in my stylish matchy pajamas, but at work, it's totally magnified. This makes me all the more aware that library work is brainy. And if your brain isn't functioning at peak levels, hilarity can ensue. Well, maybe not full out hilarity, but definitely hijinks. Librarianfolk need to be ALERT, and I was not as alert as I usually am. You want proof that I am not alert? I just said librarianfolk, for starters.

The first hijink that happened (hijink? is that the correct singular of hijinks?) was that someone wanted infomation on how to form their own LLC without a lawyer and I thought they were asking me about LL Bean. LLC, LL Bean, potato, potahto. I actually went on this LL Bean premise for kind of a long time during the reference interview. I had formulated in my mind that they wanted to somehow start their own LL Bean without the help of a lawyer, and I kept asking them (what I now know are) nonsensical questions to help me figure out how to do this. I was confused because I was sure that LL Bean stores are not franchises that one can open oneself, but at the same time I was willing to go along with what I thought the patron was telling me. This resulted in the patron having to repeat some very obvious points a couple of times, and me coming out of the fog of Cold Lite a little chagrined.

This whole thing reminded me of a similar situation where I was the unlucky asker and the other person was the doofus misunderstandus. It happened at Whole Foods. There was this guy that used to work there who was cute in a Jordan Catalano sort of way. Broody, unsmiling. You know the type. Biology Girl developed a crush on this dude, who we lovingly dubbed Stoneface. Biology Girl was going through a shy phase, and was having trouble striking up a conversation, and I had spent a few months coaching her with opening lines and the like, but nothing was happening. After a while, I promised her that one of these times I would say something to him and lure him into our circle of fun social happenings where he would be wowed with how fabulous and gorgeous she is, which- trust me- is not that hard if you know Biology Girl. Our hope was that Stoneface was only quiet and brooding at first, but once the ice was broken, he would have this amazing sense of humor, which is totally a requirement to hang out with us. I was in line one day, and who should be my cashier but He of the Face of Stone. As he rung up my groceries, my grapes rung up at $8.99 a pound. Now, Whole Foods can be expensive, but 9-dollar grapes? I wondered if that was a mistake.

Me: Are these grapes really $8.99 a pound?
Him: (rescanning them) They're $8.99. (blank stoneface)
Me: But, are they REALLY 8.99?
Him: (rescanning them again) They're $8.99. (stoney stoneface)
Me: I get that they're SCANNING at 8.99. But what I'm asking is if that is correct. Could there be an error?
Him: (stoney stone stone)...Ummm. It says 8.99.
Me: (starting to find this conversation funny). Yes, I know that's what it SAYS. But could that be wrong?
Him: Well, when I scan them it says $8.99
Me: hahahahaha
Him: (silent stonefacey-ness)
Me: hahahahaha
Him: (unwavering stoneface)

I finally just had to say that I didn't want the grapes, and I NEVER got him to crack a smile. Not even a little! Needless to say, he was completely written off from that day forward and we never tried to chat up Stoneface again. We still laugh at him though.

I'm fairly sure that LLC guy is going to go home and tell his friends about the dummy librarian who thought he wanted to open an LL Bean franchise. It was so obvious that I was foggy. Maybe I'm going down in that guy's history as Fogface. It's only fair, I suppose.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

I Be Illin'

Cloudy Thoughts from Sickhead Sickbed

1. Earl Grey decaf tea is the elixir of life.

2. I love that long skinny microphone that Bob Barker uses. Why don’t people use those any more?

3. The only thing that sounds good to me is staring at a screen. Computer screen, tv screen. What did sick people do in pre-screen-times?

4. Even if you haven’t watched a particular soap opera for more than 15 years, you can tune into one and it’ll have many of the same actors and storylines that are still being dragged out, year after year. Convenient.

5. Chunky chips ahoy...oy oy oy. Is this not a brilliant commercial?

6. Did you all know that Regis still screams at Gelman?

7. Pretty Baby with Susan Sarandon and Brooke Shields is not the movie you want to watch if you’re home sick. Trust me.

8. I missed a committee meeting at work today. I bet it was the one meeting where they had cupcakes or someone told a really good joke or something. Damn.

9. I like how Brits say “shut it!” sometimes instead of “shut up!” If I told people to shut up more often, I could adopt this way of saying it.

10. I’ve been mulling over which tv doctor I would wish to have at my bedside to get me well. Dr. Huxtable, maybe, but he delivers babies, and I certainly do not want that. Hawkeye Pierce, maybe? Dr. Crusher? So many choices...

I’ll write a more coherent post soon, I promise.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

It's Crunch Time

There are many things that I never thought I would do that I ended up doing. A whole host of things. A whole holy host. Some of them are things that I consciously, intentionally, emphatically said I would never do and then I just up and did them anyway, surprising myself and all who know me. Like being in a long-term, committed relationship. That wasn't in the plan. Never really wanted that. But then I walked into a woodshop one day, saw Nordic Boy (from the back, no less, hello disgusting ogler) and was seriously sprung. I mean I truly bugged out. That "you had me at hello" stuff, I didn't even believe in it. I still don't believe in it. It makes me gag during movies. Kind of a paradox, but oh well. I also swore up and
down,as I skipped out of my last day of college after two degrees (and yes, I actually did skip) that I would never be a student in a formal institoot of education ever again and then I lost my marbles and went to graduate school. I also swore I would never stay in a soul-sucking, joy-deadening job for more time than it would take for me to move onto something else, but yes, I did that too. Flushed two years of my life down the crapper with that one.

So this weekend I did another thing that I never seriously pictured myself doing. I went shopping for a home loan. Not that I ever took some sort of anti-home-owning stand. It's just not something I ever really could picture myself doing, like wearing cowboy boots or running a marathon. But I just did it anyway. And much like cowboy boots and marathons, it was fer-reaky.

First off, what does one wear on such an endeavor? Responsible clothes, that's what you wear. So fine, black pants, grey sweater. Responsible and somber. Hester Prynne on the catwalk sans A. No sparkles allowed. My friend Jane told me that under no circumstances should I wear open-toed shoes, which really surprised me. How is that a rule? Will the loan guy be offended at the sight of my toes? As I waited to go into the room, the only feeling that came over me was that mixture of dread and giddiness that I used to get when sent to the principal's office. Man, I hope he doesn't have a paddle in there. When I go in, there's lots of questions, lots of typing into a computer, and the first time in my life that anyone has ever said the words "let's crunch the numbers" to me in all seriousness. Crunch the numbers. In that moment it was the single most stupid phrase I had ever heard. I wanted to laugh. Why do so many goddamn things make me want to laugh?

So after the numbers were sufficiently crunched, I was given a pre-approval letter for an amount of money that was ridiculous. He slid it across the table and I didn't much feel like taking it. I felt like asking him if he seriously wanted to hand that letter, with that dollar amount printed on it, to a person who doodles hearts on the margins of her paper during meetings, and who can't go one day without cussing, and who spends hours on the phone with Neighbor J and Biology Girl like a thirteen year old, and who just the previous night had had a contest with Nordic Boy over who could say "MOOOOOORE!?" with the best screamy falsetto like the soldier in the movie Oliver Twist for a full hour after dinner. I mean, really. We had screamed "MOOOORE!?" at each other over and over again, laughing ourselves sick. Does that seem like a grown-up to you, Mr. Loan Guy? Does that seem like someone who can handle that letter?

I didn't say any of that, of course. I calmly took the letter and shook the hand of this man who I will forever remember as Captain Crunch, and walked out of that office. Unlike Oliver Twist, I definitely did not want to ask for some more, please. That was more than enough. Moooooore.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Kick It!

Did you used to get in trouble when you were a kid? Of course you did. At some point, some time, you HAD to have gotten into some trouble, whether you were Betty Rizzo ("Where you goin'? To flog your log?") or Mary Ingalls ("Can I please have my punishment now?"). My question for you is: how did you react? What was your style? As I see the kids come in to the library in the afternoons, I've noticed that most of them have their own specific way of reacting to the shenanigans that they've created. For example, we've got the 8th grade Mel Brooks. The reason I think of him this way is because no matter what fresh hell he's gotten himself into, he responds with "I didn't do it!" to which I want to finish with that Mel Brooks line "...I was at a friend's house! The check is in the mail!" He says this no matter how many witnesses saw him do whatever "it" is. He punched his friend in the face right as I was talking to him once. When I said "hey! don't do that!" he said, "what? I didn't do it!" It took all of my will to not laugh at this. We also have Baby Sidney Bristow. She's around 8, and sometimes she gets into some shady business and says things like "someone must have stolen my identity and done that." I love that kid too. Then there's Take-It-Like-A-Man kid, who will break the rules, but when you confront him, he nods sagely and looks at you with big serious eyes, as if he knows you are right, so right, and he is going home and doing some sort of penitent act as soon as he gets there, like no Runescape for a week or something. And then there's Junior High Smoothie, who gets into trouble but apologizes with smiles, "ma'am"s and even thanks me for my time in coming over to kick him out. That kid is growing up to be the President. I just know it.

I don't really know if kicking kids out has any effect on future behavior. I know that when I used to get kicked out of stuff, there was a little bit of pride amongst me and my friends about it. I remember practically patting ourselves on the back as we left Fuddruckers, or Showbiz, or wherever. Ha ha, look at us, we are badasses who get kicked out of places. It gave us street cred of some sort, even if we didn't really have any. Because let's face it, no one who hangs out at Showbiz has street cred (references from Kanye West songs notwithstanding). I got kicked out of 8th grade math almost every day for laughing. Yes, even then I was a giggly girl. So, out in the hall I would be sent and it didn't phase me one bit.

So every time I kick a kid out, there's a part of me that feels like the authority figure. Then there's another part of me that just feels like I am passing the torch. Go forth and be kicked out, young hooligans. Perhaps there's a future librarian in you somewhere.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Badge of Honor

This is the first job in my entire life that has required that I wear a badge. I've worked a lot of jobs in my life, and somehow I have managed to avoid uniforms and badges of any kind, which I am rather proud of. I'm not really a uniform kind of girl, either for wearing myself or on other people. If I had to choose a uniform that I like, I would have to say it's the white lab coats that the Clinique ladies wear. I love how it makes them look like they are chemists of lotion, or doctors of liquid eyeliner. Also, it's gutsy. You've got three inches of make-up spackled on your face, and you're wearing a white coat? That is a recipe for disaster if ever I saw one. It always makes me think of that episode of Kate and Allie, where Kate buys a white suit that she can't afford, intending to wear it to the ballet and then return it the next day, and then a ballerina falls into her and leaves the perfect impression of a made-up face on the back of the suit. The moral? Make up and white coats do not mix. Take heed, Clinique. But I digress.

I realize that wearing a badge in a library is important. It identifies you to the patrons as a PWA (Person With Authority), and it even has the magical magnetic strip thing that scans you into the building and into the top secret restricted library back rooms, where we all gather to plot the destruction of the world through free books and media for everyone, like the godless pinkos that we are. So I guess I should like my badge. But I don't. Badgley Mischka, yes. Badgely Librarian, no. First of all, the day that I was told I had to have my picture taken for this badge, I happened to be wearing a rockin' peasant top from Lucky Brand in red, yellow, and brown stripes. It looks cool in person, but now my digitized, pixelated photo looks like I am wearing some sort of clown collar. The Lucky Brand shirt did not translate, dig? Second, the wear and tear on the badge as it is used to scan myself into work every day has caused there to be a couple of big white scratches in the badge that make it look like someone has purposely X'd over my face. White X face with a clown collar. Are you picturing this? The other thing about this badge is that there isn't really a jaunty way to wear it. I know, it's probably futile to try and act like this thing is some sort of accessory, but I can't help but want it to look sort of nice. I refuse to wear one of those cloth necklace things around my neck with my badge on it. I know some people do that, and they also adorn this thing with their "I read banned books" buttons and such, but whoa, that is just one heartbeat away from Flair, people. I am not doing Flair, just like I am not wearing those rubber spiral bracelets that people keep their keys on. A key is not a charm for a charm bracelet. Only Janet Jackson in Rhythm Nation can wear key accessories. Only Janet! Are you listening, Alicia? So I am resigned to clipping my badge onto the lower left edge of my shirts each day, so that it rests right there on my hip. It's the sexiest I can make that damn badge.

The final thing I hate about my badge is the fact that, under my X'd out face, it says in big bold letters: STAFF. That's it. Just STAFF. This causes me to hear this joke at least three times a week: "Hey there, Staff! How's it going, Staff?" or some other variation of the same. I guess you'd call that me getting badgered.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Warm For My Form

Can we try a little more personal?

Ok, so I admit it. If I am having small talk with a patron, sometimes I err on the side of truthiness rather than straight up facts in order to expedite the chitchat and avoid giving out personal information. So, if someone guesses my ethnicity, and it's kind of close (whatever that means), I'll just say "yeah, that's right," just to get on with things. Or if someone happens to know my first name, but they totally butcher it to shredded parmesan, I just say "yeah, that's me." Stuff like that. No harm in that, right? The point is to be friendly and get on with the research at hand. So, today, here's what happened.

This lady comes up to the desk and I like her immediately because she looks kind of like Anne Ramsey. She asks me a kind of complicated tax form question, and so I start to work on it. As she waits, she casually says: "this is associated with filing my taxes with the [x] form. You know what I mean when I say that?" and I nod yes, I know what she means. "So you file with that form?"

"No."

Why did I say no? I do in fact file with [x] form. It's just that I could sense an oncoming threat that she was going to want to ask me something kind of personal about it and possibly get all up in my kool-aid. It's just part of the library-customer-service thing: some people be getting too familiar. So the reason I said no was to indicate that although I know what form [x] is, I have never before seen it, filled it out, whiffed it, touched it, nothing. This message, I was hoping, would get me out of any more personal questions about why I use [x] form. But boy, was I wrong!

Her: You don't? And how much do you make a year?
Me: (typing ever so much faster) Umm. I can't really tell you that, I'm sorry.
Her: But you're a librarian, right?
Me: Yes.
Her: And that requires a Master's Degree?
Me: Yes.
Her: So you must make [some arbitrary amount that would make you librarians out there snort milk through your nose].
Me: (silence, typing, silence)
Her: How old are you anyway?
Me: (concentrated typing with furrowed brow)
Her: You hardly look old enough to have a Master's Degree.
Me: (typing but now liking her a bit more)
Her: Are you married? Do you file jointly?
Me: (typetty type type-- is this lady going to carry on an entire conversation by herself?)
Her: I just can't understand why you don't use that form. Do you do your own taxes?
Me: mmmmm (some sound that could alternately sound like yes, no, or yummy yummy)
Her: Do you own your own home? Just how much do you make?
Me: I'm sorry ma'am, I'm not really allowed to answer personal questions (allowed by ME, that is).
Her: (overly indignant) Well, they're not really THAT personal.
Me: I'm sorry (and I'm apologizing because...?)
Her: I just don't understand why you wouldn't use that form!
Me: Here's the print out of that information you wanted.
Her: (kind of pissed off) You should print out another copy to take home for yourself, you know.
Me: (pause, pause)
Her: If that's not too personal of a statement.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Birfdays

One of the things that I do when I think you are cool is celebrate your birthday. Yes, I am going to get all up in your bidness and ask you when your birthday is, and then when it comes around I will do something celebratory in honor of your you-ness. I can’t help it, it’s how I was raised. I love my birthday. And if I love you, I love your birthday. There’s nothing like being loved and honored by your homies on your DOB, and admit it, it feels kind of rotted to have a birthday when your friends/family forget it, like Molly Ringwald in Sixteen Candles.

I know there are those of you that don’t want to celebrate your birthday, and I respect that, but it’s hard. It’s easier for me to respect differences like if you’re a different religion than me, or have different political affiliations, or you think that baseball is better than kickball. But not letting people who love you celebrate your birthday? Huh? To be honest, you people that are like that are... weird. Flat out. I’m an understanding person, but I don’t get that. Don’t. Get. It. What is going on with you that you don’t want a present? A PRESENT. Are you kidding me? Or a cake, or ice cream, or an effin’ card? Receive the love, people; it’s ok. It makes me worry for your self-esteem when you don’t want the love. Who refuses expressions of love? Not giving your peeps an opportunity to love the shit out of you is just harsh. It seems like the older I get, the more people are doing this. Like we’re all too old and crusty for birthdays, bah humbug, and fun like that is only for the wee ones.

So in my small way, I am combatting this anti-birthday-ism, which, in my opinion, is merely an indicator of the larger problem of people losing their desire to party and deciding to curl into a dried up musty pruneball. Just think of me as Viagara for birthdays. Stop being a grumpy curmudgeon and have some fun. Claim a whole day as yours, ALL YOURS, and graciously accept some lovin’. If you feel like you don't deserve it, then I'm going to give it to you straight: THAT'S DUMB. Everyone deserves You-Appreciation-Day. You don’t want a party, fine. No presents, no sweet treats, ok. Tell you what I’m going to do. When it’s your birthday, my friends out there, I will give you some love on this blog. If you’re on my birthday calendar, you are getting a Librarian Girl shout-out.

Today’s birthday shout-out is for my Bay Area Brother, who’s birthday is on Wednesday. He taught me my perfect frisbee throw, and read me Animal Farm when I was 8. He watched Grizzly Adams with me, was the only person in my family to come see me in my first college play, and brought bilingual poop jokes to a high art form when we were little. He had a crazy looking wallpaper mural of a waterfall plastered onto his bedroom wall, is the only person to this day that can beat me at foozball, and has the flattest pancake ass on the planet. We used to make comedy skits in which he would star and I would videotape/direct, including a Kung Fu style movie called “Kung Fool” that ended with him and my other brother salsa dancing in a giant sombrero and a Carmen-Miranda fruit-hat, respectively. Much of my crazy sense of humor comes straight from this dude. Happy birthday, brother. xx oo.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Lovely Lady Lawmps

My sister is math-y. How math-y is she? My sister is sooooo math-y, she's a regular Mathy McConaughey. I'm not a math-illiterate or anything. I could take a seat among your garden-variety mathletes, but I'm talking about crazy-math. What choo talking about Willis type math. She did her graduate work in stuff that I can't even begin to explain to you, and that's probably ok because chances are you wouldn't understand it anyway. She can think about all that Fermat doughnut stuff and it actually makes sense to her. I watched that documentary about it, and all I could think were Homer-thoughts: Mmmm. Doughnuts. Anyhoo. When my sister talks to her colleagues, and they're getting into it about who solved what which way, they sometimes use the word "elegant." You probably have heard that on tv or in A Beautiful Mind or something. Or maybe you run with a mathy crowd and when you split the bill at Big Boy you talk about elegant bill-splitting. Anyway, if you haven't heard of this, it doesn't just mean that you solved something. It means that you've done something creative, perhaps something unexpected. You've solved it in a way that adds a new dimension to the way this problem is thought about.

Yesterday a patron came in to chat. She comes in a couple of times a week, and she stops to tell me about whatever movie she's watched lately. This lady watches so many movies I am in awe of her. I don't know what she does for a living or if she does anything other than watch movies, but if she does I don't know how. Today, for a change, she was telling me about something she had read about in passing: the Desert Camel Experiment. If you're sitting there reading this thinking: "how the hay-ell does a random stranger come up to you and start chit-chatting about the Desert Camel Experiment," then you aren't a librarian, my friend. This is the random landscape upon which we thrive. As she mentioned it, I quickly drummed up a couple of sources for her in case she wanted to read more about it. She thanked me, but said she wasn't really interested in getting facts about it. She just thought it was entertaining. Hmmm. Not interested in facts? Just want to be entertained? Oh yes, I can do that. "Have you ever heard of the movie 'Hawmps'?" I asked. She perked up. I continued: "I seem to recall Slim Pickens was in that. It's a comedy set during the time of the Desert Camel Experiment. Not really historically accurate or anything, but...." "I'll take it!" she beams at me and looks like she wants to hug me to her bosom.

That, people, is an elegant solution.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Don't Dream It's Over

Every night in Libraryland, we have a little problem. Nobody wants to leave. Well, nobody except those of us that work in Libraryland. But for the non-paid-to-be-there crowd, I honestly think they want to be locked in, like Luke and Laura in that department store, so they can frolic amongst the books in an overnight readathon slumber party. And it's not the homeless people that settle in for a comfy overnighter at the library, usually. It's everyone else. I realize this is a pretty nice problem to have, and yet another indication that people like our library and want to hang out here. So I'm not complaining too hard. But I can't help but wonder if there is a better way to do this. So here's what we do now, our own handcraftedCountdown to Lockdown: we make closing announcements over the PA system. This may not sound like much, but let me elaborate on the closing announcement protocol. We start making announcements a full 30 minutes before we close, gently easing people into the idea that the library is closing like a trusted bottle of Correctol. You've got 30 minutes, people, so you might want to think about coming up to check out if you need to. This is followed by a 20 minute announcement, a 10 minute, and a 5 minute. That's four times that they've been warned that we are shutting down the joint. They don't even give you that during last call in a bar. (They also have bouncers in a bar that will boot your ass out, so I guess that's the
difference there, I don't know). Then we always have to walk around the entire library, issuing personalized verbal invitations for people to go the hell home. If it goes too far past closing time and people still aren't budging, we do the old flick-the-lights on-and-off thing. This somehow usually does the trick, when all the verbal badgering hasn't made a dent. Then people mosey out of Libraryland like pot-smoking sloths, and we get to go home. I've been thinking about ways to make this transition from Libraryland to the real world easier, and thinking about the ways in which other places convey that the working day is done. Here's the best idea that I've come up with: a closing song. What if we piped in a closing song through the PA system? We wouldn't even have to come up with our own song: there are plenty of good ones out there already. Mr. Rogers always had that "I'll be back when the day is new, and I'll have more ideas for you..." song. That's totally appropriate. Or that song that Carol Burnett always sang: "I'm so glad we had this time...togethaaaaa." So nice.

Or maybe I am thinking of this the wrong way. Perhaps patrons aren't socialized to take direct verbal cues like this, as our interactions are so much more often subtle and unspoken. Perhaps if we all started using the Closing Announcement model in our private lives, people would get used to hearing it. So next time you are hanging out with your friends, or on a date or something, start making closing announcements a half hour early. "May I have your attention please. This social interaction will be coming to a close in 20 minutes. If you have items that you wish to bring up, do so now." Then do it again at 10 minutes, and then again at 5. Do this with your partner: "Cuddling will be over in 10 minutes, at which time we will commence with sleeping." Do this even when you're alone: "I will be sick of watching The Surreal Life in five minutes, at which time I will change the channel." Get the idea?

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Wabbit Season! Duck Season!

So you all are getting the picture by now that I'm a girl. A woman.
A layydeeeee. I've left hints throughout this blog to let you in on
this fact. Have you noticed them? I have a cartoon version of myself
right over there in the sidebar that signifies girliness, not only in
appearance, but in the slightly creepy way that I like to
dress my cartoon-self in little outfits of varying styles and hairdos
every few weeks. And if you haven't seen the more subtle girl-signs
like those, I even sign my posts "Librarian Girl." See what I did
there? A librarian, and a girl. Cleverness is my forte, people.

I bring this up because during this time of year in Libraryland, lots
of people seem to forget that I'm a girl. They look at me and all
they can see is the face of a man. Not just any man, actually. They
see The Man. Why the confusion over my tender gender? It's simple:
tax season. I set out the tax forms in Libraryland and all of a
sudden people think I'm the I.R. of S. in the U.S. of A. Or at the
very least, they think I am H.&R. Block. Let me tell you
something right now. I am neither H. nor R. I can't prepare your
taxes for you or give you tax advice. And if I did, you would quickly
be getting a knock on your door from the men in white coats. No,
wait, those are the loony bin guys. I don't know what kind of coats
the IRS people wear, probably tweed, but they'd be paying you a visit.
So repeat after me, Librarian Girl is not The Man. Librarian Girl is
not The Man. She's the Girl. Totally different.

And if there was ever a time that I didn't want to be The (IRS) Man,
besides always, it's during tax season. Yesterday, a woman came up to the desk in a frantic, malevolent state, and fired complicated tax questions at me faster than I could repeatedly tell her "I'm sorry, I can't help you prepare your taxes." Boy, was she mad. But this was not what was troubling me the most. What was getting under my skin was the fact that she kept calling me "sir." That's right, "sir." As in "what sorts of assets do I need to report on line 42e, SIR." Wow. I have enough trouble with being called "ma'am," and now I have to endure this lady knighting me in the middle of my shift? And she did it repeatedly, looking straight into my girlier-than-thou face. I don't know how much more of a femme someone can look than me, but to this woman I was Sir Tax-a-lot.

You know how moms with bald newborn girls really want everyone to know that they're girls so they dress them up like a doily and put that rubber-band-headband-with-a-bow-on-it around their tiny little skulls? Maybe I need to invest in some doily-wear and skull-bows. At least for tax season.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Voices Carry

It was loud in Libraryland today. It’s often loud in Libraryland. On the one hand, this makes me feel really good, because our library is so ridiculously busy and bustling that the dull roar just reminds me of how lucky I am to be in a place where tons of people come to the library and love us and utilize all the awesome things we’ve got. It’s a crazy-mad rush in here, with crowds of people, and I love that. People stand outside of our doors before we open, steaming up our windows with their hot little noses. Ok, so they don’t really steam up the windows, but they do stand out there like we’re giving away free shit, which, come to think of it, we are. On the other hand, we try to stay on top of the decibels by asking people to lower their voices, but the way our library is constructed makes voices carry even when it’s just a few people in here. When there are mobs, it’s almost impossible, but we give it a valiant effort. So here are some thoughts about noise control.

Who the hell designated the sound “shhh” to mean be quiet? Shhh is a loud noise in and of itself. It’s not soothing. It’s grating. Case in point: there are often groups of teen hipsters hanging out and yukking it up with each other in various parts of Libraryland. I go over to them and say something like “hey, guys, can you keep it down?” which (if not met with outright ridicule and a flippity of the birdkins) they usually try to do for the first few minutes. Then, inevitably, those wacky excitable teens get going again, to which their goody-two-shoes friends remind them: “Ssssssshhhhhhhh! Ssshhhhhhhh!” So now I have the sounds of talking and laughing in a wind tunnel. Lovely.

There are other places that promote calm and quiet besides Libraryland. Maybe we can take some cues from those places. Some of these places even convince you to be calm during times when you want to scream bloody murder. For instance, the spa where I go (pardon my mentioning it, not very graceful, I know) for waxing. As you wait in the waiting room, they serve you green tea on big, comfy couches. And when you’re up on that table, getting the bejeezus ripped off you, there’s incense, and calming music, and a little trickling fountain. And by golly it works. You actually feel relaxed, instead of brutally tortured, which, let’s face it, you are. So maybe we should be piping Enya into the library. It hypnotizes people. Think about it.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Fallen Hubris

When I was in graduate skool, I did a couple of internships. (Something you all should do if you are currently in library skool-- and I mean all y'all). One of them was at a local public library, which I adored. I loved everything about it. I loved the incredibly helpful manager, who always went the extra mile for every patron. I loved the librarians, who took so much time to chat it up with me and show me all kinds of ropes. I loved the circ staff, who encirc'd me with their camaraderie. It was the single most important experience that I had to help me figure out if I was cut out for this library racket, and I was lovin' every minute of it. It was great.

One thing I wasn't loving, however, was the state of the various display areas that I saw. You know what I'm talking about. Bulletin boards and shelf space dedicated to marketing our collections and services to the public, and holy madonna in a weddin' dress, did it look like ass. Stodgy ass. If there's one place in the library that markets our dusty bunhead stereotype, it's the display area. Every time I would look at one, I would shake my head and think: out of touch, out of time. "My displays shall never look so shitty nor shoddy," I silently vowed. I went home and gleefully told all my arty friends about the state of library displays. "Wait until I'm a librarian," was my inner monologue, "I will rock the library world with my display talents! I will plaster the library in the grand tradition of Lautrec and Glaser! It will be art! It will be hip! Check it and see!"

Well, here I am, a librarian, with my very own display space upon which I can unleash my crafty goodness for the masses to enjoy. And you know what? I take it all back. All of it. It's not art, it's not hip, unless you are of the Huey persuasion and think it's hip to be square. I'm ashamed of my hubris (that sounds dirty, doesn't it?) and am saying Uncle on the mat. So this post is all about me getting the snooty out of my patootie, and warning all you baby librarians out there: there's a reason for the (bad-display) season.

I think I'm a bit more creative than the average bear, but I haven't been able to walk the walk with this one, and I'll tell you why. After I tell you this, you are never again allowed to snicker at a library display! Never ever.

First, there is a drought of time. Yes, I have a lovely painting on my wall at home that I am proud of and makes me the head of the Pretty Committee at home. But it took me days to complete. I don't have days to complete a crafty project at work. Hell, I don't even have an hour. I have minutes. Sing the Jeopardy song and that's about the length of time that I have to do a display. I hadn't considered that when I got all Clinton-Kelly-critical of other librarians. So lesson one: no time. Tick tock and it don't stop.

The other thing that makes display work so maddening is the paltry supply budget. There are many things that need to be paid for, and getting us good accoutrements for displays is not on the top of that list. So I'm stuck with two sets of colored paper (pastels and flourescents), a pair of scissors, and a stapler. That's it. If I can scrounge up other stuff on my own, that's great, but that's all that's in the supply closet. Ain't nothing else in there.

So, considering what we have to work with, my attitude has completely changed. The displays that librarians come up with using no supplies and less time is completely genius. It's art on the run. We're making art out of nothing at all.

So next time you see a library display, be impressed. Even if it's a mylanta colored stick figure floating above a pastel blue sea with the caption "jump into reading!" emblazoned across the top. We're squeezing diamonds out of coal here. Well, maybe not diamonds, but at least diamelles.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Whine and Cheese

The obvious pop culture-ish thing to post about this week would be the Oscars. I could tell you my thoughts about Charlize Theron's second head that was growing out of her left shoulder, or about my girl-crush on Salma Hayek and her lovely Versace dress, or about my astonishment that Hilary Swank's ribcage was half the size of her cranium, or about how my favorite moment of the night was when those french dudes brought up their penguin toys and made penguin noises into the microphone for their acceptance speech (those crazy french!), or I could wax poetic about the fact that I haven't been in love with a celebrity since I was in love with Michael Jackson back in his Thriller/Off the Wall days when I was a child, but that over the past two years I've had a deepening love for Jon Stewart that causes me to want to put his picture in my locker, if I had a locker.

But I'm not going to write about that. The reason? I am having a crap-week at work this week. I'm Alexander and it's been a string of no-good, very bad days. Ugh. I'm not really prone to having many truly bad days, because of my usual go-with-the-flow-ness, so when I have them, it kind of throws me. The first thing that's been crap about this week is that the teens in my library are running amok, and we've had to kick them out at alarming rates. It's like the front door of our library is coughing out teen loogies and spitting them on the sidewalk. I know there are many librarians out there who like to hate on teens, but I don't happen to be one of them. I love those scruffy little rugrats, even when they're being assy. I certainly remember having my own assy teen moments when I was their age. I got kicked out of places too. My friends Alli and Map, who both read this blog and who've been my friends my whole life, can attest to the many times we tortured that poor student teacher in 12th grade English by mocking him at every opportunity. Or how our 8th grade history teacher kicked us out of class almost daily. Or how we almost failed 11th grade history just on the basis of being tardy to first hour every day, waltzing in to class in our pajamas with McDonald's breakfasts that we would spread out on our desks and munch on with that 16 year old bravado that I see at work every day. So kicking teens out of some place isn't the end of the world, I know. But I don't relish having to do it, like some librarians do. It doesn't make my day. It's one of my least favorite things about my job. Ugh, again. I need to be wearing some Ugg boots right now. All I can really do is walk around at work humming "It's hard out there for a pimp." You ain't knowin' you ain't knowin'.

So yesterday I had a meeting at another branch on the west side of town. My branch is on the east side of town, so I got a head start and left my branch early to be sure that I made it on time. In my city, driving from one end to the other in morning traffic takes about an hour. I fought my way through traffic and arrived a blissful ten minutes early, only to find an empty conference room. Aack! My schedule had the wrong location on it. The meeting was back on the east side at a branch not ten minutes from where I work. Another hour in the car for me, and being late for the meeting! I don't have anything witty or snarky to say about that. It just sucked.

When I got home last night, I got an email containing this link to a quiz. I decided to cheer myself up with finding out how I would be defined in the dictionary. I put in "Librarian Girl." It said: "Visually stunning." That actually cheered me up a little. Then I put in "Pop Culture Librarian." It said: "Sexually addictive." Wow! I'll take it! Feeling better already. Then I put in my real first name. "The consistency of congealed cheese."

Ugh.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Relax, Don't Do It

Ask anyone I work with about me, and one of the traits they will undoubtedly mention is that I am laid back. A go-with-the-flow kind of person. I try to refrain from saying "it's all good" because it's kind of lame, but it's hard, because that's how I feel about things at work most of the time. It's all good. No worries. It's cool. Not a problem. I don't know, maybe it's cultural. My tropical background is certainly prone to this type of zen-like acceptance of circumstances. It's a good trait for a librarian to have, because of the stressed out, loony tunes, kookoo for cocoa puffs people we sometimes have to deal with. A couple of days ago, after a particularly rude patron was beaten into submission by my pearly whites, a co-worker sang me "Unforgettable" by Nat King Cole with new lyrics: "Unflappable...that's what yooo are..."

There are those situations that get my blood ter boiling, however. Few and far between, but there are times when I feel like I want to unleash that inner alien out of the center of my torso so it can gnaw the nose off that beef-witted miscreant in front of me, fo sho. I still manage to keep my professional face on, but my everloving goat can get got. One of my triggers that takes me to the dark side happened yesterday. Some dude lingers around the desk for a while, looking at me without really looking at me. Finally, he comes over and leans his smarmy self in and says "can you get me a copy of the ...Kama ...Sutra?" drawing the words out with relish. Vinegary, pickled, nasty relish. As I look it up, I know he's going to start in with the questions about whether I'm "familiar" with that work. Sigh.

This is where I have to take a deep breath and count to ten. Why does this get to me? Other patrons are often more overtly mean, rude, aggressive, crazy. This dude is just kind of annoying. He's not even really scary or anything. But yet I'm fighting the urge to kick him in the teeth. Why?

It's just all so...tired. The Kama Sutra? Are you kidding me with that? Do you honestly think that this is the first time that I've heard this? You see my brown face and think I'm going to be your guru of love and teach you about tantric sex? What do I look like, Sting? Push on, sucka. That's the best you can do? I've heard it a million times. Let's play a new song, shall we?

Hmmm. That's weird. I guess what I'm saying is-- he's not being creative enough? That it's not so much the drooly skankiness of it all, but it's the fact that I've heard that one a million times? Is that really what I'm saying? I guess it is. If you're gonna leer in my beer, show me something new. Give me some entertainment value. Give me a show stopper. If you're going to be an ethnophile and objectify me for my exotic appeal alone, do a little tap dance along with it so at least it's interesting. Throw in a punchline. Something. The Kama Sutra thing needs to be retired. Seriously.

When I was in college, this guy on the street asked me where I was "from". I told him, and he decided to give me a Barry-White-voiced response with "I knew it had to be some place tropical like that. 'Cause you look like a mango: sweeeeeeeet." Now that's what I'm talking about. Still kind of annoying, yes. But no frothy-mouthed, red-eyed rage welling up in my chest. No knickers in a twist over it. It doesn't bounce me out of my usual laid back, low blood pressure state of mind that I live in 99% of the time. And I like it like that. It's cool, no worries, no problem.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

I Belong...

There are a lot of theories about what makes something cool. There are cool hunters hired by big corporations that troll the streets (yes I said troll) to figure out the next big thing. Ever read Westerfeld's So Yesterday? That's what I'm talking about. Eddie Izzard has this bit where he talks about the cycle of cool. His theory is that anything that is at the bottom of the cool scale can get to such a level of uncoolness that it rounds a corner somewhere and automatically becomes the height of cool. Well people, today I turned that corner.

I was walking through the work room in Libraryland, and the folks who work their knickers off back there (Hercules! Hercules!) were trucking along as usual. They had a radio playing back there, and what should be coming out of the speakers but "You Belong to the City."

Me: "Wow, this takes me back to middle school."
One of the high school students who works as a shelver here: "What is this?"
Me: "It's Glenn Frey. It's from that show Miami Vice. Guess I just dated myself by knowing that, didn't I?"
High school dude: (in an awed tone) "That is so...awesome that you know that."
Me: "It is??"
Him: (looking at me with new respect) "Yeah."

Knowing geeky music that I wouldn't have copped to in high school is finally paying off. Forget Postal Service, Thievery Corporation, and Arcade Fire. Glenn Frey is what the kids want!

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Out of the Closet

On my first day of graduate school, I sat around a table in a classroom with about 20 other students. As an ice breaker, our professor asked that we go around the room and tell each other our name and a little something about what brought us to library school. Let me tell you right off the bat, I SUCK at questions like this. What brought me there? The #43 bus, that's what brought me there.

So as we go around the room, 90% of people have some story to showcase their inner librarianness. Granted, most of these things are said in jest, but still, I'm floored. People laughingly confess that they used to play librarian as a child, checking books in and out to their friends with fake stamps and return slips. Others talk about their love of organizing things, creating databases complete with scannable barcodes to keep track of their reading lists. Really? Is this stuff really true? I don't/didn't/haven't done any of this stuff. Am I missing my librarian gene?

Well, this past week, I discovered my missing link. I was visiting my parents back in the Midwest, having a grand old time seeing some old sights (like the playground where I broke my arm playing tetherball) and some new ones (like the brand new branch library located in the mall right next to Sears). I was sleeping each night in my childhood bedroom with Nordic Boy, which made ridiculous There's-A-Boy-In-My-Room thoughts go through my head each night without fail. My third day there, my mom asks me to go through my closet, which is still full of clothes, and make up boxes of stuff to go to Goodwill. (An aside- I had enough Belinda-Carlisle-wear to stock an entire 80s fashion museum, seriously. It was so beautiful and cringeworthy). As I wrapped up this task, the last box in the back of the closet remained. I opened it, thinking it would be more lace gloves and day-glo sweatshirts with the collars cut out like Alex in Flashdance, but that's not what's in there. It's a bunch of notebook paper, each sheet folded up into tight rectangles that fit in the palm of the hand. Hundreds of them. As I open them up, one by one, I'm amazed. They're notes. The kind that get passed from one kid to another under the noses of teachers everywhere (or at least they used to, before IM and text messaging and alla that). Notes written to me from friends, and sometimes enemies, from my entire life. I'd saved them all, tossing them into this big box in the back of my closet. Why did I do this? When did I start? The oldest note that I found so far looks to be from around 3rd grade, and they go all the way up to my senior year in high school. I don't remember doing this, and can't imagine what kind of 3rd grader would want to archive "I like you, do you like me? Yes, no or maybe, check a box" for posterity. A weird kid, that's who would do that. A kid who has hoarding issues. But the librarian in me was LOVING this like I'd just found buried treasure. I taped that box right up and sent it to myself back on the west coast. There's an art project in this somewhere. I have visions of putting them in chronological order and binding them into a book. How would one index "Mr. Menard is a dick face"?

So I guess I did have those librarian tendencies as a child. It was just all in the closet.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

He's Crazy-Funny

Last night I stepped out on the town to see Dave Chappelle and it was so friggin' fun that I'm still having fun today thinking about it. He brought along Mos Def and Erykah Badu and so it was like two concerts and a stand-up show all in one. Dancing and laughing, these are a few of my favorite things.

I've already chronicled the fact that I feel like I am at the unique point in life where I am exactly 50% adolescent, and 50% geezer. Last night, I gathered more evidence to see how the scales are tipping.

Forever 21 or Cutter & Buck?

Forever 21...
*I was at a Dave Chappelle/Erykah Badu/Mos Def show and knew almost all of the songs.
*The hardest I laughed all night was a joke about someone getting hit in the nuts.
*My eye make-up involved glitter.
*We forgot where we parked the car.

Cutter & Buck...
*I was dead tired when I got home at 12:30.
*I didn't go out afterwards.
*I thought it was quaint to see girls smoking trees in the women's bathroom.
*We forgot where we parked the car.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Celebrate Yourself

When I was a kid, and I accomplished something that I could really be proud of, I felt like it was perfectly ok to outwardly celebrate that accomplishment. For almost any reason. Loud and proud. That's true for most kids, right? So if I was especially quick at tooling down the drive-way on my Big Wheel before cutting the breaks and wiping out, I would yell "Shazam!" to denote my pride in daring to go so fast. That's all it really took to pat myself on the back. "Shazam!" That was enough. Or if I was successful at crashing through the line in Red Rover, I would allow myself the pleasure of a little chicken-dance, to highlight the grace I had just shown to the world. Just for a few seconds. No one seemed to mind. Maybe it wasn't as articulate as "I celebrate myself..." as dear Walt wrote, but it served the same purpose. Maybe with a little hint of taunting-those-around-me-with-my-greatness mixed in, but hey, I was 8.

So as I sat at the reference desk yesterday, I thought about this and began to miss the social acceptability of this behavior. I mean, some adults get to do this at their jobs. Athletes and performers, mostly. Football players regularly dance around in the end zone, Tiger Woods does that fist-pulling-on-a-rip-cord motion when he does something great, actors get to take a bow. What about the rest of us? We all do some pretty cool things during the course of our job. At least I know librarians do. And man, I was itching to bring my inner 8-year-old out.

"Here is that batch of statistics you asked for, sir. It shows immigrant populations who entered the U.S. legally, broken down in an alphabetical list by country of origin." SHAZAM!

"Well, if your daughter really liked the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, she may also like Peaches by Jodi Lynn Anderson, which I happen to have right here." IN YOUR FACE, FOOL! IN YOUR FACE!

"That issue of Vanity Fair is checked out, but here is the exact article you wanted from one of our subscription databases. Would you like me to print it out for you?" SMELL THE TALENT, BOYEEE, SMELL IT!

"Derrida's writings on Foucault? Right this way, please." THAT'S RIGHT, UH-HUH, HAY-ELL YEAH. [insert pigeon-head Mick Jagger strut followed by the Roger Rabbit].

"Yes, I did just get the document that you thought you lost back on this computer." UH! UH! UH! [with pelvic thrusts here].

"Here's your book on the US Citizenship Test." [handed to patron after a Michael Jackson spin and a WOOO-HOOOO! SHAH-MONE!]

"Here's the tax form you asked for." [lick a finger and touch ass, saying "tssssss."]

See, once you start thinking about each kick-ass interaction you have with a patron this way, it's really hard to stop. That 8-year-old pride will rock your day. I say we start showing it. Anyone with me?

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Keep It Real

So much reality tv, so little time. It's difficult for me to keep up with all the house-trading, Flava-dating, Bachelor-mating, celebrity-skating, Simon-hating stuff that's out there these days. But last night I was watching Dave Chappelle dance with James Lipton on Bravo, and the next commercial break featured a spot for "Top Chef," a show where chefs are given challenges to showcase who is the cheffiest of them all. It made me think a little more about all of these reality shows that are focused on finding the best person with a particular talent. The best singer, the best dancer, the best chef, the best model, the best designer, the best entrepeneur.

So what would a reality show about librarians look like? We ought to have one about us too, right? We are so reality worthy. We're oodles more interesting than people ever give us credit for. But what sorts of stuff would showcase who was the "best"? When I look at my colleagues, I'm impressed by a whole array of things. Do we have challenges to see who kicks ass all-around? Fast, yet patient reference service, plus mad reader's advisory skills, plus programming, outreach, etc.? If I try and list everything that we do, I start to think this show would have to be ridiculously long.

So maybe we need to mix it up a little. Maybe the show could involve some sort of reference relay race, where patrons bombard us with questions out in the stacks, and we have to run around, shouting out the proper Dewey number as we race to pull the exact right source for them as quickly as possible. Like the Amazing Race, with librarians. Or maybe we could have patrons switch places with librarians for a day so that we can torment them until they have to take a break in the backroom to shed a few tears: Librarian Swap. Or maybe we could have three library "experts" (say, perhaps, MLIS professors) come sit on a panel, watch us work, and then berate us with insults American Idol style (sounds kind of like grad school, come to think of it). Or, we could take a cue from America's Next Top Model and be coached on the right attitude, demeanor, and mannerisms appropo to a top librarian ("show me attitude, people, more attitude!"). We could make 6 young, hot, diverse-ish librarians live together in a swanky loft apartment during an ALA conference, and leave us to our wild and freaky selves, complete with night-vision cameras and a "confessional" booth ("Tiffany totally looked hot during that roundtable. I wonder if we'll hook up in the hot tub later?"). We could have "Librarian Eye for the Patron Guy" featuring makeovers given by librarians to their meanest, most ornery patrons ("socks and sandals for you, fool!"). We could take a cue from the Supernanny and put a librarian with a bunch of unsupervised kids in the library and watch them try and babysit without actually being legally responsible for anyone.

No matter what the competition is, I think the prize should be an all-expense-paid vacation, because isn't that what we all want? And the set should resemble the Price Is Right, because that is the best set ever made. And the host of the show should be David Bowie. No reason, just because I like David Bowie.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Secret Life of Me

Librarians are not born, they are made. What I mean by this is that I would bet some Celebrity Poker Showdown amount that almost every librarian has come to the profession after being trained in or being employed in some other career that is totally unrelated to librarianship. (An aside- how much do I love the word "librarianship"? It's so nautical, so Star Trek, so Shirley Temple). I would guess that not many of our ranks seriously dreamt of, planned for, or plotted to become a librarian as a child. As a matter of fact, I sat on the Admissions committee for an MLIS program, and not ONE of the hundreds of applicant essays that I read spoke of a lifelong dream to some day become a librarian. Time after time, I hear stories from other librarians of their "former lives," where they were trained to be dancers, journalists, computer programmers, whatever. This is what makes us, both collectively and individually, such interesting jacks-and-janes-of-all-trades. It also makes for really funny exchanges with people from our pasts that would have never, ever pictured us as librarians back when they knew us.

On the other hand, maybe we all have trouble picturing those people from our childhood as adults who are making choices that we never thought they would make, doing unexpected things and living lives that we never dreamt they would have.

So this was all brought home to me the first time I re-connected with Luscious J, whose present life is as different as mine is from our shared past together. Luscious J was the guy in high school who gave me that Say Anything moment of playing a love song to me outside of my house when I was 16, only it was If Only Tonight We Could Sleep by the Cure, not In Your Eyes by Peter Gabriel. Please don't mock me for the song, it's still a good memory, ok? Ok, you can mock. I can take it.

We started talking again a few years ago, about once a year, over the phone, long distance. As great as our conversations are, there invariably comes a point in the conversation where it goes from Say Anything to Say Whaaaat, because we just can't get over where the other has ended up. We just can't. Maybe it's because we haven't seen each other in person since high school, and we just can't picture the future that we now both live in. This makes the conversation somewhat less articulate.

"You're a librarian? A librarian???? YOU???"
"Yeah, I am!"
"How did THAT happen? Where did that even come from?"
"Honestly, I don't know. It just did."
"YOU? A librarian? Really?"
"Really."
"Wow."

I'm guilty too. Luscious J was a bad boy, sweet but kind of dangerous. Lots of his friends came to unsavory ends. But yet, there he is, happily married, kids, steady job and coach of the high school basketball team.

"You have a minivan??? YOU???"
"Yeah. Funny, huh?"
"And you're a dad. Wow. I can't get over it."
"Check it out- we even took a family vacation to Disneyworld!"
"Shut up! You're killing me!"

Each New Year, he sends me a card with a photo of him and his family enclosed. He still looks the same- same young face and I guiltily can't look at it without thinking about what a great kisser he was.

And I send him a letter each year in return, regaling him with librarian stories, knowing that on some level, this new grown-up me just will not compute for him either.

Despite the mutual incredulity of this situation, I still think librarians as a group have a really high ratio of Secret Past Lives. Almost everyone I work with has such a story. I'm guessing you librarians out there reading this have your own back story that not a lot of people would guess that you have. We're a bunch of Sydney Bristows, overflowing with secrets. Look around at your co-workers. Hard to believe, isn't it? But trust me, it's true. Ask one.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Yay Bride Parade

Yesterday I spent the day helping Jenny pick out a wedding dress. In all my years of extensive shopping/fashion expertise, wedding dress shopping has yet to come across my path. I know about Vera Wang and Monique Lhuillier, but when it comes to actual, real-life bridal attire, I am far from well-versed. However, my friend Jenny called upon me and I am never one to leave someone in a fashion lurch.

Also on board were Neighbor J, another tres chic hot chica with no wedding dress experience, and Sassy K, Jenny's friend and ex-roommate with great taste, but (surprise) no wedding chops either. So, all in all, it was the blind leading the bride. First stop, a Bridal Superstore. Did you know that such things existed? I didn't. Here's how it works: the bride gets a bunch of dresses to try on, and tries them on in the mirrorless dressing room. With each outfit, she comes out and stands on an ELEVATED PEDESTAL on a stage-like platform in front of a three-way mirror, as the three of us sit in a row of chairs looking on. It was awesome, and I kept secretly wishing that the pedestal would start to revolve. Do you know how the three models in How to Marry A Millionaire did their thing? It was like that, only with bad canned synthesizer wedding music in the background. As Jenny tried on her first dress, the three of us perused the accessories section, and found three bridal cowboy hats with rhinestone tiaras glued onto the brim, and decided to sport them for the rest of the session. My hat was black and sparkly (urban cowgirl), Neighbor J's was white (very Shania), and Sassy K's was pink (a touch of Dale Evans). We looked like a Coyote Ugly ad. Jenny tried on a bunch of dresses, all of which were of the non-traditional, non-white, non-veil-y train-y kind. She was heavenly in all of them.

The three of us did our best to help her out, which mainly entailed a sort of sports-commentator-discussion, complete with the play-by-play, some predictions on outcome, and a complex ranking system. I don't know what came over us, but things like these actually came out of our mouths:

"The black and white one is tied with the champagne one for first, although the brown one may pull ahead later when she tries that on. I'm waiting to see the powder blue halter dress, which seems like a dark horse now, but could surprise us all."

The only thing missing was an instant replay that we could draw on to illustrate our points. The strangest thing about this (and the whole day, really), was that our little group seemed to be the only group having any FUN. There were other brides shopping with friends, moms, boyfriends, and none of them looked happy. There were a couple of meltdowns that happened right in front of us. There were glum frowns, irritated voices, stressed out faces. I'm certainly no expert, but brides seem to be a somber group o' ladies.

Next stop, Macy's department store. We went into the Special Occasion section and Jenny started trying on a ton of stuff there. Jenny's not having any bridesmaids, and so the three of us decided to show her what she's missing. We each tried on a black and white strapless floor-length evening gown that felt suspiciously like spandex, and seemed like an evening gown that Sporty Spice would wear. They were hideously funny, and looked something like this
Horrid, right? Next, we decided to try on a matching set of lavender, beaded, polyester dresses with matching blazers over the top equipped with two-inch shoulder pads. Something like this, to make Rue McLanahan proud.

At the end of the day, Jenny had a cute dress to day "I Do" in, and I got to have an experience that was the closest thing to being a bridesmaid as I think I'm ever going to have. I know there are many of you out there that bemoan the bridesmaids' experiences that you've endured, but count yourselves lucky to have been there, done that. Being there for your friends with unconditional love is the best thing there is. Love, honor and cherish it. A rhinestone cowboy hat is just gravy.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

That Pine Fresh Scent

Last night was one of those awesome windy, rainy nights where I am almost guaranteed a great night's sleep. I have insomnia off and on, and so I have spent many years studying the conditions that make for a good night's sleep, and a windy, rainy night is near the top of the list for me. And last night was a doozy. It was enough to make me want to whistle "I Love A Rainy Night" by Eddie Rabbit as I got into bed. I drifted off to dreamy land, feeling as calm and sleepy as the whispery tone of the Bionic Woman who's always talking about Sleep Number beds, except not as creepy as that. So I went ahead and hooched it up with the Sandman. Until...

KA-SLAM! I was awakened by the loudest, freakiest, most gawd-awful sound. It was shake-your-innards loud. I mean, seriously. Heavens to mergatroid. Nordic Boy sat up, and in the next few seconds of silence, we both noticed that although it was almost 8am, the room seemed kind of dark. Kind of filtered, underwater light was seeping through the windows. Had the house been transported to Oz? (The Judy Garland Oz, not the penitentiary Oz). Nordic Boy and I both lifted the curtains and peered out the window. Branches. All we could see were branches. And the window doesn't normally look out onto any nearby trees.

"Get out of the bed, now!" Nordic Boy yelled at me as he pulled on his clothes. Nordic Boy never ever yells at me. And I mean never. And certainly not about getting me out of bed. I figured out later that it was because he thought I was about to be royally smooshed. I jumped out too, and he pulled me out of the room.

We went into the next bedroom over, and the lighting seems fine in there. So I pulled the blinds and looked out the window. Well, lordy lordy, Weezy's forty. There is a forty-foot pine tree (owned by our neighbor) that has been blown by the wind so hard that its roots have been completely pulled out, and it has toppled right over across my back yard. The top of the tree has clipped the side of my house! On the corner right above my bedroom! Had it blown over THREE FEET to the left, we would have had a librarian pancake, flattened in her bed!

But it was three feet to the right, which meant that it clipped the side of the house, taking down the gutters and part of the eave and a whole mess of shingles. And it left dear Librarian Girl in one luscious piece, with Nordic Boy flawless as he should be. Shee-yott. That was a close one.

So now I have a friggin' dead Ent in my yard. Bettah him than me.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl

Sweet Faces

To me, the true test of friendship is being able to do the most mundane things together and somehow still have it be a blast. Whenever I go visit BFF Biology Girl, I admit that we do the glitzier types of things: we go out to dinner, we sightsee, we throw or attend parties, stuff like that. But what's even better is the random stuff that ends up happening in between all of those things. The Harold and Kumar moments. Case in point, the cupcake facial.

Last Sunday we had a few hours to kill before going to a party later in the evening, so we drove into Carmel for the afternoon. I know Carmel is mostly known for being the ritzy seaside town that Clint Eastwood used to be Mayor McCheese of, but I prefer to think of it as the town where Doris Day owns the doggie-and-kitty-friendly high-end hotel, the Cypress Inn. In my world, Doris Day beats out Clint Eastwood in a who's-more-awesome smackdown, no contest. Anyway, we strolled around a bit, and ended up in that fancy soap store, Lush. It's one of those places that has soapy products made out of organic, natural ingredients, displayed as big, pretty, colorful slabs off of which you cut yourself a piece and feel conflicted about whether you should wash with it or eat it.

An hour later we were back at her apartment with a tub of home-facial called Cupcakes, which, in the store, looked like a generous helping of muddy, fudgy goodness. Yes, we had decided to claim the girly-girls that we are and do a facial before getting fabulous for the party. And no, we didn't get in our underwear and have a pillow fight- there just wasn't enough time. As we started to spread the concoction onto our faces, it became decidedly less glam. Since it's basically made out of, well, food, it had been refrigerated to the point of being slightly uncomfortable. And smearing chocolate mud on one's face starts out feeling decadent and sumptuous, but quickly takes on the look of- how can I put this delicately- poo. Sweet smelling crap, but crap nonetheless. So we lube up in this chocolatey doo doo butter, and then sit for a chat to wait for it to set. We looked like Klingons, seriously. As the masks dried up, and we continued to talk, pieces of our poo-faces started to crumble off and drop all over the apartment, unnoticed. As we walked over these pieces, they smeared across her floor, creating the unmistakable appearance of skidmarks everywhere. Does Queen Latifah have this problem in her Beauty Shop?

We washed off the masks to faces that were even more glorious than we started out with, so it was all good. Why exactly was this fun? I have no idea. It's a mystery even to me. Why did we decide to do it? Why was it exciting? I don't know. Yet it was the best thing about the weekend. It was stupid, silly, kind of pointless, let's face it. It had all of the excitement of My Dinner with Andre. But it was awesome, memorable, and makes me love my friend even more.

The power of the poopy klingon cupcakes. That's love, people.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl