New Job

Well, sort of. I still work in the same area at the library, but I have different duties. Instead of working the desk, and responding to the beck and call of the unwashed masses, now I get to sit at a desk in the back and oversee the turning in and picking of books people have put on hold. And deal with the whiny emails of the unwashed masses. But there will be a lot less of those than there were at the desk.

Work is kind of weird these days

So, recently we merged our department with another one, and that means that I am now working in two sections of the library at once. Now they are tearing up the department we merged with and are trying to put a conference room right where all our storage space was. This means that everything is super squished and confusing and disorganized. The good thing is, though, I now have a really good excuse for not knowing where things are in the new section. No one else does either!

I am a geek, but not a huge one

68% Geek

Wierd...

It's weird how people can make "It's not your fault" sound so accusatory.

Oh noes!

Woe and lamentations! Repent ye, repent ye, in sackcloth and ashes lest calamity be laid upon your heads. Woe unto the children of Melvil Dewey who have made such a bad decision. What, you may well ask, is the horror which has been committed by the children of men within these sacred walls of the HBLL? I will tell you, my child, that ye may recant.

They replaced all the old furniture in the girl's bathrooms! Seriously, they had all this great retro stuff that was surely the detritus that came from all over campus as they went about upgrading the "look" of everything, and had to stash the old stuff somewhere. They had bright orange love seats and gray monstrosities with cheese wedge pillows and big, squishy, comfy couches you could really nap in. Now they have all this bland office furniture in professional-looking beige and dark brown with art deco on the back that still smells like new car and looks like the carpets and is about as yielding. They even have coffee tables. COFFEE TABLES. It looks like a doctor's waiting room. They should stock it with year-old magazines and have done with it. Where is the personality and casual comfort that allowed a nursing mother to feel like she could change her baby's diaper and then proceed to fall asleep while nursing? Where can a poor college student, worn out with studying and partying, go, to catch up on sleep while vowing to catch up on homework next? What have they done? Where will it end?!

Well, okay, I do like the coffee tables.

Wow

Dang, that last post was full of venom. Let's see if we can't brighten things up around here.

Three of my current co-workers are engaged, and one former one is getting married later this month! I am so excited, and the best part is, the ones that have dates are getting married in October, November and December respectively. This will mean lots of cake and presents (cake for me, presents for them)(cake for them too, I guess) which are two of my favorite things in the world, along with marriage in general, babies, kittens, puppies, sunsets, and kissing. Also, world peace.

Is that better? Is the bad vibe gone?

Hello?

The Harried Librarian

Everybody wants a favor.

Do I look like the favor-fairy?

Do I look like a push-over?

I promise, when I give in, it's only because I want to. It's not because you bullied me into giving you what you want. It's not because it's my job to please idiots.

Except that it is.

Oh, and opening books to their barcodes? Not as helpful as you might think.

Star Wars and Talking Like a Pirate

Arr, it be Talk like a Pirate Day! And I havin' forgotten to talk like a pirate all day, I have decided to write this here blog post like a pirate. Arr!

So, I be watchin' The Empire Strrrikes Back at work (one o' the perks o' me job) and I be wonderin'- when the giant ice-beast be killin' Luke's ton-ton and be draggin' him away, how come it leave the nice, juicy ton-ton there to rot (or freeze) and drag away the tough, yucky human? An' how come it hang its prey up to freeze? Do it like meat-cicles? Do it have a need for food storage? I just be sayin' . . .

Is It Eavesdropping When They Don't Bother To Lower Their Voices?

I have complained before about people treating me inhumanely because I stand behind a desk and wear a nametage, but today I experienced one of the perks that this can bring. People don't think of you as quite a human being when you wear a nametag. You're another faceless, nameless machine, making no dent on their day. These two gentlemen were among the less abrasive sort; instead of treating me with inhuman cruelty simply because they couldn't think of me as being on the same level as themselves, they simply ignored me. Perhaps I can take this time to offer a note of caution: just because the person with the nametag doesn't react to your conversation, doesn't mean they're not listening. Observe:

"Those Tidwells, what a nice couple. You know, I went to their 50th wedding anniversary the other day, and I found out something interesting about Bob. You'll never believe this..."

"What? Tell me."

"Well, apparently, when Bob was in the navy those long years ago, he got a tattoo. And not just any tatto, but a tatto immortalizing his girlfriend's name on some unspeakable part of his body. No, wait, get this- it's not her name!"

"What?! No way! Bob? Nice, quiet Bob?"

"Totally! [Okay, he didn't say "totally," but he totally would have if he'd been twenty years younger.] And she told me this, his wife- I asked her, 'Well, didn't he have it removed?' and she said (and with such emotion in her voice! I could tell she hated it.) 'No, I see it every night.'"

"That's crazy!"

And, indeed, it was.

Memo

TO: the world
FROM: little old me
SUBJECT: putting cards in your mouth

To whom it may concern:
It has come to my attention that some of you are in the habit of putting your library cards in your mouth while at the desk trying to check out books. I realize that trying to handle two armfuls of books with only one set of arms can be difficult, but this is no excuse. Try putting the books on the counter, and then getting your card out from your wallet. I know the sign says "Please have card ready," but I promise you that the clerk won't mind you taking the extra few seconds to get it out if it means not having to touch a slimy card. Try to see things from our perspective. You may have just held it in your teeth, or in some way tried to reduce the amount of slobber on the card, but the mouth is the most germ-filled place in the human body aside from maybe a child's hands, and once you put something in there, it enters the realm of untouchable. Ritual cleanings involving lots of soap can return the object to a state of cleanness, but it is really better to avoid the issue entirely. Thank you for your consideration, and I know things will improve if we all make an effort. If you need me, I will be in the restroom, bathing in hand sanitizer.

I keep waiting for this to happen.

Fun, fun, fun till the library takes his two books away

My co-worker just had an otherworldly experience. I share it with her permission.

Faculty member calls up, wants to renew his books. They have reached the online renewal limit, meaning that he has to bring them in. We do this so we know if they've kidnapped the book or not. He is a little annoyed at having to bring his books back. (I don't know why- faculty gets to renew books four times at 6 months each renewal- that's two years without bringing the book in!) He asks my co-worker if she can override it. To me, this is a breach in courtesy rivaled only by farting in public. You do not ask me if I can override something for you. I decide when and if I override things, and you should be on your knees, grateful that I did! Sheesh . . .

Co-worker tells faculty he has to bring the books in. Faculty says, "Well, I can come to the library this time, but I don't want this to happen again."

Excuse me? You don't want your books to expire again? You want to have them forever without need to renew or check them out? Allow me to direct you to a bookstore, sir. That's the big building with lots of books that you can actually buy. You get to keep them. Forever. This is the big building with lots of books that you can only rent. You don't get to keep them. There is a significant difference.

Epilogue

Faculty comes in to renew his books (surprisingly; some would just let FDS handle it, or refuse to come out of their office like a sulky child) and announces that he's had them for two years, and uses them a lot. I think he intends for this to be proof of why he should not have to renew them again. I only take it as a sign that he has confused us with the Bookstore. A common mistake.

I wonder what he would do if someone recalled the books . . . ? Hmmm . . .

Sometimes I just hate my job

Just got off the phone with an older gentleman wanting to know where the library was. The phone conversation didn't start off well, since he replied to my little spiel with, "Well, lady, this is a guy wanting to know... blah blah blah." I was mortally offended until I realized that "Amy" and "lady" sound something alike... if you've got your hearing aid turned down. (Or if the phone connection was bad, which I think it was for a minute... it was still weird to be called "lady", though.) I tried to give him a sense of where it was in relation to other buildings on campus, but he didn't seem to understand what I was talking about. (My bad for using "student lingo," such as ASB and MOA. Is it really just lingo if they print that on their maps?)

Then I made a big mistake and mentioned that we had maps of campus online. He starts whining (yes, whining) that he didn't want to look up maps online, that was why he had called. I tried to calm him down by telling him that I had mentioned it because I needed to look it up, and he then proceeded to make fun of me for "not knowing where I was." Is it my fault I'm not a spatial thinker? Then he wanted to know which parking lot was the closest one. I gritted my teeth and asked him if he had a parking pass. "I have a handicapped pass, that's why I want the closest parking lot," he replied authoritatively. I gave him an arbitrary answer (they're all about equidistant anyway) and hung up after more teasing about my uncertainty as to my location. Serves him right if he gets a parking ticket.

[Take it to the flip side]

I just got off the phone with a pleasant old man who wanted to know where the library was. He didn't seem to have much knowledge of campus, so I gave him directions as best I could. He was handicapped, poor dear, and wanted to know which parking lot would be closest. We joked for a while, and then ended the conversation.

[Conclusion]

It's true. Bad things are more interesting than good things.

Sometimes I just love my job

When I'm not working at Circulation, I work at the General Reference Desk, and boy do I get some fun questions. A women called in from Missouri or somewhere once wanting to know how to clean a journal of her father's she had found in her shed. Turns out if you're worried about germs (mice droppings, in her case) all you can do is put the book in a bag with some baking soda, leave it over night, and then brush it off veeeery carefully. ("Don't try this at home," was my suggestion to her. "Also, get it digitized.") I've had people ask me the spelling of words, the definition of words, etc. Just now I got off the phone with a nice woman from Texas who wanted to know what direction Houston was from Tomball, TX. She said she'd tried "the computer," but the way she phrased it (I would not have been surprised to hear her say "the computer machine box thing") I knew that I was starting from scratch.

It was actually pretty easy. I went to infoplease.com first and used their handy distance calculator, which told me that Tomball was 27.6 miles from Houston at 30° 5' 49", -95° 36' 57". But it did not tell me what direction they were from one another. Finally I just googled a map of Texas and looked for Houston. There was Tomball, just northwest of it. The woman was so grateful. "We drive to Houston all the time," she said, "But I can never remember which way to go."

Just doing my job, ma'am.

Books are people too!

I don't mean to gross you out.... Aw, who am I kidding, of course I mean to gross you out!

I was in the bathroom, innocently washing my hands, when I looked over to my left and saw a library book balanced on the sink beside me. I stared at it in horror, silently praying that the person who had left it there had carefully checked to make sure the sink was dry. But, alas, all my hopes were dashed when the person came back, picked up their book, and I saw the water bead up where it had been released from the pressure of the book.

Books are filthy things, people! But that doesn't mean you can feel free to make them even filthier.

If I hadn't already been washing my hands, I would have again, for good measure.

It's not them, it's me!

I just had a flash of insight. I don't know what it will mean in the long run, and I don't know how I feel about it yet.

It's not them, it's me.

When I sit at the end computer, the handicapped one that sits at a lower level than the other, standing height computers, people never come to me. They will stand in front of an unoccupied computer for over five minutes if I let them. I have to call them over, sometimes repeating myself a couple times before they even turn to look at me. Then they peer at me myopically as though I'm difficult to look at and ask, "Are- are you open? Can I check out books from you?"

And generally I try to be understanding of this. I can understand the fear of looking stupid and going to the wrong desk. I can sympathize. So it doesn't bother me that much, though it is a little annoying.

But today I was standing at the regular desks, with one of my co-workers at the lower desk, and a patron came up, looked at us, and went for her!

Aaaagggghhhh!

So, it is with great sorrow that I must come to the conclusion that it has never been the patrons who are annoying or insane. It has always been me.

I apologize for any inconvenience.

Pet Peeve, Again

Since that last pet peeve post turned out so darn creepy, I'm trying a different format this time: simple ranting.

You know what's really starting to annoy me? People asking me to participate in surveys. Admittedly, this isn't something I've encountered much except in the last two weeks or so. I can guess where they're coming from- there are plenty of statistics classes around campus, and it's starting to be crunch time for everyone. And it never used to bother me. I would just politely inform them that, as an employee of the library, I am not allowed to answer survey questions or take part in questionnaires, or be interviewed. And that would be that. But this last time, I realized that they seem to be targeting me. They're deliberately taking advantage of my immobility (I'm truly a captive audience). And now that I'm thinking about it, what makes them think I am a suitable candidate for this anyway? I am working here, people! I do not get paid to help you with your homework.

Well, okay, I do get paid to help you with your homework. But not like that! I have books to check out, directions to give, library help to provide. I absolutely do not have time to sit here and answer questions about my self-image or my ethnicity or junk like that. Nope. Plenty busy sitting here, typing on my blog... talking to my co-workers.... Yup. Very busy. Too busy for you.

"Is this a library?"

What I want to say:

"No, I just live here."

"It was- until you asked that question. Now we have to self-descruct in 3...2...1..."

"Yeah. What about it?"

"I could tell you... but then I'd have to kill you."

What I actually say:

"Yes, it sure is! What can I do for you?"

Inside her mind

What I wanted to say:

"If I wanted you to call me by name, I would have told it to you."

"Only my friends call me that."

"Actually, it's Rebecca. I'm just wearing Amy's nametag for fun."

What I actually say:

"How can I help you?"

It's not only necklines that plummet in hot weather...

It is truly amazing to me how my impression of people can take a complete 180 degree turn when something bad happens to them. They can be perfectly pleasant- until you take too long. They can be exceedingly polite and courteous- until they have to pay a fine. What is it that prompts people to make such a dramatic about-face? It's hard for me to understand how someone can be so polite, demonstrating a knowledge of basic human interactions one minute, and so utterly without regard for the people around them as human beings the next. I would rather deal with someone who was out-and-out rude, than someone who thought of manners as a means to an end, rather than something you should simply be in the habit of doing, at the very least, and ideally should derive some amount of pleasure and satisfaction from.

Y'all

So, I took a linguistics class once, and one of the things I learned was that English has no second-person plural anymore. We have "they," which is third-person plural and "we," which is first-person plural, but nothing to take the place of "ye," which was used in that way until a few hundred years ago when things like "you" and "yours" began to replace such things as "thou" and "thine." And then I realized that English does does a second-person plural: "y'all." Unfortunately, it's dialectal, and use in the mainstream is still limited to jokes or parodies. I predict, however, that someday the need for a second-person plural will be felt in the land, and instead of returning to the old ways, we will embrace this new phrase, and it will become free from negative association and find its proper place in the everyday use of Americans and English-speakers everywhere.

Also, I think "they" and "them" will become the gender-neutral pronoun everyone seems so desperately to be looking for, not werf.

Pet Peeve

Come here, my pretty. Yes, you have such soft, silky fur. You're a pretty little thing, aren't you? I would never give you up, my pet, even though I secretly loathe you. You come up to the desk and you lean over so far I can smell your halitosis, and then you put your elbows on the desk and hunker down like you're planning on changing residence. I know, my pet, that you probably have no idea what damage you're causing, but really, pretty, why is it so hard to read my body language? Why is it that you read my stiffened posture, my quick step back and my consternated expression as an invitation to lean forward even farther? I promise my wrinkled nose doesn't mean I like being able to tell what you had for breakfast this morning. Please, precious, I'll never give you up, but if you ran away, well, that would really make my day.

Idiot or Genius?

As a follow-up to an eariler post, where I implied that people seem to think I hold the key to the knowledge of the universe in my hot little librarian hand, let me introduce you to the other end of the spectrum: people who think I'm an idiot with some kind of brain damage. Also, polio.

This type of patron is exemplified by the guy who came to the desk a few weeks ago, wanting to pick up a book his wife had put on hold. Which means I will need to digress into yet another dichotomy among the fine people who visit this desk: people who have actually been in a library at some point in their lives, and people who pronounce it "liberry." It is painfully easy to tell who knows the basic system all libraries have in common, such as: "checking out books," "checking in books," "overdue books have fines," and "you can't check out a book if we still have a search warrant out for the last one you checked out." There are some things that never change no matter what library you're at, and one of them brings me back full circle to the guy trying to pick up his wife's book: you do not have access to anyone's account but your own. No library ANYWHERE allows ANYONE to have ANY kind of access to another person's account except in rare, individual cases, such as, police with a warrant, or a really angry mother. (I jest, of course, for the sake of hyperbole. Not even the police can look at your records.) (I further jest. In all seriousness, not even we, the librarians, are allowed to look at your account. Which is why self-checkout machines will someday rule the world.) (Ha! No they won't...)

In any case, it was painfully obvious that this guy simply did not get the whole privacy policy thing. Not even spouses can have access to their partner's account, and there are some very good reasons for this, but all people can think about is their situation and the inconvenience it causes them. This privacy policy (which, again, for the sake of clarity, is in force at EVERY SINGLE FREAKING LIBRARY IN AMERICA) has kept pregnant wives safe from abusive husbands, pregnant teenagers safe from abusive fathers, and pregnant... cats? Safe from abusive... owners? And the National Pipe Bomb Society safe from the abusive U.S. government. (The... pregnant NPBS?)

So, anyway, back to this guy who is getting increasingly frustrated (and frustrating). He was first helped by a clerk, who told him that he couldn't pick up his wife's book. He then demanded to talk to someone else (which turned out to be me). I calmly explained to him the policy, and when I was done, he gave me a look of condescending arrogance and said in a tone usually reserved for savants and mentally ill children, "Why don't you go get your supervisor?"

I'll tell you why I'm not going to go get my supervisor, Mr. Poopyhead- and I'll use small words so you'll be sure to understand:

1. She is a busy woman who does not have time for the likes of you.

2. She will tell you the EXACT SAME THING that I just told you, and she won't do it as nicely.

3. You're rude, and you've just insulted my intelligence AND my ability to do my job, thereby making it as difficult as it possibly could be for me to work up any motivation to do as you ask.

4. By calling you Mr. Poopyhead I have reverted back to my three-year-old state of mind and am no longer coherent enough to even talk to you, much less my supervisor.

But, of course I can say and do none of this. I must get my supervisor, who is in a meeting with her boss, and tell her I wasn't good enough at screening the idiots and she has to come deal this one personally. My poor supervisor (who is a sweet, sweet lady and who treats all her employees like they are her own children) then proceeds to tell this guy the EXACT SAME THING (see above) that I just finished telling him. He argues with her for a bit, and then demands to see a higher authority, who, since she had the bad fortune to be here at the time, is then brought to meet the idiot. I stick around to watch the show, because as straightforward as my supervisor can be, she still believes in being nice. Her boss, on the other hand, is positively acidic. She tells the guy off in wonderful fashion, giving me a guilty sense of vindication, and he then leaves, humiliated, hopefully having learned his lesson.

But probably not.

Do you ever...

Do you ever meet people that you instantly dislike, for no discernible reason? I'm not talking burning hatred, just a vague unease at being around them. I know a person like that. I know several, actually, to my chagrin. I like to think I'm mature enough to at least recognize that the fault lies mostly with me. If I were really mature, I'd realize that the fault lies entirely with me, but, hey, one step at a time, right? This one's "defect" is: cheerfulness. That's right. The amount she gets on my nerves is directly proportionate to how moody I feel. The more down in the dumps I am, the more her cheerfulness annoys me. I am afraid of what might happen if I were ever to see her on one of those days better spent in bed, because I might just have to strangle her with my bare hands. I can't even feel vindicated because there's absolutely nothing about her to dislike. Nothing. Isn't that a little suspicious? Nothing out of place, nothing really bad happening to her. Except now that I think about it, some aspects of her life are far from perfect. But you know what? She doesn't let them get her down, that's what!! What right does anyone have to be that amazing? Why can't I be that cheerful all the time? Why can't I work up that superhero motivation and have the powers to back it up? Okay, I guess it's time for confession: I'm a little jealous. Probably more than a little, based on the above rant. In all seriousness, there are two kinds of overly cheerful people: the kind that make you feel cheerful just by being around them, and the kind that just make you feel vaguely guilty for not being a better person, but don't give you any of the energy or motivation to change that fact. I am of the sound opinion that people in the second category (to which the above person belongs) are actually motivation suckers. Like vampires, they steal the life force from those around them, but instead of blood, they suck the very will to live right out of you, and all you notice is a growing sense of depression and a smoldering resentment towards said vampire that seems to have no basis in fact.

Good Example

I complain a lot, it's true. I do it in real life almost as much as I do it here on this blog, and so I feel like it's time I told a story with a happy ending.

There is a service we provide at the desk where I work called Course Reserve. A teacher gives us a book, or requests that a book we have be put on Reserve, and then students are able to check it out for two hours at a time, thus allowing one or two copies of a book do service for an entire class. We have about four secretaries who deal directly with Reserve issues, and in the interest of my avowed purpose to only tell a good story, I will only say this: I wouldn't take their job for the world. There is only so much stupidity and stubbornness I can take, and I reach my limit enough as it is with this job.

One day a professor came to the desk with the complaint that his students were unable to check out the Reserve book he had placed. I got a cold feeling in my gut as I imagined the fury he would then release on me. But instead, in atypical behavior for a professor, he simply asked me to walk him through the steps I would expect from a regular student trying to check out the book. Could it be? Someone trying to understand how the system works before demanding that we change it? He meekly followed my instructions, and it turned out that the trouble had been nothing more than miscommunication and a few unfortunate coincidences. He left, satisfied, and I rejoiced knowing that there was someone out there who didn't yell first and fail to ask questions later.

These moments are more rare than they should be, but perhaps not as rare as I sometimes think they are. I will try to post more good examples in the future.

Helping Those Who Help Themselves: Priceless

So. Senior citizens and technology. It's an old subject, the butt of so many comic strip punchlines. I know there are mature citizens out there who do just fine with computers, and some who are even more techno-savvy than I am. And I don't have a problem with older folks who don't know how to use computers. It's not their fault. We've gone from horse-drawn carriage to space travel in about sixty years, which is shorter than the average American's lifetime. People are bound to get left behind, and it's admirable to see them trying to catch up. But please, please, for the love of Pete, whoever he is, make an effort. There is a huge difference between the oldsters who come up to the desk and ask for a short lesson in internet use so they don't have to come and bother me every time they have a question, and the ones who come and bother me every time they have a question. I have no problem giving a little off-the-cuff tutorial to someone who is not familiar with computers. I can't expect everyone to come to me with basic internet knowledge. What I do expect is a willingness to help yourself. Didn't most people who are currently between the ages of 60 and 80 either go through the Depression or WWII? Or were at least raised by people who did? I thought the attitude of that generation was that hard work was key, and that you should always be polite to everyone, even idiots? Because even I, a "lazy, ungrateful youth" know how to do that. I guess what I'm getting at is that I'm surprised by the number of old people who expect me to do everything for them, right now, don't even bother teaching me this silly computer stuff because when the commies finally bomb everyone we'll have to live off the land like our ancestors, and who will be laughing then, eh? It's kind of inexplicable.

Case in point: A week or so ago a lady who was of a certain age, but obviously did not yet have the beauty of the old (Proverbs 20:29) came up to the desk and demanded that I come help her. I hate walking over to people's computers, mostly because I'm lazy, but also because dealing with computers is not really my specialty, and it's not what I get paid for, so I usually end up clicking on a few things, and then going and getting someone else's help. But there was no one else to ask at the time, so I went with her. Apparently someone else had been helping her earlier, a young man with considerably more experience with computers than I have, who was now in his lunch break. The lady (I'll call her that for the sake of convenience) pointed to her computer, and with a dramatic flair that may have gotten results a. when she was about 30 years younger and b. with men, informed me that someone else's graph was on her paper and she wanted me to dispose of it, like asking me to dispose of a dead rat. I peered at her paper, and all I could see was the default settings for a custom graph in Microsoft Word. I use Word a lot, being an amateur writer and all, but I have never been called upon to insert a graph into anything, and therefore had no idea what I was doing. Nonetheless I gamely fiddled around a bit and got some results. I told the patron what I had discovered, and suggested that if she fiddled around for a bit she would be able to get it to do what she wanted.

"I don't have time to 'fiddle around'," she snapped. "This paper is due in two hours."

I, greatly taken aback, told her that I had reached the limit of my ability, and that someone more skilled with computers than I wouldn't be back for about an hour.

"I guess I'll wait, then," she said, and turned away from me. I was clearly dismissed. I went back to my desk, greatly wondering. It was nearing the end of the semester at the time, and so I knew tensions were high and projects were due, but the lady had indicated that the paper had to have a graph in it, no exceptions, and it seemed to me that she had known about the assignment for some time, since it was nearly completed. Wouldn't she, I mused, have had the foresight to try to learn how to insert a graph, a nonnegotiable aspect of the assignment, at some point a little earlier than two hours before the thing was due? It was clear from her attitude that she had expected to be able to waltz in and do this with only hours to spare. It was also clear that she had been working with Word for some time, and therefore should logically know how difficult and arbitrary it can be. Yet more clear was her distress at finding that I would not do everything for her, and instead expected her to figure things out for herself. Pressed for time though she was, she obviously had time to wait for someone to enable her laziness.

I was raised by Baby-Boomers, and this is not what I was taught to expect from my elders.

W.I.T.C.H.

Respectable-looking, middle-aged asian man walks up to the desk, and the only thing he hands me is a W.I.T.C.H. graphic novel, targeted to girls ages 3-12 and very pink. I hold my breath, trying not to get freaked out, and then I see behind him.... a little girl, and the rest of his family.
Whew....

Genius or Idiot?

Working at a desk that looks like a reference desk but isn't, has unique problems. For instance, people think I know everything, and become extremely upset, or just pathetically confused when I strip them of this illusion.

Example: I just helped a guy for a solid fifteen minutes with something he could have done much more easily on his own, with no more information to go on than, "I need to watch an opera." See? He has obviously come to this interaction with a preconceived set of notions in his head, a few of which are: I know, off-hand, all the operas in the world, and, more specifically, which ones this library has and where they are. He is also assuming that I know which kind of opera he needs. More likely, actually, is that he has no idea himself, and doesn't want to appear stupid. Therefore, I am put into a dilemma. If I ask, "Modern or traditional? English or foreign? New or old?" and he has no clue, I make him look stupid, and myself look smarter than I really am, since my knowledge of opera, while obviously more expansive than his, is nonetheless extremely limited. You might think that making myself look smarter would be advantageous to me, but nothing could be further from the truth. The smarter I look, the more people will try to use me as a crutch.

For instance, Opera Guy. At first things seemed to be going smoothly. He came to the desk, asked for our operas, and was at least apologetic when he couldn't clarify any further than that. I told him to do an advanced search, and, once I had explained what that is, he happily went off to use the computer. One minute later he was back, completely stumped.

My first mistake, though an unavoidable one: displaying knowledge about how to find things that is superior to the patron's abilities. They will, if they are polite, make a cursory attempt, but if they do not find what they are looking for in a reasonable amount of time (say, fifteen seconds) they will fall back on the assumption they automatically made about me, (i.e., that I have downloaded the library catalog into my head) and come ask me for help.

Oh, that I were an angel, and could shout with a voice like thunder, saying, "Make an effort, people! You're like the little kid with the OCD mom who does chores wrong on purpose so the mom will take over and the kid won't have to do anything. Well, guess what? I'm not OCD."

Actually, if I were an angel, I probably would download the catalog (and all the other knowledge in the universe) into my head, and then I really could answer their questions no problem. As it is, I am then forced to enable their laziness by going on the same website they have access to and using the same search engine to search for the same stupid thing, and coming up with the same stupid result: nothing. Because their question is stupid. Most of the time, if the question is an easy (read: intelligent) one, even the most simple of simpletons can find it. But not even I, super genius though I am, can find the exact opera you are looking for if even you don't know what the requirements for your assignment are.

At least have the decency to NOT come up to me five minutes into an opera by a guy named Giuseppe Verdi and complain that it's all in Italian. Please. Just don't do it. You're only making yourself look bad.

Phones

It never fails to amuse when patrons (usually professors) give us a call, state their name and place of work, and then . . . pause. That pause says volumes about what the person thinks of themselves. What that pause tells me, basically, is that they think they are so well known that even I, a lowly clerk at the bottom of the feeding pool, ought to have heard of Professor Bigpomp Higginbottom of the Prestigious Primatology Department. An example may help to illustrate:

Me (answering the phone): This is Amy at Circulation, how may I help you?

Professor: Yes, Amy, this is Professor Awesome-sauce of the Obtuse Linguistics Department . . . (pregnant pause)

My expected reaction: Oh my gosh!!!! Professor Awesome-sauce! I am, like, your biggest fan! You've inspired me to become the next Noam Chomsky! I take all your classes and I think I want to have your babies!

My actual reaction: . . . Can I help you?

You see my problem. I can't deliver. It takes all my self control to keep from laughing at their poor, overblown egos. And they all have egos. The more obscure their department, the bigger it gets.
I am not beyond sympathy, however. One can hardly be surprised when a professor, probably lauded in his field for his brilliant dissertation on, let's say, the use of the comma in Milton's Paradise Lost, grows to expect that kind of admiration elsewhere. After all, we are an academic library. Why shouldn't a Circulation clerk, the representative of the library, the first line of defense, the answerer of questions, be expected to be up to date on the latest academic publications? I'll tell you why not! Because that doesn't make sense! We are not hired for our expertise in Academia. We are hired because we have what it takes to refrain from laughing at professors who think they are the morning and the evening star!
Or at least have what it takes to cover the receiver while we chuckle to ourselves.

Introduction

I work at the Circulation Desk in the Harold B. Lee Library at Brigham Young University. Usually I am too busy to think deep thoughts, but sometimes there is a lull when there are no patrons and all the work is done... and I just think.

These are my thoughts.