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.