Questions du jour with the human possum

Yesterday

Least favorite reference question: "What kind of fluid is this on the keyboard? It looks like drool."

It was not drool.

Also yesterday

"Where are the nearest fallout shelters? We are visiting from California, and I work with the DOD, so I know where to go over there, but we have a baby so we want to stay safe."

"Weeeeell, we don't actually have any fallout shelters. But don't worry, you'd only have 8-12 minutes lead time, so there wouldn't be time to get to a shelter anyway!"

I did not tell him about the cast iron tub in my garage, because it's already going to be a tight fit under there with all the kids and cats and chickens.

We aren't actually very worried about North Korea over here in Hawaii, but you know what I do not like? Department of Defense employees asking where the fallout shelters are. You should know, dude. Or you should make sure we get some. Yes, you, random contractor who is probably in charge of ordering toilets or something. Take some initiative.


Some time later

The homeless guy who sharpens knives on a whetstone across the street from the library came to visit, bearing gifts. He had a shirt on this time, because he and I have already had a stand-off re: his carpet of curly body hair and the library clothing policy*.

"Here's some beef jerky, I made two kinds. It's awesome. If anything were going to make me rich, it would be this stuff, it's so good. I don't know why I'm not rich yet."

"How do you make it?"

"In my car."

We laid the baggies out in the staff room and stared at them.

hobo jerky

also pictured: the jar of homemade hot sauce someone else gave us

We had a brief discussion about the serial killer who served his victims as roadside bbq, decided that this was far more likely to be cat meat than murdered-people meat, and then passed the bag around to smell. It smelled okay. "You try it," my co-workers said. And so I did. Because of course I did. I will eat any garbage people hand me. It's part of my now-very-nearly-not-hypothetical-post-apocalyptic skill set.

I am pretty much almost sure it was actual beef. I have not died or erupted in chest hair yet. Another successful gamble by the woman who once saw a bowlful of rocks and decided to eat one to see if it was candy.

(It was.)



*library policy: body hair does not count as clothes.

Library beefcake

One of our elderly patrons called the library and asked for help carrying a box of book donations. I went trotting out into the parking lot to find her struggling to get it out of her back seat.

"I just had knee surgery, I don't trust it."

"Yes, stay off that knee, I'll carry the box."

"My husband packed it, and I'm just trying to see if it's too heavy." She looked over her shoulder and gave me a quick up-and-down appraisal, "Oh, you're not very strong, either. I'll just carry it."

WHAT.

I hauled the box out and threw it into the library like Mjölnir.

We are going to assume she was calling me dainty. Not a librarian-shaped sack filled with pudding.

still waiting for that ride home

butts and cats

The other day I was reading a few threads on my phone while drinking coffee, and could not understand why one person was flipping out about a slug in their house and another was gagging because they saw someone trimming their toenails. Wondered why I was not bothered by these things, worried that maybe I was a revolting person. Got to work and discovered that someone had shit in the urinal. Again.

At home, the toddler climbed up on my lap while we were chatting about our days at work. When she hopped down, I realized that at some point she had taken off her diaper, because there were two round toddler buns printed in white oily butt cream across my black shirt. The kind that smells like fish oil, because it was on sale.

So maybe it's just a matter of content saturation, this not giving a damn about slugs and toenails.

I was considering these things when one of our regular library users wandered up to the desk. She had been wearing a boot on her broken foot for months, and it was gone. "The boot is gone!" we said helpfully, because she might not have known. She cringe-smiled and held up her hand. It was now in a cast. This is no good, because she is a piano player. We told her that, too. It turns out that what happened is this: she was playing piano for a holiday party at an Admiral's Club. As she was playing, there was a crash and a cat came falling out of the ceiling panels onto her head. It battened onto her hand with its teeth, and she ran screaming from the room, trying to flap it loose at the end of her arm. It broke her finger and ran like the devil. I went limp across the desk, laughing.

My job keeps me centered, folks.

balls.

I can knit celtic knots and shetland lace, but I can't knit around a fucking foam ball.

Oh, hey, that looks alri-

#@%!?

HOLIDAY SPIRIT SURGING.

This is the holiday spirit that runs people down for spots in mall parking lots and throttles old ladies over 75% off snuggies. 

My mother shoved a box of lights in my hand and told me to get festive, so I hung them over the window just in time for the winter rain to arrive. Suddenly we are huddling under couch blankets with tea and breaking into choruses of Silent Night and watching crap holiday specials on youtube. 

And furtively reading Dean Koontz novels

It's working, folks. I had feelings.

In other news:

Went to storytime workshop and am now MASTER OF COLORED SCARVES. And I learned these action rhymes, which my kid will not let me stop doing. Will need both knees replaced by the end of the week:

I'm popcorn in a pan (crouch down)
Don't forget the top (pretend to put a lid on your head)
Soon I'll start to sizzle... (sizzle sizzle sizzle with your wiggly bum)
And then... I'll... POP! (JUMP UP OH MY GOD MY KNEES) 

Then when you can't take it anymore, you sit down and distract them with this one:

Pour the popcorn in the pan (rock your kid back and forth on your lap)
Shake it up, shake it up! (jostle poor helpless child)
BAM BAM BAM (bop up and down mercilessly)

Bonus: counts as exercise. Go get a mini snickers bar out of the secret pilfered Halloween stash.

flashers and sharks

Both of our library-frequenting police officers came in yesterday, looking bushy-tailed. They only travel in packs when they're on a call.

officer 1: someone reported a blonde lady flashing traffic by the library. Anybody seen her?
everyone: *turn to look at blonde librarian*
me: Hey. I've been at the desk all morning.
co-worker: What did she look like - how old was she?
officer 2: We don't know. Depends if she was going like this [up high] or like this [down low].
co-worker: *smacks officer's arm*
officer 2: we had a call about a shark earlier, want to see?
me: ooh, sure.
officer 2: *shows picture of mutilated leg chomped into hamburger by shark*
me: MY EYES. WHY.

Never a dull day.

How to know if a book is appropriate for your child

Every other day or so, a parent drags their child up to me and makes them show me the book they are holding, wanting to know if that book is really appropriate for their child. So here are my thoughts on that, as a children's librarian.

If your child reads the whole book, it is appropriate for your child. 

It's really that simple. I promise. I am not saying all books are appropriate for all people at all points in their life - I am saying the reader sorts this out for themselves. A kid with low reading comprehension will not be interested in a book that is difficult to get through. A child with no knowledge of history or politics will not be interested in a book with a heavy social message. Lots of kids grab the Hunger Games because they want to be a part of the teenage craze, but after a couple of pages they put it down and go back to Katie the Kitten Fairy. Lots of kids read below their reading level because it's comfortable; don't worry if they're not reading "hard" enough books, just read aloud at bedtime and listen to audio books, and they'll pick it up on their own when they're ready. Once they've gotten engrossed in a story, you might find that the book itself might not be appropriate to read at school or to read aloud to their baby sister or to read instead of doing homework, but for their own brains in their own time - they'll be fine. They can handle it.

What about sex and violence? Your child is going to learn about sex and violence. Books are the safest way to navigate those issues. Your child is not going to be harmed by reading a book. I want to repeat that: your child is not going to be harmed by reading a book. 

Information is exactly what you want to give them. If they are not ready for something that comes up in one of their books, they will lose interest in that book and toss it aside and find something easier/fluffier/sillier/fartier. All on their own. Really.

If your child is curious about racism or sexuality or abuse or guns or drugs or cannibalism, get them to a book. If your child seems to be bothered by something they have read, go ahead and read the book and start a conversation.

I obviously wouldn't recommend Fifty Shades of Grey to an 11 year old, but if I had gotten hold of that book at that age I can guarantee I would have read it, and laughed, and been squicked out, and been fine. If I caught my kid reading Fifty Shades of Grey, we would be having a nice chat about shitty writing and bad relationships. I used to peruse the steamy scenes in battered romance novels lying around offices, and decided by the age of 12 never to date a man who called any part of me a "love mound" with a straight face. I was not harmed. Recently, I tossed a graphic novel with nice art to my 12 year-old son, and then read it later to discover that it was full of teen drug use, pregnancy, suicide, and miscarriage. He was already reading his next Warriors book, unperturbed. We talked about the story and the art, I answered a few questions, and it was a good conversation. Kids bring their personalities and personal beliefs and family backgrounds with them when they read a book, and that's where parents get to weigh in and lend some guidance.

So, is the book appropriate? Yes, I would argue so. Is it good quality? Maybe not - discuss that with them. Is it sexist and containing violent imagery? Comics in particular can be pretty horrible to women - discuss that with them. Is it going to inspire your child to attempt murder? Mental illness, personality disorders, developmental issues, or abuse may cause your child to act out things that inspire them, but it is not the fault of the book/art/music/whathaveyou itself.

Read books. Discuss books. Let your kid follow their interests. It'll be ok - and if it's not ok, it's not because of the books. Good luck.

expelliarmouse

The mouse got into my co-worker's gourmet chocolate bar, and that was the last straw. She tossed the candy out and stalked off to find the glue traps. I skidded over to the garbage, fished out the chocolate, snapped off a piece for bait, and put the trap on the floor next to the door. If this mouse was going to have any chance, it was going to have to be caught with its face full. As I sat down at the computer to look up mouse-in-glue-trap rescue tips, someone hollered, "HE'S IN THERE." Leaped back into the room - "Nope, he's gone already." WHAT. I put more chocolate in the trap, set it back down in exactly the same spot, and we all stared at it. One of our patrons came over to see what we were peering at, and suggested letting corn snakes loose in the library. Within 30 seconds, a whiskery nose snuffled around the little ramp. I snatched up the cage and ran. Everyone ran after us. We stampeded outside, and made it halfway across the driveway before the mouse made a flying leap out of the trap and shot into the bushes. We turned as a flock and stuffed back inside and slammed the door shut.

VICTORY.

I think there is a lot to be said for library snakes, though.

the noodle incident

(names changed)

Child appeared at my desk.
"Shawn left his noodle outside."
"His... noodle?"
"Yeah. And he ran away."
He led me outside. On the sidewalk was a sad pile of instant noodles. Kids gathered around it with wide, scandalized eyes.
"Oh, you meant actual noodles."
"Yeah. He got them from the store and then they were hot and he was throwing them and John smacked them and they burned him and they fell and then they were like, auuuugh, and both ran over the hill that way." The kids all pointed.
I got a wad of paper towels and scooped up the soggy mass of ramen. "Wait, was he throwing the noodles, or did someone throw them at him?"
"He was throwing noodles at John and going HWUP HWUP with the cup and then John went PAP and they flew up and burned Shawn's arm and he dropped them and John ate some of them off the ground and said, 'see? Still good,' and then they ran away real fast, laughing."
"Oh my." I poured water on the bits of broth and freeze-dried carrots.
"What will happen if they come back?" The kids looked keen, hoping for blood.
"Well, then they will be hungry."
"Yeah, 'cause John might want to finish them." Someone high-fived the kid.

At just about this time, Officer Library Frequenter detected that my co-worker had a rotisserie chicken in the fridge. His chicken senses are uncanny. I came back to wash noodles off my hands and found him carving legs and thighs onto a paper plate. "Hey!" He jumped, but didn't stop sawing. "When you pass those kids outside, make sure you mutter something about noodles. They'll think I called the cops."

And he did. There were shrieks, and the sound of sneakers running.

I was still grinning about this noodle business when I went to stamp a patron's book. She tilted her head at my cardigan.
"Is that the new style?"
I looked down and realized it was buttoned crookedly. "That is the cold and hasty style."
"Honey, that's what happens when you hit 65."
Recently, I had mentioned my creaky knees, and a patron patted me in commiseration, "That's how it is after 40, sweetie."
I need to trowel on more makeup, I think.

I get mad at Alexander McCall Smith

Or: Why I don't write book reviews. 

I hate philosophy. People complain about moral decay and youths-these-days and the good times bygone, and they have been since the first time anyone reached adulthood and realized what shits people are. 

Our youth now love luxury. They have bad manners, contempt for authority; they show disrespect for their elders and love chatter in place of exercise; they no longer rise when elders enter the room; they contradict their parents, chatter before company; gobble up their food and tyrannize their teachers. 

-Socrates

I tried listening to the Sunday Philosophy Club while waiting for my shipment of Terry Pratchett books to come in, because without a book I start thinking in the car and then getting mad about things - like how wasserface in the Fifth Element got all the way to W for War in her wikipedia thing before realizing people kill each other, despite A for Apocalypse, B for Bioterrorism, G for Genocide, etc. Maybe she was having a bathroom break or digging in the fridge while those bits scrolled past. If I'm not getting mad about old movie scenes, I'm picking up memories and polishing them into buffed nuggets of remorse, anger, embarrassment, yearning, or evil intent. So it's best I just listen to audio books. I grabbed this particular one because I enjoyed the #1 Ladies' Detective Agency, but - well, The Sunday Philosophy Club is full of... philosophy. Before disc 1 was over, I was yelling at the stereo as I merged into traffic.

Does anyone ever smile intentionally?

YES. Yes, fucking YES - all the time, for everything. It's good manners. Who even asks that?

To love someone is to understand them completely, and forgive them.

NO. It's to think you understand them. Sometimes. Or maybe you love them against all practicality, for no good reason that you can tell, and maybe you kind of hate them, too. Forgiveness is an entirely different thing than love, they do not go hand in hand. It's much easier to forgive someone you don't give a shit about.

If one is committed to telling the truth, would they answer truthfully if a murderer arrived at the door, asking if their victim is in?

I get that the idea here is that a white lie could spare a life, but come on. If you were that committed to the truth, you could still get around this moral quandary. "Yes, and I will kill you with my own two hands, and maybe this vase right here, if you try to get in." "I am closing the door now" might also work. But I reject the idea that truth is an immutable force in the world. We are tiny little creatures faffing around and making noises, and truth is a figment of our imagination. There are natural events, and there is communication, and there is survival, and where they intersect we get very moralistic and long-winded. Also, there is redirection, if white lies are undesirable. "Was that good for you?" "Oh, let me tell you about the bits that were good!" "How do I look in this hat?" "You are too good-looking for that hat, give me that hat, bad hat." White lies vs Truth is a tired old argument. The main thing to live by when communicating with others is Don't Be an Asshole. 

I turned the book back in at this point. I don't even care who threw McHandsomepants off the opera balcony. And the main character insulted Wagner. Life is too short for books that don't blow your kilt up, and that's my philosophy.

the pigeon, the hobo, and the police

Hyperventilating hobo came into the library, upset about a pigeon that had been looking in the front windows for 3 days. He gestured wildly and claimed it was a pet dove, a very special and important pet dove, like a pirate's parrot. Probably a homing dove. No, a pigeon. Definitely Filipino. Filipinos like pigeons. You can tell by the bands on its legs, it's a highly trained animal, someone is desperate to have it back, it's very smart and very important. It probably rode here in a car. Someone needs to save the Filipino pirate pigeon!

I went outside and had a look at the bird. It was fat and white and had colored, numbered bands around its legs. I promised to stop by the police station and ask them for animal control's number while I was on the way to pick up the library mail, and closed the door on the hobo mid-rant. Drove to the station. Officer blinked at me. A pigeon. Yes, a rogue pigeon. One of our hobos is freaking out because it is looking in the windows. He says it's Filipino. Fili- what?! That's racist. I know, right? You can't just ask a pigeon if it's Filipino! Here comes Ofc. A, tell him! It's on the campus, that's his area. Ofc. A! There is a pigeon menacing the library. Go arrest it. Not again.

I got back to the library, tossed the pigeon part of a hot dog, called animal control, and was told it was a racing pigeon, probably blown off course and resting, and please don't make them send someone all the way out there to chase it around. Went outside and stared at the pigeon with my janitor, discussing the likelihood of it being used as a football by asshole middle-schoolers when the bell rang. Pigeon looked affronted, made a big show of stretching its hamstrings, and flew away.

And that was the thing about the pigeon.


In other news

I'm keeping my hands busy again. Like someone treading water. Not like a serial strangler.

Picked a bag of guavas from my friend's tree, and made a small batch of luminous jelly. No ants were murdered this time.

Working on a Christmas stocking (the argyle stripes and name go on afterward).

And because I just had to make sure sheep are out to kill me, it is made of wool. We all went into fits of asthmatic death-coughing. I had to put Leif's head in the freezer again - which is difficult, because I only have a deep-freeze, and had to hold him upside-down. Have packed the stocking off to work, where I am continuing to kill myself discreetly over lunch breaks.

Trimmed Leif's quilt for binding. Finally.

Worked on the most boring blanket ever. Am going to snap and go wild with the stripes soon. WILD.

Made a head out of sculpey for next illustration project.

Have been entertaining fantasies of quitting my job, getting an agent, finding a mainland publisher, and going full-time with it.

Hmm.

time travel

Working with the public gives me a wide slice of humanity. I don't have to chase people down, clean up expired shut-ins, or pull guns on assholes like other branches of public employees, but I do talk down drug addicts, investigate trash-can-poopers, and listen to a stream of scandal and grief. One of our teens was killed in a terrible accident, and the neighbors who dragged him from the wreckage are still processing their horror. One of our missing patrons is rumored to have been involved in a shoot-out with police and has been on the run with a new haircut and a stolen car. Someone has been ordering fraudulent credit cards in their ex's name. One of our mentally ill patrons has just figured out he can get free movies due to his disability, and has been proselytizing to all his friends, so that we have had a lurching, clot-dropping stream of Walking Dead library visitors all week.

Sorry, no, 'Tin Tin' has already been checked out.

I realize this analogy seems harsh, but none of the normal hobos will go near these guys. Not sure where he found them.

My co-worker went to get the mail and stopped someone who was beating up a homeless guy on the street corner. She got in his face, told him off, got the cops, and called his mom. It was beautiful.

Meanwhile, the kid I pulled out of a pool in 9th grade is running for Senate. And his new album won a bunch of local awards. I am insufferably smug about how he's turned out - as if I'd done any work at all since whacking his head off the pool deck in 1993.

Also, my pen is poised over my time-travel to-do list, just in case he turns out to be an evil overlord, after all.


Yesterday, a teen fell off this bridge and died while trying to take a picture over the guardrail:

We have to drive through herds of tourists clogging the bridges every time we go to Costco. Seriously, visitors, they are fucking huge cliffs with raging waterfalls and rivers under them. There is mud, and slippery moss, and crumbling rocks, and one-lane roads where drivers will zoom around and scare you into losing footing. One of our patrons pulled this kid out of the water, our emergency guys brought him in, and my doctor declared him dead. Hopefully not on the same table I have to have my lady-business exam on. DO NOT PRANCE AROUND WITH CAMERAS ON THE EDGES OF CLIFFS, FFS.

Home, to my knitting and children and dinner. I like a calm and quiet life, because damn.

Found in donation bin

People dump old books and magazines off at the library. I was cruising past a box of mouldering donations and a magazine on the top of the pile caught my attention.

"Conscious Dancer"

Which immediately begs the question, do dancers have a problem remaining conscious?

Answer: evidently so.

New title suggestion: Semi-conscious Dancer.

mystery cupboards reveal shocking lack of mysteries

My friend operates on stealth, sneaking to our front step to leave pineapples, avocados the size of small heads, bunches of bananas, whole fish, and bags of smoked wild pig. Nature's ninja. In the mail, postcards accumulate and tumble into my hands when I check the box, still warm from Bakersfield (more on these later).

People have a lot of love. It's pretty wonderful.

So to be a sport, I slapped myself up a bit, dumped a few cups of coffee down my throat, climbed up onto the counters in the back office, and used our janitor's mini broom to open up all the ridiculous cupboards built 15 feet up the wall. My spotter (workplace safety first!) tilted his head and watched with a smile that made me tuck my shirt into my jeans self-consciously. No dead bodies hidden in the mystery cupboards. I tap-danced across the desk and jete'd down [tottered onto a swivel chair and half fell across my janitor's head], then tore open the cupboards in the break room, where I found all the items that had been hidden from me because I am too clumsy to be trusted with them (we have a crystal punch bowl!). Threw up my hands because there still weren't any cryptic artifacts to propel us into mystery-novel antics. I did find some very old carbon paper, though. And I threw it away. Like a boss.

It felt wrong just leaving all that disappointment and dust up there, so I got into the ancient first-aid kit and put a sling-in-a-box up there for the next intrepid investigator.

Because really, if anyone breaks their ribs or collar bones at the library, I will be calling an ambulance, not throwing them a boxed sling from the 1970s. And watching it bounce off of them, because they can't catch it - broken bones and all. Odds are it will probably be me, anyway, since I'm the idiot who climbs up into cupboards while wearing wedge sandals.

And that was my week.

a week of librarianing

143

Four books were dry-humped to tatters by some randy 2nd grade boys.

The class of 2nd graders was subsequently humiliated and terrified by my surprise visit to explain the consequences of oofing pictures of bikini girls in the Guinness World Records. While I pointed at the cartoon cocks drawn on the Most Downloaded Woman, my son grinned across his desk at his classmate, who was trying to shrink into his own sleeves. 

My co-worker dumped a bag of silicone grains into a vase of water and woke up to a living room full of gel marbles. We now have a giant pretzel jar full of little jiggly blue balls in the staff room, which my teenage shelver and I could not resist digging our arms into and shuddering.

eldritch horror 

Someone asked me to check on a vomiting woman in the public bathroom. I stood in the door and said, "Um, are you alive?" at the arms splayed across the floor under the stall, and received a whargle in reply. Good enough for me. 

At home, I got things in the mail.

future infink quilt for the Bunk Bed of Sadness

because I needed one skein of grey and got this instead

And I made things (hint: DEATHMATCH).

Recognize the homespun, sarahapple? Yours is next, Robotaday!

And the infink danced.

(video broken)

Tomorrow: CHICKEN BALLS! 

in which I think things

Having learned from last year's caffeine catastrophe, I skipped the coffee and applied myself to the bacon at the staff holiday breakfast. Tore open a Good Earth cocoa chai tea bag, flipped it over to read my fortune, written in 8pt text under the staple on the tag.

Make the most of yourself, for that is all there is of you.

Well, thanks for that morning dose of mortal terror, Ralph Waldo Emerson.

The torrential rain did not wash out the bridges and collapse mountainsides to leave us in the quiet stillness of an empty library, reading books and doing jigsaw puzzles by the light of the Christmas tree. Instead, the storm drove hordes of drenched patrons in to wipe their shoes on the carpet and hide from the perilous roads, filling the book drop with soggy paperbacks and wet grocery bags. One of our regulars dropped off a present with my name on it, which turned out to be a nice big package of Twizzlers. "I heard you say you liked them once." This, I thought, was preferable to being overheard exclaiming, "Yay, serial killers!" (as I had been moments earlier) and being presented with one of those, wrapped in red paper.

My storytime crowd packed the whole room, and startled me with earnest applause after I finished reading How the Grinch Stole Christmas. "I love your reading voice," one of the mothers said. "Wow, that was really sweet of her," I later said to A., "She must be a fan of the Muppets, because I've been told I sound just like Miss Piggy." I really kind of do.

At lunch, I ran through the rain to the car with a plate of leftovers. I've been listening to Duma Key on CD, on my mother's recommendation, and going pink at every curse word, hearing it filtered through her ears. Stephen King has always been a favorite of mine, but he recently endeared himself to me very keenly in the Colorado Kid, when one of the characters couldn't remember if a song had been written by Cat Stevens or Al Stewart. At 25, my mother had records of both, and Al Stewart's Year of the Cat caused 5 year-old me to forever confuse the two. Feeling oddly validated.

One of the characters in Duma Key read aloud from a book of poetry as I was driving. Half listening, dodging rocks and fallen branches, I became aware of a stabbing pang in my chest, and rewound to hear the last passage again.

Have you forgotten what we were like then
When we were still first rate
And the day came fat with an apple in its mouth

it's no use worrying about Time
but we did have a few tricks up our sleeves
and turned some sharp corners

the whole pasture looked like our meal
we didn't need speedometers
we could manage cocktails out of ice and water

I wouldn't want to be faster
or greener than now if you were with me O you
were the best of all my days

-Frank O'Hara

Who turns out to be this guy:

fwawr.

I am susceptible to poetry, which is why I avoid it. My brain is chewing on these things like a liverwurst sandwich; compulsive and lamentable. Make the most of yourself, for that is all there is of you. I wouldn't want to be faster, or greener than now, if you were with me. O you were the best of all my days.

Fabio! Get back in here! What a completely crap spirit guide, probably off somewhere combing his hair and reading Jung.

It's the rain. It draws us out like snails. To be POKED by the cruel finger of ANALYTICAL PSYCHOLOGY! Bah.

Technical difficulties

You know what is more dangerous than having a blog? Just about anything. Especially when you work with the public, and that public doesn't like paying .25 cent late fines or having to actually have a library card to check out books. Summer is the peak of hobo season, and they are all hot and cranky. This morning we had a staff-time sparring session with the lock-down bar, exchanging tips like, "Aim to swing through their head!" and "Jam it in the solar plexus!" Library folk look nice and fluffy, but we'll cut a bitch.*

Melvil Dewey, 1876

Diet update: gained another half a pound. Have begun dumping powdered old-person fiber supplement ("Now without grit!" - must have cut down on the powdered old-person) into, well, everything. Soup, oatmeal, rice, coffee. Turns out that the little note on the side of the jar that says "not recommended for carbonated beverages" actually translates into "will make your soda violently explode". Begs the question: are Mentos made of old-person?

Tuesday is Tuesdaying on.

*Actually, no, probably not.

conversations

As I prepared my morning tea, I spotted a can of Diet Sprite in the staff fridge.
"Is that my soda in the fridge?" I asked.
My janitor said, "I think so, I took it out of the freezer." [pointed look, recalling last year's exploding soda-in-the-freezer incident."
"I would have denied it."
"Blame it on whoever's not here."
"Well, come on, it's been like a year since I've done anything stupid."
I sipped my tea, realizing as I did so that about 10 seconds previous, I had dumped oozy, curdled creamer in it, thinking, oh, what could happen?

A few minutes later. Still resolutely drinking the tea.
"What if I did the painting on Christmas Eve, when you guys are out on furlough?" said my janitor.
"Oh! You HAVE to!"
"What? Why?"
"Because Baby Jesus might come."
"Baby Jesus likes paint?"
"Yes, in Newfoundland everyone painted on Christmas Eve, because Baby Jesus might come over."
"Ok, but I don't know how well it'll air out by Monday."
"That's ok, people like the smell of fresh paint. It smells like Christmas. And Baby Jesus."
"That's true."


Adorable and fond of paint.

At home, Gavin waved his arms in exasperation over the ending of Astro Boy. "Who would be afraid of that?! It can't even hurt anyone, it was just a big floating eyeball covered in testicles! Come on!" Mike snorted and started laughing [on our first date, he told me calamari were squid testicles].

Men-types are fun.

Fall again

Winter is coming. I woke up this morning with Gavin's feet in my face. Covering him with my side of the comforter and easing the door shut, I ate my cereal in front of the computer until he shuffled out and rolled under the couch blanket. We sat together and watched cartoons, my hands feeding fuzzy orange yarn onto my circular needles. Po spread herself gingerly across our laps, subdued by her girly-bit surgery earlier this week and chilled by the air on the lanai. Today was the first day of long pants, long sleeves, cozy socks and covered shoes. Gavin led the way down the hall to his preschool classroom, pausing to say hi to the lizards and stare at the sullen picture day kids being dressed as chefs and tennis players by squealing puppet-shaking photographers. I knelt down to hug him goodbye, and he gave me his usual farewell speech as he inched nearer to the kids playing blocks, "Bye, mom! Have a good day at work! Don't forget to bring me a nice book - and tell me if the Snack Man comes [Marc] - and do everything I want you to do! Bye!"

At the library, it was a tour day. It wasn't until all the students bunched in that I discovered "special ed class" meant "30 children in wheelchairs", and found myself in the middle of a crowded sea of expectant, parked little faces. I wondered how many I could cram vertically into the elevator before deciding that a stationary point-and-yell tour would have to do. I hollered and waved my arms, then mustered my best Scary Voice to read Neil Gaiman's The Wolves in the Walls despite the bored slump of the younger teachers. Had an irritated Tea-Drinking Knitting Cat Lady Librarian moment where I wanted to yell at them about their posture before remembering, yet again, that I was their age. Feeling older these days. I have discovered myself seriously thinking about buying horrifying seasonal cardigans and fake hand-carved reindeer sculptures. It starts as a joke, and ends with people piling cardigans and figurines under your Christmas tree. This will not do.

Speaking of cardigans, fashion rant: why does nothing look good on me this season? Who are these people designing for? Why am I being asked to pay $90 for a Vera Wang skirt that makes my butt look like it flaps around my knees? Why are potato sacks with drawstrings around the neck back in fashion? WHY?! I need clothing!



In other news, have successfully dumped Johnny the Coffee Pot and am no longer forking over $7 a bag for dark roasted panic attacks. I made peach jam. Gavin is featured in a full-page ad in Black Belt Magazine this month, because his dad makes the ads. Have knit 2 more hats and started a third, as well as beginning my first [toddler-sized] sweater.

overheard at the library

me: Does anyone actually say 'o-possum'?
marc: only if they're singing an anthem.

J: Russia has dissolved its government.
S: wow, really? Huh.
K: The kindergardeners didn't know who Maisy was.
S: *gasp* That is truly a tragic commentary on today's society. It really is.