keeping your enemies closer, or just not letting them leave

I'm getting kind of bored of my glasses. Any thoughts on what my next frames should look like, aside from not all bent and crooked like these?
But that's not why you're here, I know. You're here to read all about my lovely Christmas. I haven't had a shittier Christmas (even that year I got an alarm clock, or when I had the flu or whatever that was). Well, let's face it--December hasn't exactly been going well, what with programs with zero attendants, Buddy issues, and general crap-town problems. Which is why I was looking forward to being able to leave and see my family for a few days. Which is why this snowstorm was an especially large "fuck you", particularly due to the following things.
Thursday was still a state of emergency around here. So how come the local Fox affiliate news, the local NPR station news (who did, however, mention that there were still places closed "in spite of the weather"), weather.com, the state police website, and the road safety hotlines all failed to mention this? I may take risks sometimes that smart people don't, but I do know better than to drive during a state of emergency, provided SOMEONE TELLS ME.
Also, someone wanna explain to me the point of plowing interstates when the snow is allowed to just sit on the entrance and exit ramps to said interstates? What's the point of having clear roads if no one can get to 'em? And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I got stuck. Of course, it could be infinitely worse: I heard of a woman who was stuck in her car for over 23 hours, and at least one of the other cars stuck on my ramp had been there all day. But this isn't the sort of thing you want to think about when, instead of greeting your family at their door and attempting to get Brett to do his trick, you're fighting back tears and attempting to stay on the plowed part of the road, a task made a whole lot harder when no one has salted yet, because plowing to get rid of snow only winds up revealing the inch or so of ice underneath. Who plows and doesn't salt? Why am I paying municipal taxes again? Especially since, several days later, my street still has not been salted, and most of the cross streets I need to use haven't been touched.
Christmas Eve was spent making sure Johnny wasn't throwing up anymore, trying to figure out why he had been in the first place, giving up on keeping the boys out of the tree, watching the first season of The O.C. (more on that later), and desperately trying to pretend it wasn't Christmas Eve, which I kind of like even better than Christmas itself, what with tree-putting-up and no poorly disciplined small cousins.
On Christmas, the work friend fiance (these would be the same people who loaned me the car when Buddy had the water pump issues, and who pulled me out of the on-ramp. I think it's getting to the point where, if I call Becca, she just assumes emergency) picked me up and I spent Christmas dinner with them. This was as nice as spending Christmas with a group of people you've never met before when you were hoping for your family and hate crying in front of strangers can be. That's not a criticism, I swear.
Sunday I watched more TV-on--DVD and had a lovely conversation with Alison Farinacci's grandmother. Alison is this friend of mine from college. She was the second person I met at Pitt (does Janice count, since I technically met her the weekend before our advising session?); we were roommates for 3 semesters and neighbors for a summer; we worked together for awhile; in short, great friends. She came up to Philadelphia for New Year's when I was living there, and then she fell off the face of the earth. Her number has been disconnected. Her parents have a new number, that I don't have. However, the grandmother has my number now, and hopefully she'll call. I miss the girl. And as I'm learning more and more, particularly here in Holeville, silly is hard to find.
Barring a tsunami (yeesh, it's hard to feel sorry for yourself when over 21,000 people are dead from one natural disaster, but I've been perservering), New Year's will be spent in Louisville.

I'm cracking up over this, and I'm not sure why.

"That's my exciting day so far. My generous brother Larry bought me a taco from Taco Shack. Surprisingly good tortillas. I find that many Tex-Mex restaurants resort to using disgusting preserved tortillas. What are they thinking!!!"--http://sqwinch.blogspot.com/

Heh. I thought I had already copied it, but Ctrl-V only got me this:1591163366. I'm not so far gone in library nerdiness as to think an ISBN is funny, thanks.
People are going absolutely crazy over what the weather's supposed to do in the next couple days, while I'm driving back to Steel Town, USA. I'd be more worried if the exact same fucking thing hadn't happened before Thanksgiving, when I missed all inclement weather entirely. And the Nuggets box will keep me warm.
***
I'm wearing the exact wrong bra/shirt combination today. I've got a black camisole that masquerades quite well as a trendy, camisole shirt when really it was found at the thrift in the women's sleepwear section. Under that, I've got my black bra with little white dots* which has a habit of peeking out from under things sometimes. I'm really not a ho, I swear.

*How sad is it that I'm trying to figure out how much of my extensive readership knows what this thing looks like? Combination of too many former roommates and not enough modesty, I guess. Or that particular brand of Jessy impatience: I'll save 30 seconds if I don't wait for random friend to leave the room before I change my shirt! Mmmmm, trashy librarian.

There won't be snow in Africa this Christmas...

but this totally makes up for it.
Also, when am I going to get to hear the new version of "Do They Know It's Christmas"? When?
Oh, yeah, and nobody showed up for my program. I'm thinking it's time to spend less effort on programming, more on collection, space, school visits, and one-on-one: the stuff that is getting results. I don't want to get a reputation as that lame-ass librarian who has events no one cares about; I'd much rather be that librarian who almost never has events because she's too busy running around doing what her patrons need/want.

it's hard to stalk someone when you don't know their schedule

Relatedly (did I just make that word up?), <undisclosed location> Public Library's (now referred to as ULPL) mediocre service just keeps getting more and more so. Mediocrer? Like a clerk who says, "I believe so," when asked if checked out books will be due the same day as a renewed box set. Also, the western branch teen hole? If I lied down in it, I could touch all four shelf-walls. And I'm a short, short girl. It's also such a box that you could probably film porn in there and no one would be the wiser. Yes, I've watched Comedy Central's Porn and Chicken. Shut up.
Some extraordinarily stupid things that have happened to me today:
So I've got this program I'm doing tomorrow, which I really hope people will come to but I'm not holding my breath, because I learned the optimism lesson from my last attempted YA program. I think, music would be nice, but, as has become crazy obvious lately, I know next to nothing about popular music. Damn you, lack of magic free cable! Easiest solution? There's a laptop in the meeting room I'll be holding the program in, and we are all wireless and fancy. I'll just boot up one of those Yahoo stations and it'll be cake. BUT. I can't connect laptop to internet. Then I think to just throw a bunch of cds into Windows Media thingie (so much less intuitive than iTunes), hit random and Whammo! Fun time in Music City. BUT. Although the meeting rooms are more accurately thought of as two rooms which can be connected if attendance dictates, the speakers in them are wired as though it is one large meeting room, part of which can be closed off if need be. Music in one room, music in both rooms. This is so stupid, I think I might throw up. I hate when things don't make sense. Unless it's funny, and this so wasn't this morning.
Then I went to lunch. I deposited my paycheck, then drove down to carplace to pay Buddy's bill. I had forgotten my checkbook this morning, so I went with the good old debit card. Which was denied. Mechanic B (A, who dealt with me last week, was also there) says that he's seen a lot of debit cards have limits. Is this the biggest amount I've put on the card? Yes, because after I was quoted the correct labor time of 5 1/2 hours, Buddy's water pump cost more than the couch. Sure enough, breaking the amount in 2 works. For the first half. Ah, my huge multinational bank-created innocence has been sullied once again.
Just for the record, I've been more or less responsible with keeping up with this bank account, so I know the money's in there. Stupid card.
Some patron insinuated that her translating and archeology degree was somehow more useful than my film studies degree. And was generally insulting. All I did was ask if she needed help, to which she pulled that always annoying (in no matter what situation) move where someone says you never have what they want, implying that their tastes are ever so much better than everyone else's. Then why are you here, mook? At least when I say that, I'm refering to a place I never go, and I try to come off as apologetic or self-effacing, not that my tastes make me cooler or smarter or something.
I was worried that someone would eat my hotpocket from the freezer because my name wasn't on it, but then I realized how Andrew from Buffy I was being, and that shut me right up.
You like how I can call myself out for being a nerd by making a super nerdy reference? My lameness never fails to impress me.
***
I finally finished Planet Simpson by Chris Turner. For the most part, I liked it, and it was fun to be back in that crazy-obsessed Simpsons space I lived in when Meleah, Ben, Cara and I all used up ILL time quoting Ralphie. Basically, imagine Greil Marcus' Lipstick Traces, but about the Simpsons. Turner sometimes comes off as a crank, particularly when talking about capitalism, and sometimes it feels a bit dated how he talks about the under-40 set, almost as though we're still living in the cultural climate of Ann Power's Weird Like Us and/or Slacker. (I could make a righteous Canadian dig right here, but I won't. Because I like Canadians, much as I enjoy all peoples with fun accents and socialized medicine.)
Mostly I like reading a nonYA book that doesn't make me want to tell Dave Eggars to shut up. However, the book frequently uses Poochie to make points about the media and the Simpsons' roles within tvland, while never mentioning Roy. Seriously, what's up with that? Roy's probably my favorite one-time character, too.

some things you might have noticed, and a key

So Google is apparently indexing random blogs, making mine insanely easy to find. After a while of other people knowing this, it's finally been brought to my attention (thanks, guys), so I've moved and attempted to make things a bit more anonymous, or at least defend the shit I talked on some people in some of the more bitter posts.
So:

• I now live in an undisclosed location. Heh.
• Anytime you see ***, I've edited something, in a rare fit of maturity.
• This color means I'm attempting to defend something I said. Does it work? Who knows?

See, I'm not really feeling put-upon or angry or censored by this, since it's not like I wasn't already self-censoring things about people I knew for a fact were reading this. Though I do feel I should argue charges of naivete. Aside from the afore-mentioned ignorance of Google expertise, I also just assume that others have a similar attention span to mine. I don't read blogs of people I don't know, unless they're crazy funny or a really good writer. And I'm no Sars.

2 pints of pus from her lovely body.

This is all because I’ve been whining about boys lately, I’m sure.
So, I know what's wrong with my car now. Water pump. Want to know how I know?
As I'm driving into work, looking for a mechanic, Buddy begins to overheat. I finally, after about 10 minutes and what feels like a million years, find a place to pull over. And, yup, it's a real overheating, with boiling over and everything. As I'm putting in more fluid, wiping stuff off, and worrying about the giant puddle of coolant forming, a nice man pulls up.
--I'd like to interrupt here with an aside about sexism. Yes, it does suck that people assume that a young woman always needs help, particularly with car matters. But I can't help but be grateful for that same attitude when I do need help. I guess I just wish that I could know that men would stop and help anyone, you know?--
So anyway, nice man gives me a couple tips, including the water pump thing (and that's what's been clonking, too, so at least only one car problem at a time, right?) and tells me to go to a place which, luckily, is on my way into work, so I know exactly where it is and, if necessary (it wasn’t), I could walk.
They're very nice there. Buddy will be done tomorrow, as the part has to be overnighted. I think I'm looking at about $200, which is typical for the biennial (that's twice a year, right?) meltdown.
So my problem now is, How do I get home? Or, conversely, Where do I sleep? I think I'm just going to ask an in-town librarian if I can crash on her couch. This seems to be the simplest solution, and my supervisor didn't seem to have a problem with me showing up in the same clothes two days running. Of course, I’m probably going to lose a few hours and $$, but since whenever anything goes wrong with Buddy I panic and think, $2000!, it’s all part of the price, right?
Now I just have to make sure I crash with someone I can also bum black eyeliner off of.
In January, I’m so going to start looking for a new car. One that makes me feel like less of a fuck-up.

that glazy sleepy stare

Damn kittens, keeping me up with their cuteness and their beating down on each other.
Last night they discovered the Christmas tree. I'm really hoping I come home tonight to a vertical tree.
My face-front graphic novel shelving came in today. Hooray! And there really isn't much that's hotter than a cute librarian putting together furniture and listening to JAMC, is there?
***
'Course, if that were true, I'd have much less of a history as a dateless wonder. I've decided I really want someone to make me a good ol'fashioned crush mix. The kind where you call up your best friend and giggle, holding the phone to the stereo to analyze each and every song, which of course was put on the mix for a very significant reason. The kind that doesn't have bad songs on it, or disappear into the mix-maker's brother's car never to be seen again. The kind that, unfortunately, is on cd, since I have no way of listening to tapes. The kind made by someone who lives in the same city as me.
I'm not holding my breath.
***

Shut up, Dave Eggers

I've officially given up on this year's best Nonrequired Reading. The kids who select have come way too much under Eggers' thrall (which is the Norse word for slave, or so it would seem from Sea of Trolls, which is the book I've cast Nonrequired over for). Also, it's more fiction than last year, and the fiction is annoying, in that Shut up, Dave Eggers kind of way.

Also, like no one saw this coming:

You are Belle & Sebastian's If You're Feeling
Sinister.


What essential indie rock album are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

the Thanksgiving recap

Dear god, driving from to Pittsburgh sucks. Especially when you stop at the Volvo dealership first to get the code so your stereo will actually work and the computer tells the jerk employee that your car does not, in fact, have a stereo. Oh, I think, so that's why I've been using the lighter to power my cd player and some cheesy walkman speakers. It has nothing to do with all that battery drama: I simply have no stereo. Then I went to Wal-Mart for wine and a six-pack (I've become the family bootlegger since I'm the only one who lives in a state without Quaker-made liquor laws) and my cashier was useless, even by Wal-mart standards. Really, the only things keeping me entertained on this drive were pleading with the giant storm clouds to avoid where I was driving on 71, 70, or 79 (thank you thank you thank you) and the pretty song I made up about driving through the Wheeling Tunnel.
I like the way Wheeling, WV looks a lot. Of course, I've only driven there on my way home, and what I should probably really be saying is, I like the font they used over the Wheeling Tunnel. I tried listening to The Outcasts of 19 Schuyler Place audio book during the drive, but my speakers weren't loud enough/it was boring. I think I'm going back to elementary school Jessy's original Konigsburg rating: just not that interesting. But it's nice to see Molly Ringwald earning a paycheck, no?
So I get to my parents, finally, and I'm trying to park on their bigass, brick-paved hill and it's not going so well, as there's a full foot of smushy, slick, wet leaf mess next to the curb. My dad suddenly materializes, and you know, there's really nothing that irritates me more after an insane drive than someone watching me park. I guess I got spoiled by my street being filled with so many un-lived-in houses for so long, because I really resent having to back up and do a full parking thing.
Incidentally, this is also my biggest beef with the SUV that's shown up on my street here in , with the Big Momma sign in the front and the "It's only kinky the first time" bumper sticker: it's parked where I have to use reverse to park in my favorite spot.
But then I get up the steps and into good ol' 1106 and everything's great. The pumpkin tart smells amazing, my cousin's on the phone telling me about this wonderful vacuum cleaner she got (though, since it doesn't turn dust into gold or move around by itself or is completely silent, I'm failing to be awed, even with the this-is-how-my-friend-caught-his-cheatin'-wife story. And if I was on "Last Comic Standing", I'd be cracking something about how that's how she finally got her husband to do some housework, but I'm not. And if I was, I'd be too busy chatting up that Iranian Jew kid to tell any bad jokes, anyway.), my sister's starting in on the first of 3 tantrums she performed over the weekend (I named them Martha, Semantics, and Reverse Psychology, if you're interested) and no longer liking Heinekin, or however it's spelled, and kicking my ass at Scrabble, Brett's getting ready to do his trick (he hops into your hand, because he wants to be petted so badly!).
And the greatness continued all weekend. Yumminess on Thursday; creepy urban mall with random Joseph Beth, Hong Kong Rice Bowl I've been dreaming about for the past couple weeks, kitties dressed as food, dragging Lara into the comic book store and hanging out with wonderful family friends, including people I hadn't seen in a long long time on Friday; Ikea and Spongebob on Saturday; and then the drive home on Sunday, which wasn't quite as bad, even with the pulling out-leafmess problem, probably because I gave up on Ringwald and Konigsburg.
And yes, I bought a couch. Not either of my first two choices, but now that I've finally got its 863 pieces together (cracking a couple in the process, grr), a damn fine couch nonetheless. It's this one, but blue. And it fit in the car, with no swearing at all! Now I just need to figure out what happened to my triangular pillow.
Kitten arrival: T-minus 2 days, and counting.

Gobble Gobble Hey.

I should probably apologize for that, right?
I'm reading Alyssa Brugman's Walking Naked and, boy howdy, is it annoying. Why am I reading an annoying book? Because I can never just put something down. I also don't walk out of movies, even if they're Moulin Rouge. It's also on the Best Books for YAs list for this year, and I try to read as many of those as possible.
This book isn't terrible, just kind of boring and irritating. And, Holy Ham-Fisted Foreshadowing! Gee, I think the persecuted, seemingly unhinged girl who the popular narrator befriends might off herself. And I wonder if Our Fair Narrator will learn a lesson from it, hmmm? I mean, why not just call the damn thing A Lesson About Bullying?
And it's not even trashy about it, so it doesn't have that fun.
There seem to be a lot of Australians on the list this year: what's up with that?

Jessy's Thanksgiving Teaser-Trailer

I've decided that, after careful research, I'm willing to bet that I can fit an unassembled Ikea couch in my car. Careful research involved remembering my height and a conversion website. All of Ikea's package measurements are in metric, after all. This is going to be the beginning of a great story were I come off like a moron, I'm sure. Mostly, I need to find my tape measure and measure my car's openings. Where's the conversion website that tells me what can fit in the back seat of a '79 Volvo?
Also, I've got a bunch of sweaters I don't want anymore. Most of them have no holes, and a lot of them are sequiny. I'm trying to figure out what to do with them.

The 5 people you meet at the mall.

Or at least, the people I would like to meet at the mall.

1. The small breasted, large-shouldered women that the Limited seem to think are their only customers. Really, how can a shirt be tight around my chest and have over an inch of extra room in the collar area?
2. Size 4 girls with a smaller waist then me, but larger everything else.

OK, sorry, that's all I've got. But really, why is it that every store I go in, and every different style of pant, shirt, etc. I try fits differently, regardless of the fact that they all have the same letter and/or number on the tag? I really don't think I'm all that strangely shaped or sized.

Also, I'd like for the employees at the mall to stop treating me like some sort of fashion pariah. Just because I happen to need to do laundry in THE WORST WAY (bka I bought underwear at the mall) and am wearing a shirt with a unicorn on it (which I happen to like--nerdy is the new cool, after all), doesn't mean I couldn't kick your ass at looking good under better circumstances. Of course, they treat me like a fashion pariah under even the best circumstances. Such is the life of a style innovator. Heh.

This book is driving me insane:. Just make out with her, goddamit! Too many freshman year flashbacks for me, I think.

pretend this is another line from "Brave New Girl"

Brave New Girl being returned last Thursday must have been some kind of omen, since I wound up seeing the Pixies Saturday night. And they were amazing. I can't say the same for the Datsuns (the opening act) however, since they just about embodied every criticism I've ever slung at the Strokes, but even more so. And from New Zealand to boot, so they really should have know better. Quick! Think of a rock star from New Zealand that isn't Dean Wareham. Does Dean even count?
Speaking of Dean (in the round-about, that cat that Cindy and Tiff used to see on walks that they named Dean kind of way), I've picked out my choices from the bookmobile annex kittens. I'm naming one Legs and the little black one will be Johnny. They're very cute, and on December 3 I can take them home. So I should probably clean before then, and get in the habit of closing my closet door.
The drive to Chicago was mostly notable because I got to see this giant cross in the middle of Illinois. Huge! I like when undemonstrative Midwesterners do things like Cubans, or Brazilians. The drive back, the parts where I was awake, mostly stick in my mind because there wasn't much in the way of electric lights, so we could see lots of stars. Although, despite having sat through a planetarium show only 36 hours before, I could still only positively ID Orion and Sirius. Shane seemed less interested in the stars, but then, he was driving. Just sleepy, or less of a science nerd? Fellow science nerds: apparently we're in for some good meteor showers round about the second week of December. I wonder where I could see them from here?
Reciprocal: Melissa is super great. She and her friends made for a great Friday night, if one that didn't involve any of the errands I still need to run. Because who wants to run errands on Friday night? Learned the lesson that Jameson one weekend and Black Velvet whiskey (in the O! so classy plastic fifth bottle) the next do not "balance each other out". Why do I insist on buying alcohol for camp? I never let people I'm with by food based on camp. Well, except for candy.
There are 6 books staring at me on the desk that I have to write booktalks for. I should get on that.

I'll buy you a cassingle if you come.

I really need to stop letting people check out books that I'm planning on booktalking in the next week. That's how I wind up with bootleg, sad looking printouts of book covers taped to other books that no one it their right mind would read. I just can't say no to a patron when it comes to checking out stuff, is the thing. I once spent 20 minutes copy-and-pasting barcode numbers to be able to give some Pokemon movie to the kid who found it on the shelf and make sure all of the holds were still in place. I've also been known to override huge fines, and let people have twice the number of items they should. Usually.
This sort of thing makes up for all the times I've bluntly follow the rules in the face of annoying patrons.
And the kid in question was asking the open-ended reader's advisory question. When someone asks me what they should read (especially someone who's still determining what they like--ooo! I get to mold!), I automatically shoot to the last book I was thinking about. Especially if the asker is a teenaged boy and the book is about early 19th century surgery. Especially especially if the kid doesn't know he dislikes historical fiction yet. Because I really like buying YA historical fiction, and no one seems to like to read it (sometimes myself included). Also great: his turn-around book seemed to be, from what he was saying, Perks of Being a Wallflower, but he hadn't read Catcher in the Rye yet. So now he's got that, too.
The challenge that I thought might be in the making is looking like a false alarm on my part.
The less said about my school visit yesterday, the better. As usual, got along with the kids one-on-one, couldn't hold much interest when giving my spiel (low-cut shirts and bending over, here I come!), wasn't surprised based on the tenuous hold the librarian has on their attentions, etc. I'm visiting classes next week, though (hence the more booktalks). And one of the jr high English teachers offered to arrange a presentation for me, where all of the 125 8th graders would be my audience. At once. In a gym. At 8AM on a Monday. I emailed her asking for a less arena-rock, more intimate-club setting.
Anybody read The Radioactive Boy Scout by Ken Silverstein? I want to booktalk it, but am not thrilling at the idea of reading it. Plus, I'm deep in the middle of The Blue Girl, which is one of those books that I wish had been written ten years ago, for teenaged Jessy. Speaking of which, is it wrong that I'm expecting Labyrinth II when I think of Jim Henson's company optioning Tithe?

OK, so I was just taking this quiz, mostly as a joke, because I know I don't have a religion, pretty much by choice. Quiz tells me that my belief is Unitarian, which only furthers the argument that Unitarianism isn't really a religion. I guess what I don't understand about Unitarianism is that all it seems to be is a community gathering to talk about faith. And isn't it sad that something like that has to pretend it's a church? It's like the people who have to watch Oprah for book discussions because the people in their lives don't talk about books on a regular basis, or their community has been so corroded that there really is no community anymore.
This was one of the nice things about the long voter lines. Even though I did have my nose stuck in a book (hey, I finally got through the damned thing), there was a definite sense of a community getting together and doing something. And that's getting harder and harder to come by, even in a midwestern small town. Actually, I think it's even worse in small towns, because everyone drives everywhere. I don't have a rapport with the people who wait at the bus stop with me, or the woman on her porch that I pass to buy groceries, etc etc. I miss that.
Speaking of the small town I've found myself in, it's come to my attention that there are people reading this thing aside from my friends who have owned up to reading my ramblings. Please just have the sense to remember that some things are kind of personal, and to not start any rumors based on anything here. Thanks.

the Bob Cratchit of YA librarianship

I've been so cold at work lately that I've been sporting scarves at the desk. Who wants to get me fingerless gloves for Christmas and/or Chanukah?
Either the industry in this town is pumping out rapid aging chemicals, or there are grownups in my teenhole. Grrr. And a small unobserved child is running around over there, presumably putting small child scribbles all over the grafitti board designed for big kid scribbles.
I think what really annoys me about this is that most of the adults I knew as a teen respected my space, and would have, by extention, respected a library teenhole. And yet there they are, reading picture books and talking about recipes.
Speaking of which, I'm really hungry. I need to buy groceries, but I'm in one of those not cooking as much ruts.
Tomorrow I return to the high school reading club, to force a program on 'em.

I give up

It's official. sucks. As much as I hate doing this, the job search is open again. If anyone (particularly in the Louisville or Pittsburgh areas) wants to help me out, they can try and get a librarian fired for me, to open up a position.

Sunday always comes too late

Ahhh, another Friday by my lonesome at the Youth Services Desk. Helloooo, home school kids, how are you? Yes, ma'am, I'm just going to let the page in the "ironic" logo shirt (it says "Lord" where it should say "Ford") talk to you about Toby Keith. He did, after all, just take my "If I put books where YAs sit, they'll be forced to pick them up and look at them!" plan to throw a Left Behind book on the chair. That's the thing with those Left Behind books: if you want 'em, you don't need to be coerced. And anybody that would need to be tricked into reading them, well, I'm not thinking the trick would work that well. I mean, I've tried to read one of those books (liking trash as much as I do, and hoping the author would leave clues as to his true identity--Norm McDonald in oldface makeup*), but they get too bogged down in the God junk. Reading this over, I'm realizing that there really isn't much correlation between helping a patron with Toby Keith and "helping" me sucker kids into checking out books they might not otherwise.
Mr. Man, do you see that sign directly in front of you that says "Videos"? Do you think that might be where the videos are?
Someday, I will stop assuming that people read signs. And yes, I'm guilty of it as well.
VIZ is giving away this nifty Manga/Anime 101 thing. It's made up to look like a composition book full of classnotes, all about manga and anime, particularly of the distributed-by-VIZ variety.
*Wait, I forget: is Old Man McDonald the guy who writes the kids' Left Behind, or is it the other guy? What if we switched authors and popular series? Like, V.C. Andrews could write Left Behind and Lurlene McDaniel could write Fearless. Which is ending, by the way. Apparently, there's only one book left, but in the back of #35, there's an ad for Francine Pascal's new series, Fearless FBI. So I wonder what happens in the last Fearless book, hmmm.
Oh, I'm reading The Year of Secret Assignments now, by Jaclyn Moriarty. It's a scream, or as this kind of book's older novel sister would say, v.g.
And a shout-out to Jim, since that whole Tim LaHaye/Norm McDonald thing was our shared running joke.

open letter

Mr. Bush,
You are not the kindergarten teacher of the world. You cannot treat every other human being as though they need nothing more than to think like you.
That being said, if you and yours continue to treat me and mine like we are naughty little children, I'm going to have to start acting like one.
I'm not taking my ball and going home (or to Canada, or Cuba, or where ever). I'm staying right here, in the Midwest, and I'm going to keep yelling until people listen.
I'm not looking for agreement, just acknowledgement and thought.
You continuously treat everyone and everything I care about with contempt and ridicule. How can you govern people you don't respect?

vote, ya mook.

I've been thinking a lot today about the last time this happened, 4 years ago. Happily, things are mostly going much better. Sure, I'm living in --which, I've decided, is pretty much a hole. A hole with an Indian buffet, but a hole nonetheless. But here follows a list of things I was doing in November 2000 that have thankfully stopped:
--Ken is no longer in my apartment, or my life at all. Especially now that I can't find him on Friendster to link to his blog and mock him. Consequently, there's a lot less grossness and whininess going on. More Ken to follow in my recap of Tiff and Jessy's FunTime ElectionNight 2000!
--I have a real job, kinda my dream job, not the coffee thing.
Actually, those 2 are so big I really don't feel the need to list anymore.

Tiff and Jessy's FunTime ElectionNight 2000!

I keep moving to type "nacht". Hmmm.
There was drinking. There was chain smoking, but only in the kitchen. The kitchen was also where, at both the graduation and Beauty Pageant parties, we tried to confine the non-clear beverages. That apartment had brand new beige carpeting. When we moved out, fucking over Ken and the landlords was more important to me than fighting for a piece of the security deposit. Ken didn't want people to smoke in the kitchen, "where we cooked," but that becomes a moot point when by "cooking" you mean defrosting and warming up broccoli mac'n'cheese in a push-up device. Also, his mom smoked all the time in the kitchen, and never cleaned out my souvenir Gettysburg ashtray.
There was watching of Angel, and just about anything else that wasn't election results, interrupted by election updates from Ken. Apparently who got to be President was something worth breaking into his internet cruising time, or sad gayboy chatting time, or straight-up porn watching time, or whatever. There is still photographic evidence of that night, black and white polaroids of the 3 of us wearing upside-down butterfly antenna, imitating Hasidic sidelocks. It was the Jew Veep Hat. You know, I'm still not sure why there was a butterfly headband construction paper thing on the coffee table.
Eventually, Tiffany and I went for a drive. A long drive. To Zelionople. Until 3 AM. Then I went home and (unlike Tiff, who turned on the TV to hear someone give the election to Bush) went straight to bed. Then I woke up the next morning to go make coffee in Squirrel Hill, which was nice because at least all of the customers were bleeding heart liberals, so we could commiserate.
I thought that that Tuesday night had been stressful, but that's nothing compared to today. Now we know what 4 years of Bush is like. Back then, it was just three kids (2 of them significantly less lame than the other) under some Pokemon lights in a Bloomfield kitchen, making crazy speculations. You know, I don't remember any of them, but I do know that none were as insane as Iraq, or the taxcut, or random no-checks-and-balances judge appointments.
Speaking of which, let's all send Rehnquist some get-well-soon vibes. Let's not think about what happens if he's not feeling well enough to hear a case concerning this election, because that's when the sitting president gets to appoint someone. Someone who doesn't have to be OKed by Congress until their next session. Can't we just put a thyroid cancer survivor in there temporarily? I nominate my mom.

Random work-related comment: it would be really nice if someone would outline when exactly I count the hour for lunch and when I don't. Of course, if that overtime law hadn't been passed, then I could have just said give me the extra money and not had to keep correcting my time card and have people act like I should know this. Seriously, last pay period, when I worked from 8 to 8 for that stupid program that only 2 kids came to, I've had three different conversations about shit I've done wrong on that timecard. And it's not like I don't ask people to make sure I'm doing things right.

full of beans

Ever want to just walk up to someone and ask them how, if you've never had sex with them, or even ever seen them before in your life, you are supposed to be the mother of their child?
There's this little boy, who seemingly came out of nowhere, running around the library, climbing on tables, wearing a footy pajama one-piece dealie (it's 2:30 PM), and generally being a pain in my ass. Part of the problem, too, is that my natural inclination in these situations is to ignore the kid. This becomes difficult when it becomes obvious that that's what certain patrons expect from their library.
Also, this is why I avoided all of those YA and children's librarian jobs, so I could just deal with the group of people I wanted to deal with.
This isn't the only irritating small child. There are also all of the kids who, bored with looking for their movie and unattended to by parents more interested in finding that DVD of Garfield: The Movie, wander into the teenhole and scrawl all over the graffiti/survey boards I've set up. Quickest way to keep a 14 year old from something or somewhere? Throw a bunch of 4 year olds there.
***
So who's read this? Part of me is thinking I should read the book in question there, but you know that Dorothy Parker quote about books that should not be put down, they should be thrown against a wall? Yeah, I do that. And I have crappy aim and a lot of fragile things. Reading a book that I know will make me angry is just going to endanger those fragile things. My main complaint with the woman, without reading her book (yes, I'm pretentious enough to do that--wanna hear my arguments against Neil Postman's theories that come from only reading a chapter of one of his books in a course packet?), is when she apparently lists A Tree Grows In Brooklyn as an antidote to the more-or-less modern YA problem novel. Fuck, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn is bleak. At least, I thought so. And the librarian is mean. And people die left and right. And it's so nineteenth century philanthropic: like, we as upper class WASPs must help these poor working class immigrants, for they do not know any better.
I've been holding in a lot of my bitterness towards A Tree Grows In Brooklyn since I happened to read it only because it was a roommate's favorite book. And you can't exactly diss someone's favorite book.

1 less-lousy kid

Yeah, only one kid showed up last night, instead of the 7 who promised they would. He was cool, though: we talked about the Beastie Boys and baseball, and he left with Monster. Giving up on this program, however, has given me the time and energy to focus on the next couple things I've got planned: a winter reading program involving pizza and the Best Books for YAs--2005 list and an anime party I made a kick-ass flyer for, despite the fact (as a note from my supervisor told me) that I really should probably not do that sort of thing, as we have a specific PR/Community Relations person. Who, incidentally, OK'ed me making my own shit in my first week, which is when I made sure to ask her. She's also helping me with the winter reading thing, so it all evens out. And the fewer kids show up, the more cookies the staff gets to eat.
I've been trying to force Blue Monday: In Between Days on kids. We'll see how it goes.
I went to Wal-Mart this morning (I didn't have to work because I was making up for the 12-hour Monday) and got a computer desk, some coat hooks, and file folders, which are hopefully going to be the beginnings of Jessy's Beautifully Organized Random Images Library. Hey, I may still not have a couch, but it's a start to being a real girl, right? And once I own a couch, I can no longer sing the Halo Bender's "Will Work For Food" with quite as much accuracy. I'm living it up while I can. (That is the right song, no?)
There seem to be a lot of kids wearing anti-drug t-shirts in today. Must have been something at one of the schools.
And the girl at the table in front of my desk has a kick-ass Lisa Frank TrapperKeeper-looking thing! It's got horses! Damn, I love Lisa Frank.
Other things I love: Ghostwriter. I wish I had cable, so I could keep up with Hector's gay Philly exploits on The Real World. And, yes, I'm well aware that his real name is Willie. It's just so great that he's shown up on MTV. The only thing better would be for Gabby to show up on, like, Passions or the OC.
So here's something I've been wondering about lately: when did everyone decide that the pronunciation is no longer "neanderthal", it's "neanderTALL"? It just seemed so sudden, and, believe me, I'm nerdy enough to have known if there was a press release about how we're supposed to say the word. It does, after all, involve two of my favorite things: words and cave men. The whole thing smacks of Andrea Zuckerman to me. Are neanderthals nothing more than the poor, less-cute, smart, Jewgirl who lies about living with her grandmother to attend the good high school of paleoanthropology?
The Blogger spellcheck wanted me to replace "Jewgirl" with "cowgirl". Yee-ha!

2 lousy kids

I came in yesterday morning after a weird, confusing (and yet still totally fun) weekend to a note from my supervisor saying that even though we hadn't talked about it, she was assuming I wouldn't be in until noon, since I had a program that evening. Hey, I don't know--so basically, long story short, I was staring down at a 12 hour day. One where I was the only youth services person in, since the other two were both at a children's librarianship conference. Yesterday was also the first day of storytime signup, so guess what all of my phonecalls were about. But I didn't care, because I had gotten a look at the signup sheet for that night's program and three 10th graders had been added, meaning-Hooray!-not just me and a bunch of middle schoolers. (In defense of myself: I don't dislike middleschoolers per se, just wasn't as sure what to do with them. And 12-yr-old girls in packs are still scary to this former social pariah.)
Thursday I had been at a videoconference where Patrick Jones was the speaker. Patrick Jones is also the man, despite all the shit I talk about the end of Things Change. Anyway, I was all fired up about doing stuff for the teens, to the teenhole, etc. So on Monday morning, I grab the page of face-front shelving copied out of the Demco catalog and head to the director's office. "I want to have the graphic novels separate," I say, "and I'd like this shelving for them." Fine and good. Done and done. Then comes, "When we have a large enough collection that they have to be put in order, I want them shelved by main entry." In other words, none of this half with fiction, some by author and some by title, half under the 741 Dewey number (don't ask me what the class is there--Dewey is completely beyond me still) and the handful where the subject pops out immediately to the cataloger-in-publication in their respective Dewey areas. What did all that mean? Our comics are all over the damn place, and there's no logic to where they get put. Director says no, gives a lot about library instruction, the intent of the catalog, insinuates that I'm not giving our patrons the benefit of the doubt. He'd look for Understanding Comics in the art section. He wants to know what I'd do with the ones that aren't actually novels. Now, something that people need to remember about the term "graphic novel" is that, at this point, it's being used by librarians who are too afraid to just call 'em comics. I don't care what prize Speigelman gets, or where Crumb's work is shown--it's still comics. "Graphic novel" denotes format, not content. And as far as the library instruction/dumbing down patrons angle, I was annoyed the first time I tried to find Maus in a library.
Then I mentioned that, when I finally get around to ordering Barry Ween: Boy Genius, I'd like to be able to place them next to Pedro and Me. Under the current classifications, I wouldn't be able to do that because catalogers have decided that the most important thing about the book, the thing that patrons will look for it under (which, after all, is the point of cataloging stuff), is that Pedro had AIDS and he died. I'd like more if all of Winick's stuff was together, in the same way that all of any other visual artist's works should be grouped together in a catalog.
Yeah, we didn't agree at all, but my immediate supervisor seems to think that, as the front-line person, I get to make the final call. I mean, he did have a point about the theoretical stuff, but nothing says chasing kids out of the library like having them not be able to use logic to find what they're after.
So I make it through the rest of the day, even get to collect some quotes for embroidering hankerchiefs in between signing up children for storytimes. The best part of that? Trying to guess age based on the quality and tone of the kid screaming in the background.
Then...my program. Which only 2 kids attended. My brainstorming party got rained out. And one of the kids, the girl, was kind of bitchy. Like, when I asked the boy (who was a couple years younger than her) about his favorite book, and then I asked her if she had read the book in question, she said, "Yeah, in like fourth grade." Just kind of mean, if you ask me. I kind of think she meant well, b/c she kept saying things about what other kids would be drawn in by, and I don't know if she meant to sound patronizing and pitying, but that's kind of how it came out. And no one wants to be patronized like that. But I've rescheduled for tomorrow night and most of the kids can make it then, so we'll see how it goes.
Oh, and there are kittens in the Bookmobile Annex and I've got dibs on one of 'em. Should I bother to clean Grace and Oscar's hair off my sweaters when there's just going to be more kitten fur on them soon?

the nerve!

My least favorite YA author, Gail Giles, says on her website that "I mock you with my monkey pants" is her favorite expression. This is hardly just, right, or fair. See, Giles is my least fave author--well, let's back up. YA fiction (YA stands for young adult, 12-18 year olds, for the non-librarians) can be broken into at least two types: the stuff where those weird kids in funny clothes are BAD (drugs, cutting, Columbine, etc.), and the books for those weird kids in funny clothes (hello, Francesca Lia Block!). Giles would be in the earlier group. I tried to read her newest, Playing in Traffic, but realized that "Wow! That sounds cute!" probably wasn't the effect she had in mind with her weird bad girl outfit descriptions. A miniskirt made of duct tape? C'mon, that's awesome and you know it.
So anyway, who are bigger weird not-bad girl and boy poster kids than Oz, who says the monkey pants thing, and Willow, who it's directed at? You can't like Buffy (or Joss Whedon in general for that matter) and write books where the weird or nerdy kids are either bad or desperate to not be weird or nerdy.
Best fake swearing EVER: PooPooJunkieButt
Best conversation I've had all week:
me (in sequiny vintage cardigan and catseyeglasses)
her (middle schooler, in pants with "GYMNAST!" across the ass, holding a hamster ball, complete with hamster)
Is today 50s day?
No, I always look like this.
You look pretty.
Oh, thanks!
Very weird. But less funny when I realized that it was sort of 50s-60s day, since the 7th graders were all doing The Outsiders related stuff. I was at the high school for the readers' club thing, which was even more bloody useless than I had imagined. But I did get a bit more done on the (hopefully)allergen free Nick Cave hankie.
Also, I'd just like to reiterate how strange those words across the ass pants are. Why exactly am I staring at a twelve year old's ass again? Oh yeah, to read that she's a gymnast.
Watch this blog come up in some porno search because of the combination of those four words. Ewww.

your tongue your transfer your hand your answer

I've really been missing the public transportation as of late. This commuting-by-car thing is a huge pain in my ass. I like being able to space out while someone else has the responsibility of getting me to work. Mostly, this is coming from the stupid accident I almost got into the other day which, while legally would have been my fault, was actually very little my fault. The UL Expressway, see, does this thing that's like highway...highway...stoplight!, so there's usually quite a bit of sudden stops. Because I listened to my dad like a good girl (usually), I try to not follow to close, so there's less danger. But see, here's the problem with SUVs, trucks, and other vehicles too giant to see around. I'm driving a respectable distance behind some overly large "car", minding my own business, thinking about whose got the better fake British accent, Bob Pollard or Billie Joe Armstong, and about my favorite Philadelphia band, next thing I know, he's swerved into the turn lane (goddam Indiana no turnsignal usin' jerks) and I'm like a car length and a half from a completely stopped car, going about 30. Burnt rubber smells yucky. But at least I know that I could probably drive with a small child in the front seat, since my first impulse was to throw my arm over so all my shit wouldn't fall out of my bag. And a baby's got more junk in it than my deery lou bag, right?
That kind of thinking would be why I'm on the pill.
I went to Denny's Saturday night to meet some new people I forced myself on through Friendster. Pretty darn fun. It's always weird being introduced to a group like that, because it usually feels like people are at their most whatever their place is in the group when a new person shows up. Like if you're the attention-grabber, you're at your grabbiest. Only bad thing was I forgot how it's possible to get a kind-of-hangover from too much coffee and too little sleep.
I go see what the local high school media specialist has put together for his "reader's club" later this afternoon. He's such a ***wad--I feel like it's an uphill battle to get these kids to think that there's more to library services for them, and that that's what I'm around for, if I could just get them to come into the public library. I'm thinking spooky Halloween rings will help. Hey, what problem can't cheap plastic toys handle?
I finally put the zombie barbie teen read week display up. It looks pretty freaking cool, if I do say so myself.

The battle for least-favorite patron status.

In this corner, we have a mother. A mother without a child, but with that child's assignment. You know, that "I was already in the 7th grade" comment your parents always made is a lot less annoying when you're a librarian confronted with a parent who should use it. What does reference professional literature call it again? Double-imposed questions or something? The only article I read about 'em that wasn't just bitching mentioned the difficulty of trying to perform adequate reference for someone that not only doesn't understand the assignment but is also getting increasingly defensive at the librarian's questions and not getting why the poor librarian is having trouble helping her. I really hate when I try to interact with people as intelligent, rational adults and they get all pissy. Hey, it's not my fault you baby your kid. Nor is it my fault that I can't remember every tiny little detail about The Outsiders--hey mook, that's why your kid should do her own damn work, or at least become a bit better at explaining the assignment to her mom.

In the other corner, we have Mr. Try and Flirt with the Librarian/Counter Person/Kinko's Consultant Using Uncle Humor While She's in the Middle of Helping Someone Else and Then Getting all Wounded When She's Not Paying Enough Attention to tell that it's a Joke. I really hate this guy--even more than I hate uncle humor in general. You know what I mean--that "funny" guys give to girls they think are younger, more naive, whatever than them that absolutely can not be given back to them. When you get mock angry, hurt, etc, they think it's real. When you joke back, they get confused. When you blow them off, they get woundy.

So who wins?

On a pleasanter note, I did have some mighty fine patrons today as well, like the high school student who let me teach her how to search EBSCO, or the boy who, because he liked Coraline and I was trying to steer him away from Gail Giles' newest, now knows about Philip Pullman's Clockwork. And I learned that I can eat buttery toast, drive stick, and wear white pants all at the same time without consequence.

Stupid junk I did yesterday

The biggest of which would be somehow losing this entire thing I had about all of the stupid things I did during the day. And the biggest of those would be locking the keys in my car in the Integra parking lot, after having to get cash since Dollar General doesn't take checks unless the address on your check and your ID match exactly. Guess who's still using her Kentucky license? Perk of working in a small town: the police dispatch came to unlock Buddy. Thank you thank you thank you!
At Dollar General I bought six bootleg Barbies and a rubbery lizard for my Teen Read Week display. The Barbies are going to be zombies. The lizard is just going to be lurky.
Also yesterday I went through the trouble of creating a Bust Personals profile because they won't let you send anyone a message without a profile on the site. So I do the whole profile making up thing, and then learn that they expect me to pay $20 before I send anyone a message. I may not have any people to hang out with in Evansville (except for Shane, and even that may be debatable after the crazy, half-asleep phone conversation last week), but I'm still cheap.
Speaking of this sort of thing (and pretending I have this huge readership, that sprung up in like a day and stretches across the country--yeah, right), I was talking to my friend Kerenq last night and she was telling me about this great conversation she had with this guy on the subway the other day. So if you live in New York City, work for a reality show involving Donald Trump, and talked to a cute girl cook on the subway last week, she's a-lookin' for you. In a non-crazy stalker girl way, of course.

the page who doesn't think to shift...

I'm at the desk this morning--because, you know, plenty of teens come into the library during the day on a Monday. The lights are still dim since we're not open yet--they don't turn on the overhead lights until nine, so that page who doesn't shift the books, and who thinks that the shelves should be bookended as tightly as possible, has to work in semi-darkness. There's a really nerdy supervillian in that somewhere. Villain? Villian?
I got a phone message from an old (boy) friend and talked to the x-boy this weekend. One made me so happy it's confusing and the other just left me confused. Did I mention that neither of these people is within 100 miles of ***? (oooo, I'm trying to be secretive about where I am--damn you, Google, for indexing so well!) This is a mess, and I can't shake the feeling I'm staring down another enormous dry spell.
The Book and Music Exchange I tried to explore on Saturday has exorbetant (sp?) prices on their vinyl. I thought cultureless Midwestern cities had that kind of crap for cheaper, b/c no one wants it. C'mon, $6 for Culture Club? $8 for Twisted Sister!? Luckily, the Goodwill on the tonier side of town still believes in fifty cents per scratched 45. I found: "Leader of the Pack", "Henry the VIII", "Along Comes Mary" and "Fever". And two glasses to (finally!) start my prom souvenir glass collection. And a $3 end table which I'm painting and turning into a TV stand. So all-in-all, pretty good thrifting.
How do other blogspot people have links? I want links.

things I've done so far today

Remember in kindergarten, how the teacher had a paper cutter that you were absolutely FORBIDDEN to even go near, let along touch? I learned why this morning--my fingers just bumped the blade and now I'm all band-aidy. Which makes it hard to type.
This is after years of being afraid to touch those things--Hey Mrs. Smith, I was listening.
Then I cut 44 tombstone shapes from currogated cardboard. I'm a young adult librarian (ages 12-18) and the Teen Read Week theme it's "It's Alive!", which I've decided to translate into a zombie barbie display.