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.