And you can quote me. (or "Just Call Me Misanthrope)
"Educator Appreciation Weekend" again at the bookstore. Also known as "I Can't Believe These Assholes are Teaching Future Generations" weekend.

Let it first be known that not all educators are included in my broad, bitter, blanket statements. One of my best friends taught me high school English. Another friend teaches kindergarten. They both rank at the top on the Most Kind, Cultured, and Intelligent People I Know list. I know there are others out there. So WHY....pray tell, don't they happen to shop at the bookstore I work at?

It never fails. The moment a woman wearing a fuzzy sweater-- with, say, geese on it, or perhaps a heartwarming embroidered cliche of some sort-- approaches the counter with that "you just lost recess privileges, mister" look on her face, I know I'm in for it.

Fact: Teachers make up a high, HIGH percentage of the most manipulative, condescending, deceitful, and outright rude customers I experience. I can't count the times that I have had to practically bite off the end of my tongue to keep from saying something snide to a teacher feigning ignorance about taking advantage of our discount system, or outright lying about what items they're buying for their students. I still get a churny stomach when I think about one particularly loathsome woman who originally stuck out when she was rude to a coworker of mine, and who I saw talking to her teenage grandkid in the manga section, and who boldfacedly included a Battle Angel Alita book in a discount purchase for her third graders.

For those of you who are familiar with Battle Angel... does that seem strange? (When I think of the anime, I just have to say, "The dog! Good Lord! The poor dog!" )

Her excuse? Her excuse for supposedly getting an R rated book for her third graders? "Well, the kids...they like to draw the characters. I'm teaching them how to draw the characters." then an extremely dirty look. If I had been able to snort in her face and tell her to shove it, I probably wouldn't even remember the incident. But instead it just festers, made worse by other just plain nasty people. I know--I have issues.

Among my issues is the fact that I don't forget a face. So I recognize the guy who cut me off and flapped his hand dismissively at me when I asked if there was anything more I could help with. "TCH! (he silences me). Don't babble at me. I'm done with you. Go away. God. You people." I also recognize the guy who tried to steal a cd, and the woman who called me a bitch because our store didn't have the book she wanted, and the woman who berated me because I wasn't able to process her expired coupon, and the man who cussed me out because our store carries one magazine and not another, or the kid who came in in a suit, expecting to get a managerial job, and snorted condescendingly when I asked if he'd like to fill the application here, or bring it back. "I have a resume here." Good. And I have a degree in Literature. The store doesn't hire you if you don't apply. He ended up snatching his resume back, dusting it off, and stalking out. I recognize these people when they come back. I help them find their books, and sometimes I take their abuse again. I'm tempted to ask, "So... still think you're better than everyone?"

All this to say, sometimes I hate people. Stupid but well-intentioned people are fine. They make me want to help even more. But mean people are another story. The best thing to do is go to bed early.

On another note...

Tonight the Boy and I walked around outside, since it was "nice" for the first time in eons. We walked up to a pitiful defunct Big K and looked at all the "Store Closing!" and "Everything Must Go!" and "For God's Sake! Buy our Crap!" signs. We peered in at the empty rows of white metal shelving and the little clusters of stuff that still hasn't been sold. It was creepy in a Twin Peaks sort of way, as if Nadine was going to come busting out with her arms loaded with cotton balls for her "silent drape runner" invention.
The creepiness was compounded by the fact that the coke machine outside was clearly disturbed. Instead of the little screen about the cash insert flashing "Cold. Drinks. Coke. $1.00." It instead told us, "Flolt. Boop. 4931. Gaup." Hmm. I was poised to flee rapidly if it flashed, "ZOOOLE."

The Thing about Tuesdays...
I could never get the hang of tuesdays.

I also could never get the hang of why people kill each other.

That's all I'm going to say about that.

Actually, that's not all I have to say about it. Before I shut up on the subject, the reason I will not be writing about the war in this blog is that the world is supersaturated with information and opinions for and against it already. It is not that the topic of the war doesn't evoke many emotions in me. It is not that I don't have anything to say about it.

It is that I have trouble getting up in the morning, and I have trouble going to sleep at night, and I have a sick feeling in my stomach most of the time these days. Come to your own conclusions. You don't need my opinion. And I sure as hell don't need to write about it.

For the record...

One of the undisputed sweetest little moments of working at a bookstore/cafe happened a couple years ago. The guy in the cafe served a hot cocoa to a mom and a little girl. He topped the daughter's drink with sprinkles and handed it to her with a wink. Later, he was wiping down the counter when he heard some rustling from below the front of the register. Then a little hand emerged from below the counter to set a note on it. It quickly withdrew, there was more rustling and some smothered giggling. The paper showed a crayon drawing of a boy and a girl holding hands and running while an enormous smiling sun looked benevolently on. The boy was wearing an apron. And below, it said:

Dear Man. I like you. I liked it when you blinked at me.

No signature, just an anonymous love note from a tiny admirer. It's still posted in the back room of the cafe.

Another paper a little person recently gave a manager said this:

Sory! Sory! Sory! sory! Sory 100000000000000 times!!!

Along with the paper, we also received the little plastic key chain that the young author had stolen. It's good to know that someone's son out there probably won't grow up to be a cleptomaniac.

alwayswearunderwear


I remember it as the big joke of the high school Latin club or what-have-you. "Semper ubi can ubi." Or something along those lines. Students would intone it seriously across the cafeteria, and those of us "in the know" would titter into our hands.

It comes to me because today I was reminded of an event that took place several weeks ago. A. told me about it with a mixture of distaste and laughter. How does a small, flower-printed pair of panties end up hastily wadded under a display in our children's department? I'm not sure I want to know. Wait. Make that a definite "no." I really don't want to know.

The thing that reminded me happened at the drive through at Taco Bell today. You may not inspect the curb while waiting in line at the drive through, but I sure do. There are all kinds of bizarre things to be found on streets and curbs. I have seen these things at the side of the road:

1. a big live crab
2. a gun
3. (In Illinois) a crumpled New York license plate.
3. two policemen on foot with flashlights and dogs in front of a slowly moving police car.
4. a guy wearing nothing but a sandwich board that said "ART"
5. a big cd binder with 50 cds in it. Unfortunately, most of them were crappy music.

I'm hoping to someday find a big envelope of rent payments for the next 300 years. I'm not crossing my fingers.

As I glanced down today, I was slightly startled and amused to see an underwire. You know, from an underwire bra. The kind that drive you nuts until you have to just rip the wire part out. There was no mistaking it. They look a certain way. A flat "C" of metal with the ends coated in plastic so that they don't actually make you bleed when they painfully stab you. I'm not going to make a cup guess or anything, but I can sympathize with the poor woman who was so frustrated with torturing bustenhalter that she ripped from it the offending wire and flung it from her car just in time to place an order for a "Meef Chubacabra Combo, with coke and a soft taco. "

Eureka!

This post is also directed to the misdirected individual seeking a pretty amputee.

You know, I might just have found your perfect lady! Sure, she has all her limbs, but she seems like just the sort of wacky, good humored, clever woman you're looking for. Perhaps if you two hit it off, she might be convinced to get a leg removed or something.

Yup, I'm talking about "crazy coffee stealing little old lady." I think you two might just share something really special... like a total disregard for social norms. I mean, this old girl really knows how to buck the system! I used to see her all the time in the cafe at our store. She'd come in a few minutes after we opened, and spend her entire day pretending to read whatever magazines were left on the table, and figuring ways of nicking coffee for free. Her original approach was to casually go up to the info desk where the coffee samples were, and get herself a little cup. Then for the rest of the day she'd dash to the pots in the cafe and fill up whenever the staff's backs were turned. My very favorite of her approaches was the "ninja-stealth mug approach," where she'd sit near a table where someone had left a cold, halfdrunk mug of coffee and some magazines. This approach takes discipline, wits and a keen sense of timing. She had them all. At any time, someone might sweep through and clear away the target mug, or she might been seen in her careful, steady approach, sitting closer and closer to the mug table until eventually she was sitting right across from it. Casually, she'd get up to inspect something nearby, and when she returned, BINGO. She'd sit right down in front of it, and look at the mug as if to say, "You're mine, bitch."

Can you believe it? I know you guys would totally fall in love. She's so clever. But get this:

Once she had the hapless mug in her grasp, she'd sit there clutching it for awhile, so that everyone would know that it was hers all along. She didn't even care if there were lipstick marks on it, when she was obviously wearing none. Then she'd streeetch and pick up the mug and head to the cafe counter, pretending to be really interested in the danishes. Sometimes she would even buy a few things just to throw off the salesperson... and then, without warning... "Could you warm this up for me?" She would proffer the purloined mug. Just adding coffee would never do, you see. She wanted it microwaved, presumably so that any germs from the previous owner would be "zapped." Of course, if you offered her fresh coffee in the same mug, she'd get flustered and flap her arms a little. There'd still be germs! Then a sly look would cross her face. "Oh, thanks. but could you warm it up in the microwave? Um...because your coffee is never hot enough. Yeah."

It could be it's never hot enough because you've never had it fresh, Coffee Lady.

So, what do you think? I could totally hook you guys up. What you'd probably want to do is sit very quietly at a table in the cafe with a half cup of cold coffee across from you as bait.

I'm just trying to help.

Lonely..... leg?
Ok, Mister. I know you're out there. Yeah, I'm talking to you--- the guy who sneakily leaves xeroxed signs taped to the garbage cans outside our store every other Tuesday or so. (No, not you, Mr/Ms. "work at home, lose weight, and make millions" sign maker. )

I'm talking to the guy who leaves the signs entitled "Seeking Pretty Amputee"

For starters, I would like to know why you leave your signs on our garbage cans in the dead of winter. If you are seeking an amputee, shouldn't you look someplace amputees are...well, LIKELY to be? Or have I simply missed the droves of good looking limbless that hang around reading trash cans in the snow rather than coming the heck inside the store for some good hot chai? That could be it. Either way, you probably should post it away from all those "lost pets" signs. it looks weird. Er... weirder.

The next thing that leaps to mind is the text of your...proposal? Personal personal ad? Query? In any case, what you make known is that you are a clean, slim, white, male office professional around the age of 50. You are a self proclaimed creative--an artist and a writer. There is no mention of how many limbs you may have. I would, however, like to suggest a thesaurus for replacing overused "personal ad" phrases like, "nice" or "disease free."

Now, the writing, I can forgive, but you claim to be an artist. You even provide said art--the top half of your sign is dominated by a clumsy rendering of what I can only assume must be a pretty amputee. Now, I can appreciate your use of the pastoral setting. Everyone looks nice lounging on a picnic blanket in a woodsy park... But is there a reason that this particular legless lady is so busty that an explosion from her lowcut top seems eminent? Or does she have to lean forward like that to balance herself? The prominent placement of her crutches seems so contrived, as if she is saying to the world, "Well, hello, World. Has any one happened to notice I only have one sexy leg?" I would recommend going for some classical Danish props next time. Perhaps your next amputee could be gazing at a skull, or holding a copy of the Gutenburg Bible. To be quite honest, the overall feel of this work was less like high art, and more like that of a coloring book.

...Which is probably why your latest posting ended up colored by crayons, and on the breakroom fridge. Like we're some proud parent, displaying your art. Don't get your hopes up.

The next thing I would like to point out is your description of the perfect Ms. Right. You seek an intelligent woman of any age who is slim to curvy... hmm... I guess being non-specific can only widen the playing field... but then you had to add that she must have one leg amputated a few inches below the hip. Right or left hip?

You're "seeking a serious relationship, possibly leading to marriage," and those are your specifics? I'm just asking. Your closing statement of I'm drug and disease free. You should be too. seems a little demanding. Or is it just me? Are you saying that if she's not, she ought to be, but by all means, write anyway? Or don't bother? Can you afford to be so picky?

Anyway, I just wanted to offer you a little feedback. I, uh... hope you find your amputee. before she finds you.

I'm All Lost in the Supermarket...
Because the lights are out. I stopped by Meijer yesterday and took little note of the handwritten "push" signs on the normally electric doors until I emerged into a dark, cavernous store with a few furtive shoppers creeping about. "Eh?" I thought. Apparently some odd "main switch" emergency had rendered the overhead lights unable to come on and various other things. Meijer was still open, but it had turned into an enormous city at night-- various districts, some that have emergency lights over them, and others that are darker and more foreboding. Unfortunately, it was a bad neighborhood I had to go into to buy the wooden dowels I was looking for. The hardware department was so heavily shadowed that I ended up walking past the dowels twice before I realized they were there. Surreal. On my way back up to the front I passed through Pets, and was just in time to dimly see two ladies converge at the same time around a corner. In the light, it would have been, " Oh, excuse me. Sorry." But there in the shadows, one lady let out a little shriek, and the other lady dropped her bag of cedar chips. Everything is more scary in the dark, even a little lady in orthopedic shoes.

It snot you. It's me.
What can I say? Over the past few days I think I've experienced more phlegm than I have in the rest of my whole life put together. Miserable. The worst thing about it all is that since it's all taking place in my sinuses, my ears are begging to be popped. I gave in to the pressure a couple days ago and the change of pressure was so great that I literally staggered and had to sit on the floor due to the extreme dizziness. I still can't really hear out of my right ear. It's like wearing a helmet full of water. Like poor Mr. Yorke in the "No Surprises" video. Sigh. Or more likely, splutter.

I'm still on the ferret bandwagon. I've built a dreamy cage that, heck-- I wouldn't mind living in. It's got three levels and a hammock and a tube and a litter box and and.... and I'm so darn lame. As much as I'll feel guilty about it, we're probably not going to get the critters from the ferret shelter after all. Most of the ones who end up in the shelter are at least 4 years old, which is considered geriatric in ferret-time. The main drawback to ferrets is that they're prone to various illnesses later in life. ie: I'd rather not bring them home from the shelter only to have them keel over from adrenal disease 2 weeks later. The guilt would be unbearable. Plus, I've never owned ferrets before. I ought to start out with younger, healthy ones. Regardless of where we get them, they will be Ferguson and Sashsa.

I was informed by a coworker the other day that while she was helping a college girl find some books for classes, the girl checked her list and declared, "Okay. The next thing I need is a threesis--you know---like a dictionary, where you look up a word to find another one like it?""

NEWSFLASH! ANGRY BUSINESSMAN THROWS TANTRUM!

I remember a few years ago when we were having problems with people spilling coffee all over books in sections, then sneaking away.... we made the obvious choice of requesting that people stay in the cafe unless they had to-go cups. One "gentleman," after telling the clerk that he wanted a mug, and yeah yeah yeah, he'd stay in the cafe and all that, wandered out onto the floor and proceeded to spill coffee on a stack of bestsellers.

Now, it drives me nuts. I'm generally a nice person. I don't want to make people feel dumb. But what if they are dumb? Not even then are we allowed to look someone up and down and say, "Do you need help, Fuckwit??" You would be amazed at some of the abuse people heap, simply because we cannot answer in kind.

In any case, a staff member thoughtfully asked the suit if he would like to freshen up his coffee and transfer it into a to-go cup so he could wander the store. Let's look at the facts, shall we?

1. Suit KNOWS the rules
2. Suit flouts the rules and makes a mess
3. Staff offers him free coffee and a new cup.
4. Suit ignores
5. Staff repeats request, reminding Suit of rule.
6. Suit berates staff

"I don't LIKE to-go cups! Are you telling me I'm CONFINED to the cafe just because of what I'm drinking out if?? You people think you can run my life?? Do you know who I AM?

7. Manager is called. Manager repeats free coffee offer and reminds Suit of rule. Gently asks Suit to please give our store the same respect that we would give were we in his home.

The Suit became livid. Several eye witnesses testified to the fact that fine wisps of steam
wafted from his ears. A large vein stood out on his forehead. He roared something unprintable, then stormed toward the door. On his way out, he snatched at a 6 foot tall revolving bookmark display and flung it petulantly to the floor. Merchandise scattered. Customers scattered.

K. called the police. They said if he ever returns to let him know he's banned, and call them. The next week, suit was back, leaving large rings of coffee on a Wallstreet Journal he hadn't purchased. K. Called the police, then informed the man that he needed to leave. Self righteous Suit protested to the cops when they arrived, insisting it was all made up just so he would look bad. Why pick on him? This is the first time he's even come to this store! So K. showed them the qued up security tape, where, in perfect focus...

Stompity stomp, yelling and roaring, flinging and leaving. Suit left very quickly and redly. We haven't seen him since. Thank heaven.

Calling all nerds...
Final Fantasy 9 players, do you ever wonder who the hell Kupo is?

Like, assassins must get, like, SO depressed sometimes.


I started into the third Robin Hobbs book today at the Secretary of State office, while waiting to renew the tags on the Boy's car (which we've been driving around illegally for the past few weeks). "Grk!" I said when I heard of it. But it's fixed now. All better. Whew.

Then the Boy mentions offhandedly that his drivers license is expired too.

*sigh*

I must say that it's very kooky to drive a Cadillac around, no matter how old. For those of you who weren't aware, the Boy received the caddy for free from the non-profit place he worked. People were constantly donating cars for the tax write-off, and after his ancient rust heap of a van nearly killed him, his boss said the next donated car was his. Ding! Caddy! Thus the weird discrepancy of us--penniless, driving a Caddy-- rich old people car. The world is a strange and unpredictable place. What makes driving it odd is that people obviously expect you to be something else. You just get different kind of looks from people when you drive a car like that.

Especially when you try to pay with all change at the drive through.

RIP, Puddleglum. No more fish. Gawd. I don't want to talk about it.


And yet, I do.

As much as I've been trying not to think about it, the petrifying thought has been circling like a shark in my unwilling mind: If Snidely has an arm, then is it possible he has a little (shudder) hand?? And if he has that, then it seems conceivable that he could have a (God forbid!) tiny gun as well??

I mean, look at the facts, people! Five.... count them-- FIVE questionable deaths in the last few weeks, and the only survivor in the place is a sinister snail who seems as though he knows more than he's letting on.

PICTURE IT.

Snidely: Stick 'em up!!
Puddleglum: Good heavens! (the color drains from him)

Two enormous, distorted yet concerned faces appear to hover outside the glass. A look of horror washes briefly over them, and they jerk quickly away. From somewhere above, a disembodied voice says, "It's definitely time to check my email."

Snidely: Har har! Bang Bang!
Puddleglum: OW! (glub glub..) If anyone needs me, I'll be floating at the bottom of the bowl, dead.

I think there's surely enough evidence to make a case. I'm also throwing out that particular fish bowl, just to be safe. Snidely now resides alone in a mason jar. I think this was his plan all along.

Brrr.

There seems to be a trend developing. Multiple people have recently been completely flummoxed by the title/author info of the same book. For example: I was putzing about... guess where? At the information desk, of course. As usual. (side note: no...I haven't been banished to "information desk purgatory." It's actually one of the only places in the store that I don't risk injuring myself after last summer's back surgery. I actually quite like it. I get to chat with lots of nice people, get condescended to by a few rude ones, and stay on top of what's current in the literary world.)

In any case: info desk. A lady inquired as to whether I might have the book entitled Lonely Legs. Grrk! All else aside, that is enough to warrant a few snickers. Lonely Legs! I successfully smothered a snicker. I refrained from querying, "Might it be found in the 'Relationships' section?" Instead I nodded sagely and began the attempt to look it up. I failed to find the title in any of the several programs we employ to locate books. Not in print, not out of print, not anything. I began to get suspicious. After all... LONELY LEGS, people. I then changed tack-- "Is it possible that there's another word in the title, or one might you have misremembered?

Pause. "No...I don't think s... Oh! Try Lovely Legs."

Oh my. I had an inkling. "Is this book, by any chance, the bestselling semi-autobiographical story of a 14 year old girl's murder and subsequent life in heaven, from where she watches her family cope with her tragic demise? Yes?"

And that would be...Alice Sebold's The LOVELY BONES. Lord only knows.

Likewise, a gentleman approached later to ask if I might help him find a book his wife had just requested on the phone: Allison Blog. Odd. I did the requisite fruitless search before I turned to him. "Is it possible there is another word in the title blah blah blah?" He thought a moment. " It could be Allison Blood, I guess. I couldn't really hear her that well on the phone."

A tiny light in a little room in a house in the neighbor hood at the far side of a city in my head went on. A tiny light in a little room where most of the bestsellers are kept.

(Aside: not that some of those books don't merit...well, merit... It's just that bestsellers are a breed of book unto themselves. The sort of thing that a bookseller must know not only by title, but by color and essence. When someone wanders confusedly over and asks for "that yellowy-greeny book" you must know to hand them the Power of Now by Eckhart Tolle. And when someone in a suit asks for 17 copies of "Who Cut My Cheese?" You must be able to, with a straight face, hand them the right amount of Who Moved My Cheese by Johnson and Blanchard. Secret Knowlege: The blue book about this big is The Lovely Bones but if it's about this big, it's The Blue Day Book. "The book with the horse" is the long awaited 5th prehistoric smut tome from Jean Auel called Shelters of Stone. And as much as you want to plead, "Look! Jose Saramago, or For God's sake! Look! Fredrick Buechner! There may not be a poorly painted horse on the cover, but I swear it's literature! You can't. End of aside.)

Allison Blood... Back to what the tiny light in the little room suggested. I cleared my throat. "Is this book, by any chance, the bestselling semi-autobiographical story of a 14 year old girl's murder and subsequent life in heaven, from where she watches her family cope with her tragic demise? Yes?"

That would be ALICE SEBOLD's The Lovely Bones. Enough already.

In an effort to increase my dorkiness quotient, I have begun playing Final Fantasy 9. Again. What can I say? I like it. I like most of the characters. The side quests don't make me gnaw my own arm off, and I have a weird obsession with chocabo upgrades.

So did I mention that to replace the pretty little fish who all died prematurely in a bowl on our bookshelf, I bought a gorgeous blue/red betta named Puddleglum? I pulled Snidely out and he skulked around in a mug of water while I scoured the bowl and removed the river rocks, which I was beginning to suspect had some toxic effect on fish. I replaced them with a bunch of shiny, tiny beadlike white things I bought specially that the fish store along with Puddleglum. I then placed both inhabitants and water in the bowl and peered hopefully in. Everything appeared normal. Until Snidlely tried to glide, svengali-like, across the floor of the bowl, and discovered that due to how small and light the shiny beads were, he only succeeded in floundering around and creating a teetering mound of beads, glued together by the byproducts of his angry struggles. Instead of him having something to hold onto, they were holding onto him. Now I'm no snail psychologist, but I'm pretty sure he was VERY angry. I gently propelled him to the glass wall with a chopstick which I then dried carefully and replaced in the silverware drawer. (NO! I threw it out! What are you thinking??)

He's stuck (literally) to the walls since then. There was a horrifying moment this afternoon when I glanced into the tank to see that Puddleglum had lost most of his color. I don't want to talk about it. When the Boy had comforted me through the wailing about never touching anything live again and getting myself sterilized in case I did this to my future children ("But they don't live in bowls," he reassured me) we ventured to look into the bowl to find that Snidely had extended... a ...something. Now, I've watched Snidely. (in terror, sometimes) He's got a head, with two eyes and those little whiskery things, and then two long feelers. This was...not...them. It was an armlike thing, like what comes out of a clam or something. It waved around. We both jerked back a couple of steps. Then the Boy blinked and said, "It's definitely time to check my email." We have not spoken of it since. Nor will we ever.

Another day, another bloody maze...
Hrumph. I must needs be off to a store meeting soon, where I doubtless will be shown valuable information about how much we get ripped off and how people accomplish it.

It's beyond me why people bother to steal music now-a-days when the internet exists.

I've been researching ferrets for the past few days. They're quite interesting little beasties. The Boy is allergic to cats, so I wouldn't presume to look into getting one. People who are allergic to cats say that they're not affected the same way by ferrets. There is the smell issue, but that can be taken care of with certain dietary supplements in the water or food. They can also be housebroken. We drove down to a pet store on 12 mile to look at some, and ended up playing with them for a little while before going to an incredibly kitchy dive for a dinner of perogis. (sp?) I'm feindishly plotting to perhaps get a pair of ferrets in the future from a ferret shelter in Oak Park. Oooo, plans!

What can I say? I have a big fat crush on Garth Nix. I'm highly tempted to ask him if anyone has approached him about creating an RPG based in the world of Sabriel, but I'm tooo shyyyy! I think I must give Shade's Children another try. The first time I started into it I wasn't terribly impressed, but that was a bad time for reading in general for me. I think that everyone ought to experience the choose your own but get someone else's adventure he has on his homepage. En garde!

The other day an employee reported to several of us that he'd had a frustrated customer try to return a book. "This is riduculous!" the man complained, "would you look at this? The print is all upside down in this book!" On and on... this hasn't been the first time he's has to return a book like this, and why can't the publishers get some quality control? etc. etc...., when my colleague gently pulled the book from his hands, removed the dust jacket, and replaced the dust jacket right side up.

Oh. Finally the MegaTokyo book is within my reach! It is on hold for me at work. Now if only I could afford it. That and the Koyaanisqatsi dvd that's finally come out. Both very beautiful. Both must be mine.

Of Mice and Men
The best laid plans oft go awry. What is it about shock and horror that causes the hand-flying-to-cover-the-mouth reaction? For some of us anyway. I remember walking around most of 9-11 like that. It happened this morning with the announcement that the Columbia was missing and suspected to be broken up, all crew members lost. I drove to work like that, the hand over the mouth. Am I trying to hold something in? Keep something out?

Thank God it wasn't an act of terrorism. I don't doubt that if it were, we'd be marching into Iraq tomorrow.

Instead of shelving and thinking, I dicked around and read bits of some of the disinformation books. Such incredibly weird stuff. It must be such a burden to really truly believe that the world is flat and that reptoids have infiltrated the highest levels of government. And to know that terrible things are about to happen, but nobody believes you. I can't imagine living with the weight of that.

Happy Birthday, Best Beloved.

Misty Water-Colored Memories...
When I first joined the world of booksellers, there was a time that I was puttering around behind the information desk, probably browsing books on a swell new (at the time) program that had just been installed for book searching...

(completely overhead: I recall that at the time it was a source of much snickering and juvenile amusement that this program, if stumped, would frantically supply you with a list of the bestselling books that were not even vaguely like what you had asked for. Or might be weirdly connected. Some memorable combos contrived by various creative staff members were as such: "turning your pets into handy household appliances" brought up I Talk to the Animals by pet psychic Barbara Morrison. "Famous nosepickers" brought up Lincoln's Virtues: An Ethical Biography , and last but not least, the program responded to "old dead guy" by promptly and confidently displaying Tuesdays With Morrie. Moving on...

Still puttering behind the info desk... When I noticed a timid, bird-like lady running her finger over the bestseller list, while glancing furtively in my direction. I smiled, and she suddenly became very interested in the latest Michigan Chiller title. I shrugged and returned to my oh-so productive whatever it was I was doing. Several more times I caught her peering at me with a mixed look of consternation and confusion... I began to worry that I might have a suddenly developed a disfiguring growth on my forehead or something of the like. Eventually she worked her way closer and closer to the desk, until finally I leaned over and asked, "Is there anything you need help finding?" She blushed and spluttered a little. "Well....umm, I'm so sorry, I'm sure you must be very busy and I didn't want to bother you and so I was just wondering if it's not too much trouble and tell me if it is too much trouble, because that's fine. I was... I need... I was hoping you might have a book....on... assertiveness.

Bless your little timid heart. Cutest Customer of the Day prize. Ding!

I finished the (ahem) Clive Barker book, Abarat yesterday, and I enjoyed it, though I think that were it not for the illustrations, it may not have captured me quite the same way. Yes, I think that's a fact. The names did get a little ridiculous and laid on thick later in the book, but that didn't take away from it very much. For some reason, I have a tendency to stop actually reading long complex names in text, and simply recognize the shape of the word. It makes reading a lot quicker, but it's annoying if you have two or more people with similar names. It's not a conscious choice I made... I wonder if it's because I was taught to read with phonics or something. I also tend to be a very visual learner, and that may have something to do with it.

I always sort of breezed over Robin Hobb in the scifi / fantasy section as another floofy Tolkien wannabe. (not that there's anything wrong with Tolkien, or Tolkein wannabes. Some of them are quite good at it. Others read like the true life story of a traveling renaissance festival leather mug maker born in the wrong century.) I find that Hobb is nothing of the sort. I recently read Assassin's Apprentice, (the first of her Farseer series) and found that it's an engaging story with much depth and intelligence. I'm currently in the midst of the second book. Highly recommended.

This Bowl Ain't Big Enough For the Four of Us...
After three weeks, it can be considered a tradition, right? Or if not a tradition, a habit? On Sundays we meet Shaun and Andi at Taco Bell, and from there we trundle from place to place, talking and not really buying anything. So this sunday I cut right to the chase and instead of the usual, "Hey...uh...did you want to get together?" I just asked, "When are we meeting at Taco Bell?" Lame, I know. Like a high school clique hangout. But I happen to enjoy the fact that after the meef chubacca supremes, we randomly pick a place that will lend itself to good conversation, ie: the huge greenhouse I forget the name of, or the minuscule flea market run by disabled vets, or the big pet store...or the Dollar store. Then we go and pass a leisurely afternoon in talk about everything from video games to books to why we think our pet snail might be a murderer. *sigh*

A couple weeks ago I was this close to buying what the flea market "knife and sword" guy assured me was a genuine authentic replica of the real thing. I thumbed the edge of the shoddy replica of Sting like I knew what I was doing. I whipped it around Andrea's unperturbed face. You've seen this blade before, haven't you....Smeagol? "That's 'Lord of the Rings,'" Knife Guy informed me. "Frudo carries it in the movie." Ah. Frudo, indeed.

I know that the question remains-- hanging there like one of old, teeteringly threatening chandeliers at the Majestic. Is your pet snail REALLY a murderer, or isn't he??? Truth be told, maybe. Fact: We bought a beautiful little fish and a slightly sinister snail. We put them in a bowl together. We named them Pearl and Snidley, respectively. All was peace and love. So much so, that I decided there must be more fish. So I bought two more tiny swimming pieces of art with big fan tails and crayola colors. These we semi-named Friendy and #2. Not even a day had gone by when when came home to find #2 very dead on the bottom of the bowl. Not only dead, but being gnawed on by the inexorable Snidley. Ewwww. Absolutely remorseless. We had to pry him off with an old pencil to free the ravaged body of #2. He flounced away (slowly) into his shell. Within a day, we noticed that Friendy's tail was looking distinctly ragged. I fluttered and fussed and changed the water etc etc to no avail. The more I looked, the more it looked like the original Betsy Ross version of the US flag. No need to describe the scene that greeted us when we came home the next day. I turned to find Ed peering at the bowl with a look of horror, yelping, "NO, Snidley!!" Friendy had become little more than another partially snacked on body. At this point, some suspicion had been cast on Pearl-- were the other fish not compatible with her/him? Was (s)he really a fighting ninja stalker killing fish mistakenly stocked with the guppies? Unfortunately, the only thing that fully cleared Pearl's name was the fact that after weeks of happy, seemingly healthy bowl life, (s)he too was found in the clutches of Snidley's evil, suckery mouth. What the hell kind of snail do we have?? We live with the fear that we may be next. We dutifully feed Snidley, not wanting him to become...hungry.

From whence the title came.
Fact: people ought to be more contrite when they demand things at the bookstore. Most of the times that I nearly bite my tongue off to keep from laughing (or spitting like a lama into someone's eye) are the result of the overconfidence of blithering idiots. Not to say that there aren't wonderfully intelligent and kind people who make working at the store a pleasure. There are, and they DO. But idiots make working there a whole other kind of pleasure. Does that make me mean-spirited and naughty? Perhaps.

But take, for example, the well coiffed and manicured Rochester teen who glides haughtily up to the desk snapping her gum. "Hello," I begin. "What can I help you find?" There is a silence, and the snapping of gum as the gears in her mind begin oh-so-slowly to turn. She glances down her Roman nose at me. Then, clearing the gum to the side of her mouth, she states, "When I drop dead."

Eh? What then? I realize it's a title. I'm none the wiser. "Do you know who the author is? " I inquire. She pauses again, seems annoyed that she's even here, and then shrugs apathetically. "I don't know... Fooker? Flocker? Some guy on our book list."

SQUWAK! It hits me like a stack of books falling from the top shelf in the art section. You know-- those BIG coffee table tomes that weigh more than most of the doe-eyed innocents running about the children's section. "You...y...Do you mean...William Falkner's... As I Lay Dying???

She doesn't blink. Snap, snap. "Yeah."

This sort of thing happens every day. Every Day. There are many people who have the good grace to admit that they really can't remember the title, or that they could be wrong. However there are other people who insist that the world has conspired against them because we can't find the book that they have just invented. Ladies and gentlemen, I ask you, is Fate tittering into its hands as we blindly flail at the keyboard, left to the mercy of a woman who swears her book club is reading something enigmatically entitled Lonely Legs? And when the book, in actuality, is called The Lovely Bones, are we congratulated, even thanked?? Well...ok. Sometimes we are. Thank god. Life is worth living after all.