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November 17, 2000
Can I go home yet?
I really should have just stayed in bed today. I called in sick to work yesterday, partly because I woke up with my blinding end-of-period headache, and partly because I just needed a day off -- back in high school, my mom introduced me to the concept of "mental health days" -- days you take off not because you're sick, but because you just need to be away from work, or school, or whatever for a little while. It's like a little treat, a bonus Saturday in the middle of the week, only with cheesier daytime TV. So when the alarm went off yesterday, I knew I was in dire need of a mental health day. Called in sick, and, for once, went back to bed without a shred of guilt. Usually, even if I'm coughing up chunks of lung and so feverish I'm hallucinating little men hiding under my bed (yes, that has happened. Long story) I still feel terribly guilty for calling in sick. Even when I know that, if I go to work, I'll just spread plague to all my coworkers, so I'm doing them a favor by staying home, I still end up wracked with guilt over it. So I rarely call in sick, and I go home early only if my boss insists that I take my germs and leave. But yesterday, I called in, and took my aching head back to my pillows and blankets with a contented sigh.
Slept in a bit, and finally got up at around 10:30. Loafed around in my pajamas for a bit, checking email and chatting with my roommate, then took a shower. My room was in dire need of a cleaning -- I'm a slob, really. I disgust myself. My clothes end up in a pile on the floor because I can't be bothered to put them away (ironically, the dirty clothes are dealt with the most neatly. All dirty clothes are in the hamper. The huge-ass pile of clothes crumpled all over the floor? Those are the clean ones. I'm such a pig.) The top of my dresser was buried under piles of junk mail, books, CDs, empty glasses and coffee cups, little bits of paper with important things to do written on them -- I forgot to do most of the important things because I couldn't find the little bits of paper with the reminders written on them -- and all sorts of other assorted crap. The cat had tracked food and litter all over the floor. It was just gross. So I set out to clean it. I only meant to tidy up a little, but once I got started, I couldn't stop -- I had to make room in one of my teeny tiny closets (I have two in my room, and both are equally tiny and useless) to put some of my junk away, and that resulted in my dragging everything out of the closet, throwing away piles of shoes I haven't worn in ages (why I hold onto shoes that I never wear, because they give me screaming bloody blisters or are impossible to walk in, I'll never know) and old clothes and such -- I gave a few sheatshirts and an old bookbag to my roommate, for her to do with what she wishes. I managed to fit my wedding dress into the closet -- I'm dying to sell it, just to be rid of it. Someone suggested I burn it, but I'd at least like to make a little money off it, you know? I could stage a ritual burning and charge admission, I suppose...) Other assorted stuff I don't use much, but wanted to hang onto, fit much more neatly in the closet once I threw away the unwearable shoes, the random empty cardboard boxes, and condensed the stuff I was keeping into a smaller pile. That done, I made the bed, put all the clothes away, cleaned up the cat mess, swept the floor, dug out my dresser, put all the scattered books and CDs away, dusted, and finally collapsed into a little headachey heap onto the freshly-tidied bed. I made up for the burst of productivity by spending the rest of the afternoon in bed, watching the miniseries version of "The Shining" that Patrick lent me -- I never liked the film version (I know, I'm a heathen) so I was curious to see the remake. I usually hate miniseries on general principle, and the ones based on Stephen King novels are usually terrible -- the novel It still scares the bejeezus out of me, but the miniseries was so bad it was funny. I remember watching it with a friend in high school, both of us giggling like mad through all the "scary" bits -- we hated it, but it was so bad, we couldn't stop watching. It was like a car crash. (Funny aftereffect: that friend spent the night at my house that night, because it was snowing like crazy out, and the roads were too bad for me to drive her home. During the night, she woke me up by yelling in her sleep, "I don't want a balloon! Make the bad clown leave me alone!!" Hee!) I was happily surprised by this miniseries -- I mean, it was cheesy and all, but still scary. Lee and I watched the second half of the Kubrick film last weekend, and were thoroughly annoyed at it. It's boring as hell, for one. It's a whole lot of nothing happening... dull, dull, dull, dull, moderately scary bit, dull, dull, end. I hated the ending, too. And the character of the wife, my God, she's annoying. I don't know, maybe it's just me, but... if my husband was chasing me around the house with a ax, I think I'd be doing a bit more than just locking myself in the bathroom, cowering in a corner, and squealing breathlessly while fluttering my hands around. At least the wife in the miniseries fought back a little.
So. Yesterday was a pretty pleasant day, other than the headache. Today, ugh. I woke up with the headache still going strong, but I really did feel guilty at the thought of calling in sick again. Dragged myself out of bed, slept most of the way to Boston on the bus, got a Coke and settled in to work. I was just getting over my ennui at being here at all when I had a delightful run-in with the Rudest Person Ever. This guy comes up to me, and asks if he can get some articles he needs. He hands me a couple of sheets of paper with periodical citations written on them. I recognized the titles of the magazines he wanted, and knew we had them, so I told him where to find them. He interrupted to go on a rant about how, last time he was here, he looked for some journals and they weren't on the shelves, and there was nothing to indicate where he could find them, and he didn't want to deal with that shit, and blah blah blah. Just kept going, and going, and going, while I sat there thinking "If you'd stop for a breath, I could help you out here... nope, you just want to rant. Fine." I finally sort of raised my hand, trying to get him to stop talking (this was after about five minutes. Enough is enough, already) and told him that I knew we had these particular magazines, because I'd seen them. One of them might have its recent issues on Reserve, but the other should be out in the stacks. I also tried to tell him that, if he doesn't know whether we have something or not, his best bet would be to look it up in the catalog, but he cut me off by shoving one of the pieces of paper at me and telling me "YOU look it up." Um, okay... so I did, and noticed that one of the volumes he needed was on Reserve. I got it for him, and asked for his ID to check it out to him -- which, according to him, was just me trying to annoy him. Not, y'know, my job or anything. He rolls his eyes and tells me that he didn't bring any ID with him, and he's not walking all the way back to the building he works in to get it. I ask if he has an MIT ID, he rolls his eyes again, and says he doesn't, but he just wants to make a copy. Tells me to stop being a pain, and just let him take the journal. Called me stupid at some point, too, which always makes me inclined to just bend over backwards to help... I say okay, but since he's not affiliated with MIT, in the future he can't have stuff from Reserve. He says, voice dripping with contempt, "Hell-OOO! I'm a TEMP. Have you ever heard of a temp, or are you too stupid?" Um, hi. Okay, now I'm pissed off. I refrained from whacking him upside the head with the book, and instead said, very quietly, "Sir, there's no need to be rude. You can take the journal to make a copy this time. Next time, bring an ID, and let whoever helps you know that you're a temp, so you will be allowed to take Reserve things." He tells me again how stupid I am, and tells me that he thinks I'm rude, because I didn't just go get the journals for him, and I didn't know he was a temp. Not psychic, people. Librarian does not equal psychic. It would be handy if it did, I'll grant you that. I let him finish calling me stupid, and then smile and say, again, "You can take this to make copies. Next time, please bring an ID and let us know you're a temp," while thinking "Hey, bite me, Snotty McRudester!" He stomps off, just as my boss comes to the desk. She hadn't overheard him, but out of concern that he might come back and rant some more, I let her know what had happened. Funny, though -- every time he came to the desk after that, he was all sweetness and light.
So now I'm even crankier about being at work, and I really just want to go home, take a few Advil, and go back to bed...
Posted by Mary Ellen at November 17, 2000 01:47 PM