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September 09, 2002
Mind that Freudian slip, it's a doozy.
This afternoon, just before my workday ended, two young guys came to my desk, asking to borrow some software we have on Reserve for their class. There are six CDs in each set of software, and I've been reminding students to make sure they return all six, because we had problems with that last semester. Anyway. I check the CDs out to the first kid, smile brightly at him, and say "Okay, those are due back tomorrow... and make sure you return all six dicks! Er, discs!" I don't think he quite heard me, because he gave me a quizzical look as he walked away, as though wondering why I was turning shades of purple while the student in line behind him nearly died laughing.
It's been so busy at work, my brain is fried. The semester started last week, so we have hoards of new students wandering around like little lost baby ducks. My coworkers and I have resigned ourselves to never finishing a conversation, because we get interrupted so many times. We spend all day scrambling around like mad, fetching books, answering questions, fending off problems... we figure we should have some sort of buffer week between the end of the summer and the start of the semester. Either that, or we should be allowed to drink at work.
We're happy to see some of the students though -- one in particular is all sorts of cute and nice. (He brought us Dunkin' Donuts once, and homemade candy from his hometown just a couple of months ago. Feed the librarians, and they will be yours forever.) He's a grad student, a little older than me, and just a really sweet guy. And he seems to have decided that I'm his personal style consultant, for some reason. He came in a few months ago with a new pair of glasses, and said he needed my opinion on them. He modeled them for me, I assured him that they looked very nice indeed, and he happily went on his way while I pondered whether that counted as a reference question or not. Last week, he came in and made small talk with my coworkers while I helped a lost baby duck student. When I was done, he came over and said he needed my opinion again -- he has dark hair, and it had started greying a bit at the temples. Not a lot, but just enough to be noticeable. He asked, very sincerely, if I thought he should dye it or leave it alone. I told him it looked fine to me, and that I really hadn't noticed it until he pointed it out, but if it bothered him, go ahead and go for the dye. He leaned close and said he was worried it would make him look too old, or... well, less virile. I assured him it didn't have that effect at all, and he was happy... until my coworker said "It makes you look distinguished!" His face fell, and he said "I was hoping you wouldn't say that. I was hoping more for dashing and sexy." We heaped promises on him that he looked wonderful, and he went away happy. I have no idea why he feels the need to consult me about these things -- I mean, I was at work in baggy jeans, a wrinkled black t-shirt, my scruffy Chuck Taylors, and with my hair standing straight up on end because a bug had flown into it on my way to work that morning. Not the picture of style, you see. But we own the same sweater, so I guess he figures I have good taste. Or something. Oh, and he came in today minus the grey hair. I guess we shouldn't have said he looked distinguished, poor guy.
In other news... the cats are still fighting, but they seem to be coming to some sort of an understanding. J. emailed me today to say one of them had peed on the living room floor, but I'm wondering if it was really pee, and not coffee from this morning, when I tried to grab Smoke by the scruff of the neck to keep her from pouncing on poor Cleo, and spilled very hot coffee on my foot. I thought I'd wiped it all up, and I hadn't noticed any pee, but then again, I was mostly asleep. Plus, I'm sure J. can tell the difference between cat pee and spilled coffee, so I don't know. he did put out a second litterbox, so if it was pee, maybe it won't happen again.
I got up early Saturday to go downtown -- Elvis Costello is playing a show at the Orpheum in October, and I wanted to go buy tickets at the box office (I wanted to see a detailed seating chart before I bought tickets, and my credit card is pitifully overtaxed right now, so no Ticketmaster for me.) I overslept a little, but got there not long before the box office opened. There was no line, so I assumed I wouldn't have any trouble getting decent seats. Ha. The best they had was in the balcony, toward the back. Damn. I bought them anyway -- they'll be okay, I'm sure. I sat in the very back row of the second balcony once, and could see the stage just fine, but still. I was hoping for better -- front of the balcony, at least. Lee and I will be going to the show, and we may try to find the backstage door afterward, since Elvis is pretty well-known for coming out after his shows and talking to fans. That would be very cool. After the somewhat disappointing ticket purchase, I went to meet up with an old friend, D. I hadn't seen her since... oh, October, I think, so we were long overdue for a chat. We walked around a bit, sat on a bench in the Commons and ate ice cream, and talked. It was good, but... well, she was fairly stoned. I have no problem with that, but stoned people aren't as much fun when you're sober. I don't smoke pot much, because it makes me sleepy at best, and extremely nervous and paranoid at worst. It was a good afternoon, but she's just not as fun to talk to when she's stoned. I don't know... I've been in an odd bad mood lately, so it's just as likely she was fine, and I was feeling sensitive. I freaked out my roommate last night by turning on CNN, taking one look at the September 11 program they were showing, and bursting into tears while scrambling to shut the TV off. It's bothering me more now than it did when it happened. I'm having nightmares, and I find I can't stand to see even still pictures from that day without feeling sick, and starting to cry. Overload, I think. I don't need to be told to remember September 11. I remember it every day. I can't look at pictures of the towers burning any more, and I can't stand to see the footage of them falling, over and over. I know what it looked like. I wasn't even there, and I know every detail of what that looked like. I'm vaguely sickened because Congress has voted to declare September 11 "Patriot Day." One, it's a dumb name. Also, there is already a holiday called Patriot's Day, though I guess that's just a New England thing. Also, I hate the fact that it seems to be less about remembrance than about drumming up support for attacking Iraq. I hate that the name makes me feel like I'm not patriotic, because I don't support attacking Iraq. I don't support a lot of what my government is doing right now -- it doesn't mean I don't love my country. As far as I'm concerned, patriotism isn't about blindly cheering on every decision the president makes, good or bad. Patriotism means having, and exercising, the right to question and criticize those decisions. Plus, the whole Patriot Day thing seems too much like celebration to me. It shouldn't be a holiday. It shouldn't be an occasion for flag-waving and parades and such -- it should be a day to remember that far too many innocent people died, for no real reason, and this country's been pretty well fucked up ever since. Whew. Okay, there. I feel better. Rant over.
Posted by Mary Ellen at September 9, 2002 10:38 AM