A Toast to the Toasts!

A couple of weeks ago, I had my first in-person blog friend meeting. Mr. Toast of Wind in the Wire was passing through town with his lovely bride, and we agreed to meet. I was worried that I would say or do something weird that would send them fleeing away in the Toastmobile, but they were so wonderful and gracious, they didn't even stare. And even though Mrs Toast is clearly a Big Library Cheese, she at no time made me feel like the Lowly Cheese that I comparatively am. Mr. Toast is as charming and funny in person as he is in the blogosphere.

The Toasts have their own amazing story to tell, and I wouldn't dream of stealing it. I hope that when he's ready, Mr Toast will bring you up to speed. But suffice it to say, the Traveling Toasts inspire me, enlighten me, and also make me giggle. I also hope that if I do ever find somebody to walk through this life with again, I will have forged the kind of bond so evident between these two. Party on, Toasts! Thanks for lunch, and thanks for a glimpse of "the good life. "

Bad Sphincter

Have any of you ever seen the movie Bad Santa with Billy Bob Thornton? If you have, you may recall the line where he says, “I beat up some kids today. But it was for a purpose. It made me feel good about myself..." We, the viewers know those damn bully kids had it coming. But the man hearing it has no idea, and suggests therapy. (It's at the end of the trailer on the link posted above. Naturally, you have to wait through some stupid ad first.) So, keep that in mind when I tell you this.

I bitched out a man in the hospital family OR waiting room whose wife was having a kidney removed. I feel great about it. Needless to say, nobody is waiting in the OR waiting area for fun. We are all waiting there so that doctors and nurses will know exactly where to find us to update us about our loved ones. I think it's nice that the hospital provides a fairly comfortable little waiting area. In fact, this one dude felt so comfy there, he had commandeered it as his home office. He had his two laptops and various files spread out on the table before him, parked directly under the phone where communications come in from hospital staff summoning you to recovery rooms, etc. He also had a Bluetooth in his ear on which he talked loudly and incessantly to clients, his son, and his office staff about "billable hours" "open this file, NO! THAT one!" and deadlines and recreational plans for later that day. These were not pressing matters. I know because it was impossible not to hear this every word this frickin' blowhard said and still be in range of the phone. This went on for an hour.

Finally, I had had it. I marched up to this guy and told him I thought what he was doing was incredibly rude and disrespectful to the other people waiting. Now, it's not like I expected him to say "Gee, you're right. I'm a douche bag" or anything, but when he informed me that my problem was that I was the type that only liked to hear myself talk, I thought I was in The Twilight Zone. In my head I had had some choice words for this guy, but I had been silent throughout his performance until now.

Then he informed me about his wife's kidney operation and that this was how HE chose to deal with the stress, and that I wasn’t the only person having a difficult time. It wasn’t, for my information, all about me. I told him maybe he should take the day off or take it someplace else. He sarcastically thanked me for putting MY stress on HIM and gathered his many items of self importance and moved his operations down the hall glaring at me all the way. Blessedly, I didn't have much longer to wait, and the news I got was positive. I passed by this dude on my way to the recovery area and he was making some kind of sarcastic remark to me that I blew off. For the time being, all was well, and Blowhard Guy was a mere speck on my radar screen. I, Sphincter of New Hampshire, bitched out a man whose wife was actively having a kidney removed. And I feel great about it.

Too Much Information @ My Library

Today I signed for some UPS packages at work. I was delighted that it was my favorite UPS guy, and not Jerky Guy. (Jerky Guy gripes about having to bring huge boxes of books up the elevator to the second floor instead of leaving them all at the main desk. Sorry, J.G., but you are a delivery guy, this is a library, and you are delivering to a building full of small women. You've got a dolly--Move it!) So, I signed my name as illegibly as always, exchanged pleasantries with Good Guy and off he went.

Immediately afterward, I realized I felt weird and looked down. My shirt was wide open. My own private wardrobe malfunction! My business was visible. Yes, I was wearing a bra. Yes, thank Jeebus it was clean. But there it was. And Good Guy had not said one damn word or let on in any way. Though I'm not sure what exactly he could have said, in his defense. I guess we're not well acquainted enough for "Holy hooters!" or even the more mellow "Rack's showin'. " Our next encounter is bound to be an awkward one.

La Femme Sphincter

Lately, I've been prowling the night. No, I haven't been out augmenting my income, wiseguys. I've been stealthy. Lurking. I've been employing all those surveillance tactics so suavely demonstrated on La Femme Nikita (which, as I've mentioned before, kicks ass on Alias) I've been watching unsuspecting people go about their business as if it were just any evening. Outside lights switching off, interior lights moving about the home. So quiet, so peaceful--so full of Sphincter. Fools! Little do they know what awaits them on their lawns in the morning! The flamingos have come for them at last...

The Sphincter of God

Sometimes, fate is forced to correct me in a manner in which it KNOWS I will understand. I attended a library event yesterday morning. Many baked goods remained afterwards, and they were pressed upon me. I hesitated, thinking that I really shouldn't take them. I certainly didn't need them. And the person I was going to visit didn't need them (being a cardiac patient.) But, I wrapped a plate--oh, the arm twisting it took to take those sweets!--and was headed through the parking lot, carrying the plate waiter style. I was nearly to the car when a plop of bird poop landed squarely atop the heap of goodies. I stop short, and looked about. No sign of the culprit anywhere. It was as though some mysterious and divine bowel had released its disapproval on me. I disposed of the soiled treats promptly and continued on my journey, confident that great forces were at work in the world.

Gimme a (Prison) Break

Working as a public servant, people tend to share all sorts of odd personal information with you. I'm not sure why, but maybe they figure their taxes pay your salary, so they own part of your ear. But one of the strangest things people tell me about at the library is that they've done prison time. Not one or two isolated cases, either. It seems like every mofo who has ever done time wants to somehow slip this into conversation. And they do it like it's the most normal thing in the world. It's almost like, "I hate it when I have to go to prison, don't you?" Just like you were commiserating about a patch of lousy weather or something.

I'm unsure about the proper response to these revelations. Clearly, the only person feeling at all awkward about it is me. I want to say "I don't GO to prison dude! But if i DID ever go, I'd bet I'd keep it under my hat and not tell some librarian about it!" Or "Perhaps you can see that I admire a person who has been in the slammer." What is the deal with this? If people have done their time they are entitled to get on with their lives. But, for the love of Dog, why are they telling me this stuff?

Hi. You look familiar.

Long time, huh? I'll explain later. Actually, I won't. But I do have some stories for you. But right now I have almost no light to see the keyboard. So, I'll try to come back and tell you one tomorrow when it's light out again.

Oh, and I hope you didn't think I spent all that time reading Mein Kampf. I didn't. Just to be clear about that part.