So, I just had one of those experiences that you have to have once every ten years or so. I was in the coffee shop Ennui hanging with my friend Marco and eating a tuna salad sandwich on a croissant (mmmmm, yummmm) when a woman sitting at the table next to us turned to me and said, "Excuse me, this is sort of a strange question, but did you go to the University of Arkansas?" To which I replied, "Yes! And so did you! And you majored in archaeology, and then added on classical studies in your senior year! But I don't know your name!" And that, of course, is the story of my life: "Hi, I don't know your name, but here's an interesting fact or two about you!" I managed to restrain myself from adding, "And you were one of the few people who always called Professor Fredrick by his first name -- 'Dave' -- and it just always impressed and intimidated the hell out of me because I couldn't dream of addressing a god such as Dave Fredrick by his name! I may have considered 'Your Holiness' a time or two, but never 'Dave.'"

Anyway, she identified herself as Kelly, which is, of course, no good for purposes of googling the hell out of her to find out what she's been doing, where she has her online journal, and if she has any jail time, so when I got home I turned to the University of Arkansas' Eta Sigma Phi ( she majored in classics, so she would have been in Eta Sigma Phi, the classical studies honorary society) page which listed all the past members of Eta Sigma Phi that anyone could remember, found a member named Kelly from the right time period, snagged her last name, googled the shit out of that, and found her married name, where she works, and her Flickr photo stream.

So, um, that's what everyone else would have done in the same situation, right? That isn't creepy at all, right?

Well. The MacArthur Fellows, recipients of the MacArthur Foundation's $500,000 Genius Grants, were announced today, and it seems that once again, I have been overlooked. Adding insult to injury, I suspect I wasn't even nominated.

Look, MacArthur Foundation, I think there's no question that my track record meets your exacting requirements of "talented individuals who have shown extraordinary originality and dedication in their creative pursuits and a marked capacity for self-direction."

Talented? Whose composition and performance of the Kazoo Concerto in D Minor has left the crowned heads of Europe in awe, the sultans of Brunei in amazement, and my sisters in tears?

Originality? Who, I ask, was the inventor and patron of the Super-Duper Salami Sandwich, a dazzling array of hard salami, Miracle Whip, and white bread most famous for boldly eschewing the constraints of the traditional definition of "sandwich" by using salami as the outermost layer, rather than bread -- and this, at the tender age of 7?

Dedication? Who has dedicated years of her life to demanding that Cherry Coke receive the respect it is due, promoting its superiority and divinity, persevering in the face of opposition and that rotten Vanilla Coke, but remaining defiant and unbowed?

The answer of which you are clearly ignorant, O MacArthur Foundation, is me. If these things do not connote genius, then I do not know what does.

A silver lining to my storm clouds: at least no one I know was a recipient. If one of my sisters had received the fellowship before me, it would have just killed me.

And another thing. Why the heck can't I renew books online if I have one overdue? Making it harder for me will not make me a better patron. I'd suspect them of some money-making racket, adding all these hoops, except that they aren't going to be getting rich quickly off of my ten cents a day. Instead I just have to believe them stupid and mean.

ZOMG!

Oh. My. Gahhhhhhhhhd.

L.M. Montgomery committed suicide!

What the fuck!

Next you'll be telling me Madeleine L'Engle's husband cheated on her throughout their marriage!

#7: The Worst Librarian in Chicago

Okay, right off the bat this is obviously a grossly biased post. I freely confess that I have visited only 3 of the 79 branches of the Chicago Public Library so I can hardly have met the entire library staff. I have not held any vote or poll, nor in any other way solicited opinion regarding the Worst Librarian in Chicago. Nonetheless, I expect you to take my word for it that this one librarian -- let's call her Bertha -- is the Worst Librarian in Chicago.

I have something of an uneasy history with librarians -- from Oliver Toliver at the Scottsdale Public Library who for some reason scared me shitless, to Sister Lambert at Xavier College Prep who would insist that I not sit on a table back in the stacks to read a book, to one nasty man whose name I've forgotten at the University of Arkansas who gave me extreme shit over losing a book when I came to pay for it. "Probably out of print now!" he harrumphed. Hah -- it's not. So there.

On the other hand, there have been librarians I have worshiped -- EthBay UhlJay, for one. She rocked my socks off AND made me want to have white hair.

You probably also know that I am not especially keen on the Chicago Public Library. I was immediately suspicious of it when we first met and I saw the bizarre hybridization of the Dewey Decimal and the Library of Congress systems of classification. 'Tain't right to mix them two. Just 'tain't right.

My loathing of CPL was solidified when I encountered their atrocious idea of "alphabetization." They alphabetize fiction by author's last name, then by title of book. Ridiculous! Okay, it's not so bad if you're looking for Gaiman, but what about David? Roberts? Jones? I do read stuff by all of those, and it sucks ass having to plow through shelves and shelves of stuff from other authors, hoping I don't accidentally skip past something by the author I like. Adding insult to injury was their response when I asked why they do it WRONG: "It would be really expensive to label the spines of all the books with first names, so we can't change it now." Well, I guess that's valid. If only the author's first name was listed somewhere on the book! Curse you, uncaring publishers.

Anyway, back to Bertha. Bertha is the librarian regularly working the counter at the Rogers Park branch when I go there on Saturdays, and she's just awful. Like, this one time I went there to check out Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, and she looked on the back cover for the bar code, and it wasn't at the top of the cover where it should be, so she started the lengthy process of adding a new UPC and registering it in the system, and I asked her if they don't use the bar code on the back of the book anymore, and she told me there was none, so I pointed at it 4 FUCKING INCHES below where she had looked for it, and she bitched to me about how it wasn't where it was supposed to be and THEN she took a goddamned SHARPIE MARKER and drew an arrow on the back of the book from where the UPC should be to where it really was so that if any other FUCKTARDS had to check out the book, they could find it.

A librarian. Drew. On a book. What universe is she from?

Then there was the week when I went to pick up two books I had on hold there. I had received an email telling me they were there, and my online CPS account confirmed they were there, but when I asked Bertha for them, she said only one was there. And I was like, no, dude, your system told me two. And she was like, well, I can only find one. And I was like, maybe you could take another look, because I really want the other book CPS SAYS IS WAITING HERE FOR ME. And then she looked again and oh! there it was. And her excuse? "Well, these shelves are really disorganized."

Dude! It is one thing for me, a private citizen, to have disorganized shelves (note: I don't), but it is an entirely different matter for you, a LIBRARIAN, to trot out that excuse! The heart of your job is organization of data! "The shelves are disorganized" isn't an excuse; it's a damning confession! AND there were only 4 shelves and a book cart to look through! How freakin' hard is it to skim through 4 shelves and a book cart! And if it's poorly organized, IT'S YOUR GODDAMN JOB TO ORGANIZE THE MOTHERFUCKERS!

Jesus Christ.

Throughout these encounters I have, of course, maintained my normal pleasant facade, because I rock the hell out of the pleasant facade, but I did have to get rough with her once. One day, I returned five books to her little library the day they were due (I'm not saying I gave them to her directly, I just put then in the book drop). Four were checked in immediately. One, mysteriously, was not checked in for another three days. Using my pleasant facade, my steely gaze, and a lie regarding being out of town that would have prevented me from returning the book when their system said I had, I intimidated Bertha into removing the fine. She didn't want to, but I was ready to fight her over the 30 cents all evening if I had to, and I think that showed on my face (see: steely gaze).

So that's the backdrop before which today's show was staged. I went to the library to return a book due today and another one two days overdue. And Bertha was there.

"Hi! I need to return these books, and I need to pay a fine on this one since it's overdue."
I am perky. Always perky.

"Well, our system is down, so I can't check anything in."
Matt Damon.

"Hmm, well, that's a problem for me. You see, this book is due today, but I can't renew it online since this other book is overdue and the system has a hold on my account. What should I do?"
Polite, polite, polite. Surely they have some direction they're giving the patrons.

"Our system is down."
Matt Damon.

"Yes, I know. I don't want to get fines on this book due today, so what should I do?"
Maybe she's deaf, and I'm just a mean person for thinking she's dumb. No, she's dumb. Definitely dumb.

"You can't do anything online."
Matt Damon.

"Yes! I'm aware of that."
Maybe you should tell me again, I didn't quite catch it the first two times.

"Well, I can take these, but you can't do anything online."
Matt Damon.

"You can take them but you can't check them in as returned, right?"
Hah! Like I would trust you with my books!

"You can't do anything online!"
Matt Damon.

"What?"
Quit saying that!

"You want to renew this one?"
Matt Damon.

"No, I want to return it."
Why is she talking about renewing?

"You want to return it and then take it out again?"
Matt Damon.

"No! I just want to return it!"
My God, she thinks I don't know what "renew" means! That's rich coming from the woman who clearly doesn't know what "return" means!

(A pause. I gaze at her suspiciously, she gazes at me vapidly.)

"And then take it out again?"
MATT DAMON!

"Tell you what, I'll just bring these back on Monday."
Must. Escape.

"You can't do anything online!"
MATT! DAMON!

"I! KNOW!"
I! KNOW!

This round to Bertha. Well played, Bertha. Well played.

I got the hiccups while brushing my teeth this morning. It's difficult, and not a little dangerous, I'd say, the brush your teeth while you have the hiccups.

So, I have these nieces and nephews who are the cutest, most adorable little kids on the planet, and don't bother trying to tell me about some kid you know or have spawned yourself who's as cute, or if you're really feeling the hubris today, cuter, because I will tell you right now, no. You are wrong. So let's not argue.

Although these morsels of adorableness have names already, I pretty much always have this urge to call them by some other name that better reflects their true natures: "Sweetie" or "Honey" or "Who'sJustTheSweetestMostWonderfulWiddleBoy/GirlInTheWholeWideWorldWhyYOUAre!" Something innocuous like that.

But I never get to. Just about all of the kids have put the smackdown on me when I've tried. Here's how a typical conversation would go:

Andrew: "Hi Megan!"
Megan: "Hi, sweetie! How are you?"
Andrew:
Megan: "Hello?"
Andrew: "Hi."
Megan: "Hi! How are you?"
Andrew: "Um, Megan?"
Megan: "Yes?"
Andrew (very quietly): "My name isn't 'sweetie.' It's ANDREW."
Megan: "I know that, honey, it's just kind of a nickname."
Andrew: "And it's not 'honey.' Honey is for eating and YOU CAN'T EAT ME!"
Megan: "I know I can't eat you--"
Andrew: "Good because I don't want you to!"
Megan: "And I won't, I promise."
Andrew: "And my name is Andrew. ANDREW. A-N-D-R-E-W."
Megan: "Okay, Andrew."
Andrew: "Try to remember, okay?"

The part that makes me feel guiltiest is his tone of voice, which always expresses so many things: embarrassment for me that he has to remind me of his name again, sadness that I don't even know who he is, impatience that we're going through this one more time, and so on. Because I can't deal with the guilt, I just address the kids by their names and save all my gooshiness for my sisters' dogs. "Who's the sweetest widdle puppy in the whole wide world? YOU ARE! Yes, YOU, my sweet widdle angel!" If they object, at least they can't tell me they do.

I have decided that I must work on cultivating a more delicate, lady-like sneeze. The other day at work, my assistant had some sort of sneezing attack that left her sneezing almost every few minutes all day. Allergies, maybe. Anyway, her every sneeze was a meticulous, dainty “ah-chooo!” complete with little girl high pitch. Frankly, they were a pleasure to listen to. Each apologetic little exclamation elicited sympathetic looks and “You poor dear . . .”s from the staff.

And then I sneeze. Just once, thank God: “HAH-BLAAACHAAUU!!” Yes, I covered my mouth, but the juicy sound left no one wondering what my hand was full of.

I swear, I really, truly am a delicate flower, a gentle blossom. I just happen to be closer to a titan arum than a violet.

So, another room is painted. That's 3 down (Small Bedroom, Kitchen, Medium Bedroom) and 5 to go (Dining Room, Bathroom, Large Bedroom, Living Room, Hallway, Entryway). Can I count the hallway as a room? Or the entryway? Should it have been 3 to go? 4, with each of the uncertain ones weighing in as .5? Anyway, the dining room really has to be next; the walls in there are appalling. Then, I think, the bathroom, then the hallway, the entryway, my bedroom, and finishing up with the living room. I have got to finish this stuff soon or it'll be too cold outside to leave the windows open, and open windows are sort of mandatory for this painting business.

I am so fucking whupped it's just not funny anymore.

Friday there was the bowling. It was the third time I've been bowling in twelve years, so I wasn't really prepared for the next day pain. What the fuck. It's just a stupid 8 pound ball! Why does chucking it all over the place take so much out of me? On the positive side, I only came in last 2 out of 3 rounds. Yay, me.

Saturday there was laundry. And moving of furniture. And more moving of furniture. And some cleaning. And going to the movies with another human being, and, frankly, this social interaction business is just ridiculously exhausting. Listening! Responding! Listening some more! Responding again! And in such a way as to indicate that I was listening in the first place! My God, it's demanding.

And then today -- TONS of furniture moving. Why am I always wrong about where stuff will look good? Why can I never figure it out until I've loaded on the books? Oy. And then taping a room. And starting painting it. And more laundry.

I go to sleep now. I no get up early. I sleep.