Category Archives: Ma’am, try not to get so worked up.

Nap libs

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I believe that there are many appropriate uses for my blog: entertainment, musings, politics, professional endeavors.  One use I find unacceptable, in part for the permanence of ravings on these interwebs and in part based in a basic sense of decorum, is to air the dirty laundry or the unabated joy of my marriage. (There isn’t much of the dirty, since Spouse is in charge of laundry, which is washed and dried relatively quickly. Left to wrinkle in the dryer or crammed haphazardly in cupboards, but who am I to judge, since I haven’t done laundry in ten years?)

Anyway, I figured that the things I need to say, whether cloyingly sweet or ragingly angry, are more useful to you if you can play along and find either relevance to your own relationships or find amusement in my refusal to commit to strong language…nay, any language whatsoever.

So here you go. My version of Mad Libs, a special edition just for this week in my marriage.

Oh, my  [ noun ]. My significant other is being a(n) [ adjective ] [ noun ] this week.  In fact, this [ adjective ] [ noun ] is off-the-charts impressive. Not only do my [ plural noun ] not seem to [ verb ] to my partner, but [ pronoun, possessive ] [ noun ] is about as [ adjective ] as I’ve ever seen.  It’s terrific timing, of course. We have a(n) [ adjective ] [ noun ] and a(n) [ adjective ] [ noun ] to deal with, I’m recovering slowly from a rough birth, and this is when my life partner feels it [ adjective ] to have a(n) [ adjective ] [ noun ].  After many long discussions, [ pronoun ] [ verb, past tense]  my opinion and our family’s needs and [ verb, past tense ] a(n) [ adjective ] [ noun ] of [ noun ] on a [ expletive ] [ noun ].  But even that hasn’t [ verb, past tense ]. [ Pronoun ] is being a(n) [ adjective ] [ noun ], really, [ verb, active participle ] my needs and our children’s needs to [ verb ] on the [ noun ],  [ verb, active participle ] about some [ adjective ] [ noun ] that, granted, my dear one is responsible for, but now [ pronoun] is [ verb, active participle ] time verb, active participle ] the real jobs around the house and in our lives.

What a [ noun ].

Why, yes, you may

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Okay, I need to tell some of the people on the planet a few things. Close your ears if these don’t apply, cuz there ain’t no ranting like a wicked pregnant rant.

If we come to an intersection at the same time and I indicate you can go first, you’d damned better thank me, jerk, because chances are if I have to wave you through you know you don’t have the right of way. If you’re walking across the street against the light or half a block from the crosswalk and I let you go, you’d damned better thank me because I’m driving a ton of steel and you’re squishy. And if I’m crossing in the crosswalk, with the light, hugely pregnant and holding my kid’s hand, you’d damned better stop and wait for us, because I will hunt you down and maim you for being such a subhuman stool specimen turning dangerously close to us.

Waitstaff, if I ask for water twice and you forget both times to bring it, don’t be surprised if I forget to tip. If I ask for something for my kid even once and you forget to bring it, don’t be surprised if I brandish a weapon.

Parents, if your child is at the playground and you spend the whole time reading the newspaper, I will call child protective services and say the kid asked me to take him home because you lock him in the closet. I’m sick of parenting your kids for you.

Yes, you may ask:
How are you doing?
Can I bring you anything?
Could you look any more gorgeous?!
May I send you cash or a check?

No, you may not ask:
Are you ever going to have that baby? (No. I’m going to keep it in there and live off it in case I’m stuck at Donner Pass.)
Is that damned thing *still* in there? (No. Had it a week ago. Just fat. Thanks for asking.)
Could you get any bigger? (Probably. Could you get any more stupid or rude?)
What, are you waiting for your due date to come around again next year? (Yes. That’s exactly it. Nothing says fun like 17 months pregnant.)

And for these you will be stricken from the mailing list:
When are they going to induce? (Never. What part of natural don’t you get?)
How dilated are you? (Doesn’t matter. That’s not an indication of anything. Also none of your business. Also, I don’t know. Want me to run to the loo to check just for you?)
How long will they *let* you go? (Hi, have we met? Nobody is letting me do anything; I am an intelligent, consenting adult doing what my body needs without intervention, chemicals, or coercion.)
Will you have surgery? (For what? I don’t have cancer. I have a baby who’s not done cooking.)
How much weight have you gained? (Including the guilty conscience from killing you and woodchipping the body? Not sure. I don’t look at the numbers.)

in which I do *not* thank the Academy

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I would like to thank most of the English-speaking world for thoroughly screwing up some damned fine names. This whole baby naming process is much harder after the havoc wreaked by parents, novelists, and serial killers. Thanks for making our list much shorter.

You’re one of the big winners, F. Scott Fitzgerald. Daisy could have been lovely, but you made her a self-involved boor.

You, Marlon Brando, have completely eviscerated Stella for us. Others are brave enough to withstand the bellows, but we’re not.

Thanks a lot, popular culture, for ruining Chester. We daren’t name a molester.

You also did some damage to the grown-up possibilities of Cherry. And Dick (which is not a name we covet, but between the penile and the vice presidential, there might never be another person named Dick ever).

Sesame Street, you’ve killed great early century faves like Kermit and Grover. Not sure how Ernie still survives, but show me a kid named Bert and I’ll name my next child Elmo.

Benedict? Gone. Brutus? Not in a million years. Adolf. Of the radar. Lucifer…hey, now we’re talking!

Don’t get mad…get worms

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*Warning*
This post not for the squeamish. Or those who still think I should dump our cats in the Bay. If you’re easily creeped out or a cat-hater, come back tomorrow. I’ll write something lovely. Or depressing. But at least not gross.
*End Warning*

I’ll spare you the intro and get right to the phone call with the vet. Or rather, the vet’s office, populated with, as you will see, freaking jerk-ass zombie idiots sent to this planet to torment me.

Me: I’m calling to check the results of the sample I left yesterday (for my indoor cat, who should really stop licking shoes as a pasttime, else risk this particular medical issue again.)
Freaking Jerk-Ass Zombie Idiot Sent to This Planet to Torment Me: Let me check. [on hold for two minutes.] It came back negative.
M: Really.
FJ-AZIStTPtTM: Yes. Negative.
M: The sample I brought that was crawling with worms came back negative for worms?
FJ-AZIStTPtTM: Yes, ma’am.
M: I don’t have a lot of critical thinking skills lately, but I’ll try this one: which type of worms doesn’t show up on this $30 test?
FJ-AZIStTPtTM: Let me check. Hold on. [on hold for two minutes] Ma’am? What did the worms look like?
M: [I give description I will spare you, but which was heard by this same Freaking Jerk-Ass Zombie Idiot Sent to This Planet to Torment Me yesterday when I dropped off the specimen and the day before on the phone.]
FJ-AZIStTPtTM: Okay. Hang on. [on hold for five minutes.] Ma’am? I’m going to have to call you back.

She doesn’t. Shocking, from a freaking jerk-ass zombie idiot sent to this planet to torment me.

An hour later I call the clinic again and get a recording saying they’re closed, and please don’t leave a message but call back when they’re open.

Look here, you $%^&#^%&)*#)($%^)*%^ers!!!! I spent ten minutes on the phone Monday, an hour of my precious child-free time on Tuesday, and now 15 minutes of my time today to find out NOTHING except that, now, the second cat has contracted the same @#(*$^%(*#@$ parasite that the first one has, in my house with a &@#&$*^*$ four-year old and adult male whose hygeine habits are suspect, approximately 2-4 weeks before I shoot a baby out of my lower personage? Really?

Really?

Are you serious? Do you want to rumble? Do you? Because really, genuinely, seriously? I can bring it, bitch. And if any of the humans in my family get this disgusting parasitic affliction because you’ve been INCOMPETENT, I will bring their “samples” daily to your waiting room and smear them on the walls.

Try me.

And the winner is…

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The spammer who composed this beauty:

“I was reading something else about this on another blog. Interesting. Your linear perspective on it is diametrically contradicted to what I read earlier. I am still contemplating over the various points of view, but I’m tipped to a great extent toward yours. And regardless, that’s what is so great about modern democracy and the marketplace of thoughts on-line.”

Why, nameless, faceless salesperson of all things godawful, you almost make sense. Most of the other spam is barely intelligible and so I celebrate you. This is b-lls-t, in part because I’ve never had a linear perspective in my life, and because things cannot be “diametrically contradicted to” something else (they are “diametrically opposed to” or “directly contradict”), and because modern democracy allows many fewer opinions than, say, Grecian democracy, and because since the late ’90s the Wired style guide assured us it was time to take the hyphen out of the word online (a trend followed fewer than two years later by most major dictionaries.)

Also, your fake comment has nothing at all to do with the post to which you appended it, and is the most blatant of attempts to fake your way through the assignment. I’ve seen that before, buddy. I teach English to those who believe they don’t need it.

Though your attempt is head and shoulders above the rest of the spam I get (and, honestly, better than the compositions of 75% of college freshman), it’s still schlock.

So. For your efforts: A. For your dirth of knowledge and annoying posing: F.

Still. Amusing. You win. Your prize is that I won’t post your spam in my comments because it’s still spam and obviously crap; but I will take your pathetic words and use them to amuse myself for the three minutes or so it took to deride you in public.

Yay for you, spam dude.

Aaaaaah.

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Only 21 more days ’til January.

Tomorrow is my day to prepare, bring, and serve a healthful snack at preschool. 25 kids, 12 adults, and a requirement for whole grains and protein, all organic. WTF, people…I already have enough trouble getting three people fed around here.

Tonight my sewer is overflowing into my garage. No big deal. Landlord has a standing account with a 24-hour plumber. How’s that for a silver lining in a shitstorm?

Computers are still busted. Found a loophole that lets me write one sentence each hour and eventually post. I think my computers want me on Twitter and off everything else.

Packing for an awesome trip that will be way too short and that is sure to be fabulous until the moment USAir (why they are still in business escapes me) strands us in Phoenix on the way home. As they always do. Without fail. It’s like the Phoenix chamber of commerce paid the whole airline to make sure people read those lame ass signs for just a few extra hours. People, if I wanted to be in Arizona, I would be in Tucson. Not Phoenix, and not the Phoenix airport. Save your money and let us pass. I can answer your three questions AND I brought you a shrubbery.

Now it’s only 20 days until January.

Massive computer fail

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Netbook and laptop both took a huge dive. After several days during which any click of the mouse takes, no joke, 8 minutes to register I think I’ve figured out that Microsoft auto-updated my Windows XP to a new and Internet-outraging service pack. Or some other geek talk I don’t get. Neither computer can perform basic functions and I’m left hanging for days after asking for a virus scan or a return to backup.

What I do understand is that both my computers are useless and I’m a mess. Can’t pay bills, can’t check our plane reservations, can’t send email, can’t handle the huge address book that has all the info for our holiday cards.

I need Kipper. Any chance he and Jake could come over and fix both computers, since it seems I have to download and reinstall something onto computer that is completely unable to even copy or delete a file?

Microsoft, if this is your fault, I’m totally and completely going Linux on my PCs and am using my Mac for EVERYTHING from now on. Jerks. Losers. Monolithic asswipe computer ruiners. (I usually reserve my “The Man is bringing me down” category for politics, but Microsoft is *The Man* and The Man is so thoroughly bringing me down, man.)

I’ll be back when I can actually access the Internet.

Pssst. Academic…

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You know it’s a bad sign when I take the time to print and annotate your journal article, covering it with “NO!” and “critical thinking?” and “WRONG” all over the margins; and then when a page falls out of the stack and I’m looking for scrap paper, that I’m willing to make a grocery list on the back of your alleged scholarship.

for the record…

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…the smaller you make the peanut butter cups, the more I need to eat to feel as though I’ve done something with my day. Work on super-sizing those bad boys. Then we’ll talk.

…apples are not protein. Neither are bananas. When I ask you what protein you’re going to have with your popcorn, you’d better actually name something with a complete amino acid profile. Otherwise you’re having almond butter spread on every single food you ever eat until you’re 20.

…turn signals are not optional. If you dillholes keep making me wait/threatening my life by refusing to use those signals, I will drive headlong into your stupid-ass SUV and tell the police officers that you were weaving and screaming as you hit me.

…calling yourself by a different name and trying to thrash my house and one remaining shred of sanity under the guise of having different rules at “your” house, when I know full well everything you’ve done for the past 3.75 years does *not* get you a free pass to roll all over me. Sure you can have a cuddle, whatever your name/alibi is.

…there is no reason on earth to charge that much for a cab ride. Do you know what taking the subway would cost me if it were still running this late?

…there is no reason on this earth that you need to wipe your hands on your shirt. We’ve been working on this for three years. You have two napkins by you. Use one.

…that’s nice that you love me *this* much. You still only get one movie on Movie Day.

…it’s really not okay to call your doctor’s office (or your child’s pediatrician) and curse at the office manager for not having the H1N1 yet. It’s not their fault. And, from the words of my childhood pediatrician’s office “I don’t mind being called a bitch, but one woman called me fat. i simply will not be talked to that way.” All people who lack civility go to the back of the line, anyway. And the nurse, who is too much of a professional to spit on your needle, calls your cafe and tells the barrista to spit in your overpriced attitude-worsening brew.

…I will be gone for the next four days and I don’t plan on blogging anything useful, but you never know.

It’s all about balance, I guess. Maybe.

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So first week of school for Peanut, predictably, meant first week of the worst freaking tantrums since the dawn of time. (Not seriously. He’s a low tantrum dude. But on *his* Richter scale, this weekend was off the f–ing charts.)

We had him screaming in the supermarket, knocking down boxes of Top Ramen. We had him running full tilt through the freezer aisle and opening every door, just before I caught him and flung him over my shoulder kicking and screaming to make a speedy exit. We had him whining and sobbing and yelling at us, really yelling, with every single Lego piece that did not obey the laws of physics and geometry on whatever planet this non-Euclidean, non-Newtonian kid lives on. We had a day, basically, of “I will help you when you can treat me respectfully, but I will not stay in the same room with that voice,” all day, both days. And we had him yelling at my sweet little 94-year-old grandmother, on my birthday, that she was not allowed to talk to me, only *he* can talk to me.

Clean up! Aisle Six! Some lady is sobbing about something or other, and her puddle of tears is activating the Top Ramen secret flavor packets.

I knew we’d pay dearly for the first week of preschool. I know it’s a lot of change and his world is upside down (shut up, Drs. Sears, he’s in a co-op where I’m there and everything is all child-directed, for a grand total of three hours a day thrice a week, so don’t tell me from upside down world until you’ve lived with a highly spirited intense opinionated way-too-smart kid for three and a half years, and then I’ll show you upside down world) so he needs an emotional outlet. But must *I* be the outlet? Holy Freaking Meltdown of the Social Order, Batman, we need a tranquilizer dart from Babies R Us.

Upside of the whole insane weekend of terror, though? My mom watched the new person formerly known as Peanut for an evening in which Spouse and I saw a real, actual film on a screen and had a real, actual meal at a quiet restaurant. As in feature film rated something I didn’t have to check because who cares? and menu without crayons.

More important, uproariously funny Clooney and MacGregor flick at which the rest of the audience politely tittered and I laughed so hard and so loudly that people glared at me. Dumbest movie I’ve seen in years and absolutely pants-wettingly funny. See it. The Men Who Stare at Goats. I think. I don’t care. The title’s not important. When you see it, email me about the “what are the quotes for?” line. And the sparkle eyes scene. It’ll make me wet more pants. And I only have, like, two pair that fit right now, so what a laundry honor that will be.

And even more important, we found a fabulous restaurant I’ve never tried, in whose menu I was very pleased, and with whose policy of offering wine by the bottle, glass, or 2 ounce taste I was thrilled. Because a “taste” of wine is totally under the radar of *every* hyper-vigilant American obstetrician I’ve ever met or read. No, not a sip, and not a glass. A technical, measured, duly noted on the receipt, “taste.” Spicy syrah. Lovely. From what I tasted.

Did I mention George Clooney and Ewan MacGregor? Nobody laughed but me. And you know how much i don’t care that other people on the planet are too dumb to get good jokes?

Today was not much easier with Peanut, but he slept a full nap and I had a huge pot of homemade chili at my elbow as I thought about and refused to the the 20 really pressing things on my to-do list. And instead started a new book that pleases me GREATLY.

And you know what? Volcanic bullshit from my kid on a day where I get a few hours with Spouse, and whiny exhausting understandable but unbearable nonsense from my kid on a day where I have freshly made chili and a new book is totally a good weekend. Because his bullshit is, as of today, no longer going to be my bullshit. It will be my atmosphere and my backdrop and my full time g.d. job, but I’m gonna do my best not to breathe it in and let it rattle me. Cuz, dammit, I have George Clooney and chili and twelve choices of bruschetta and Ewan MacGregor and a new book, y’all.

Ewan MacGregor.

I’m sorry….what?

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Today’s wtf files:

Microwave instructions on instant pudding. Because there *needs* to be an option between 5 minutes of stovetop and buying premade pudding. [Yes, dammit, it’s organic and low sugar. Sue me.]

At least one father at every single playground I’ve been to in the past six months: texting or playing games on phone or having really insipid phone conversation while kids try desperately to get his attention. Dude. Do you see *any* of the moms doing that bullshit? And when there are other dads, it’s still only one guy. Loser.

Fifteen of the twenty products rated “must have” in some lame-o mainstream parenting magazine at the doc’s office are either toxic or useless. And these people are raising the assholes our kids will go to school with.

Why do people tell me to watch MadMen and not Weeds? I freaking love that show and don’t get the same nausea after an episode or two that followed Betty Draper’s existential spiral.

The Bay Bridge is falling down. And people are complaining about the traffic instead of remembering 20 years ago when we counted every second, hoping they’d find someone alive in the Cypress and thanked heaven only one person died on the Bridge. But by all means, whine about your commute.

My kid has gained three pounds this month and I can’t freaking lift him up. He’s always been a timid eater, and he’s now scarfing down adult portions and taking seconds and eating veggies and taking two hour dinners. Who is this guy?

Preschool still has no space for us. This kid is going to be in college before I get him the hell away from me for a couple of hours a week. In fact, he told me he wants to go to college right now because he wants to be an ultrasound technician so he can push all the buttons. Fine by me, dude.

A street sweeping ticket is $48?! For what? I’ll get out a push broom and clear the tiny bit of stuff from under my car. Don’t you people have better ways to raise money?

Grammar nerds unite!

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In a book review on Salon.com, Laura Miller dips a toe in the prescriptive vs. descriptive linguistic debate, one in which some of us (no names) stomp around furiously when people use the phrase “where are you at?” and others (no names, but doubtless their mailboxes have unnecessary apostrophes scratched out) notice that everyone understands what it means, whether or not it is technically correct grammar.

Now, I heart Miller because she hearts David Foster Wallace, and that’s all I really need to know about a person. I believe, however, that she’s a bit too lenient with the descriptivists. She mentions her own pet peeve of dangling participles. Otherwise, she’s pretty laid back about the whole fall of civilization as we know it, at the hands of the business jargon creators, the advertising grammar bastardizers, and the genuinely lazy. (Please. I taught college English. I know some of it is laziness and “I have better things to do” -ism and “why bother” defeatism. But that most of it is really bad education in the early years wherein something like 50% of students are getting As.)

Ladies and gentlemen, would it kill us all to learn the proper use of “whom?”

I would like to announce, in light of this discussion, the production of my new album, Grammatically Corrected Songs. The playlist of final tracks:
I Can’t Get Any Satisfaction
Lie, Lady. Lie.
I Have Spurs That Jingle Jangle Jingle
You Are Nothing but a Hound Dog
Lie Down, Sally
Isn’t It Coincidental (and Generally Annoying but Not Ironic)?
and a medley of every song that should have “I Want You So Badly” rather than “so bad” but barring those that actually mean “I want you when you are bad,” regardless of their connotation for bad.

Send additional track suggestions to my producer. I’ll get to work on them when my band reconvenes next month.

SIGG toxic b.s.

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I am so angry it’s taking all my energy not to scream obscenities and cry. Sigg, the maker of stainless steel bottles I’ve used for YEARS to escape exposure from the scary hormone-disrupting chemicals found in plastic (especially BPA), actually contain BPA. Or did, until last year when they changed their liner without telling anyone about the toxins.

Should I have known when they touted their bottles as an eco-alternative that “does not leach BPA” to read between the lines and see that doesn’t mean “does not contain BPA?” Sure. But I wasn’t the only one fooled. Consumer advocates have been trying to prove for years what we all suspected: Sigg is too good to be true.

Now Sigg is willing to replace their old bottles with their new, BPA-free bottles. I refuse to link to their website because I am angry I could spit BPA tainted water. Several retailers are exchanging the bottles for the new version or for an alternative.

I’m not getting new Sigg bottles. I’m going to put on hold my boycott of Whole Foods, whose dolt of a CEO wrote an editorial opposed to health care reform and basic human services (hello, do you know your customers at all?) because Whole Foods is taking back Sigg bottles for a credit. And with that credit I will buy the bottles I thought I could never afford but am now KICKING myself for not buying earlier, distraught with what I may have done to my body, my children’s bodies, and my Spouse’s body by relying on Sigg for so many years.

I’m scared and mad and feel so f—ing misled. What is the point of reading and researching and trying my absolute best if goddamned companies goddamned lie as a way of doing business?

No aluminum. No Gaiam bottles (I knew that because they taste like plastic). No Sigg bottles.

Yes to stainless steel. Yes to Kleen Kanteen. Maybe to whatever other alternatives you’d like to suggest, if you can prove they’re not taking our money and lying like certain other companies. Like all of them.

Just one day.

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I want one day.
ONE day in which I don’t need tricks and techniques and reverse psychology to get my job done. I want ONE day in which I’m in charge of only my own actions, in which I get stuff done without taking six times as long as should be necessary because it will be just me and the voices in my head.
I want ONE day in which things are easy; where I ask and things happen. Calmly. Happily. Without whining or crying or throwing or hitting or questions or bullshit. I want ONE g-dd-mned day where I don’t have to explain safety and society and polite and dangerous and inappropriate and unacceptable. ONE day where I don’t need to consciously reinforce all the good behavior of someone else in a DESPERATE attempt to stave off the batshit insane bad behavior that I can’t even label “bad” because it’s not the way I want to do things.
I want ONE f—ing day where I can just operate on my own list, focusing when I want to, spacing when I want to, and taking freaking breaths when I want to. One day with clear goals and outcomes, milestones and markers, measurement and metrics, respect and a f—ing paycheck.
I want ONE day where nobody tells me about their bowels or their bladder or makes me help them evacuate either. I want ONE day where I actually feel like I’m doing a good job. Where I don’t need a g-dd-mned book to give me suggestions for making things smoother and can operate without needing freaking experts telling me how to get through the day without homicide and suicide and infanticide and freaking increasing the shockingly low child abuse rate.
ONE day where I don’t have to explain or cajole or bargain or compromise or invent games to convince everyone but myself that life is fun and washing hands is wonderful and eating is jolly. One day where the growth, development, life, or death of people around me is really none of my concern and certainly not my responsibility. I just want to do my day.
I want ONE day. ONE. One. 1. Just one.
Or I want a 60 hour a week job so someone else does this b-llsh-t for me.
Never mind. I want an 80 hour a week job. The weeks I handled a 120 hour work week, all billable hours, I barely had enough energy to shower. I want that again. Someone else handle this. Someone who’s good at it. For just one day. Or maybe forever.

No, seriously.

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You read how my day went down yesterday. I’m not kidding, at all, when I narrate for you now the way the evening after that rather trying day proceeded:

After Peanut’s in bed and Spouse is settled, I head to the main library on campus to pick up a book on hold and to (hopefully) nab another book someone returned before anyone else notices it’s back.  I arrive at the main door and walk through the glorious and stately halls  to get to the circulation desk. Time: 8:45.  I watch as the metal gate descends, too far away to holler or run or be otherwise indecorous. I get to the entrance and read that closing time is 8:45. Well, I guess I should have checked that online. Book on hold will have to wait. (Phlebotomist rants replay in my head…)

So I walk down the hill to the lowly undergrad library, through the catacombs of which I can still access the main stacks even after closing. I search for the book purportedly returned. Not on the shelf. Nowhere to be seen. To whom does one report that? The circulation desk at the main library. But they are at home with their phlebotomy and philately and whatnot.

So I research underground or a while, collecting articles that I’m not allowed to access from home, due to the vast conspiracy between the online critical journals and the babysitting lobby. I subvert them all with my free sitter, the father of my freaking child.

I recheck the shelf, just in case. No luck. But good thinking on rechecking, eh? Wouldn’t want it checked out this morning before I can peel the lad from my leg or anything like that.

And on a whim last night, after an hour or so of journal trolling, I search for a free reading book I’ve been coveting. In luck: it’s housed in the aforementioned lowly undergrad library. I navigate catacombs, climb stairs, survive glares that remind me a nigh-on 40 year old pregnant alumnae is not a quote-unquote normal site on campus after hours. If ever. I find the book. I descent the stairs and head to undergrad circulation. Time: 10:07. Sign on the desk informs me that circ. closes at 10:00. Guess I should have checked that before I leisurely used the stairs instead of the elevator. I’m really tempted to issue forth with a SCREW YOU, AL GORE here, but I hold back. Bottle it up. It’s of more use to me there. I contemplate, I grouse, and I drop the book into the return slot. Hope that confuses them for weeks, those loser philatelists.

And, I swear to all things chocolate and marshmallowy, I showed up on campus this morning to get both books and to report the missing text: marquis sporting event of the year ongoing; library apparently closes for such nonsense. There were lawns full of food vendors and grand entrances full of dancers and drummers. On the marble steps of the oldest University in California. Drummers. Dancers. Where are the books? It’s unseemly but true: the library closes for football. This ain’t one of those Big Ten schools where they go to college as an excuse to have an alma mater to support all football season. Our football prowess is not exactly our calling card. Nobel Laureates, sure. number of periodic elements named by and for our graduates, yup. Holdings of original Mark Twain manuscripts. Yes. History of protest and disorderly conduct? You betcha. Football? No. But you’re gonna close the library. I see. I guess I should have checked that online. Wherever library closures due to gridiron conflict are listed, I suppose.

I smell a new dotcom.

I have now slogged to campus, up and down the north hill twice, carrying 40 lbs. of briefcase during precious writing/childcare hours yet left with none of the three books I desire.  Not one.

And I can’t even rant about it. They’ve beaten me down, fair readers. Librarians and phlebotomists and veterinarians and quarterbacks. Seriously, I’m waiting for the cosmic payback. Better be one cute f—ing baby, one Lazarus-like cat, and one awesome journal that publishes my paper for all this b.s.