See, the heel of my boot fell off while I was cataloging a book (the punishment, no doubt, for breaching the sacred confines of Technical Services...shoe leprosy) so I spent about ten minutes wandering about like the cobbler's child looking tragic and begging people for super glue. I finally got my hands on some and liberally applied it to the heel, slapped it on the boot and stood on it for a few minutes to set it. Trouble was, I was a bit tooooo generous in my glue application so when I put weight on the heel, glue oozed out and, long story short, I was glued to the carpet.
I managed to get myself free after some rather undignified jerking and heaving. (Was I dancing? Was I having a seizure? No, I was glued to the carpet! Perfectly reasonable, I assure you.)
I also spent a good half hour on the phone with one of the trolls in purchasing. Apparently, a sound knowledge and understanding of the purchasing code is only a liability. I have been smited thoroughly for daring to attempt a purchase using the code, which, apparently, is less "law adopted by city council" and more "guidelines that fluctuate according to purchasing troll's hormone levels". Alas! I will now be forced to navigate the Byzantinian maze that is the bidding process, which is the third step in the five-step process of becoming a purchasing troll. Next, I will have to kill and eat the brains of one of the accounting clerks and for the fifth step, I will have to fight the demon beast of the purchasing office (her name is Martha) using only my bare hands and my knowledge of the bidding process.
I also had to go and brave the evils of the (Un)Human (Non)Resources Department because the City is, inexplicably, requiring everyone to fill out reams of new paperwork about our insurance for next fiscal year. It used to be that you only filled out reams of insurance paperwork if you were changing something. But now, everyone has to fill out the forms, except all we do is put our names on it, sign it and write NO CHANGE in big letters across the middle. Some people in HR were saying "turn in this sheet and this one and this one, too", others were saying, "nah, you don't have to turn that in, just turn in this one", and since my mental health balances on whether or not I pay full price for my happy pills, I was understandably concerned that one wrong move would result in the eradication of my benefits and the horrible death of the Technical Services Librarian, as well as some innocent bystanders. So, I went down there, endured the wait and spoke to yet another HR (ur)analyst who grabbed my wad of forms, pulled out the ones she wanted and sent me on my merry way. Only time will tell.
Ahhh, and as if this day couldn't get any brighter...
A mysterious ass smell invaded the Library.
I first became aware of it when I saw the admin. secretary wandering up and down the halls spraying a pungent vanilla-scented chemical into the air.
I asked her what she was doing and she explained that the air freshener was to cover the smell. "What smell?" I asked, and then it hit me...vanilla scented ass.
So, we wandered about the Library, searching for the origins of the ass smell. Was it coming from the bathrooms? No. A homeless patron (or 12)? No. A co-worker? No. The stacks? No. Rain-soaked carpet? No. Me? No.
Try as we might, we could not locate the origins of this phantom ass smell. It roamed around the Library, first making its presence known in Circulation, then Reference, then Media before slithering up the vents to the second floor, where I encountered it, flavored with vanilla.
Eventually, it dissappated, slipping back into the ether, its origins undiscovered. Like ebola.
Incidentally, since I know it isn't all about ME, a quick update on my dad is in order. He had surgery yesterday to replace his knee. Apparently, the whole time my mom, my brother and I were assuming he was a big whiny baby, he was actually in terrible agony because his knee was completely obliterated by a one-two punch of fracture and terrible, medicine-defying infection. Whoops.
So now, he has a titanium knee to match his titanium hip. It's like he's Wolverine! Only, you know, not so much. We're hoping he'll finally be able to jump up out of his wheelchair and do the mashed potato, badly, like he used to do. Or not. We'd settle for him levering himself out of his wheelchair and hobbling around a bit. That would be okay, too.
