"OMG," said one of my colleagues. "I love what you did with your hair--it looks so nice from the back! It has a bit of a wave or something. What did you do?"

Um. I put it into a ponytail when it was still wet so I could do some ironing before work, and it dried funny.

(I should do housework every morning, y/y?)

We've got a policy that no underage peeps (under 15) can stay alone outside the library at closing time; staff has to wait with them until a ride shows up or call the police to have them escorted to the station.

So here I am, locking the doors, conspicuously lacking my Ph.D. in guessing people's ages, and so I ask the teen sitting outside: "Do you need to use our phone? Do you have a ride coming? How old are you?"

"No. No, I'm meeting someone and we're going somewhere. I'm 17."

"Ok. And how old's your friend?" I point to the guy skateboarding idly in the parking lot.

"16."

"Right. Have a good night."

And as I finish locking the doors, I hear him call over to his friend, "Dude! How old are you?"

"16. Why?"

"She wants to know," he shrugs.

He's all, O.o? and I die of embarrassment.

The children's librarian sidled up to my desk. "I've decided to add a new criteria to our weeding policy," she said.

"Oh?"

"If the book has black-and-white photos AND is older than our Head of Technical Services--"

"Oy!" I said.

"--we should weed it."

So yeah. I'm a yardstick. :P

Johannes Cabal the Necromancer by Jonathan Howard. In the tradition of Neil Gaiman, with the wit of Terry Pratchett: Johannes makes a pact with the devil to acquire 100 souls, in exchange for which he will receive his own soul back. The means of getting 100 souls? A traveling carnival. Everyone loves a carnival, right?

Speaking of Terry Pratchett, he has a new book out: Unseen Academicals. Classic Pratchett. This time, he takes on football (soccer). Tagline: "The thing about football is, it's never just about football." That's true of his novel, too.

Syren by Angie Sage. This is the 5th of a series. If you liked Harry Potter, then you'll love this.

The Faceless Ones by Derek Landy. The third of a series. Skulduggery Pleasant, a skeleton mage-detective, and his associate, 14-year-old Valkyrie Cain, kick ass, take names, raise hell, and maintain witty repartee throughout. <3

Currently reading: The magicians by Lev Grossman. It's been getting a lot of attention. People are noticing parallels to Harry Potter and Narnia, and this is being billed as a more sophisticated, gritty novel. We'll see.

I've been on a bit of a Beowulf kick lately. I've finally gotten around to seeing Neil Gaiman's Angelina Jolie-tainted version, and just yesterday I watched the version with Gerard Butler. ( POTENTIAL SPOILERS AHEAD! )

You should definitely see both versions--they're worth it. But in a perfect world, we'd see the plot twists of the first film combined with the actors, dialogue, and scenery of the second film (and Grendel's mother) and we'd have kick-ass Beowulf. (Are all you film directors out there listening?)

Just a random thought: I think I would get into graphic novels more if some of them were illustrated by Trina Schart Hyman. The fact that there are none, and never will be, is a tragedy.

Also: I threw my back out on Thursday. Thursday! And I still have problems straightening my back, to say nothing of occasional "AAUGH!! I so clearly should not have twisted that way" moments. Seriously? This kind of thing would never have happened when I was, like, ten years old. Sucks to get old, you know?

Occasionally I find it more convenient to roll on my swivel chair across a room rather than get up and walk. And, as often as I discreetly can, I do it at speed (not without looking both ways for pedestrians and supervisors, of course).

Today, I launched myself with gleeful abandon across the room and, momentarily forgetting where I was, said almost absent-mindedly: "Whee!"

And then immediately looked around with big eyes to see if anyone noticed this unseemly departure from dignified professionalism. Phew! Safe. :P

"Hi!" says my sister, altogether too cheerfully, if you ask me. "How are you?"

"Sick," I say gloomily, "just as you predicted. Damn you."

"Aw. How do you feel?"

"Horrible. How are you feeling? I bet you feel awesome," I say, even more gloomily.

"Yup." Smugness just drips from the phone line. "I feel awesome!"

"I hate you," I say, and reach for a Kleenex. (I don't, just for the record. My sister is generally of an awesomeness incredible, but right now she's stretching it.) We talk about other things, and finally I say, "Well, hope you have a good weekend. Drink a beer for me. Do something fun for me."

"Don't worry!" she says, more cheerfully. "I already have!"

So yes. My life currently is filled with much sneezing and gloom, peppermint tea and an ouchy nose. I log onto the internet and what do I see? ladybranwen happened to run into Dominic Cooper--and has pictures!!

This is altogether too much. (::mock despair, real sneezing::) I'm going back to bed now...

I'm creating a processing manual. Partly because I'm tired of pretending that I know the answers to all the processing questions (any day now I am going to screw up *badly*) and partly because nobody should have to pull an item off the shelves and retroactively figure out how it was processed.

I did my research (thank you, Google). Very few libraries have posted their manuals online, and the few who did were clearly writing for disinterested idiots. Mine will be better.

I have a title: "Technical Services Processing Manual : How to Make Books Shiny The Magical World of Spine Labels"

I have my first heading: BOOKS.

And then I ran into problems. Should I treat item types separately, as in one heading for regular books, one heading for new books, one heading for paperbacks? Or should I make a pseudo-flowchart thingy? ("Is your book a hardcover, y/n? If yes, does it have a Mylar cover, y/n? If no, here is how you attach a Mylar cover.")

And then I realized something: this is going to be very, very tedious.

Went to the Taste of Mystic this afternoon--so much fun! Not just for being outside on a beautiful sunny day, or for the boats sailing past along the river, or for the the sounds and sights of many different people talking in many different languages and accents.

I wandered into town, and saw what every dog-owner dreads: a labrador squatting on someone's yard, and at the other end of the leash, someone desperately wishing they were elsewhere. One does not make eye contact under those circumstances. One politely pretends to ignore someone else's embarrassment, even though I couldn't help but overhear a bag rustling and a small child asking, "Did you get it all, Mommy?" And Mommy saying resignedly, "Yes. I got it all."

On to the festival! I wandered up and down the street (which had been closed off to cars) looking at all the different food booths: beef brisket, lobster rolls, steamed shrimp, gumbo, cheese plates (from some of the fancier booths), and more. After much thought, I had pizza. (Yes, I know. I'm a safe and boring sort of person.) But I went back to get some fried ice cream. It's been years since I've had fried ice cream, and it is *so* good: crunchy coconut on the outside, cool vanilla ice cream on the inside, and covered with whipped cream and chocolate sauce. Wow.

I watched the police K-9 demonstration (I always feel bad for the police officer who gets to play the criminal. The other policeman gets mobbed by women and children who want to pet the dog, and who ooh and aah over it all, and the first policeman just gets to have his arm bitten.). And then I saw him. I noticed the tri-corner hat first, and then my gaze dropped to the dreadlocks, the smirk, the flounced cuffs. OMG, I thought, it's Captain Jack Sparrow. And just like that I walked into someone. (Not him.) Of course it wasn't the real Jack Sparrow--I know that--but it was a damn good impersonation. I lost him in the crowd almost immediately, but after I'd eaten I went looking for him again--purely in a journalistic capacity, merely to confirm my earlier observation. (Confirmed.)

And then there was nothing much else to be done but to go home again. :)

"So do you have any hobbies?" asked my coworker. "And don't say 'reading'."

"Um." I said. And changed the subject.

This depresses the hell out of me. Everyone has a hobby, right? Everyone has something they do outside of work. They golf, for example. Or raise children. I mean, that counts, right?

And what do I do outside of work? I think about work. I read blogs and putter about on the internet. I check my email obsessively. I procrastinate on doing the laundry and the ironing. I wash dishes. I buy groceries. Occasionally I make dinner, but more often it comes out of a box or a bag from my freezer. And when I get home at night I usually put my feet up and watch a DVD to prevent myself from thinking about work. It all sounds rather depressing, when you list it like that.

But I like different things. I like traveling, although I don't often get the chance to do it. I like sitting in a comfortable chair, drinking chai and reading. I like going out to restaurants and to see films. I like watching the sun rise, in a non-personal-ad sort of way, although I need a lot of pep-talking to actually get up that early. I like writing, although I'm not really sure who I'm writing for, or why.

That's about all I have time for, during the week. If I want a hobby, I need to be working fewer hours and have more money. I think that's called "retirement."

Now here's something I bet you don't think about very often--if at all. Most people, if they think about how books are cataloged within a library, tend to assume that noble hardcovers are presented one by one to mighty catalogers, who lower their pencils and say, "I dub thee...FICTION!" or "MYSTERY shalt thou be!" (It's kind of like the sorting hat, only more formal.) And lo! the book is placed in fiction, or mystery, or wherever.

But catalogers, much as we hate to admit this, are only human. They can't read the book before passing judgement; they have to rely on the headings and descriptions other people have assigned (and who knows whether *they* have read the book), as well as any stray blurbage found on the dustjacket. And increasingly the descriptions assigned to these books aren't straightforward "fiction" or "mystery," but a blurring or blending of the two. "Psychological fiction." "Suspense fiction." "Thriller."

You, poor schmuck, only really have two sections within your library, maybe three: fiction, mystery, and sci-fi. So what do you do with psychological fiction? Where do you keep suspense fiction? Mystery has historically been characterized as involving some kind of procedural within the plot. Agatha Christie = mystery. Sherlock Holmes = mystery. But Da Vinci Code, which is a suspenseful adventure complete with murders in which two characters attempt to solve a mystery, is located in fiction. It kind of makes sense if you know the book. And yet the Stephanie Plum novels (One for the money, etc.) are fluffy adventures in which there might be some mystery, but they mostly revolve around one female bounty hunter's attempts to capture failure-to-appears, and her love life. These are classified as mysteries. Frankly, if one is measuring by suspense alone, Da Vinci Code wins hands down. So what makes Da Vinci Code fiction, and what makes One for the money mystery?

Does your head hurt? Mine too. Let's do something easier. Let's look at Dracula. Vampires, mmmm. Vampires, as I decided with Twilight, equal science fiction/fantasy. You know, mythological creatures, folklore, sometimes the end of the world as we know it. The Strain? Scared the bejeezus out of me. Vampires AND the end of the world. Totally science fiction/fantasy.

And yet Dracula is in the fiction section. Damn you, Dracula! Ok, ok, it's a classic. I mean, we put Frankenstein in fiction too. And yet...The Historian is also in fiction. I kid you not, around 11:15 this morning I asked myself how many vampires it takes to make a science fiction/fantasy novel. And at 11:18 I put my head down on my desk and cried. (J/k, but not by much.)

My supervisor wants me to draft some guidelines defining what, exactly, should go into fiction and what, exactly, should go into mystery. This is the Holy Grail of cataloging. It's the sort of thing that could take years, minus the time you spend chasing deceptive Grail-shaped beacons. I aim, as I always aim, for broad strokes. Wolf hunt, although it includes a werewolf, is in fiction because the presence of the werewolf, although necessary to the plot, is not the focus of the book. Whereas vampires (and the end of the world as we know it) are definitely a large part of The Strain, which places it in science fiction/fantasy. The presence of a corpse in the garden (and solving the mystery thereof) is a large part of Sweetness at the bottom of the pie, which is shelved in mystery. Whereas romantic tension and swashbuckling adventures are more prevalent in Secret history of the pink carnation than actually solving any mysteries, per se, and so it is placed in fiction.

And then, of course, you have things like Eyre affair, which is in mystery because, if I remember correctly, we said after hours of debate,"Oh, screw it" and put it there. And Terry Pratchett is in science fiction/fantasy, and I've never really been happy about that either. It's still there because I haven't thought up a better alternative.

And this is why I like cataloging cookbooks. I love cataloging cookbooks. You always know exactly what a cookbook is about, and there's always a Dewey number for it. I'm willing to bet that the reason there are so many cookbooks in public libraries is not, as many people believe, because they are so popular, but because it keeps the catalogers sane when they periodically get something easy to classify.

It has been so hot and humid over the past few weeks. I have perforce (don't you love that word?) had my apartment closed up while I'm at work, so arriving home I enter still, dead, hot air; it takes forever after the windows have been thrown open to lower the temperature even by a few degrees; and all of this combined takes away any initiative I might otherwise have.

But today the humidity is gone! I feel human again! I can breathe again! And now I'm catching up on all the things I put off while I was single-mindedly pursuing cold drinks and ice cream.

The library sponsored an annual pet show the other week--good fun. A couple of older people showed up with their lawn chairs just to watch. Small children held long leashes to very big dogs (their parents a protective step or two away) and proudly received certificates (everyone was a winner). One dog got "Best Dressed"; a pet rat won "Best Personality"; someone's yellow-bellied frog won "Most Colorful". "I'm so happy," said one small girl, beaming and clutching a bowl which held a worm she had coaxed from the mulch nearby. Another small child asked his mother a question. "What? No. There are no cows here," she told him. It was fantastic.

I finally found a set of dishes that I can live with and, er, use. I wanted something interesting without being flashy, fun without being too casual, light but not cheap. I want deep bowls for cereal, bigger salad plates, smaller dinner plates, and large coffee cups. It might be easier if I just designed the damn things myself, but after a long time (ok, a really long time) I finally found a set of white dishes with a raised pattern along the edge. And they were on sale. :) (And this, children, is how you know you are an adult: when you get excited about dishes, and spend your Friday nights paying bills, and coordinate ironing strategies.)

Finally saw Watchmen. It was not what I had expected. It was good, of course: interesting and thought-provoking, but also rather depressing. I'm still making up my mind about it, but I think on the whole I prefer V for Vendetta.

And now that the rain is coming in and the humidity is going back up, this concludes your update.

I have pretty much trained myself to ignore most of the ads on Facebook. I used to have the fastest left-click in the west when it came to hitting the "dislike" button for any and all inappropriately stereotypical ads (weight loss ads? DISLIKE.) but I've more or less gotten over it. And then, suddenly, my eye is drawn to the right of the page, where the words "Seven Sisters Novel" appears. Oh, Facebook. You *are* good. Fast, but not fast enough: I have already checked out the book from the library (it's about life at a women's college, written by a Smithie)--I'll let you know if it's any good.

On the subject of ads, I also received my very first phone call from an operahouse, offering me program tickets "before they go on sale to the public." I'd be a little more flattered and impressed if I hadn't gone to the concert hall once, about three years ago. Don't get me wrong: it was a great experience, a fantastic concert (Handel's Messiah), and the seats were the best in the house...but can they be that desperate for my patronage?? Apparently. It was an interesting experience, listening to the program details rattled off by an earnest marketer, and trying to give the impression that not *only* have I heard of Bach's 23rd Symphony in C minor and B flat, but that I love Bach's 23rd Symphony in C minor and B flat, that I could whistle Bach's 23rd Symphony in C minor and B flat, and that I am enchanted that they will be offering Bach's 23rd Symphony in C minor and B flat in the future--when, in reality, I've only kinda heard of Bach. But I couldn't let this marketer know this: he clearly thinks of me as a Patroness. I wonder how many other people he's called, who have responded to the program schedule with vague "Mmm!"s and "Oh?"s and occasional expressions of delight, which don't really make much sense in the conversational context.

I seem to be on a bit of a vampire kick lately. I don't tend to get into vampire stuff, in general: I'm more of an all-purpose fantasy person. Maybe it's backlash against Twilight (which I still haven't read, and have no immediate intention of reading). Maybe it's because I haven't read anything really scary in a while. (NB "Scary" is not the same thing as "tense." I read tense, thriller, action stuff all the time. I rarely read "OMG don't go into the basement!!" stuff. Mostly because the washing machine is in the basement, and I don't need any further incentive to procrastinate on doing the laundry.)

That being said, Guillermo del Toro (Pan's Labyrinth!) and some other guy (Chuck Hogan) have written a vampire book, the first of a trilogy, titled The Strain. I've seen Pan's Labyrinth, and if G del T is involved, the book will be beautiful, tragic, and scary as all get-out. (I can vouch for the scary as all get-out bit already.) Comparisons between The Strain and The Historian are inevitable. The plot of The Historian definitely moves much faster than in The Strain, but on the other hand--no evidence yet of the biggest letdown in literary plot-dom. ("Yes. I have kidnapped you because I need...a cataloger!" Librarians everywhere went, "YES!! Wait, wtf?...Ok, actually, that's pretty dumb. I mean, we know how important catalogers are, and even we think that's dumb.")

Which is not to say that The Strain doesn't have its own silly moments. I have it to thank for the newest word in my vocabulary: trephine. "Eph searched around wildly for anything that would help him keep this guy away from him, finding only a trephine in a charger on a shelf." Apparently, at this point the editor asked, "What the hell is that?" and another sentence was added. "A trephine is a surgical instrument with a spinning cylindrical blade generally used for cutting open the human skull during autopsy." The following sentences were deleted from the finished text: "Eph reached for a trephine because it's so much way cooler than just a scalpel. Seriously, power tools in the morgue? Damn. Plus we wanted to show that all those hours spent watching ER/House/Grey's Anatomy weren't wasted."

I'm only about halfway through the book now. I'm not entirely certain how this is going to spin enough for three novels (Quick! More creepy scenes of people getting eaten! In dark basements! And gratuitous killing-the-dog scenes! (Oops. Sorry. Spoiler: the dog dies.)) but I'll let you know how it goes.

I also borrowed a vampire flick from the library: Van Helsing. OMG hilarious, and not for any reasons intended by the director. Hugh Jackman no doubt regrets, not only making the film, but also the Fabio-hair. Kate Beckinsale no doubt regrets the hair, the silly accent, and the leather corset. David Wenham (*squee*Faramir*squee*), on the other hand, clearly had a *blast* and doesn't regret a thing. It was totally worth seeing just for David Wenham.

And here's another reason why people don't take librarians seriously (there are so many to choose from...): we have newsletters like SCATNews. Seriously, nobody looked at the title and said, "You know, maybe that isn't the message we want to send...."

And fresh off the press is a work of professional interest: Functional Requirements for Authority Data: a conceptual model. Yeah, that's one to take to the beach.

And I'm all for professional organizations having their own professional newsletters and professional publications and professional bureaucratic nightmares...but do they have to be so lame?? Have some respect, people.

Absolutely furious because the washing machine is on the fritz. I came downstairs after half an hour, and the wash was "finished": all my clothes sitting in half a tank of soapy water. Rinse cycle didn't work. Spin cycle didn't work. Dryer doesn't work well with sopping clothes thrown into it. Nice little pitter-patter of water droplets hitting the carpet where I've hung clothes (after wringing them out over the bathroom sink) to dry. What should have taken an hour and a half, has now taken almost three hours. And I hate spending the limited time I have over the weekend on laundry anyway.

Here's the really good bit. Should I call up the landlady and complain? My anger melts away. No need for that, I think. It works ok if you put the washing machine on permanent press spin cycle for like, three times, and wringing out clothes isn't really that hard, and it's only once a week. I wouldn't say nay if my neighbor happened to phone up the landlady, though. My hopes, however, are not high. (He usually leaves his clothes in the washing machine for about a week, which is plenty of time for half a tank of soapy water to evaporate-ish.)

Perhaps I should investigate local laundromats...

Bought towels today. [insert obligatory HHGTTG reference] Two of them. One has zero-twist loops, and the other has low-twist combed loops. (Should I know what this means? Should I care?) OMG the excitement of my life is too much....

In other news, the library received notification that our magazine subscription to Electronic Gaming Monthly has been cancelled (or rather, the publication is being cancelled) and so, as recompense, we will henceforth receive Maxim for the remainder.

The first I knew of this was when my colleague came rushing towards my desk. "Hey, did you see the centerfold?" Uh...wait, what? I think it's safe to say we'll be contacting the vendor to ask for a credit instead.

Speaking of centerfolds, I was going to go for a walk this evening, but I got distracted by pretty, pretty Star Trek pics, and when I looked up it was much too late. Oh, well. This did not stop me from making myself a delicious hot beverage instead, even though it is past my bedtime. It's my party, and I'll chai if I want to.

Let's see: literary references, low humor, bad puns...my work here is done. :P

I stood in the kitchen with a blue pen in my hand, looking at it blankly and thinking, "Now, what was it I was going to write down?"

TWO MINUTES EARLIER:

I need to schedule an oil change. I know they're going to ask me the mileage on my car, and I'm the kind of apathetic person who knows it's time to get an oil change but can't remember the mileage. So in order to make the trip to the car to check the mileage worthwhile, I should take the car and go to the grocery store. And if I'm going to the grocery store, I should take the opportunity to post my car payment (since it's almost impossible to mail something from where I live). In order to post my car payment, I need to write out the check. And writing out the check requires a pen, which is in the kitchen.

I am in the kitchen because I need a pen to write the check to make the car payment which...which...wait, I'm in the kitchen because...okay, give me a minute. (Hey, there are mint Oreos! I forgot I had those!)

ETA: All that, and they never asked me the mileage anyway. ::facepalm::

I'm absolutely obsessed with this song right now; I love the guitar on it; it's got such a great rhythm to it; I love the chorus.

And then I actually looked up the lyrics online. And then I had to Wikipedia the lyrics of the chorus, and sure enough, in between the bit about stockpiling guns is a 60s drug reference. O.o It was a such a great song if you didn't actually listen to the lyrics!! (Hate it when that happens.) So...I still like it, I'm just more careful about when and where I turn up the volume. ::facepalm::

In other news, I've decided that the end of the fiscal year bears some uncanny resemblances to finals (it would certainly explain why I keep having school-related nightmares). A lot of last-minute prep work, a lot of projects that need to be turned in, a lot of "OMG why didn't we start this several months earlier??", and--let's be honest--a lot of constructive procrastination. (I rearranged my file folders and added "see also" references to my Rolodex!) I keep trying to plan some vacation days, but I get bogged down in the "nope, I've got a paper due then" and "This collection is being released that day" and "This is the due date for that project." Feh. Feh, I say! If I wait much longer, my vacation days will be chosen solely upon which calendar dates my pen hits at random. ::sighs::

On the bright side, I got props for the DVD collection I was working on. That has got to be one of the biggest perqs of the job: getting paid to pick out DVDs. :D