I'm catching up on some Tweets. A bunch of them have links to videos, and I can't really watch them at work, so I'm going through 'em now. Here's one the Bloggess sent out yesterday:
Cool! I love 3-D effect street painting.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Sneaky
About a minute and a half after starting work this morning, I gave myself a wicked paper cut on the tip of the middle finger of my left hand. Oh, it's gonna be a good day. After running around with my finger in my mouth for a bit (don'tbleedonthebooksdon'tbleedonthebooks) I finally located a band-aid and slapped it on the wound.
Shortly after that, my old supervisor popped up outside my cubicle and attempted an ambush. It started with desultory conversation about what I was doing (viewing microfilm), and then moved on to this:
"I was going to ask [my supervisor], but thought I'd run this by you first to see what you thought. [A librarian from another section] usually looks after our desk when we have staff meetings and trainings, but he's on sabbatical right now. We were wondering if you and [my fellow refugee] would be interested in doing the desk for us. I mean, I could get one of the students to do it, but ..." and then she trailed off, looking at me expectantly.
"I have so many things going on right now, I just don't think I can take that on too," I lied, sending up a silent prayer of thanksgiving for Malory's warning.
"Oh. Okay. I just thought I'd ask." And then she vanished.
After she left I tracked down my colleague to warn her of a possible sneak-attack. She hasn't been approached yet. At her suggestion I emailed my supervisor (who's out today) to let her know, just in case those people try to do an end-run 'round us and "seek permission" for us for something we don't want to do.
Here's the thing: if the situation were reversed and someone approached one of my old supervisor's employees with an offer like that without checking with her first, you'd hear her screams of rage from as far away as Pittsburgh. Sneaky little mumblegrumbleumph.
D'you think it was an omen, which finger got the boo-boo?
Shortly after that, my old supervisor popped up outside my cubicle and attempted an ambush. It started with desultory conversation about what I was doing (viewing microfilm), and then moved on to this:
"I was going to ask [my supervisor], but thought I'd run this by you first to see what you thought. [A librarian from another section] usually looks after our desk when we have staff meetings and trainings, but he's on sabbatical right now. We were wondering if you and [my fellow refugee] would be interested in doing the desk for us. I mean, I could get one of the students to do it, but ..." and then she trailed off, looking at me expectantly.
"I have so many things going on right now, I just don't think I can take that on too," I lied, sending up a silent prayer of thanksgiving for Malory's warning.
"Oh. Okay. I just thought I'd ask." And then she vanished.
After she left I tracked down my colleague to warn her of a possible sneak-attack. She hasn't been approached yet. At her suggestion I emailed my supervisor (who's out today) to let her know, just in case those people try to do an end-run 'round us and "seek permission" for us for something we don't want to do.
Here's the thing: if the situation were reversed and someone approached one of my old supervisor's employees with an offer like that without checking with her first, you'd hear her screams of rage from as far away as Pittsburgh. Sneaky little mumblegrumbleumph.
D'you think it was an omen, which finger got the boo-boo?
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Blame Chief Loon for this one
She sent me this in an email. It's really punny. As she wrote when I emailed back to her that it was awful: The only way to deal with a pun or an earworm is to pass it on.
Share and enjoy:
Share and enjoy:
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Once every three years, whether I need it or not
I hate people touching my head. It's the main reason why I have long hair--it usually takes me about three years from the last time I get my hair cut to talk myself into going back and getting another one. If someone could figure out a way to wave the comb and scissors around over my head and magically make my hair shorter, I'd be so very happy.
I particularly hate the pre-cut shampooing session. Friends have told me that's their favorite part of the experience, that it's like getting a scalp massage--soooo relaxing. Not with me. I lie back with my head in someone's sink, trying to make small-talk and all the time thinking stoptouchingmestoptouchingmestoptouchingme. When I get up from the sink and follow the stylist to her station I have little half-moon fingernail marks in my palms.
Part of this may come from the time I got head lice, right before my eighteenth birthday. Mom spent an evening going all over my head with a bottle of Rid and a fine-toothed comb (I'm starting to itch just thinking about it). But I think that just reinforced an attitude about something I never liked anyway. Maybe I was scalped in a past life.
Anyway, I think it's time to let someone have a go at my hair. I've been resisting the idea for a while. When you get to the point, though, that your hair's too heavy to stay in a chignon, and it tickles your elbows when it's down (making you think there's someone behind you. Fun for someone living alone), it might be time to take action. And then there's what happens when I try to comb it. All my hair does is sit on my head all day, and yet when I try to comb it, I find that it's turned into one massive tangle towards the bottom. Is there some sort of party going on just past the nape of my neck? I sit here at night (or in the morning), combing and howling. The cat sits next to me while I do this, and I'll bet she's thinking, "Stop doing that if it hurts. Stupid."
Think of me Saturday. I'm going into Holiday Hair and asking someone to transform this:
into this:
Wish the poor unfortunate scissors-jockey some luck.
I particularly hate the pre-cut shampooing session. Friends have told me that's their favorite part of the experience, that it's like getting a scalp massage--soooo relaxing. Not with me. I lie back with my head in someone's sink, trying to make small-talk and all the time thinking stoptouchingmestoptouchingmestoptouchingme. When I get up from the sink and follow the stylist to her station I have little half-moon fingernail marks in my palms.
Part of this may come from the time I got head lice, right before my eighteenth birthday. Mom spent an evening going all over my head with a bottle of Rid and a fine-toothed comb (I'm starting to itch just thinking about it). But I think that just reinforced an attitude about something I never liked anyway. Maybe I was scalped in a past life.
Anyway, I think it's time to let someone have a go at my hair. I've been resisting the idea for a while. When you get to the point, though, that your hair's too heavy to stay in a chignon, and it tickles your elbows when it's down (making you think there's someone behind you. Fun for someone living alone), it might be time to take action. And then there's what happens when I try to comb it. All my hair does is sit on my head all day, and yet when I try to comb it, I find that it's turned into one massive tangle towards the bottom. Is there some sort of party going on just past the nape of my neck? I sit here at night (or in the morning), combing and howling. The cat sits next to me while I do this, and I'll bet she's thinking, "Stop doing that if it hurts. Stupid."
Think of me Saturday. I'm going into Holiday Hair and asking someone to transform this:
into this:
Wish the poor unfortunate scissors-jockey some luck.
Saturday, February 07, 2009
Kitty's kidneys
We went back to the doctor (to get another shrink...sorry. Wrong song) for Delilah's kidney recheck. He poked and prodded while she put up with it, then he took her out of the room to draw some blood. I'm glad they don't do that with me in the room. Partly 'cause I'd be upset to see it, and partly because I think she'd be upset for me for not helping her get away from the man with the sharp object.
While they were gone, I read this poster with a chart on it that was equating dog and cat years with human ones. It only went up to 15, and at 15 (according to the chart) a cat's age is equivalent to that of a 75-year-old human. Cripes! When Dr. M. came back into the room with my cat, I mentioned that the chart stopped at 15 years. His assistant found me another one that went farther. 18 is 88, 19 is 92, so right now Delilah is the feline equivalent of 90! Yowza.
I got a voice mail from the vet on Thursday. He says she's stabilized, and that actually it looked like her levels had improved a little. He dismissed that as a fluctuation. He wants me to put her on calcitriol, and called Franck's Pharmacy for me--said they'll call me in a day or two. He gave me an 800-number, which made me wonder if this was going to be a mail-order prescription.
I looked them up on the web. It is. They're in Ocala, FL, and it looks like they're the only people who compound calcitriol for veterinary use. Here's the article on the stuff she's going to take, and what it does for her. Sounds promising.
I can't get over the age thing. 90. I hope I'm still galloping around at 90.
While they were gone, I read this poster with a chart on it that was equating dog and cat years with human ones. It only went up to 15, and at 15 (according to the chart) a cat's age is equivalent to that of a 75-year-old human. Cripes! When Dr. M. came back into the room with my cat, I mentioned that the chart stopped at 15 years. His assistant found me another one that went farther. 18 is 88, 19 is 92, so right now Delilah is the feline equivalent of 90! Yowza.
I got a voice mail from the vet on Thursday. He says she's stabilized, and that actually it looked like her levels had improved a little. He dismissed that as a fluctuation. He wants me to put her on calcitriol, and called Franck's Pharmacy for me--said they'll call me in a day or two. He gave me an 800-number, which made me wonder if this was going to be a mail-order prescription.
I looked them up on the web. It is. They're in Ocala, FL, and it looks like they're the only people who compound calcitriol for veterinary use. Here's the article on the stuff she's going to take, and what it does for her. Sounds promising.
I can't get over the age thing. 90. I hope I'm still galloping around at 90.
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Fair warning
My fellow refugee from Hell approached me a few days ago and reported the following:
Our old boss and someone she used to supervise (let's call her Malory) are on the same committee. Malory approached my colleague recently to tell her that she (my colleague) and I should watch out. Apparently at one of this committee's meetings, our ex-supervisor said the following to Malory:
"I don't understand why Vee and Cee haven't come down to work on our desk. They said they'd just need a little time to get settled in their new jobs, and then they could do reference work again."
Okay, first of all, I don't know who "they" are. I think my new boss and her boss said to my old boss and her boss that they'd like us to be left alone for a bit until we settled in. Working on a reference desk is something a few of the catalogers do for a couple hours a week--it's called "job enrichment." They were probably saying that eventually we could join the job enrichment program.
While I am interested in using the reference muscle before it atrophies completely (G, your word questions help me there) I have never, ever, ever indicated in any way that I intended or even wanted go back downstairs and work for them for two hours a week.
I would rather be shot.
From a cannon.
So now every time I go downstairs I'm waiting for my ex-boss to ask me about that. I'm ready for her. I'm planning to ask my supervisor if I can do an exchange to another library entirely, one where I know absolutely nothing about the subject matter. 'Cause really that's the point of this program, to learn new skills. Right? Right.
I am so very grateful to Malory for giving us a heads-up, and I told her so. She shook her head and said, "They just don't get it, do they? They're horrible to their people for years and then are surprised and hurt when those people later shun them."
Yep. That about sums it up.
Our old boss and someone she used to supervise (let's call her Malory) are on the same committee. Malory approached my colleague recently to tell her that she (my colleague) and I should watch out. Apparently at one of this committee's meetings, our ex-supervisor said the following to Malory:
"I don't understand why Vee and Cee haven't come down to work on our desk. They said they'd just need a little time to get settled in their new jobs, and then they could do reference work again."
Okay, first of all, I don't know who "they" are. I think my new boss and her boss said to my old boss and her boss that they'd like us to be left alone for a bit until we settled in. Working on a reference desk is something a few of the catalogers do for a couple hours a week--it's called "job enrichment." They were probably saying that eventually we could join the job enrichment program.
While I am interested in using the reference muscle before it atrophies completely (G, your word questions help me there) I have never, ever, ever indicated in any way that I intended or even wanted go back downstairs and work for them for two hours a week.
I would rather be shot.
From a cannon.
So now every time I go downstairs I'm waiting for my ex-boss to ask me about that. I'm ready for her. I'm planning to ask my supervisor if I can do an exchange to another library entirely, one where I know absolutely nothing about the subject matter. 'Cause really that's the point of this program, to learn new skills. Right? Right.
I am so very grateful to Malory for giving us a heads-up, and I told her so. She shook her head and said, "They just don't get it, do they? They're horrible to their people for years and then are surprised and hurt when those people later shun them."
Yep. That about sums it up.
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