Is it the middle of May already? Good grief. The month's gone by on wheels. I guess time flies when you enjoy your job.
The job I just left was the first (only) full-time one I've had. I've been with them for almost 16 years (a year and a half of that was as a part-timer), and the bulk of it was in the position I had until recently. At least 12 of those years were under the same supervisor. Now that I'm out of there, I can look back and see how bad things were.
Oh. My. God.
It had never occurred to me that there was any other way to work than to have someone at you all the time, interrupting what you do, giving you projects without complete instructions, changing things when you're halfway done, and then treating you like an idiot for not giving them exactly what they wanted but never articulated. I mean, who am I, Kreskin?
Every single thing I said and did at work was monitored and criticized. I caught crap (privately, after the fact, behind her office door) for speaking up at meetings, for not speaking up at meetings, for taking matters into my own hands without consulting my supervisor, for consulting my supervisor instead of acting independently (favorite quote: "Well, what do you think the answer is?" Can you hear the bomb ticking in the background? I always could. If I gave her the right answer, the next thing she'd ask was, "So why are you asking me?"). We had to tell her everywhere we were going and when we'd be back. She suspected us all of goofing off when she wasn't around. She had (well, has. She's still here) a tone when speaking to us that took me a while to pinpoint, but I have it now. She speaks to one she sees as an inferior as if she were the lady of the house upbraiding a servant who has just broken a plate.
She and her boss (head of the department) have said quite a few times that the rest of the library sees them as "difficult." They're sort of proud of it, really. Now that I'm away from them, I'm seeing the other side of the story. Difficult? No. They are seen as mean and crazy.
This job is wonderful. They give me something to do and then leave me alone to do it, secure in the knowledge that: a) I know what I'm doing, b) if I have questions, I'll ask, and c) when I'm done, I'll ask for more work. I've seen my new supervisor maybe 5 times this month. Twice of those were from a distance and one was in a team meeting. It's a whole new world.
I think I was teetering on the edge of a depression there for a while. I'd stopped doing everything I enjoyed -- jewelry-making, singing, embroidery, dancing...yep, even that, the activity I took up with a mind towards cheering myself up. Couldn't tell you the last book I read. I couldn't even make it through a whole episode of my favorite television show without wanting to turn it off and go to bed.
I did make myself go to that pottery class once a week. I joined, I think, because on some level I could feel myself slipping and wanted to do something about it. Fling myself out there with people, learn a new skill. I didn't really like it (too messy, to much hurry-up-and-wait) and I only kept up with it because I'd paid for it in advance. Even then, I skipped the last class, accidentally on purpose. I didn't remember that I had one more class to go to until I got home from work, and even though I could have probably have made it back to town in time for it, I decided to just skip it.
Blogging was starting to be a chore, even. I'd sit here and look at a blank "create post" window with its little blinking cursor, trying to think of something, anything to say. Usually I just gave up and closed the window.
I'm a whole lot better now. Shortly before moving, I noticed myself looking at things and thinking, "I should blog that." Right before Easter, I started a new embroidery project. I'm also working on a little bracelet made out of black and silver seed beads done in something called a zulu stitch. Bought a copy of Edna Ferber's Giant from the used bookstore downtown last week and devoured it. And last Saturday I attended a workshop for bellydance, where I was taught a choreography to a song by Tarkan (he's Turkey's answer to Justin Timberlake) called Şimarik -- here's a video for the song, put out in the 90s, I think.
Heck, I think I may even get my camera fixed instead of just talking about it. Though I saw another one in Circuit City a week back that I really, really want. It has an optical zoom of 10x, as opposed to the one I have now, which is 6. Mind you, 6 is very good, but 10? I might get a picture of the moon that I won't have to blow up until it's almost pixellated.
And what are the odds that this old one will go kaflooey yet again with the same problem that's already taken it out twice? I think there's a design flaw somewhere.
Yeah, that's it. Design flaw. Need new camera.
Ah, since when did need ever enter into it?
Up next (probably tomorrow): the Spelling Wasp.
Saturday, May 19, 2007
Friday, May 11, 2007
That just about sums me up
As I leave work for the evening and head downtown, it starts to rain. Pour. Like someone is on the roof of a nearby building with a firehose. Most of those who don't have umbrellas (and that would be all of us) are shouting and sprinting for cover wherever they can find it.
Not me. I pull up the hood of my sweatshirt, which is pointless. The thing doesn't so much repel the rain as it does collect it. The reason I'm still outside? The sun is peeking out from a cloud directly behind me, and that means there might be a rainbow out here somewhere.
Cold, uncomfortable, sopping wet, with shoes that are going squelch with rainwater all night, and ignoring it all to look for rainbows. Yep. That's me all over.
Not me. I pull up the hood of my sweatshirt, which is pointless. The thing doesn't so much repel the rain as it does collect it. The reason I'm still outside? The sun is peeking out from a cloud directly behind me, and that means there might be a rainbow out here somewhere.
Cold, uncomfortable, sopping wet, with shoes that are going squelch with rainwater all night, and ignoring it all to look for rainbows. Yep. That's me all over.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Musical nostalgia
Tomorrow is move out day. I don't know when exactly. It depends upon when the Computer Guys come to move my terminal. I came in to the office today to do the last little bit of cleaning and packing -- I can't seem to get anything like that done during the week. The only time I'd be able to do it is my lunch break or if I stay after work, and by five o'clock the needle on the bull[ahem] meter is well into the red zone. It's all I can do to not run screaming from the building.
So, anyway. I get my desk cleaned off, pack all my files, and put everything on the cart I use to schlepp things around the building. On my way out I stop at the little café in the basement and buy myself a bottle of water. As I'm paying for it, the radio starts playing "Isn't She Lovely," by Stevie Wonder.
"Oh!" says one of the young ladies behind the counter. "I love this song! At my junior prom, this is the song they played as I was coming down the steps."
"Aw." This in chorus, from women on both sides of the counter.
"I am such a ham," she confesses. "I started down the steps, and this came on, and I was all..." She turns to one side and does a coy look to the floor and then up through fluttering lashes. "It was a great night. Also, the guy I went with was hot..."
"Well, that doesn't hurt," I reply.
"Mmm. I made him wear pink, and he looked sexy in it."
At this point my water is paid for, and someone behind me wants a bagel, so I take my leave.
It's funny what songs will do to you. I can't keep a straight face while listening to John Denver's "Sunshine on my Shoulders."
My sister and I used to amuse ourselves on long car trips a number of ways. This was before backseat drop-down DVD players, iPods, Walkmen, even. We were captives to whatever our father had on the radio. Sadly, twenty-five years later, this is still true. Driving back from my cousin's wedding in Virginia, I was held hostage by NASCAR radio. *Sob* An entire afternoon of:
I'm not sure what kept me from hanging my head out of the open window and howling like a wild thing.
On these endless car rides, we either read, slept, bickered until the Hand of Justice clamped down on us from the front seat, or played games like "Billboard Alphabet." Sometimes in a spirit of Making Fun Where You Can, we'd start playing around with lyrics of some old radio chestnut we'd heard a hundred times already, et voilà! A new song is born. So now whenever I hear "Sunshine on my Shoulders,"instead of the actual words here's what I hear:
"Sunshine on my shoulders gives me sunburn.
Sunshine in my eyes can make me blind.
Sunshine on the water makes it boil.
Sunshine almost always is unkind."
(or "makes me cry." We've done it both ways, and I forget now which came first.)
Sorry Mr. Denver. Nothing personal. Just two bored kids in the back of a station wagon with three hours to go before they hit the Massachusetts state line.
So, anyway. I get my desk cleaned off, pack all my files, and put everything on the cart I use to schlepp things around the building. On my way out I stop at the little café in the basement and buy myself a bottle of water. As I'm paying for it, the radio starts playing "Isn't She Lovely," by Stevie Wonder.
"Oh!" says one of the young ladies behind the counter. "I love this song! At my junior prom, this is the song they played as I was coming down the steps."
"Aw." This in chorus, from women on both sides of the counter.
"I am such a ham," she confesses. "I started down the steps, and this came on, and I was all..." She turns to one side and does a coy look to the floor and then up through fluttering lashes. "It was a great night. Also, the guy I went with was hot..."
"Well, that doesn't hurt," I reply.
"Mmm. I made him wear pink, and he looked sexy in it."
At this point my water is paid for, and someone behind me wants a bagel, so I take my leave.
It's funny what songs will do to you. I can't keep a straight face while listening to John Denver's "Sunshine on my Shoulders."
My sister and I used to amuse ourselves on long car trips a number of ways. This was before backseat drop-down DVD players, iPods, Walkmen, even. We were captives to whatever our father had on the radio. Sadly, twenty-five years later, this is still true. Driving back from my cousin's wedding in Virginia, I was held hostage by NASCAR radio. *Sob* An entire afternoon of:
nnnnnnNYOWMNnnnnn
I'm not sure what kept me from hanging my head out of the open window and howling like a wild thing.
On these endless car rides, we either read, slept, bickered until the Hand of Justice clamped down on us from the front seat, or played games like "Billboard Alphabet." Sometimes in a spirit of Making Fun Where You Can, we'd start playing around with lyrics of some old radio chestnut we'd heard a hundred times already, et voilà! A new song is born. So now whenever I hear "Sunshine on my Shoulders,"instead of the actual words here's what I hear:
"Sunshine on my shoulders gives me sunburn.
Sunshine in my eyes can make me blind.
Sunshine on the water makes it boil.
Sunshine almost always is unkind."
(or "makes me cry." We've done it both ways, and I forget now which came first.)
Sorry Mr. Denver. Nothing personal. Just two bored kids in the back of a station wagon with three hours to go before they hit the Massachusetts state line.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Ch-ch-ch-changes
I think I've touched briefly upon all the flapdoodle at work. Yes? It's been going on in some form or another for almost 17 months now, and an end (at least for one of my colleagues and me) is finally in sight. The dean stepped in last month and decided that as of May 1, my colleague and I will be part of another department.
Initially I was a bit upset, but upon reflection I think that was just vocational Stockholm Syndrome. A few weeks back, we had a very good meeting with our (soon to be) new supervisor and her department head. They seem to be reasonable people, with a management style that seems to be pretty hands-off (hurray!). They're thrilled we'll be joining them, and everyone else we've talked to in the new place is just as happy about it -- though they very sweetly tried not to appear so at first, in case it looked like gloating.
The morning after this meeting with The New Boss, I woke up an hour before the alarm, was showered, dressed, breakfasted, and sitting by the radio embroidering before 6:30. I took the early bus in, had a nice leisurely cup of coffee before heading to work, and just marvelled at how I felt: good. Really, really good. Better than I've felt in over a year. Optimistic, happy, cheerful, hopeful, insert your favorite positive adjective here. It was like I've been living in a fog and didn't notice it until it cleared away. I'm sure the meeting and the mood are related because it's been almost a month now, and I still feel good.
My current supervisor and department head are both doing their best to subtly poison us against the people we will be working with and for. It's not working, though. I wish I'd recognized sooner that I was being used as a weapon, but at least I've figured it out now. All of the trying-to-push-my-buttons is having exactly the opposite effect, in fact. I wish I could switch departments right now, instead of in May.
I was informed this morning that my new cubicle is ready for me. I started moving my tschotchkes into the new space on my afternoon break. M'colleague (any Fry and Laurie fans out there?) came with me, mainly to see what the new space looked like. We were there maybe ten minutes before the welcome wagon came 'round. And 'round. And 'round. At least four people stopped by to say howdy and (probably) to get some juicy gossip about life in Purgatory.
That's going to take a little getting used to. I'm accustomed to a work room that has at most six people in it at one time. This place has probably around one hundred, in various teams. Classic cube farm, complete with prairie dogging co-workers.
The only thing I'm really going to miss in my new job is the reference desk. I won't be doing any, at least for a while. Instead, I will be cataloging serials all day. Though they did say that if I wanted to I could be part of the job enrichment program, and work on a reference desk for two hours a week. For someone who's used to ten hours a week, two seems a bit small.
I'm sure I'll have plenty to keep me busy though.
And now I'm off to dinner, and to go see some actors from Juliard perform a stage adaptation of Jane Eyre.
Initially I was a bit upset, but upon reflection I think that was just vocational Stockholm Syndrome. A few weeks back, we had a very good meeting with our (soon to be) new supervisor and her department head. They seem to be reasonable people, with a management style that seems to be pretty hands-off (hurray!). They're thrilled we'll be joining them, and everyone else we've talked to in the new place is just as happy about it -- though they very sweetly tried not to appear so at first, in case it looked like gloating.
The morning after this meeting with The New Boss, I woke up an hour before the alarm, was showered, dressed, breakfasted, and sitting by the radio embroidering before 6:30. I took the early bus in, had a nice leisurely cup of coffee before heading to work, and just marvelled at how I felt: good. Really, really good. Better than I've felt in over a year. Optimistic, happy, cheerful, hopeful, insert your favorite positive adjective here. It was like I've been living in a fog and didn't notice it until it cleared away. I'm sure the meeting and the mood are related because it's been almost a month now, and I still feel good.
My current supervisor and department head are both doing their best to subtly poison us against the people we will be working with and for. It's not working, though. I wish I'd recognized sooner that I was being used as a weapon, but at least I've figured it out now. All of the trying-to-push-my-buttons is having exactly the opposite effect, in fact. I wish I could switch departments right now, instead of in May.
I was informed this morning that my new cubicle is ready for me. I started moving my tschotchkes into the new space on my afternoon break. M'colleague (any Fry and Laurie fans out there?) came with me, mainly to see what the new space looked like. We were there maybe ten minutes before the welcome wagon came 'round. And 'round. And 'round. At least four people stopped by to say howdy and (probably) to get some juicy gossip about life in Purgatory.
That's going to take a little getting used to. I'm accustomed to a work room that has at most six people in it at one time. This place has probably around one hundred, in various teams. Classic cube farm, complete with prairie dogging co-workers.
The only thing I'm really going to miss in my new job is the reference desk. I won't be doing any, at least for a while. Instead, I will be cataloging serials all day. Though they did say that if I wanted to I could be part of the job enrichment program, and work on a reference desk for two hours a week. For someone who's used to ten hours a week, two seems a bit small.
I'm sure I'll have plenty to keep me busy though.
And now I'm off to dinner, and to go see some actors from Juliard perform a stage adaptation of Jane Eyre.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Things you see when you don't have a (working) camera...
I went to my parents' house for Easter weekend. Came back home last night. On the way home, riding through some teeny tiny town whose name I can't remember/not sure I ever knew, we zipped past something that made me dearly wish I had a working camera with me.
Some family had decorated their yard for Easter using little blow-up plastic bunnies everywhere. They were tied to stakes to keep the wind from making off with them. I don't know if you heard, but we had some horrible weather this weekend over much of the northern USA. More snow this Easter than there was this past Christmas. The bunnies were a bit wind-blown and deflated, most of them very close to lying flat on the ground. It looked like someone had not so much tied them in place as staked each one through the heart. A bit gruesome. I sure hope it wasn't the original intent.
And then this morning, when I got off the bus at my usual stop and made my way over to the place where I get coffee before work, I passed a wooded area marked off in yellow "CRIME SCENE -- DO NOT CROSS" tape. My goodness. I go away for a long weekend and the whole place goes to hell. The fellow who sold me my coffee said it's an assignment for some forensics class on campus. He said they used the same area last year, but I don't remember it. But then, I think I was getting a ride to work this time last year, and we didn't come onto campus from the same direction.
Some family had decorated their yard for Easter using little blow-up plastic bunnies everywhere. They were tied to stakes to keep the wind from making off with them. I don't know if you heard, but we had some horrible weather this weekend over much of the northern USA. More snow this Easter than there was this past Christmas. The bunnies were a bit wind-blown and deflated, most of them very close to lying flat on the ground. It looked like someone had not so much tied them in place as staked each one through the heart. A bit gruesome. I sure hope it wasn't the original intent.
And then this morning, when I got off the bus at my usual stop and made my way over to the place where I get coffee before work, I passed a wooded area marked off in yellow "CRIME SCENE -- DO NOT CROSS" tape. My goodness. I go away for a long weekend and the whole place goes to hell. The fellow who sold me my coffee said it's an assignment for some forensics class on campus. He said they used the same area last year, but I don't remember it. But then, I think I was getting a ride to work this time last year, and we didn't come onto campus from the same direction.
Monday, March 26, 2007
My Visual DNA
What am I doing, making up for lost time by posting two a day? Apparently. Nifty little website.
I'm in the basement of that bagel shop again, listening to a group of students converse (or try to) in German. I love living in a college town, have I mentioned that lately?
Medieval Helpdesk
A coworker sent me this sometime last week. Finally got a chance to see it today, as it seems the cold I had a few weeks ago was in reality an advance scout for the stomach flu I had from Wednesday evening on through to Sunday. I found a new crash diet! 10 pounds in 4 days! And you don't even feel hungry. Seriously. Food frightens me right now.
But I digress. This has been floating around on YouTube for a week or so now. It's from a Norwegian sketch comedy show. Some kind soul has given it English subtitles.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Flotsam and jetsam
For the laundry impaired: Saw a man in a T-shirt that read, "Same shirt, different day."
Talking to one of the bus drivers a couple of weeks back:
Driver: So did you have a nice Valentine's Day?
Vee: Yeah, it was pretty good.
D: How'd you spend it?
V: Throwing pots.
D: At...whom?
V: No, no, no. Not lobbing kitchenware. Throwing pots. Clay. On a wheel?
D: Aaahhhh.
Little novelties:
I got my eyes checked a few weeks ago. I was test-driving a pair of contact lenses there for a while (I did eventually decide to buy contacts, but not that brand. Boy, were they uncomfortable!). After I put them in the first time I wandered around the store, shopping for frames for the new glasses. It was a new experience to put the frames on and not have to put my nose almost to the mirror to see what I look like in 'em.
And then a few days later, while walking along the sidewalk squinting in the sunlight it hit me: I can wear sunglasses now! Woo-hoo!
Pretty silly, isn't it, to spend close to $100 on your eyes just for the ability to wear a $10 pair of sunglasses.
Talking to one of the bus drivers a couple of weeks back:
Driver: So did you have a nice Valentine's Day?
Vee: Yeah, it was pretty good.
D: How'd you spend it?
V: Throwing pots.
D: At...whom?
V: No, no, no. Not lobbing kitchenware. Throwing pots. Clay. On a wheel?
D: Aaahhhh.
Little novelties:
I got my eyes checked a few weeks ago. I was test-driving a pair of contact lenses there for a while (I did eventually decide to buy contacts, but not that brand. Boy, were they uncomfortable!). After I put them in the first time I wandered around the store, shopping for frames for the new glasses. It was a new experience to put the frames on and not have to put my nose almost to the mirror to see what I look like in 'em.
And then a few days later, while walking along the sidewalk squinting in the sunlight it hit me: I can wear sunglasses now! Woo-hoo!
Pretty silly, isn't it, to spend close to $100 on your eyes just for the ability to wear a $10 pair of sunglasses.
Friday, March 09, 2007
Fevers make the best dreams
I've caught some sort of cold. Well, considering I work with the public and take mass transit to and from work, what were the odds that one of the sniffling multitude around me was going to breathe on me and give me something yucky?
This is my second day off work, and the first time in about 24 hours that I can string together coherent thoughts. Yesterday I managed to call my supervisor and croak out, "Sick. Fever. Not coming in." before I lost all track of time. Pretty sure I'll be back on Monday.
Favorite symptom: bizarre dreams. It's like watching some sort of arthouse movie, heavy on symbolism and subtext, light on actual sense. The one that I woke up to this morning featured a walk in the woods with someone I knew at the time (but of course is a stranger to me now) and encountering a little bear cub with a bright red streak on its muzzle. Not blood red, more like fruit punch red -- like something a punker would do to his hair. My companion wanted to stop and pet the bear (come to think of it, the cub looked a lot like my parents' little black dog Pippin), while all I could think was, "Mama bear's around here somewhere, we better get away from her cub or she'll tear us apart."
And then suddenly we were at the shore, this person and I, running some sort of hotel on a beached ocean liner, where we'd call the room numbers "wave 72" instead of "room 72." There was some sort of mystery involving the theft of jewelry that turned out to be (when I finally got to see it) silly souvenir-type stuff -- paua shells and turquoise chips and coral pieces.
Interesting what the mind will do when the body's a little warmer than normal.
This is my second day off work, and the first time in about 24 hours that I can string together coherent thoughts. Yesterday I managed to call my supervisor and croak out, "Sick. Fever. Not coming in." before I lost all track of time. Pretty sure I'll be back on Monday.
Favorite symptom: bizarre dreams. It's like watching some sort of arthouse movie, heavy on symbolism and subtext, light on actual sense. The one that I woke up to this morning featured a walk in the woods with someone I knew at the time (but of course is a stranger to me now) and encountering a little bear cub with a bright red streak on its muzzle. Not blood red, more like fruit punch red -- like something a punker would do to his hair. My companion wanted to stop and pet the bear (come to think of it, the cub looked a lot like my parents' little black dog Pippin), while all I could think was, "Mama bear's around here somewhere, we better get away from her cub or she'll tear us apart."
And then suddenly we were at the shore, this person and I, running some sort of hotel on a beached ocean liner, where we'd call the room numbers "wave 72" instead of "room 72." There was some sort of mystery involving the theft of jewelry that turned out to be (when I finally got to see it) silly souvenir-type stuff -- paua shells and turquoise chips and coral pieces.
Interesting what the mind will do when the body's a little warmer than normal.
Saturday, March 03, 2007
Clay tribute
They've put together a memorial service for my friend Mary. It's today. I'm not going. It sounds like some large, long, intricate thing. Not like Mary at all.
The course I'm taking in wheel-thrown pottery includes 15 hours of time to use the facility outside of class. I've decided that instead of going to a funeral where everyone will be all long-faced and sniffling, I'm going to go throw pots. It will be a more fitting tribute to a woman who was a potter, a teacher, and a life-long learner.
The course I'm taking in wheel-thrown pottery includes 15 hours of time to use the facility outside of class. I've decided that instead of going to a funeral where everyone will be all long-faced and sniffling, I'm going to go throw pots. It will be a more fitting tribute to a woman who was a potter, a teacher, and a life-long learner.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Finally!
I know the date says Wednesday. I've been writing this in bits and pieces all week. It's Friday, March 2 now, and I'm finally ready to post this.
Around 5 pm Monday I finished the Underground Newspapers project I've been whining about since last May. I was so happy, I almost whipped of my shirt and ran around the office, a la Brandi Chastain.
Volume 1 in 1975, vol. 7 in 1976, vol. 11 in 1977, vol. 3 in 1978? What? I stared at the entry for a little while, and a scene played out in my head.
Around 5 pm Monday I finished the Underground Newspapers project I've been whining about since last May. I was so happy, I almost whipped of my shirt and ran around the office, a la Brandi Chastain.
Almost.
Now that I’m done, I can look back and pick out some of the highlights and oddities. Well, no, face it Vee, the whole collection is one big oddity. But I digress:
Favorite titles (Based solely on the title of the publication. I didn't stop to read most of these):
The Anemic Traveler: the newsletter with poor circulation; Bandersnatch; Bi-Weekly Blah-Blah; Borrowed Times; Come Unity (which sounds like "community" if spoken aloud); The Buddhist 3rd Class Junk Mail Oracle (also known as The Barking Rabbit) -- which later changed its name to: Great Swamp Erie Da Da Boom; The Distant Drummer; Fertilizer; A Four-Year Bummer; Good Morning Teaspoon; Great Speckled Bird; High Times; In Arcane Logos; Kompost; Kudzu; Lux Verite; Mile High Underground; Oscar's Underground Ghetto Press; Protean Radish; River Courant; The Son of Jabberwock; Twentieth Century Anonymous; Witzend
Something in the water?
California likes oracles: From 1966-1968, groups in Los Angeles, San Francisco, and Larkspur, California all decided to produce newspapers called "The Oracle."
And the midwest likes kaleidoscopes: During the seventies, groups in
Proof that "anarchy" and "chaos" aren't necessarily synonyms:
Freedom: the anarchist weekly -- published weekly from 1947-1960, had a little bobble from 1961-1963 where they went to three times a month, and then weekly again until 1975. Wow. And I can't remember to call my Mom once a week.
Probleem vooruit:
Any title in this set that was in a foreign language (be it Spanish, Greek, Hawaiian, Navajo, Finnish, Dutch…) was destined to have incorrect index entries.
The moment when I knew this thing had taken over my life and warped my thinking:
The title was "Broken Barriers," out of New Orleans. The index listed the issues thusly:
Volume 1 in 1975, vol. 7 in 1976, vol. 11 in 1977, vol. 3 in 1978? What? I stared at the entry for a little while, and a scene played out in my head.
First, let me explain. This collection was organized by year, then alphabetically by title, and then photographed. What's that mean? Well, look at the entry. Issues for this one title are scattered throughout the collection. The whole index is like this, all 1000+ titles in it. I think there were two reasons things were done like this: 1) newspaper degrades fast; and 2) these were publications of independent presses, and might not be printed with any regularity. They could (and did) sometimes go years between publishing issues. Waiting for a "complete" volume was not a good idea.
Since the issues were filmed in different years, I think it's safe to assume that filming wasn't always done by the same person. I also suspect that the photographer filled out a chart as he/she went along, reporting titles, volume and issue information, and dates. This chart was then transcribed into the index by a typist somewhere else in the building. The typist had no contact with the photographers whatsoever, and had to believe that what was on the chart was correct. With me so far?
Okay, now here's how I saw it happening:
My guess was that volume numbers for this title uses roman numerals, and the issue numbers are regular ones. Photographers for reels 178 and 200 recognize this, and write "1" and "2" in whatever place on the chart they need to. Unfortunately, the photographer for #2 has crappy handwriting, and his/her "2" looks like a "7" to the typist. Photographer for reel 229 either needs glasses or doesn't know roman numerals, and he/she records II as "11," so that's what gets transcribed into the index. Photographer for reel 261 recognizes "III" as "3," writes that. Typist sees that on chart, shakes head at the vagaries of independent/alternative presses (1,7,11,3?), and dutifully enters "3" into the index.
I go to the film reels, sure that each issue for volumes "7" and "11" are going to be "Volume II." I am right. I am momentarily triumphant; and then very, very frightened of myself.
The Parting Shot:
All the way at the end of the title portion of the index (three pages from the end, to be exact), there's an entry for Xex Graphix:
Cataloging microfilmed versions of comic books. Never thought I'd be doing that.
But now I’m done. I have yet to decide how to celebrate. I think I’m going to bring in some baked goodies as a thank-you to my coworkers for putting up with the muttering, weeping, and shouts of outrage that leaked out over my cubicle walls. Not to mention the occasional conversational bludgeoning they’d take as I’d corner one of 'em and jabber on and on about my horrible project until their eyes glazed over.
I wonder what I'm going to be given next. There is a project around here somewhere with my name on it, I'm sure of that. As it was pointed out to me yesterday, the reward for a job well done is usually more work. I hope they come up with something soon. I've been wandering around since Tuesday morning, time hanging heavy on my hands. It's weird not having "that #@$! microfilm project" around, driving me crazy. It's been the bane of my existence for ten months. Now I almost miss it.
Almost.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Snow day!
This whole section of the country got socked with snow. We have about six inches already, and it's still snowing. The university I work for cancelled all classes or activities before 5pm, and non-essential personnel need not report to work.It's good to be non-essential. Off I go to make snow angels. Happy Valentine's Day everyone!
(Picture taken from just outside my door, with the laptop's camera).
Monday, February 12, 2007
Camera woes
I guess that last picture was just too much for the camera. Maybe its lens started to have sympathy pains or something. In any event, I have to send it away to be fixed again. Same problem as last time -- everything works, except that it won't take pictures. I can playback, crop, and adjust to my little heart's content, but when I switch over to a picture-taking mode, all I get is a black screen no matter where I point the camera. It has become, in essence, a very expensive electronic paperweight. Grrr.
So now I get to dig out my receipt and call the 1-800 number, tell the guy on the other end that no, I didn't drop it and no, I didn't get it wet, and yes, the battery is fully charged. Then I'll get a box FedExed to me (which I will of course have to go sign for at the main terminal, as they never come when I'm home) that I'm to put my sick camera into and send off to Wherever They Fix Cameras (last time it was somewhere in Connecticut).
But at least I can play with the pictures I already have:
Or how about:
So now I get to dig out my receipt and call the 1-800 number, tell the guy on the other end that no, I didn't drop it and no, I didn't get it wet, and yes, the battery is fully charged. Then I'll get a box FedExed to me (which I will of course have to go sign for at the main terminal, as they never come when I'm home) that I'm to put my sick camera into and send off to Wherever They Fix Cameras (last time it was somewhere in Connecticut).
But at least I can play with the pictures I already have:
Or how about:
Friday, February 09, 2007
Still life with myopia
So what's wrong with this picture? I done broke mah glasses, that's what wrong! The other pair (the big black frames, remnants of the 1980s) are not so much my back-up pair as they are the only other set I have to hand. The white tape (which makes them look like a prop from Revenge of the Nerds) aren't holding the frame together -- they're acting as little wedges to keep the lens from popping out. Fun huh?
The little wire-rimmed ones have been fixed since this picture was taken. Snapped 'em in two Sunday afternoon (doh! A little too strenuous with the cleaning there), got 'em soldered back together Monday lunchtime.
And now I have an appointment to get my eyes checked, since these just-fixed glasses are a rather old prescription too.
The little wire-rimmed ones have been fixed since this picture was taken. Snapped 'em in two Sunday afternoon (doh! A little too strenuous with the cleaning there), got 'em soldered back together Monday lunchtime.
And now I have an appointment to get my eyes checked, since these just-fixed glasses are a rather old prescription too.
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Love for sale
Standing in the checkout line of a local grocery store, bored, I decide to read the back of the packet of cat treats I'm buying (product name deleted so I don't get sued):
A [product name] treat is special the moment you give it, and even more so the moment after. Because that's the moment, in the wake of that deliciously satisfying taste, when your cat shows how much she loves you--with purrs and smiles just for you. And if you don't have that loving moment often enough...you're not giving your cat enough [product name] treats.
Interesting. I thought a pet's love was unconditional. Silly me.
And how did they know my cat was a she?
A [product name] treat is special the moment you give it, and even more so the moment after. Because that's the moment, in the wake of that deliciously satisfying taste, when your cat shows how much she loves you--with purrs and smiles just for you. And if you don't have that loving moment often enough...you're not giving your cat enough [product name] treats.
Interesting. I thought a pet's love was unconditional. Silly me.
And how did they know my cat was a she?
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Words & language
I was trawling the Internet over my lunch break and ran across this. I'm very proud to say I already knew aglet, harp, minimus, nef, peen, rowel, and hemidemisemiquaver.
Does anyone else out there think that Jarns, Nittles, Grawlix, and Quimp sounds like a law firm?
While I'm thinking about it, Matt over at Defective Yeti has started something he's calling the Cliché Rotation Project that sounds like fun. I've been browsing the clichés at the places he suggested we look first, and at the moment I can't come up with any good replacements.
Does anyone else out there think that Jarns, Nittles, Grawlix, and Quimp sounds like a law firm?
While I'm thinking about it, Matt over at Defective Yeti has started something he's calling the Cliché Rotation Project that sounds like fun. I've been browsing the clichés at the places he suggested we look first, and at the moment I can't come up with any good replacements.
So this is what today is going to be like, huh?
I'm working on a project that involves cataloging microfilm versions of underground newspapers. Been working on it since May. I'm in the T's now. I just ran across a title from Berkeley, CA called Trashman, and for reasons that elude me this popped into my head and won't leave:
"NanaNanaNanaNanaNanaNanaNanaNana Trashman!" (a la the Batman theme song)
Whimper.
"NanaNanaNanaNanaNanaNanaNanaNana Trashman!" (a la the Batman theme song)
Whimper.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Happy birthday, li'l blog...
Wow. A whole year blogging. Frankly, I didn't think I'd make it past a few months.
(update 12/10/07: There used to be a .gif of a cake here, but the link broke. Next year I'll buy a cupcake and some candles and make my own picture. --V)
(update 12/10/07: There used to be a .gif of a cake here, but the link broke. Next year I'll buy a cupcake and some candles and make my own picture. --V)
Monday, January 22, 2007
Mary
A friend of mine died over the weekend. She'd been battling breast cancer for quite some time. She was in remission when we met, but the cancer came back about ten years ago. She's been fighting ever since.
Mary was an amazing woman -- interested in everything, loved the arts, loved nature. She used to travel a lot, back when she was healthier. She was always trying to do new things. I think it was that interest in everything that kept her alive so long, even when she was so horribly sick -- she wasn't done looking around yet.
I've found myself trying to be more like her in recent years. I don't think I ever told her that. No, I'm sure I haven't, because I don't think I even realized that's what I was doing until I typed it a moment ago. The cynic in me tends to roll her eyes skyward when anyone talks about someone being "inspiring," but really I guess that's what she was. The determination with which she held onto life, the way she refused to allow illness to get in the way of her enjoyment of things, the enthusiasm with which she embraced a new idea or activity -- I want to be like that. She's part of the reason I took a drawing course a few years back (just to see if I could draw), and there's a little bit of be-like-Mary in my decisions to blog, to bellydance, to get out there and do something instead of hanging back and dithering. She used to ask for dancing updates. And demand demonstrations. When I visited her in the hospital last week, I mentioned I'd enrolled in an intro to wheel-thrown pottery class that starts the end of this month. That made her perk up a bit (she was a potter, among other things). We made jokes about dancing and throwing at the same time: the wheel going one way and my hips going the other.
She became a potter after her cancer went into remission the first time, back in the 80s (I think). Long before I met her, she'd switched from making regular-sized pottery to miniatures. I have some pictures of her work on my Flick'r account.
I think that Mary wrote her own obituary. It sounds like her voice. I'm not sure how long it will stay up on the newspaper's site, so I'm saving a copy of it on my computer. If the link breaks, I'll work something else out.
Mary was an amazing woman -- interested in everything, loved the arts, loved nature. She used to travel a lot, back when she was healthier. She was always trying to do new things. I think it was that interest in everything that kept her alive so long, even when she was so horribly sick -- she wasn't done looking around yet.
I've found myself trying to be more like her in recent years. I don't think I ever told her that. No, I'm sure I haven't, because I don't think I even realized that's what I was doing until I typed it a moment ago. The cynic in me tends to roll her eyes skyward when anyone talks about someone being "inspiring," but really I guess that's what she was. The determination with which she held onto life, the way she refused to allow illness to get in the way of her enjoyment of things, the enthusiasm with which she embraced a new idea or activity -- I want to be like that. She's part of the reason I took a drawing course a few years back (just to see if I could draw), and there's a little bit of be-like-Mary in my decisions to blog, to bellydance, to get out there and do something instead of hanging back and dithering. She used to ask for dancing updates. And demand demonstrations. When I visited her in the hospital last week, I mentioned I'd enrolled in an intro to wheel-thrown pottery class that starts the end of this month. That made her perk up a bit (she was a potter, among other things). We made jokes about dancing and throwing at the same time: the wheel going one way and my hips going the other.
She became a potter after her cancer went into remission the first time, back in the 80s (I think). Long before I met her, she'd switched from making regular-sized pottery to miniatures. I have some pictures of her work on my Flick'r account.
I think that Mary wrote her own obituary. It sounds like her voice. I'm not sure how long it will stay up on the newspaper's site, so I'm saving a copy of it on my computer. If the link breaks, I'll work something else out.
Friday, January 05, 2007
Is it 2007 already?
Yawn, stretch, scratch, scratch, scratch.
I feel like a bear that's come out of hibernation. Kinda disappeared there for a while over the holidays, didn't I? It's not like I had anything better to do, either. I just hung around town most of the time, doing next to nothing.
I did go to my sister's for Christmas though. Enjoyed that. There were seven of us -- me, my parents, Ditter, Ditter's hubby, and Ditter's in-laws (called hereafter Mr. and Mrs. S). I think I mentioned before that she and her husband bought a house with his parents, didn't I? It all seems to be going well, except that the cats don't get along. Hops is very territorial, always has been. Schotzi tends to stay in Mr. & Mrs. S's bedroom most of the time.
The living room looked like some sort of monument to excess. There were presents everywhere. Here, let me show you:
We ran out of room under the tree and started to build outward. There are more added after this picture was taken. Mr. S said it looked like a department store display.
Christmas itself is a blur. Only a few things stand out:
1) Double warning -- Handwritten in large letters on the hot drinks vending machine of the Greyhound bus terminal:
Caution! Very hot liquid!
And under this, very small, in different handwriting:
When it gives you anything at all!
2) Good night kisses -- I slept in the downstairs guest room. The door to my room stayed open all night, as it had the cats' litter box and food dishes in it. Daisy (my sister's yellow lab) does a bed-check at some time every night (no one else knew this until I told them. Probably because all their doors are shut). She took the opportunity of an open door to come and give my face a quick wash. By the third night the kisses didn't completely wake me -- I incorporated them into my dream.
3) Christmas dinner -- My brother-in-law had done a turkey last year, and though we all liked it, he was a little disappointed. He'd used some recipe from the food network and thought it would taste different. So this year he decided to do prime rib. Very tasty, and very large. It looked like a quarter of a cow, and he hadn't used the whole standing rib roast. I remember him asking my sister whether she wanted him to make steaks out what he wasn't going to use that night, or whether to just leave it as a roast.
4) First Night prep -- fast forward about a week. Home again, home again, jiggity-jig. They'd fenced off a block downtown in preparation for some alcohol-free, family-oriented New Year's Eve festivities called "First Night." A large part of the event has to do with ice sculptures. The ice was brought in a few days in advance, wrapped in silver thermal blankets to keep it cold. New Year's Eve Day, the sculptors start carving. I have a few pictures over at Flickr, if you'd like to see them. I didn't make it to the actual event. I don't think the buses run that late, and besides, I'm usually yawning by 11:30.
The rest of the two weeks went something like this: sleep late, play on the computer, watch TV and knit, go out for a walk, maybe go downtown for a little bit, read, watch TV with cat in lap, go to bed. One day I skipped the walk/downtown part, and just hung around the apartment all day in my PJs. Aaaah. Sloth. I enjoy a little of that every once in a while.
I'm going to have to start using the alarm clock again, starting tonight. I go back to work on Monday, and I should probably get back into the habit of getting up at the crack of dawn.
Hope your holiday was a good one. Happy New Year all!
I feel like a bear that's come out of hibernation. Kinda disappeared there for a while over the holidays, didn't I? It's not like I had anything better to do, either. I just hung around town most of the time, doing next to nothing.
I did go to my sister's for Christmas though. Enjoyed that. There were seven of us -- me, my parents, Ditter, Ditter's hubby, and Ditter's in-laws (called hereafter Mr. and Mrs. S). I think I mentioned before that she and her husband bought a house with his parents, didn't I? It all seems to be going well, except that the cats don't get along. Hops is very territorial, always has been. Schotzi tends to stay in Mr. & Mrs. S's bedroom most of the time.
The living room looked like some sort of monument to excess. There were presents everywhere. Here, let me show you:
We ran out of room under the tree and started to build outward. There are more added after this picture was taken. Mr. S said it looked like a department store display.Christmas itself is a blur. Only a few things stand out:
1) Double warning -- Handwritten in large letters on the hot drinks vending machine of the Greyhound bus terminal:
Caution! Very hot liquid!
And under this, very small, in different handwriting:
When it gives you anything at all!
2) Good night kisses -- I slept in the downstairs guest room. The door to my room stayed open all night, as it had the cats' litter box and food dishes in it. Daisy (my sister's yellow lab) does a bed-check at some time every night (no one else knew this until I told them. Probably because all their doors are shut). She took the opportunity of an open door to come and give my face a quick wash. By the third night the kisses didn't completely wake me -- I incorporated them into my dream.
3) Christmas dinner -- My brother-in-law had done a turkey last year, and though we all liked it, he was a little disappointed. He'd used some recipe from the food network and thought it would taste different. So this year he decided to do prime rib. Very tasty, and very large. It looked like a quarter of a cow, and he hadn't used the whole standing rib roast. I remember him asking my sister whether she wanted him to make steaks out what he wasn't going to use that night, or whether to just leave it as a roast.
4) First Night prep -- fast forward about a week. Home again, home again, jiggity-jig. They'd fenced off a block downtown in preparation for some alcohol-free, family-oriented New Year's Eve festivities called "First Night." A large part of the event has to do with ice sculptures. The ice was brought in a few days in advance, wrapped in silver thermal blankets to keep it cold. New Year's Eve Day, the sculptors start carving. I have a few pictures over at Flickr, if you'd like to see them. I didn't make it to the actual event. I don't think the buses run that late, and besides, I'm usually yawning by 11:30.
The rest of the two weeks went something like this: sleep late, play on the computer, watch TV and knit, go out for a walk, maybe go downtown for a little bit, read, watch TV with cat in lap, go to bed. One day I skipped the walk/downtown part, and just hung around the apartment all day in my PJs. Aaaah. Sloth. I enjoy a little of that every once in a while.
I'm going to have to start using the alarm clock again, starting tonight. I go back to work on Monday, and I should probably get back into the habit of getting up at the crack of dawn.
Hope your holiday was a good one. Happy New Year all!
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