The characteristic "must like people and working with the public" is oft-cited when talking of librarian careers. I live in mortal fear that someone will discover how I don't manifest that trait to the degree that I should. This morning, as I trotted into work because the bus was laaaate and so I was laaate, I delivered an unsatisfactory customer experience, right off the bat. See, when I arrive at the Desk, there is no back room or place to take off your coat or unwind your scarf or put down your mug of tea. It's just the desk. And you. So if it's a busy day and there are people waiting, that five minute "okay now I'm ready to face the world" prelude to Work disappears as they watch you log into your computer and try and answer their question at the same time. And I've realized there is this whole category of question askers that kind of baffles me: the Hostile Inquirer. This girl this morning prefaced everything with "I don't know anything about this place, I don't want to know, I just need to know about this tape" kind of waving it in my face. Our on-going exchange as I took off my coat wasn't my stellar shining moment of customer service. I need a little box where I hide out and take a few deep breaths and put on my game face before facing the public: oh perhaps that's what one would call "an office". Maybe one day.
Human interaction has me a little concerned on the home front too. We have landed in the middle of a very active neighborhood association and neighbors who want to get to know us - which is great, right? The American Dream? There is neighborhood caroling and Christmas cocktail parties etc. coming up and everyone on the neighborhood list_serv is abuzz to meet us officially, apparently. Again, with upcoming solitude at home and worries to that end, I should be thrilled. But instead I find myself yearning a little for the anonymity of apartment and city life - or at least the pretend anonymity, where you pretended not to know that your neighbor and his girlfriend had a fight last night or that you couldn't tell by the recycling box that they rely heavily on frozen Trader Joe food for their meals. Fake anonymity! Of course there is the odd layers of uncomfortable for me subtext based on the fact that we have moved into a "developing neighborhood" replete with its share of "homes in transition" and one particular corner that seems to be Drug Deal Central - having survived Downtown Eastside Vancouver for many a year this kind of thing comforts rather than alarms me in an odd way - or at least I know: don't leave your stuff in the car or yard and meet the passing street peoples looks, don't scurry away and hide. However, everyone on the neighborhood list_serv is very concerned about safety and security - and oh, have I mentioned, are Totally White? I am the force of gentrification, come to life. ANYWAY.
I was reading the NY Times Book Review on the bus this morning (yes, I deliberately save sections of the Sunday paper for the rest of the week, what of it?) with it's 100 Notable Books List and it confirmed my feelings - it's been a ho-hum, very male year in books. I hate to pick on him but if you can get excited about the new Richard Russo book, well that's a sign all is not well in Bookdom. I've been keeping my literary opinions over in Goodreads these days - who has time to double blog - but I have to share my glee over a review that came my way this week. You see, I've been slogging through "Tree of Smoke" by Denis Johnson for nigh on a month now. You know when you read a book virtuously? Like it must be good for you? Like All-Bran? But you don't look forward to reading it or think of it fondly and end up contemplating the page count and how much longer you must endure it? Yeah, that's me and NBA winner "Tree of Smoke". Flat characters, no plot, stale writing...I'm mystified by the praise it has garnered. So when B.R. Myers wrote this in The Atlantic...hoo boy, it made me chortle. Overall, I'm no BR Myers fan - after all, I happen to like E.Annie Proulx - but he nails it here. It was so refreshing to read. And allowed me to stop reading the book, knowing it wasn't about to get magically better. Freedom!
Speaking of freedom, with only 1.5 assignments left to turn in, I'm starting to feel faintly giddy. Housework is calling me and there's so much to bake and freeze and sew and hang up - I can't wait. Perhaps this is the nesting thing all the books keep talking about. Now if only I didn't have to still come to work.... Edited to change my stupid spelling. Also, given that Google runs the world and I let them and seem to enjoy it too (Google Reader!)wouldn't it be cool if they invented some kind of application that was a centralized address book - all your friends kept their own address updated in it and granted you access - and then come this time of year, when you may be sending Seasons Greetings, you didn't have to e-mail everyone to get their latest address, thus negating the happy little feeling an old friend or new might get when opening their mailbox and realizing you had thought of them. A way to send random thoughful gifts in a random way. Or has this already been invented and I just don't know about it? Anyway, if I've ever sent you anything at all in the past, I need to make sure I have your current address. And some have requested mine. But I'm still not 100% comfortable with posting it Right Here on this so-called anonymous blog. So what do we do?