Extremely F-ing Curious

I’ve seen all sorts at the library.

People needing travel books to plan expensive vacations to exotic parts unknown.

People wanting craft books because they’re stumped for bridal shower favor ideas and think they have enough time to make three dozen imitation Faberge eggs by hand.

People learning foreign languages, starting their own businesses, or copying recipes out of gourmet cook books that use ingredients you can’t buy at the neighborhood grocery store.

Every day is a movie montage of fascinating people leading fascinating lives.

But the only one I was jealous of was fictional.

-

“I just can’t shake the feeling that his life is infinitely more interesting than mine,” I told my husband one dull night, as we cuddled on the couch browsing Netflix. Our days consisted entirely of go to work, come home, do nothing. “Just look at everything he’s done! The zoo, the aquarium, the chocolate factory… I think he’s even been to space.”

Matt, scrolling through the new releases, didn’t even bat an eye. “Of course his life is more interesting,” he said. “He’s freaking Curious. Dude gets around.”

“You’re not supposed to agree with me!” I said, pushing him. “You’re supposed to tell me I’m interesting too!”

“No way! That monkey is the ultimate adventurer. Just like Samuel L. Jackson is the ultimate Bad Ass. You have Samuel F-ing Jackson and Curious F-ing George.”

It took a beat for that to sink in. “You did not just say that,” I said.

“Yeah, I really did,” Matt said, queuing up an episode of Top Gear.

“You…” I sputtered. “You’re a bad man.”

“FYI,” Matt added, “that’s his middle name from now on. Curious F-ing George.”

-

He was right: every time I saw one of those picture books at the library, my rebellious hindbrain inserted George’s new middle name, making him seem even more awesome. Curious F-ing George at the beach. Curious F-ing George in a parade. Curious F-ing George at a costume party.

I seethed. How is it right for a monkey to have such interesting adventures? How is that fair?

Then it dawned on me: It’s not like he’s had any special training. He’s a freaking monkey! If the man in the yellow hat had left him in the jungle, he’d be just like all the other monkeys.

I needed to leave the jungle!

-

Not long after that, a patron came to the library talking about her children’s Irish dance classes. “That sounds so cool!” I said.

“You should come!” she said. “The studio is down the street from here, tucked behind that bank in the strip mall.”

“Oh, sure,” I said, but I didn’t mean it. Me, dancing? And maybe later we’ll all go elephant wrangling and hunt for snarks.

“Wait a minute…” I thought. “Can George dance?” I consulted the internet.

Turns out he can.

I googled the dance studio and checked the times for beginner lessons.

-

Later, another patron made an offhand remark about her guitar students.

“I have a guitar,” I said casually.

“Is that so?” she said.

“I’d be the very best kind of student: the kind who never practices and never improves but who keeps paying for lessons anyway.”

“Are you free on Wednesdays?”

-

My evenings became busy. I said yes to everything: parties with coworkers, classes and workshops, new and unusual foods. The hardest part was convincing myself not to drive straight home after work and vegetate in front of the TV. My guiding principal was “WWCFGD?” and so far I hadn’t seen a single book about George staying home and doing nothing.

“I’m thinking of belly dance classes,” I told Matt one day.

“Okay,” he said.

“They would take up my Saturdays for a few months.”

“Okay,” he said.

“It’s going to cost $100.”

“Are you waiting for me to protest sexy dance classes?”

“Just so we’re clear then.”

-

For Christmas, Matt took me to a museum exhibit where I got to dissect a squid. For my birthday, his parents signed us all up for a beginner glass blowing class. For Valentine’s Day, Matt rented me a machine gun and we practiced on zombie targets, followed by a perfectly normal romantic dinner.

I started to feel better about my life. George has been to zoo, you say? So what? I’ve done that. George has gone camping? I’ve done that too. George has been in a hot air balloon? I’ll get to that eventually. George and I are no longer in competition: we’re kindred spirits now.

-

After I gave my friends an Irish dance demonstration, my friend Randi said, “You have the coolest hobbies. My hobbies are, like, taking a bath instead of a shower." 

I laughed. “That's a cool hobby, too!”

"No really," she told me. "I’m routinely inspired by you, and I routinely do nothing about it.”

"It's not hard," I said. "All I do is leave the house."

Seriously, a monkey could do it.

Parenting Advice from Alex

“I ran into your mom at the mall last weekend,” my best friend told me on the phone. Sarah lives in the small town where we both went to college, about an hour outside of the city where I grew up and where my parents still live. “She was excited to see the baby.”

“Oh, good grief,” I said. “Did she do the thing?” I could see it in my mind’s eye: my mother gushing over Sarah’s newborn second child, wondering aloud in front of God and everybody if I was ever going to give her grandchildren.

“Yup,” said Sarah.

I winced.

“But you would have laughed,” Sarah went on. “She suggested that maybe I should visit you more often and then you might feel more comfortable with the idea of having kids.”

I did laugh at that.

Sure, Mom. Let me tell you some of the things my friends have taught me about parenting…

2010

As I visited the zoo with Sarah and her husband Alex, a child in the gift shop was having A Very Bad Day.

Alex smiled. “It used to bother me,” he said. “Before I had kids, screaming children were like nails on a chalkboard.”

“And now it doesn’t bother you?” I asked over the noise.

“It’s more than that. Now, actually, it’s a relief. Because, yes, it’s a child screaming, but – and this is the important part – it’s NOT MINE.”

Sarah nodded agreement. In the nearby stroller, their daughter smiled up at me happily. Elsewhere in the shop, the unhappy child continued to scream at unknown horrors, as if she’d leaped off a building and hadn’t hit bottom yet. Her mother continued to shop as if nothing was happening.

“So what do you do when it is your child?” I asked.

“Drink,” said Alex.

Such pearls of wisdom are beyond all price.

2011

Not long before their second child was born, they drove out to spend the weekend with us. That first morning, Matt and Alex kept young Cassie entertained while I cooked waffles and Sarah slept in.

“I might go to the store later,” I said. “Is there anything you and Sarah would like?”

“Juice,” said Alex.

“No worries,” I said, checking the fridge. “There’s still half a carton in here.”

“You’ll need more,” Alex said with a shrug. “Kids drink a lot of juice.”

“I thought Sarah wasn’t big on giving her all the sugar and stuff?”

“You’ve got to look at the big picture,” Alex said. “There are powers beyond your understanding, two equal yet opposing forces locked in an endless battle as old as time itself.”

“Is this like the Force?” said Matt. “Are we talking about the Light Side and the Dark Side?”

“Sort of,” said Alex, “except these two forces are Juice and Cheese.”

“I’m not listening,” I said.

“You have to maintain a delicate balance between them,” Alex went on. “Too much of one or the other-”

“I’m waking Sarah up right now.”

Obviously, my mind is not yet prepared for such arcane knowledge.

2012

While we were in town for the Renaissance Fair, we stayed with Alex and Sarah overnight. Sunday morning, Sarah stayed home with the girls while Alex rode with us to the Fair. On the way, I noted some of the things around town that had changed since Matt and I moved away after college.

“The casino seems awful crowded for an early Sunday morning. Is it always like that?” I asked.

“Not really,” said Alex. “They must be having some kind of event.”

“Is it nice there?” I asked.

“I couldn’t say. I don’t often make it to the casino. It’s hard to get in with kids.”

I laughed. “I’m sure you could take them with you and if anyone confronted you about it, say, ‘I’m looking for their mother.’”

Matt sighed at me. “You’re horrible,” he said.

Alex, however, loved this idea: “I do that sort of thing all the time! Whenever I’m picking up Sarah from work, if the girls aren’t behaving, I like to say, ‘I bet you never treat your REAL dad this way!’ and watch people’s reactions.”

Matt looked at him wide-eyed. “How do people react to that?”

“Most of them laugh. They all know I’m Sarah’s husband by now.” He chuckled to himself then went on, “It’s really fun in restaurants, when they misbehave, to say, ‘If you keep this up, you’ll never see your real parents again.’”

After a moment of stunned silence, Matt responded with a simple “Wow.”

“Yeah, FYI: management doesn’t appreciate it when you do that,” Alex said.

Truly, I am in the presence of a master.

Archaeopteuthis

I chatted with my coworker Benjamin at the circulation desk. “I had the most wonderful dream last night!” I recounted to him as we emptied the book return. “I dreamed that scientists had discovered the fossilized remains of the beautiful, ferocious, majestic, FLYING giant squid.”

“Okay then,” said Benjamin without the proper enthusiasm warranted by this news.

“It was a cross between archaeopteryx and architeuthis, so the scientists called it archaeopteuthis.”

Benjamin stopped scanning books and looked at me over his shoulder. “You gave it a scientific name, in your dreams?”

“Yes,” I said. “Isn’t it great?”

He gave me a level look. I could tell he needed more encouragement.

“They ate Brontosauruses,” I told him.

“Brontosauruses?”

I nodded.

“But that’s huge.”

“Yes.”

His eyes lit with understanding then. “I can just see it! Swooping out of the heavens, catching an unsuspecting dinosaur in its tentacles, enfolding it in giant bat wings…”

“Ooh! I hadn’t considered bat wings. I was picturing fluffy feathers. Bat wings are better.” We continued to scan the books. Then I said, “But the whole thing’s patently ridiculous anyway.”

“Because squid don’t have wings?” said Benjamin.

“What? No! Because they don’t have bones. They can’t leave fossils.”

“You’re right,” he agreed, transferring books to the shelving cart. Then he said, “They can leave the imprint sort of fossils, like footprints and things.”

I scoffed. “The majestic flying giant squid don’t leave footprints. They fly.”

“Yes, of course. How silly of me. But what if one crash landed into the side of a mountain or something?”

“That would never happen. Squid have very good eyesight. Even in the dark.”

“What if it was too bright?”

“It’s so dark underwater, I’m thinking they wouldn’t come to the surface in the daytime. They’re probably nocturnal. What else could cause it to crash?”

“Struck by lightning!” he proclaimed.

“Yes!” I said, my fist thrust upward in triumph.

“Lightning can happen to anybody!” he said.

“It’s perfect!”

And then we went back to work.

Meeting Media: Bat Builds Things

Meeting Media are created during actual and very important meetings while I really was paying attention. Names or other identifying information, or inappropriate comments about my boss, have been blocked out to protect the illusion of innocence.

Things I've Learned in the Library: An Education

At the library, I learn something new every day. Not only do I spend my days surrounded by the accumulated history and knowledge of mankind, but I get to meet the people who need that knowledge and hear all about their projects and ambitions.

While most people look no further than Google to satisfy their idle curiosities, my personal research projects always begin in the library. Last summer when I decided to learn everything science could teach me about the majestic and legendary giant squid, I started with a library book. I took copious notes from it, copied whole chapters, and quoted interesting passages to my long-suffering loved ones. When I finally returned the book to the library, after several renewals and considerable late fees, my husband drank a toast to the book’s eviction from our home.

Sometimes Google is all you need, and I do more Google searches at the library than I would in other jobs. Sometimes you think you’re going to have an ordinary day, and then you end up Googling lobsters. You see, I have a deep and abiding fear of crabs. Therefore my coworkers – darling, lovely people that they are – delight in showing me every crustacean that turns up in the news, such as the report of the newly discovered hairy lobster, complete with hideous and explicit photographs, which made the front page of the paper several months ago and has fueled my nightmares ever since. Or the rare blue lobster someone captured in one of the great lakes, which had me and Charlotte, a volunteer, rushing to the internet to see if it was fake. A simple Google image search for “lobster colors” not only verified the story but also enlightened us to the existence of rare yellow lobsters, white albino lobsters, and translucent yucky lobsters which I have not succeeded in forgetting since then no matter how hard I try.

Academic researches aside, I’ve learned many practical things working at the library. Early in my library career I learned that a fully cooked piece of bacon, when used as a bookmark, will ruin a perfectly good book. Shortly after that, I learned that charging a patron to replace a book - say, one ruined by bacon grease - is easier than actually extracting payment from the patron.

I’ve learned that there are two types of patrons at the library: those who handle hardship with grace and dignity, and those who don’t. I’ve learned that it takes a certain level of skill to handle the latter sort of patron with aplomb. We recently had a patron so angry over the passport application process that she stormed out of the library and stood in the parking lot, shaking her fists to the heavens and yelling obscenities so loudly that we could hear her through the closed doors. We did the only thing we could do: we laughed ourselves into the floor.

An angry patron once confronted me because she had received an official letter informing her that her books were overdue. “I don’t appreciate that,” she said, looking me directly in the eye. I could have told her that the surest way to avoid such sternly worded letters would be to return her books on time, but instead I had a total mental breakdown and failed to come up with any better response than to smile and say “Okay.” The woman, apparently satisfied with this acknowledgement, left without noticing that my coworker Janelle was paralyzed with laughter behind me. “Fat lot of help you were,” I said. “You seemed to handle it very well,” she said, which I suppose is true.

Because sarcasm is seldom the appropriate response. When someone from Andover, Massachusetts, calls, wanting directions to the library in Andover, Kansas, I always tell them, “First, you want to head west for several hours.” I’ve done this more than once and the sarcasm has never yet been appropriate.

But I keep trying because someone someday is bound to find it funny, like the time I informed a patron that he had a late book on his account and he declared, “Blasphemy!” immediately setting me on the defensive. “No, sir, you really do,” I said, pulling up his account, “and the name of the book is… Blasphemy… Oh, I see what you did there,” and we both had a good laugh over it.

I’m constantly amazed at the number of late books we see though, because at the circulation desk we always know what day it is. I've learned that most people are just not as aware of the date as librarians are. When you’re constantly quoting dates at people, you start to take the passage of time for granted. I told a man at the end of August that his book was due “on the 7th.” 

“Of August?” he asked me seriously. 
“No, of September,” I said, with a straight face, “When we figure out the whole time travel thing, we may reconsider that policy, but in the meantime, all of our books are due in the future.”

It’s not just due dates either. When my husband, who had a big project due at work, lamented in late February that it was almost March, I casually informed him that the library books checked out that day were due March 15th. “Therefore,” I told him, “March is already half over.” 
He leveled his grey-green eyes at me and said “Working at the library gives you a skewed sense of time.”
“Space too,” I responded. “Or else I would quit trying to fit more books in the Young Adult section.” I’ve learned that there are always more books in the return bin than can possibly fit in the return bin, so why not the shelves too?

I’ve learned that, as a librarian, not only can I warp time and space, but I have telepathy too. Why else do so many people expect me to read their minds? The first time someone came up to the desk and asked about “you know, the book with the red cover,” I thought they were crazy. They said things like, “I don’t know the title or the author but it was written by a woman and there was a dog on the cover,” and I thought they were barking mad, but after a few months, their feeble mutterings started to make sense. One day I looked up and said, “You’re talking about Because of Winn Dixie by Kate DiCamillo,” and they said, “That’s the one. Thank you.”

Telepathy, because people come to the library with no idea what they want and suddenly I know EXACTLY WHAT THEY NEED. I know where all the travel books are, the books about pirates, or woodworking, or outer space. I know where the diabetic cookbooks and auto repair manuals and Spanish-to-English dictionaries are. I’ve learned where to find the information you want to know before you even know you want to know it.

Working the circulation desk one Friday afternoon, Benjamin didn’t know that he wanted to learn more about giant squid, until I started explaining to him how wonderful they are. “Did you know,” I told him, “that some squid can survive at extremely low oxygen levels? We’re talking ten percent or less. It’s something to do with their blood. It’s copper-based, rather than iron-based like ours is. That’s why their blood is blue.”

“That’s awesome!” Benjamin said. “But wait… What about llamas?”

“What about llamas?” I said.

“Llamas can survive at extremely low oxygen levels too. Is that for the same reason?” he said.

“I have no idea,” I said. “Let’s look it up,” because sometimes you think you’re going to have an ordinary day, and then you end up Googling llamas.

And I’ve learned that the best thing you can do is just go with it.

Answering the Reference Question

I get a lot of calls at the library.

Most are fairly vanilla. In a typical day, I will answer every question on the library website’s FAQs page at least once. “Can you renew my books?” “How late are you open?” “Where are you located?”

Sometimes patrons call with book questions. “When does the new James Patterson come out?” “Can you tell me the next book in this series?” These, too, are well within the normal parameters and we, as librarians, have a number of tools at our disposal to efficiently locate this information for you.

Other calls take more time. In library school, they call it “Answering the Reference Question.” In the Pre-Internet Era, librarians were the only search engines. Many elderly people, technophobes, and elderly technophobes still call the library when they need to know the capital of Montana or the phone number of the quaint delicatessen on the south end of Main street (on a good day, the patron is referring to the Main street of the city you are actually in). We expect these calls. We are used to these calls.

Still other calls shall live in infamy forever.

“Library. This is Tori. How can I help you?”

“Yes, hello,” a man said in a Rhett Butler accent. “I am calling for information on several of the buildings there in town. Specifically their history, from when they were built to present day.”

I immediately kicked into “Answering the Reference Question” mode. “Certainly, sir. I’m sure someone at the city historical museum can help you. I can give you their phone number off the city’s webpage,” I said, because when I’m giving someone information they could easily find for themselves, I like to spell out exactly where I found it.

“Much obliged,” he said, oozing southern charm.

I gave him the number. “Will that be all, sir?”

“Do you think they’d have information on who owned various buildings over the years?” he said.

I couldn’t silence the little voice in my brain ticking off all the creepy, serial-killer reasons he might have had for wanting information on who owned what. “I’m not sure, sir. Was there a specific building you wanted to know about?”

“Well, young lady,” he said, “as it happens, I am a ghost hunter, and I am investigating the haunting of a house on Central Avenue. Would you know anything about strange goings on in that vicinity?”

That. That right there is when the conversation went so-not-the-way I thought it was going to go. I stared out the front door, twirling my pen, then remembered I needed to answer the man. “No, sir,” I said. “You’re probably better off with the historical museum.”

“Thank you kindly,” he said, hanging up.

And after a minute or two of stunned contemplation, I hung up as well.

Automotive Soul Mates

The Honda was a beast. Every available option: power seats, moon roof, six-disc CD changer, climate control. And it was mine.

It was also years past its prime. I’d driven it into the ground. I couldn’t even care when it broke anymore. It was like the time my mother had an elderly yet incontinent dog and we all politely waited for it to die of old age.
“He’s gone on the floor again, hasn’t he?” she’d sigh.
“Yes, mom,” we’d sigh back.
You couldn’t be upset at a dog like that.

Now, we sighed at the car with the same feeling.
“Is that a new ding in the door?” Sigh.
“Is the engine making a new noise?” Sigh.

“Did a rather small yet suicidal deer just completely destroy the entire front end in the space of two very exciting seconds?”

Sigh.

-

It had been my first car.

Not “my parents car.”
Not “my boyfriend’s car.”
Not “our shared car because we’re poor newlyweds who only need one car.”

MY car.
“My car, with the seats and mirrors permanently adjusted the way I like them because, yes, sharing is nice, but, dammit, I’m an adult now and I don’t have to share.”
Mine. Mine. MINE.

Therefore, I was up all night worrying that I would be incapable of driving another car.

“What if the rental car is nothing like the Honda? What if it’s an alien car with the buttons all in the wrong places?” I asked Matt, on the way to the rental car place.
“Just tell them you want a mid-size car,” he said. “Believe it or not, most cars are remarkably similar to each other.”
“Okay,” I said, looking out the passenger window of Matt’s car, which is not at all similar to any other car I’ve ever driven, a manual car that I cannot, in fact, drive. “What if they give me something I can’t drive?” I asked.
Matt, parking at the rental place, shrugged his shoulders. “Then you trade it in for another one.”
I appealed to his vanity: “What if they give me something that looks stupid?”
In the callous voice of a man who drives a convertible sports car, he said, “Then you’re going to look stupid.”

-

The rental car was nothing like the Honda. Having made it home from work - my normally passive commute remade into a harrowing experience fit for the plot of an opera - I sprawled in the living room floor to mope.
“How does it drive?” Matt asked.
“It’s terrible!” I said. “The brakes are all wrong and the steering wheel makes this horrible wind-up toy noise whenever I turn.”
“Wind-up toy noise?”
“It’s like, well, you know: whhhhirirrr.”
“That’s not a real thing.”
“No, really, it is,” I assured him. “And I have to adjust the seat manually, and I can’t just set the AC to 70 and let it ride! I have to keep readjusting the damn thing! While I drive, no less!”
Matt arched an eyebrow at me. “Okay, now you’re just being silly.”
“No, really! The rental car is evil.”
“The rental car is normal. Those features you had before? They’re not standard features. You’re not going to find them again.”
“Okay, forget the AC. I’m serious about the wind-up toy noise!”
But he wasn’t listening to me.

-

When I called about the suddenly flat tire, the rental agency apologized profusely, promising a replacement rental car within the hour. I began to cheer up a little. “It’s confirmation!” I thought. “I’m not crazy! The rental car really was evil!” A little spark of hope for a better rental car in the next life ignited in my soul, only to flicker and die when an equally nasty rental car took its place an hour later.

That night, nestled on the couch with a chocolate bar and a Jane Austen movie, I grieved. Two out of two rental cars had bested me, a figure which my mind astutely observed equated to one hundred percent of them. I pondered the possibility that the Honda was the only car in the world for me, my automotive soul mate, and that I would never be whole again.

“Dear, I’ve got it!” my husband said, penetrating my grief with his enthusiasm. “You say the rental car doesn’t drive like your old Honda? So why not replace the dead Honda with another Honda? Only, you know, a NEW one? Come look at this.” He led me toward his office, where his monitor showed the 2012 Honda Accord glinting like an unfathomable secret on Honda’s nonEuclidian “Build Your Own Car!” page. Matt clicked the mouse through a 360 degree tour of the cab.
“My god, it’s full of buttons,” I said.
Matt nodded. “You said you wanted all the features your old one had; here you are then!”
I stared at the slowly revolving cab, full of knobs and toggles and voice activated features that would doubtless respond to my every request in the voice of Hal (“I can’t let you do that, Dave.”). “This isn’t a car! It’s an evil robot!” I said.
“No, it’s great! You’d just have to learn what all the buttons did.”
“And while I’m puzzling that out, the steering wheel will come to life and eat my face.”
“Look, we can even order it in that shade of blue you’ve always wanted!”
“What, SkyNet Blue?”
“It’s not that bad!”
“It’s an anime villain!”
Matt, noting my agitation, closed the browser and gave me a hug. “We’ll just see what they have at the used car lot this weekend.”

-

“Are you sure this is the best route for a test drive?” my husband asked, after the third construction zone in as many blocks.
The salesman, who looked no older than eighteen, smiled, addressing all of his commentary to Matt despite the fact that I was driving. “Oh, sure. This curvy bit here really gives you an idea of how the car performs!” Oblivious to my white-knuckled grip on the wheel, the salesman directed me down winding roads in an unfamiliar part of town.
I had spent the morning test driving car after car, each more horrid than the last. I wondered, was there actually something wrong, not with every single car in the world, but with me?
The salesman continued, “If you turn here, it leads right back to the lot! See?”
I parked the latest in a long string of disappointments in the corner, where the salesman immediately picked out the next candidate. “Why don’t we try this one next?” he said, holding open the driver’s side door of a mysterious black car with windows so dark the cab was scarcely visible within. Infernal devices gleamed on the dashboard.
“I’m not getting in there,” I said. “Too many buttons.”
The salesman’s plastered smile faltered. He looked at Matt for guidance.
“We’re just going to look around on our own for a minute,” Matt said.

When the salesman was gone, Matt walked me deeper into the car lot. “How you doing?” he asked.
“I can’t do it anymore,” I said. “I don’t have another test drive in me. They’re all terrible.”
“Let’s stop for the day, then. We can try again next weekend,” he said.
“No. I’m done. I don’t care enough. Just buy me any old car so we can leave.”
“If you can’t have your perfect car, pick one feature you’d like to have and we’ll go from there.”
“Alright,” I said. I thought about all the great features I liked in my Honda. It really had been a great car. If it had been blue, it would have been perfect in every way. “Can I just get a blue one?”
Matt thought about it for a minute, then pointed over my shoulder at a car I hadn’t noticed yet. “Do you mean like that color of blue right there?”
It was SkyNet Blue.
Matt waved the salesman back over. “I think I’d like to test drive this one,” he said. “Or maybe my wife is up for one more?”
“I believe I am,” I said.

-

It drove perfectly all the way home.