Things I do at work so as to not go insane- Part One

So I should preface this with explaining where I wok. Or work, if your "R" key is working properly. I am employed by a library. A really, truly, fantastic library. I love working for this library. I'm not making money for some evil, shit bag corporation and that alone is reason enough to enjoy my job. I help people. Everyday. Whether I want to or not. However a great deal of my time there is spent in the computer lab where, believe it or not, an incredible number of people come in with little or no knowledge of how to use a computer or for that matter what exactly a mouse is and what the fuck clicking said mouse may actually do. This is enough to drive a person insane if they do not take the necessary precautions.

I will share with you now a few of the things that I do at work so as to not go insane.
(In a bullet point list format for easier reading. Also because I am a lazy writer.)

- Super nice and helpful girl
I have a great dislike for much of the public that frequents the library. However, being that I do like having a place to live and money to buy (in order of importance) alcohol, cigarettes and food, I must interact with them on a daily basis. Occasionally I like to pull up my acting skills and play a game called "Super nice and helpful girl" in which I put on a big fake smile and cater to their every whim. Most people who work in the public sector are not very nice and definitely not very helpful. People needing to go to a public place and receive help are not expecting much. When they do encounter a person who appears to be genuinely happy to assist them it throws them off and they're not quite sure about how to react. The response can be terribly amusing. They usually fall into one of two categories. They either- A. Forget about the bad mood that they entered the building with and become cheerful because someone is being nice to them and giving them what they want (this reaction is the more rare one), or B. They feel like assholes because they came into the situation treating the public worker like shit when the worker has been nothing but super nice and helpful. The best part is at the end when they are walking away and I flip them the bird.

-Imagining what my cat is doing
I like to think that she is sneaking out of the house to solve crimes with her merry band of neighborhood animals or practicing some amazing new trick for me like walking on her hind legs and fetching me a drink but knowing her, she is in reality just regurgitating something evil onto the carpet for me to step in later, guarding her food from some unknown cat food snatcher, attempting to chew through her bag of cat nip, chasing an invisible speck of dust and/or resting on my nice plushy bed, because she is exhausted from doing all of the above. In either case she is probably having a better time than I.

-Chatting with friends on the internet.
The internet is a beautiful thing. Especially when your job requires that you log into a chat service so as to better facilitate communication between co workers. While there is the odd message that pops up from a co worker regarding such emergencies as "How do I send an attachment with an email?" most of the messages are from friends who are logged into the same chat service at their own places of work. Often those messages come with links to video and/or photo websites of people falling down, cats doing amusing things, and the world's stupidest criminals.

-Spying on what other people are doing on the internet.
A great part of my job involves sitting in a room with the general public while they surf the web. From the position of my desk I can clearly see everything that they are are viewing. For the most part it is quite boring as most people are themselves quite boring. Many people are just checking their email, reading the news or playing solitaire (and the fact that people do come to the library only to play computer solitaire deserves its very own story so I won't get into that one now.) The voyeuristic aspect of all this an absolutely wonderful thing nonetheless. Have you ever wondered what a middle aged orthodox jewish man does on the internet? I can tell you. He watches videos on youtube of Ricky Martin. Seriously. It's all fun and games of course until someone pulls out the bestiality porn. No one wants to see that.

-Screwing with teenagers.
At the library that I work at we have laptop computers available for patrons to check out and use while on library grounds. Why no one has figured out a way to steal one of these laptops is beyond me. I have come up with quite a few myself. In any case, the majority of people utilizing this service are high school kids working on school projects. The battery life of these laptops is about two hours. Once the battery dies or the computer is turned off, any work saved to the computer is deleted. Despite the fact that there are notices all over the computer explaining this, the kids continuously come to me frantic, saying that the battery has run down and they were working on a paper that they need to retrieve and if it has been lost then they just might die. I can stretch this one out for a while knowing that the computer is really just sleeping to conserve power and as soon as I plug in an ac adapter whatever stupid paper about cell myosis or mitosis or whatever is indeed still there. What I do in this situation is put the laptop aside and tell the kid that most likely their hard work is gone and they will have to start from the beginning. Then I watch them cry. Then I give them a slight bit of hope and say that I might be able to work some magic and retrieve their precious paper but it's a long shot. Then I send them away and surf the internet for a while. After ten minutes or so I plug the computer in and change the battery. When the computer wakes up the paper magically appears back on the screen. I call the child into the computer lab and tell them that I have saved their paper and they do not have to go slit their wrists or anything. I am now their god.

Welcome to My Neighborhood

I live in a not so nice neighborhood on Chicago's north side. This fact of my life has allowed me to observe a very curious group of people. Sometimes I imagine that I am a scientist, objectively surveying the natives from behind my little duck blind, or window if you will. Of course this is not true because when the natives get restless in the middle of the fucking night when I am trying to sleep, I can no longer remain an objective witness. I then become quite subjective to the point of banging on my wall and yelling "shut the fuck up!" or sometimes I call the police. Let's take a look at a few of the more interesting characters in my little menagerie.

Bicycle Horn Guy
I have never actually seen bicycle horn guy. But I can hear him when he is still a block away so I know that he must exist. Often he plays a little tune. Sometimes his horn is just a few polite honks. Sometimes they are not so few and definitely not polite. These are the times that I try to stick my head out of the window so that I can give Bicycle Horn Guy a dirty look. Or perhaps throw something at him. But alas he has proven to be quite elusive.

Pimps and Hoes
I share a wall with a person whom I think maybe might possibly be a pimp. Either that or he orders up a disturbing amount of prostitutes. Often when I am leaving home or coming home I see a few scantily clad young women walking into the building next to mine. Sometimes they are alone, sometimes they are in a group. But they always look fabulous in their pound of makeup, stilettos, miniskirts and fishnets and are quite friendly. Recently upon leaving my apartment and walking to the corner to where my ride was waiting I crossed paths with one of these ladies of the night. As I passed her she pronounced "I gots to get me a real jacket." I couldn't tell if she was talking to me or the man walking five feet behind her so I didn't say anything back. She was wearing a jacket though so I'm still a little unclear as to what made the one she was wearing not real. Was it not feathery enough?

Emphysema Man
An old man lives in the apartment across the street from my place. He stands outside at all hours of the day and night. I do not know what exactly he is doing outside. Mostly it looks like he is simply standing there. And coughing. Loudly. And Often. When I come home from work at 6:00pm he is there. When I am falling asleep at 2:00am he is there. When I am going to work at 8:30am he is there. It is nice to have this consistency in life. It is not so nice when this consistency is hacking up a lung and looking like it just crawled out of the gutter. In any case I always wave to emphysema man. I do this because he sounds like he may drop dead at any moment and how cool would it be if the last thing that happens to him in this life is to get a wave and a smile from yours truly? What can I say? I'm a giver.

Screamy Serbians
Across the hall from me (and the people below them, and the people below them as well) are a few families of Serbian immigrants. Actually they are probably just one extended family given that they are constantly in the hallways and in and out of each others doors. Also they seem to have a phobia about having shoes inside their apartments as there is a constant shoe party going on in the hallways. By shoe party I mean that there is at any given time at least seven pairs of shoes outside each door. Some of these shoes are quite nice and I have entertained the thought of stealing them but unfortunately they are not my size. I did not know that these people were Serbian until I had a Serbian friend over one night who heard the screaming and said "Oh you have Serbian neighbors." Before this I had imagined that they were aliens from some planet out of our solar system that spoke in extremely loud gibberish. If you have never encountered Serbian people then you may not know this, but they yell. A lot. It's not necessarily that they're mad at one another, it's just the way that they talk. I believe that one screaming match that I overheard was interpreted as "Don't forget the milk."

Singin in the Shower/ R Kelly at 2:00am Guy
I really like Singin in the Shower Guy when I am leaving for work and he is singing in the shower loud enough for me to hear it as I pass by his door. It brings a smile to my face. He likes Motown and so do I. I do not like Singin in the Shower Guy when he turns into R Kelly at 2:00am Guy. I am a fairly tolerant person and have had my share of late night parties. However. This music goes beyond bad. It's really not even R Kelly. It's R. Kellyish. No wait. I'm sorry, this is insulting to R. Kelly. The music this guy is playing is like having the tips of your fingernails cut open with razor blades, dipped in lemon juice and dragged across a chalkboard. And amplified enough to shake your bed. The police and I have developed a nice relationship over our mutual dislike of R Kelly at 2:00am Guy.

Come back for a second installment of "Welcome to my Neighborhood" when we will visit such fascinating characters as "Time for bed Damien (at 1:00am) Lady" and "Bitch Don't You Play Me Like That Guy"

How long would my cat wait to eat me after I died?

Cats are cute aren't they? Sure they are when they're sleeping soundly next to you, super fuzzy, curled up in a little ball and purring contently. Awwww so sweet. I have news for you. They are not content. And they are not sleeping either. Your cat is waiting for you to die so that it can eat you. It may even be plotting your death as we speak. Cats are not, as we have been led to believe, domesticated animals. They are really just miniaturized versions of wild animals that have found a sustainable food source. We give them food from a can on a daily basis, put out some water, provide them with something to chase occasionally and if they're lucky give them drugs in the form of catnip. And they are happy with this arrangement. If any of these perks stop however, the gloves will come off. If it is 10:00 in the morning and you are still in bed and the cat has not received its breakfast it may try to wake you up by licking you. Haha. That's not just a lick. That's a taste. Your cat is trying to figure out if you are just sleeping or if you are dead and it can finally eat you. Keep in mind that this beloved animal of yours has five very sharp pointy ends. It has these sharp points for a reason. It is a WILD FUCKING ANIMAL. It may curl up in your lap and be very sweet and cute when it has been well fed but I guarantee you that if you died and it was left alone for more than a day without food in its bowl it would eat you. In my kitty's case it would be more like two hours. But she's special. We have an understanding. If I don't sleep past 11 she doesn't try to eat me. After that, all bets are off.

My Contact Lens

I believe I have lost my contact lens. It's kinda hard to say for sure given that it is A. Very small and B. Clear. Though due to the fact that I cannot see out of my right eye and that I heard the sound of a shard of glass hitting the tile floor after a ferocious blink I think it's safe to say that it is gone. Sadly inspection of the floor did not produce the contact lens in question. I believe the cockroaches have gotten it. Which is a bit frightening to me as now there may be a cockroach roaming around with perfect vision. That's just fucking scary. Like a cockroach with super powers. If he wants to hide, he can find a place to hide. If he wants food, he will get your sandwich. If he wants to get in your bed and scare the crap out of you and give you nightmares, done. I'm a bit leery of showering now. The last thing I need is for a cockroach with super powers to see me naked.

I do not like Smrt Cars

There are many reasons why I do not like smrt cars.

1. They are bad for road trips

I once went on a road trip from Chicago to San Francisco with three friends in a large sedan. We figured we could make the trip in 36 hours if we drove at top speed and stopped only to purchase cold beverages. Which we did. Only two of those on the trip (not me included) had valid drivers licenses at the time so they shared the driving duties while the other two (me included) sat in the spacious back seat drinking beer and playing a game called "Annoy front seat people with our feet". You could not do this in a smart car.

2. They look funny

Like the have enormous asses. It kind of reminds me of those women who have a normal top half and extremely abnormal bottom half. So that when they are sitting behind a desk you think "Well here is an attractive woman." Then they get up and you are so shocked by the disproportionate size of their rear end that you blurt out something crazy like "Holy shit it's a fucking hippopotamus!"

3. They fuck up the parking system

Someone that lives on my street has a smart car. When it first appeared I was all "Hey cool! It's a smart car!" Then I started noticing that on many occasions there were only half parking spots available. These spots were left behind by the smart car in question. And because the system had been thrown off there was usually another half spot left at the end of the block as well. Not for lack of trying, I came to the realization that my car is too big to fit into a space previously occupied by a smart car. This made me very angry, especially when I had to drive around for ten minutes looking for another spot, park two blocks away, and carry my laundry and a can of mace past the half spot right in front of my apartment door. When the opportunity arrises I try to get my revenge by parking right up against its bumper thereby blocking in the smart car but the little fucker keeps getting away.

4. If in an accident all occupants of the smart car will die

I do not have a giant semi truck of even a large suv but I am pretty sure that my car would make street pizza out of smart car. Driving in this city makes me angry enough without having to worry about blowing a stop sign and taking out an entire granola crunching family of four.

Stories that my family tell about me ....... and then there's the truth

A Gallon of Milk

The Story:

When I was a young kid my sister and I were tasked with the job of helping mom bring in the groceries every Saturday afternoon. This was a chore that we actually looked forward to because we could peak in the bags to see if she had bought anything good. Which she never did. We were hopeful little idiots though and sure enough, every saturday we'd run out to the garage when her car pulled in, eager to help. So one day I run up to the trunk with my arms open, waiting for my bag. My mom hands me a gallon of milk and tells me to be careful. Of course I paid no attention to this warning as we walked back to the house and I began to swing the gallon of milk wildly. As my mom walked into the kitchen and left me on the enclosed back porch she called back to me, "Erika knock that off! Do you have any idea of what kind of mess that's going to make if you drop that?" Sure enough on the next upswing the gallon goes flying out of my hands, sails through the air and crashes to the floor. It was a milk flood. There was so much milk that it was flowing out the back door and down the steps. Not to mention the mess on the walls and ceiling from the splash back. I was quite amazed at just how much liquid a gallon could hold. I'm pretty sure my mom was amazed as well. She didn't even yell. She just kinda of stood there with her mouth open. Then she sat on the kitchen floor and did this laughing and crying at the same time kinda thing. My sister just laughed. And pointed out how much trouble I was in.

The Truth:

I let it go on purpose. I honestly didn't know what kind of a mess it would make and I was curious to find out. Plus I thought it would be funny. Twenty years later, mom still laughs when she tells the story. Totally worth it.


The Broken Foot

The Story:

Down the street from my grandparents house growing up was a kick ass play ground. Not like these wussy play grounds that the kids have today. There were no wood chips or safe plastic slides. We had concrete and metal. It was survival of the fittest. Every year some kid you knew stepped on broken glass in the sand box, got cut by the jagged metal of the burning hot slide, fell off the monkey bars and broke an arm, got hit in the head with a big, heavy metal horse swing or flew off of the merry go round as some other kid ran around spinning it with the purpose of making someone fly off. I was that last kid. Flew off of the merry go round, crumpled up in a ball, got up, shook it off and limped back to my parents, being brave and not saying anything about it until we got in the car and were on our way home. At which point my parents said that we had to make a quick stop at the hardware store. This was also the point when I started whining that my foot hurt from when I fell off of the merry go round. I despised the hardware store. And it was never a quick stop. I also had a fairly prolific history of crying wolf so the folks were a bit skeptical of my anguish. I believe the exact words were "You're fine knock it off." So they dragged me through the store anyway. After 30 minutes or so of walking through this 10th level of hell I was ready to gnaw my leg off. When we finally got home my parents got busy with whatever home improvement project they were working on and I got busy lying on my bed and plotting how I would escape these evil parental figures as soon as I could walk again. Eventually my sister noticed that my foot had swelled up to the size of a watermelon and told my parents that I wasn't faking it. After being advised not to tell the doctors how long ago I had injured myself I was rushed to the ER, got a bitchin cast and given some magical pills that made me feel fuzzy in a very good way. And then the guilt began. I played such a great victim. Soap opera worthy. The broken foot was caused by some jerk at the playground spinning the merry go round. Poor thing! My parents dragged me through a store for half an hour on my broken foot. Poor thing! Two weeks of lying on the couch watching cartoons, eating ice cream and popping pain pills. Not to mention the years of residual guilt I got out of them anytime they mentioned going into a hardware store.

The Truth:

I did fly off of that merry go round. But I'm pretty certain I didn't break my foot at that point. The broken foot came from me tripping over myself on the way into the hardware store. Now that's karma. I figured they already heard a great story that didn't involve me being a klutz so why change it now. How someone breaks their foot by tripping I still don't know. But I managed it. I'm also pretty certain that this began my love of pharmaceuticals as I distinctly remember, cast and all, dragging a chair across the kitchen, climbing onto the counter and balancing on one foot to reach the top shelf where I knew my pills had been hidden.

The Bad Wolfy's Chicken Sandwich

The Story:

I spent quite a few lunch breaks during my high school career in a greasy burger joint called Wolfy's. A fine establishment in my opinion. Even now when I drive through the old neighborhood I get a craving for a wolfy burger with cheesy fries. This one day I opted for the chicken sandwich which was apparently a bad idea as I got a massive case of food poisoning. My friend Joanne was good enough to drive me home from school early. Upon reaching home, I puked all over the front steps before stumbling into the house, crawling into bed and remaining there for the next 24 hours. Whenever anyone mentions Wolfy's (a place that comes up often as it is so tasty) the parents tell the cautionary tale of Erika and the food poisoning from the chicken sandwich.

The Truth:

The only thing in my stomach that day was orange juice and a fifth of gin. It was the end of the school year cut day and my friends and I decided to celebrate with a few drinks. We got a bit carried away. My sister should really get the credit for pulling this one off. As I stumbled through the house knocking stuff over she smelled the alcohol and asked if I'd been drinking. I mumbled something to her about a chicken sandwich. She laughed, got out the air freshener and proceeded to release half the bottle into my bedroom. It gets pretty fuzzy after that but I do remember her relating to my parents the bogus chicken sandwich story. And selling it better than I could have at that point. Thanks Jess! What still doesn't make sense to me is that my dad was the one to hose off the steps and had to have noticed that my "chicken sandwich" looked an awful lot like orange juice and smelled like liquor.