Born Again

I'm pregnant.

Again.

Happens close to five days a week. In addition to shortened gestation periods, I also give birth. Monday through Friday. To litters. Litters of new books. And I love it.

When I explain to people that my job is as a "cataloging librarian", I am usually greeted with a quizzical look. Unless you work in this field, you have probably never heard of the term "Marc Record", don't know the biographical history of Melvil Dewey, or sing the daily praises of Charles Cutter. However, if you've ever BEEN in a library, or better yet, remember your fifth grade lesson on the fabulous Dewey Decimal System, then you know that each book is carefully annotated with complex codings in order to ensure it a proper home on the shelves. That's where I come in.

My litters of new book often arrive still smelling of fresh ink. Sometimes, the pages are still stuck together, and I know that I'm the first person who has had the chance to open this book. I consider this the breathe of life. I read almost each and every flap cover, and give it a cursory once over for misprints, strange pagination, or other weird ailments. Usually, a book caught early can be resuscitated through the wonders of the "no charge replacement". But, a book with a birth defect caught too late can spend an entire lifetime with its disease. And after a brief time, there is no cure.

Once I have ingested the personality of my newborn, I need to assign it a proper home. You see, I'm merely just a foster mother - the guardian responsible for finding it proper placement in the many stacks and branches our library holds. I carefully consider the content and themes of my baby, often consulting with neighbors and peers to see where the placement of similar personalities has taken place. For really difficult children, I sometimes need to consult with the mothership - more commonly known as the Library of Congress - to see where they have placed similar children of the same origin. Once I have arrived at a decision, my infant is stamped with a name, or as we professionals like to call it, a "call number". Chances are for most of the books, it is the same call number it will have it's whole life. Some quick computer coding, a barcode, tape, and my newborn is off to begin her life among the stacks. She'll never be as pretty as the day she left my hands, but all I can do is hope that she'll withstand the masses needing only little repair along the way.

Alas, I am more than just a Book Mother. I am also the Book Grim Reaper. My cubicle often doubles as a graveyard, and when the Messenger of Death delivers upon me a book in such a sad state that it cannot be repaired, it is up to me to wave my scythe and put my book out of its misery. Sometimes they are old and tattered. Sometimes they were young and poorly made. Occasionally, they have fallen victim to an abusive lender (oh, I long for the day I can get my hand on one of THOSE people ...). Either way, they are euthanized with care and concern, and the hope that their words touched someone in someway, no matter what the subject matter.

In any given day, that's what I do. I take pride in my work and knowing that because of my effort, someone - somewhere, is finding what they needed. Maybe it's the book that changed their life. Maybe it's the book that gave them hope again. Maybe it's the book that made them smile when they hadn't all day or all week. I'm the Book Baby Mamma, and I love it.

In Between Days

For the first time ever in my life, I am "in between jobs". Thanks to a hiring process straight out of the 1800s, my new employer alloted several weeks before I start my new position. This worked out well for my transition to Boston, and I have had three weeks of unadulterated unemployment bliss, during which I have run many a chore and accomplished a lot.

Now, having three weeks of "alone time", you tend to learn a few things about yourself. Here goes:

1. My technological un-savyness extends far beyond new media and the various hot topics of the daily Twitter crown (Chrome? Blip? huh?). Case in point: I've just discovered I have zero idea on how to operate the garbage disposal here at the house. At least, I think it's a garbage disposal ...
2. I really can carry on an extended conversation with a cat. Kitty and I have daily coffee chats, and I feel like we're really starting to understand each other. If only I could get here to clean her own litter box ...
3. I really can eat a Steak and Cheese sub ever day! I've never considered myself much of a "sub" person, but boy are they yummy, and there are sub places everywhere.
4. I am perfectly capable of amusing myself. I haven't turned on the TV except to what the train wreck that is New York Goes to Hollywood (VH1) and the occasional History Channel special. It appears my entertainment tastes run the gamut from one extreme to the other.
5. Printer Cartridges, Verizon, and Bank of America are all in an evil plot to "get" me, with a little American Express thrown in on occasion.
6. I will never be able to properly spell "occasion".
7. I can survive without coffee

So, I start my "employment" next week. I am debating if I want to participate in the Battle of the RMV this week, or save that for six months down the road. Six months down the road is in the lead right now.

Cheers!
Kat

Subway Etiquette and More

Progress, People!

Thanks to my new electronic boyfriend, Tom-Tom, I have managed to only get lost TWICE this week. Tom-Tom was an excellent purchase, especially since it talks to me in a male, British voice that indulges a fantasy I won't be getting into in this blog. There is the minor problem of being able to read Tom-Tom while driving at the same time, but what relationship isn't fraught with communication issues? I'm sure Tom-Tom and I will be able to work it out.

I have ventured into the fabulous world of the "MBTA" (that's Boston's Public Transportation system for you non-Mass folk). I have to admit - their website is pretty good, even though I still can't figure out which bus seems to run up and down the mountain that I live on.

However, I have to comment on a strange and developing Subway Paranoia that I seem to be developing. It's the Seat Movers. Now, I'm respectful of people's personal space. I don't take up more than just my seat on the subway, and I keep my belongings on my person. I shower daily (sometimes twice!) and even wear a light perfume which is not overwhelming in scent. So why do people sitting next to me get up and move seats? I mean, I'm not talking WIDE open seating. I'm talking they go from sitting next to me, and go and sit next to someone else - in some instances, what I would consider to be a less desirable seat mate. Am I not adhering to some subway etiquette that I'm not aware of? Maybe I smile too much or look friendly? Perhaps I need to offer gum to my seat-mates in an effort to make peace so they don't abandon me for the person across the way. What's WRONG with me? HELP!!!!

In other Subway news, I saw not one - but TWO individuals playing with their Rubik's Cubes on the subway. I think I want one, and for those of you itching to buy me a present, my birthday is coming up.

OK - off to make my second trip to buy a printer. I made a trip over the weekend to the "phantom" Burlington Coat Factory in Cambridge. And today, I walked into a Staples that - oopsy- wasn't actually open yet. Signage, people - SIGNAGE!

Take Two,
Kat