Ode to Colette Benoir

Ode to Colette Benoir

I met you in the Second Life, a happy virtual place
Your charming chat and and bubbly self was really just my pace!
You listened to my podcasts, said you were a fan
"Wow, for real"? Diva and I thought. "You sure you're not a man?"

Your love of voice and stripper poles, I knew you were my kind
We traveled round that virtual world and never gave a mind
When hell broke loose in real life land, you offered up a room
"Why yes", I thought, and came to Boston, riding on my broom

Roommates we are, fun times we have, I'm glad the chance we took
It doesn't seem to matter, that neither of us can cook
You opened your heart and life to me, your home and your yard
I even now can overlook your lack of library card

And on your special day, when age 29 repeats
I wish you all the best 'cause you rock and can't be beat!
Here in Twitterland and Blogsville, I just want to say
You had better have one hell of a Kick Ass BIRTHDAY!

Happy Birthday, Colette Benoir!

*mwah* ~ from Kat and Kitty

The Parking Debacle

For someone who drives so little she only has to fill her gas tank every three weeks, I've had quite a parking debacle this month. I see now why people rely solely on public transportation to get to and fro, and I plan on doing the same. Circumstances this past couple of weeks have forced me to drive into work a total of three times. THREE times. That opens us up for any number of debacles, Gentle Readers. Where shall we begin?
The city I work in is notorious for having ZERO parking options. Well, if you don't live there anyway. There are a limited number of public garages, and I am "off" the main drag a tad. So, the first day I need to drive into work, I figure that one of the meters usually available to me across the street from the library will be open. Right? WRONG. Library Ninja doesn't take into account that it's ELECTION DAY. People are parked and voting like mad, so there are no parking meters! My powers of stealth have failed me bad. So, I make my way to Scary Parking Garage, where I snag one of the few remaining spots. This goes well until I go to leave. Guaranteed a discounted rate by a hanging tag I procured from the City in another debacle, I go to leave and am SCOLDED for not having properly filled out all the information. Oh no- parking tag is not good enough for Parking Lady! One must fill out their license plate number, tag number, social security number, names of all your grammar school teachers, and count backwards from 1000 while hoping on one foot before you are allowed out of the garage. There was literal finger pointing - I kid you not.
When my next driving adventure arrives, I am better prepared. I arrive earlier, case out parking spots better, and find the perfectly allocated meter spot. Too good to be true? I parallel park for the first time in 10 years, and after three attempts, I have achieved a MASTER parking job. I am so proud of myself, I comment to a passerby, who thinks I'm nuts or don't get out much. Then, I go to feed the meter, only to realize that even though I have put close to $2.50 in quarters in said meter, it is still only reflecting 30 minutes of time. Oh no? Oh yes. I am in a 30 minute spot. MAXIMUM. I have achieved parking nirvana only to have to MOVE MY CAR back to Scary Parking Garage and get reprimanded, again, by Parking Lady. I walk to work, defeated.
Parking debacle continues to today, where I again try for the metered spot. I find one right across the street from work. It's a front spot, so I only have a car behind me. I ensure that the meter is for more than 30 minutes - check. I feed meter to maximum - check. I note time when I will need to come back and feed meter - check. I am prepared. I am happy. I have won! Until... I go to feed meter. Man who has just parked car walks up to me, curious. "That's my meter" he says. Huh? How can this be? He looks at my car and says, "oh, that's not a spot. I bet you have a ticket by now. See the sign?". Sign? Who the hell reads all these signs? This city is tattooed like a college girl on Spring Break. How can anybody READ all these signs? But there it is - "no parking to corner" with a big, giant arrow. I have, essentially, parked in a non-spot, and paid someone ELSE's meter for four hours. Yes, yes I have. And, to make sure I have the ice on the parking cake, there is a shiny red ticket waiting for me on my windshield. $30. Not counting the $4 in parking I paid for someone else. So, I slip the ticket back underneath my wiper, and amble back to work. Looks as though I've bought this parking spot for the day, huh? Now if only it came with a wash.

The Dating Game

A friend asked me recently how my return to the wonderful world of dating was going. "Amusing", I answered. And really - I can not describe it in any other way. Now, I'll admit that by virtue of my quirky (yet utterly charming) personality, I tend to attract those that are a tad off-kilter. But, if an assessment of my current dating experiences forms a picture, then it would definitely look like one of those Rorschach inkblots in the shape of something phallic. Feels free to criticize, but I am taking a moment to provide my faithful reader's with Kat's List of Dating Do's and Don't.

• Do arrive on time, or somewhat close to on time. If you are going to be late, call, text, twitter, sky write or send a smoke signal. Just let me know.
• Don't ever break out the "air drums" or "air guitars".
• Do tell me about yourself, but don't tell me your life story. A girl likes a little mystery, and if your life story involves anything related to communes, a year of not-showering, several illegitimate children or outstanding warrants in any states, its probably best we not move forward.
  
• Do divulge ahead of time any information on your restraining order, and then DO promptly lose my phone number.
• Do take a hint. "Please leave me alone" actually means just that.
• Don't assume that one glass of wine is ever going to be enough for me. The most economical bet is really just to order the whole bottle.
• Don't wear all one color. And please, no T-shirts, especially if they have an 80s hair band name on them.
  
• Do realize that I will probably forget your name. Don't get offended. Accept that in the spirit of imagination, your re-naming by me is really a rite of passage
  
• Don't tell me to "try it, I might like it". I'm a Scorpio. I won't.
  
• Do go in for the good night kiss. Don't try too hard if I step on your foot instead.
  
• Don't talk too much about your mother, your cat, your Ex(es) or your blankie. I won't return from the restroom.
  

I'm sure they'll be a sequel to this series ... so stay tuned!

Angry Kat!

It's been a busy couple of weeks for Kat Glimmer! Adjusting to my new fantastic life adventures has taken patience, ale, and capitol! So, what have I discovered about my return to New England?

~ Ten Years in Florida left me with some serious inadequate footwear. I mean, when it rains here, it rains for DAYS, not minutes, like I'm used to. A trip to Kittery and the self-professed shoe guru, @Missscandalous, has remedied this situation. I hope ...
~ Lanes are kind of a "suggestion" when it comes to roadways. I guess its a little like coloring outside the lines - when you're driving, just pay attention to what's in front of you, and not what's on the side, or behind you. You are in the lead, after all!
~ When dating in Massachusetts, there is a good chance that the man you are going out with will be named "Joe" or "John". This will come in very handy when you forget your dates name, so just default to one of these two names, knowing that the odds are very good you'll hit your target.
~ Never, ever joke about the loss of a sport team. You'll be instantly excommunicated to some nearby, non-New England state, like Maryland, with no hope of a pardon.
~ In a continuation of her fetishes, Kitty has taken to some very main stream pop. While the Pussycat Dolls definitely make her shake her tail feather, so to speak, I think her *real* heart lies with the some old school Bel Biv Devoe ... "now you know".
~ I downloaded New Kids on the Block's latest album. Yeah? What's it to ya?
~ I now own an electric blanket! I seem to remember some old urban legend that electric blankets cause warts ... or was that kissing frogs? One can never remember.
~ People are still wearing sandals here. Seriously. It keeps the pedicure industry going.
~ An alarming number of "green" people have started to follow me on Twitter. I wonder if they know I'm harboring my secret hatred for the staff bike. Perhaps they are spies, come to check on me ...
~ Verizon is the devil.

I'm sure I'll have more ponderings along the way, but wants to keep you all up to date. Just remember - if you see me, be sure to lie to me and tell me that this fall weather lasts until February. I mean it.

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