Special delivery

A couple of times over the summer I left the house to walk the dog and found a piece of half-eaten food on our front (outside) windowsill. I think one was a soft pretzel; I can't remember what the others were. Today I got home from work and found a hot dog with mustard and relish and one bite missing. I'm not sure what to think. I'm all for home hot dog delivery, but the execution leaves a little to be desired.

Like rabbits, I tell you

Ah, the holidays. Food and forced togetherness. We got a bit of a head start this weekend with the baptism of my cousin's new baby. I adore my family, and it was generally a good time, but things got a little weird. For one thing, M. Defarge and my sister-in-law were both completely crazy about the baby, practically wrestling over who got to hold it. My brother and I, much less interested, discussed the possibility of getting the two of them a baby to share and then going to a bar to watch baseball. However, I did eventually hold the kid, and she slept through it, so it wasn't overly traumatic for either of us.

My dad also broke the news that his younger brother and (pretty much) last living relative--the park ranger, also my godfather, for what it's worth--has apparently decided to pop the question to his girlfriend. His 30-year-old girlfriend. (My uncle is 47-ish.) And they want to have babies. I've never met this girl and I rarely see him (he came to my brother's wedding but I never actually encountered him), and anyway it's obviously none of my business. But I honestly find the whole thing creepy and a little offensive. I mean, we're the same age. Do I call her Aunt Katie?

Between my younger cousin having a baby and taking the whole thing completely in stride, my husband and sister-in-law itching to throw their hats in the ring, and my uncle suddenly preparing to enter the ranks of the child-bearing (never thought I'd write that sentence), I'm feeling a little seasick. Just where do I fit into this family picture? I think I may be the one behind the couch, in the fetal position.

Quote for the day

Young love is about wanting to be happy. Old love is about wanting someone else to be happy.

--Mary Pipher, in a New York Times article about the supportive spouses of Alzheimer's patients who fall in love with fellow nursing home residents

(That sounds really tabloid-ish. It's actually a really sad article. Apparently Sandra Day O'Connor's husband met someone at his nursing home, and his wife is taking it in stride because she's happy to see him happy. Alice Munro has a wonderful short story about a similar situation that was made into a movie recently. Haven't seen the movie yet [although I heard it was excellent], but highly recommend the story, and anything else of Munro's.)

Actually, the first part of Pipher's quote is pretty good too:

There’s a difference between love as it is presented in movies and music as this jazzy sexy thing that involves bikini underwear and what love actually turns out to be. The really interesting script isn’t that people like to have sex. The really interesting script is what people are willing to put up with.

Too good not to share

From my favorite Communications professor, the opening sentence of a freshman research paper:

“People with low self-esteem continue to be a growing problem with America and can lead to life threatening diseases and unnecessary surgeries.”

Finally, someone to blame for America's problems!

It's official!

We bought our plane tickets for London! We leave on April 25 and come back May 4. Now I just have to wait 5 1/2 months for it to get here, but at least I know it's going to happen. Something to look forward to on those days when my lack of a book budget gets me down ...

New books? For a library? What a crazy idea!

My friend the humanities department chair came into the library yesterday very frustrated and angry about a meeting she'd had with members of our administration, who were typically unresponsive and uncooperative. She vented a little about the situation and her crappy day and then said that she guessed she shouldn't complain, since she didn't have bad days very often--her last one was Dec. 1, 2006.

It did sound like a bad day--we had a huge snowstorm during rush hour that morning, and apparently her train caught fire and all the commuters were sent out into the snow to find their own way to work. She said it took her an hour to get a cab.

But that part barely registered with me, because I was stuck on the idea that her last bad day was 11 months ago. She's not some annoyingly cheerful Pollyanna type, either. We regularly start our days by comparing notes on how tired and unmotivated we are. Obviously she sets the bar a little higher than most people on what constitutes a bad day. And obviously I'm a bit of a drama queen. But one bad day a year? I'd say I average one every week or two--just ask M. Defarge.

I wish I had her attitude. She also routinely says how much she loves her job. I don't think I've ever said that in my life. I like my job, and I've liked aspects of previous jobs, but love? Hell, no.

Today I emphatically did not love my job, or our administration. I'm starting a library advisory committee made up of faculty members, in part because I could use the feedback and in part because the library plan my predecessor wrote (read: borrowed verbatim from another library, but with permission, so it's OK) for our accreditation report says we already have one. This afternoon my boss asked to review the agenda for our upcoming inaugural meeting, because he wants to make sure we're not thinking that this will be a purchasing committee. Because, once again, there will be no purchasing of library materials.

There are so many things wrong with that statement that I want to rip my hair out in clumps. But my train did not catch fire on the way home, so I guess it wasn't a Bad Day after all.