Archive: Gripe

This summer, I’m going to be in a friend’s wedding, so on Saturday, I took part in that ritual of womanhood: a trip to David’s Bridal. I had a cheat sheet of the item numbers for the three dresses we could choose from, along with a coupon code, and I made my way to the closest store.

Meanwhile, a surprise snow storm blew across the area, and about halfway to the store, the roads became scarily slippery. The back end of my car slid from side to side at two traffic intersections, and I questioned whether I should press on. Sure, I didn’t want to drive in these conditions, but even more, I really didn’t want to make another appointment and drag myself out to the store. I decided to keep going.

Despite traveling way below the speed limit, I arrived at David’s Bridal a half hour before my appointment time, nerves all frayed. After ruining my pink flats in an inch of snow in the parking lot, I went the reception area and made my case. “My appointment isn’t until 3:30,” I said, “but if someone could help me now, I’d really appreciate it. If not, I’m fine to wait.”

“No problem,” the girl said, flipping through the book. “I’ll call Felicia for you.”

Felicia came to the desk promptly, and I showed her my cheat sheet of item numbers. While she went through the racks to pull my size, I gaped at the sheer volume of white puffiness around me. I vaguely remembered coming to this David’s Bridal when I was engaged; my sister and I quickly eliminated it as a possibility for bridesmaid dresses, but I tried on a veil for fun. It was a Saturday, I was sure, but it wasn’t nearly as frantic. Here and there, shrieks rang out from the fitting area, and two teen girls whizzed by with arms full of prom finery.

Eventually, Felicia led me to the fitting area, where all the walls and doors were encased in mirrors. She squeezed her way behind one bride’s entourage — easily a dozen people — and hung up my dresses inside the room. Once inside, I realized that the fitting room had two major flaws: there was no seat or bench to make changing easier, and there was no mirror. Oh, sure, mirrors were on every wall outside, but not inside the changing room! I would have to emerge into the chaos just to make a judgment call.

I started with the dress I liked best out of the three, and once I was all zipped and tied, I opened the door to look at my reflection. Oops! The entourage was still standing right in front of my room, so the door bumped into the back of one of the women. “Sorry, sorry, excuse me,” I said, shimmying my way out and holding up extra skirt yardage.

When I looked at the pictures of the dresses online, I was afraid that the one I liked most would make my shoulders look huge, but to my relief, I was not a linebacker! Excellent. I had my first viable candidate. I shuffled back into the dressing room, apologizing all the way, and maneuvered myself into Dress #2: a giant, puffy, sky-blue, quasi-halter contraption that could barely fit through the doorway. Felicia eyed me as I came out and said, “Hmm, I liked the first one better.”

Resigned, I said, “You know, I’m just going to go with that one and quit while I’m ahead.”

I put the first one back on to be sure my decision wasn’t based on frustration. More opening the door into people, more squeezing past them, more excusing myself. I looked in the mirror, confirmed that the dress would do, took a picture for posterity, and changed back into my regular clothes as fast as humanly possible. I was almost done!

And then I couldn’t find Felicia. I stood in the fitting area in my pea coat and scarf, feeling like an idiot, until she wandered back over. “You all set?” she asked.

What does it look like, Felicia?!

I put in my dress order, asked about turnaround time and alterations, and tucked my receipt into my wallet when I realized — oh, no! I forgot about the coupon! Shamefacedly, I asked Felicia if she could apply it after the fact, and she could! Phew. However, the process entailed calling a manager, complicated register-typing, and me signing a wad of receipts.

Finally, I left the store, a mere half hour after I had started the debacle. It felt much longer than that. And, I remembered glumly, I still had to drive home in the snow.

I have always aspired to be an upstanding library citizen. I put due dates on my calendar, receive e-mail notifications, renew two days ahead of time, and refrain from eating while I read books that are not mine. That’s why I was so horrified when Ted got hold of a library book I stupidly left on the couch. He wasted no time in chomping into foreword and ripping a handful of pages almost out of the binding. When I found the damage, I let out a gasp so sharp that JG came running over in alarm. I stifled a sob and dropped the book into my library-designated tote bag, already composing my statement of remorse for the library desk. A black mark on my record! I could hardly stand it.

The girl at the returns desk turned the pages thoughtfully. “Well, I think we can maybe fix the binding, but it’s really up to the library who owns this book.” It was a flash of hope — maybe it could be repaired! I wouldn’t be a book murderer!

A few days later, I received a notice from the library that owned the book with a fine to replace it, and I called to see if I could have the book once I had paid for it. It seemed only fair to me. The first librarian I spoke with became confused immediately. Why did I want the book if it was damaged? Was I sure that I would pay for it? She eventually passed me off to another librarian, who I’ll call Sylvia.

I started to explain my situation again, and Sylvia cut me off at every turn. No, I could not have the book. The situation was very unusual. If I wanted the book, I would have to come to that specific library to pick it up from the desk. No, there is no way to send it to my home library. No, not even through interlibrary loan! That’s not how the system works! Why exactly did I feel so strongly that I wanted the book, especially in this condition? Well, if I would pay the fine, she would consider sending me the book at my home branch.

When I hung up, my hand was shaking. Sylvia had beaten me up with her rudeness and condescension, as though I were a complete imbecile for not understanding the intricacies of the library and all that entails when dealing with a “dead book.” I felt like I was being barred from saving it from its trash heap fate. How hard was it to drop the book into the interlibrary loan system, especially if it meant saving me an hour-long drive? Argh. I resolved to go to my home branch and pay the fine that day, even though it meant going to the drive-up ATM, and I hate using that thing. I was determined to call back the other library the next day to prove my competence.

Back at my branch, I compared notes with the librarian on duty. “Is it out of the question for another library to send me a book I damaged after I paid for it? Because when I called this other branch, that’s what I was told.”

The librarian gave me funny look. “Of course not. Who did you talk to?”

“Sylvia.”

“Oh, she’s horrible!”

Small consolation though it was, it seemed that Sylvia did not reserve her grouchiness for me. I did not catch her on a bad day, and my request was not unreasonable; she was just a nasty person. “There’s always one,” the librarian said, shaking her head.

She advised me not to pay the fine just yet. She reserved the book in my name with the thought that the other library would send it to my home branch. I could pay the fine there, and then they could give me the book and then delete its record from the database. Okay. I just had to call the other library to follow up.

Oh, dread.

The next day, I called the other library and spoke to a non-Sylvia librarian. As I expected, my explanation was too complicated, and when she asked me who I had spoken with, I said with a sigh, “Sylvia.”

She came to the phone and, without so much as a greeting, began to ream me out. “I spoke to you yesterday, and I told you that once you had paid to zero balance, I would put the book in the van to your branch.”

I tried to explain what my librarian had told me, and that the discrepancy between policies didn’t make sense to me, but Sylvia was having none of it.

“That’s not how the system works! I can’t do it that way! Once you pay to zero balance, I said I would send the book to you.”

“Actually,” I said firmly, “I did not receive that impression from you that sending the book was a guarantee because you said you would ‘consider’ sending it to me, which is why I consulted with my librarian at home.”

Sylvia bulldozed ahead, repeating what she had already said — but louder! Because that is how you make more sense! — as though I were a nitwit bent on ruining her day, so I gave in.

“Fine. I will pay the fine and call you to follow up so that I know the book is on its way. What time is the library open tomorrow?”

“Don’t call tomorrow,” Sylvia snapped. “I don’t work on the weekends.”

Well, silly me! Of course, I should have divined from this delightful conversation what your schedule was!

I remembered a tip from my home librarian if Sylvia gave me any sass, so I asked as sweetly as possible, “Could I please speak to your director?”

And she transferred me right away, just as my home librarian said she had to.

To my relief, the library director was a calm man who explained the library’s damaged books policy to me. He would be happy to send me the book once I had paid for it, and I explained that Sylvia had made it seem out of the ordinary to do so, even giving me the impression that I was causing an inconvenience. I went on to tell him how I had had lovely experiences with all of his librarians, but that Sylvia had been condescending with me, even to the point of rudeness. I conceded that I was frustrated at times, but I did not feel that she gave me sufficient explanation for my situation, and I thought her tone was inappropriate. The director thanked me for the feedback, apologized, and promised to follow up with Sylvia. We confirmed my course of action, and I left the conversation feeling much better than when I started.

I paid the fine that Saturday and made one last phone call to the other library on the following Monday. Thankfully, Sylvia was very subdued compared to our last interaction, and it was a brief conversation. I finally picked up the book after work last night and slid it into place on our shelves at home. Per Miss Nem’s recommendation, I mailed a thank-you note to the other library’s staff today, and the situation is resolved, at last.

All told, it only cost me $21, three phone calls, three visits to my library, two weeks, and a formal complaint to save the book from being discarded. I hope it’s grateful.

The whiny side of me: Is it only Tuesday?

The realistic side of me: Yes, but this is just a four-day week.

Whiny: Okay, but yesterday was my last day off until … Thanksgiving.

Realistic: Come on. You’re taking half days to see a couple of volleyball games, and I bet you can squeeze in a personal day sometime in there. Check the spreadsheet.

Whiny: I know, I know.

Realistic: And you’re going to Dallas in October.

Whiny: That’s not the same! I have to network and schmooze my way through that conference. I’ll be on my feet the whole time.

Realistic: But you won’t be at work.

Whiny: I wish it were still the weekend.

Realistic: You did so much stuff! You went to the first UD game, finished two books, and baked cupcakes for a picnic. That’s not bad.

Whiny: But it’s over now. There are three volleyball games this week, so I have to do all the cooking, and then we have a tournament all day on Saturday. I’m already tired. I have all this boring epidemiology reading to do for work. I don’t want to revise this new clinical report. And I just heard that I’m getting dragged into a complicated grant that is sure to be a nightmare. And then, when I get home, I have to dust the bedroom, make dinner, and walk the dog, when it’ll probably be raining, knowing my luck. And I’m already behind on my third volleyball scarf.

Realistic: You’re just getting overwhelmed before you’ve done anything.

Whiny: I can’t get over inertia. I am a slug. Look at me, oozing along.

Realistic: Snap out of it! Start moving, cross things off, and get to work!

Whiny: But I don’t want to work!

Realistic: You have to.

Whiny: But I don’t want to.

Realistic: Yeah. But you have to.

Whiny: I know.

On Saturday, after a torrential downpour, JG noticed that water was dripping from our entryway light fixture. What the heck? He shut off the electricity and poked around the crawl space above the top floor, but he couldn’t find a visible leak. Our documents from buying this house are very vague on roof maintenance — apparently, they did some work on it, but we don’t know when or what it entailed — so it’s not out of the realm of possibility that we might have to replace the whole thing. JG is worried that we will have to spend our whole savings (emergency car and vacation funds) if the repair is significant, and knowing that we have been financially responsible in the past is small consolation.

This morning, I’ve called five roofers and made three appointments for estimates, and I am hoping and praying that what we saw was just a product of a loose shingle and the heaviest rain of the season. Fortunately, my boss is being really understandable about my unpredictable lateness or ducking out early, but I really hope I don’t have to use up vacation days trying to fix whatever problem is there. Water damage and mold are my two biggest fears in owning a house, so this maybe-kind-of-potential leak scares the bejeezus out of me.

To make matters worse, when I came into work today, I found that the Urgent E-mail Lady has struck again. The deadline for department newsletter content was last Friday, and I planned to lay it all out this week. On Wednesday, I sent my normal two-day reminder to the folks who hadn’t already sent me their pieces, and UEL wrote back (red exclamation point!) that I would get her piece “by Friday, if not tomorrow.” Well! This morning, there is no article in my inbox, and I wrote her an e-mail asking for a status update, which is my subtle way of asking where the freak the article is because the deadline already passed. I know that if I tell that I am pushing off her article until the next issue, she will have a fit in the form of an e-mail with an angry exclamation point, CCed to my boss and her bosses. I look forward to it.

To finish off the trifecta of trauma, I got an e-mail from one of the administrative assistants saying that we’re having a birthday celebration for one of the uppity ups tomorrow at 11am, and could we let her know if we can come and bring food items? This e-mail bothered me on a few levels, but most severely:

• If you are soliciting people to bring food for your event, it is common courtesy to give them more than, oh, say, 22 hours of notice.
• Hardly any one else gets formal birthday celebrations around here, but I know people will fall over themselves to bring something and go to this thing because it is Prime Sucking Up Time.

Immediately, a flurry of Reply All responses flew in. People volunteered for vegetables and dip! Carrot cake! Cheese and crackers! Chips and dip! Blueberry coffee cake! Paper products! I quickly skimmed the To field in the message: there will only be twenty of us if everyone comes. How much food did we really need?

I responded to the assistant to ask if she needed anything else, and she replied, “Whatever food item you want to bring is fine!”

Thank you, but that was supremely unhelpful.

It appears that I will look very bad if I don’t bring something, so what easy thing can I make with some combination of all-purpose flour, granulated sugar, brown sugar, confectioner’s sugar, eggs, milk, vanilla, butter, shortening, walnuts, a cup of white chocolate chips, an ounce of baker’s chocolate, and a miniature Heath bar? I have no time to go to the store because it’s my night to make dinner, and I have to leave work early today because, of course, I scheduled the first roofing estimate appointment for tonight.

If I make a chocolate-chip-cookie base and only use white chips, and only half the prescribed amount, is that okay? What if I made half of a cookie recipe into a 8×8-inch pan and cut it into bars? Would white chocolate and Heath bar make a weird combination? Or white chocolate, Heath bar, and walnuts? Gah. My mind is spinning.