Caveat Lector

I don’t know why I’d never seen Monty Python’s “Gorilla Librarian” sketch before. It does prove that librarian-hiring lunacy goes back at least a generation.

Chairman: Yes. Yes. Yes. (a maniacal look in his eyes) Yes, yes, Mr. Phipps. I love seeing the customers when they come in to complain about some book being damaged, and ask to see the chief librarian and then— you should see their faces when the proud beast leaps from his tiny office, snatches the book from their hands and sinks his fangs into their soft er… (collects himself) Mr Phipps! Kong! You can be our next librarian—you’re proud, majestic and fierce enough. Will you do it?

Gorilla: I don’t think I can sir.

Vicar: Why not?

Gorilla: I’m not really a gorilla.

Vicar: Eh?

Gorilla: I’m a librarian in a skin.

Chairman: Why this deception?

Gorilla: Well, they said it was the best way to get the job.

No, no, no, not the soccer team, what do I care about soccer?

I did some site cruising for good trips to take the cats on, and United Airlines slugged it out with American for the best deals, so I called United first.

One mild peeve: they charge you for calling them, even when it’s impossible to do the reservation online (as it is with pets). They ought to waive the charge if it’s not an online-able reservation.

Anyway, we disposed of the reservation and everything was hunkydory until we hit a snag—the eensy-weensy planes they use between Madison and Chicago only ever allow one flying pet.

Oh, spit. I started surfing Van Galder to see if they’ll let the cats on the bus.

“Let me talk to my support desk,” the nice operator said, “and I’ll see what I can do.” Ninety seconds later, “It’s taken care of. Both your pets can go with you in the cabin. Can I assist you with any other travel plans today?”

Wow. Kudos for customer service, there. And thanks.

Everybody’s home and safe, including the Goths. I will thank $DEITY that what happened on the way here happened on the way here rather than on the way out, because this time we didn’t have four suitcases to worry about.

No, no, nothing out of the ordinary, just plain old ordinary air-travel hassles. We schlepped through a lengthy security line and hit our gate twenty minutes before boarding. Thirty minutes passed, and no boarding. Uh-oh.

“Diverted to Dulles,” we were told, which given what happened on the way out occasioned much eye-rolling on my part.

So we waited another half-hour, and then heard “grounded for maintenance; please come to the gate agent for rebooking.” Oh, joy unbounded.

Being the sneaky soul I am, I got us rebooked on a flight to Milwaukee that was just about to board—as in, we walked two gates over and I didn’t even put my bag down before we hopped on the plane. Caught the Badger Bus from Milwaukee, no problem, and had a leisurely dinner on State Street before the flight to Madison we might possibly have made was scheduled to start its descent.

And, wouldn’t you know it, some yahoo on this flight broke the 30-minute butts-in-seats rule. I’m a nervous enough flier as it is; I do not like hearing a sudden shout from the flight attendant through the speakers. But again, we didn’t get shunted to Dulles.

IF YOU ARE FLYING INTO OR OUT OF REAGAN WASHINGTON NATIONAL AIRPORT, YOUR BUTT NEEDS TO STAY IN ITS SEAT THIRTY MINUTES BEFORE ARRIVAL THEREAT OR AFTER DEPARTURE THEREFROM. It’s really that simple, y’all. Don’t be a big jerk. Your fellow passengers thank you.

Oh, and we got word that the apartment application was approved, so we have a place to live, yay.

Pending application approval (and I can’t imagine why there would be a problem there), we’ve got ourselves an apartment. Quite a steal for the area, too; I’m very pleased. The one drawback to it is stairs—moving in will be horrid, but I expect I can dig up a burly student or two to help.

I do want to mention our real-estate/rental agent, who was completely marvelous. Her name is Susie Scott, and she works for Weichert Realty (who also have a rental site). She knows the area well, found us quite a few possibilities in our price range, drove us around all morning with superlative patience, and was most helpful and accommodating. I recommend her highly, and plan to get back in touch with her once we’re ready to consider buying something. This could have been a chore, but turned into an enjoyable day out instead.

So tomorrow we get to bum around DC with some friends, instead of continuing the house-hunt. I can’t argue with that.

“Did you lock these?” the gate agent asked me suspiciously, peering down at my heavy-duty hard-sided Samsonite suitcases.

Of course I hadn’t. I know better. Rules are, you never lock your suitcase, because the friendly folks trying to protect the country from globetrotting librarians might have to look inside them.

What I didn’t know is that they’re looking in all the suitcases these days. (Don’t look at me like that. I don’t usually check luggage.) While packing, I discovered that my husband’s suitcase had about two inches’ worth of zipper-tracks missing along one side. Okay, okay, I could close the rest of the suitcase. It only had to survive the one journey-leg, thanks to a brand-new nonstop service. And the friendly transportation-security folks (remember: librarians are trouble!) had four suitcases to choose from; what are the odds they’d go for the busted one?

“Dorothy Salo, please see a ticket agent on the lower level. Dorothy Salo…” (They did pronounce “Salo” correctly.)

Yes, well, the friendly transportation-security folks festooned the busted bag with tape bearing their friendly logo, and it got to where we were going just fine. I hope they were enlightened by the various blazers and blouses inside it. My guess is, I shouldn’t have worn my red “Information to the People” SLIS T-shirt. Bait for the bulls, that is.

But when it comes right down to it, it’s my own fault. I knew the rules. I tried to edge around them.

The second time I went through security (they couldn’t have had me call the ticket agent, oh, no) I was delayed by a woman in front of me carrying no less than four bags of varying dimensions. I don’t know what it is about “no more than two” that she didn’t understand, but the security guy had to repeat himself twice before she believed he was serious.

On the plane, we were warned twice at the beginning of the flight, once by the captain and once by the flight attendant, that we’d be confined to our seats for the last 30 minutes of air-time. Okay, fine, whatever. They warned us again ten minutes before the thirty minutes started. Then they told us (politely) to sit down and bloody well not move, because if we moved, the plane would be diverted elsewhere.

The yobbo sitting in front of David and me? Got up not one minute after that order. One of the passengers was the first to yell at him, and he frankly deserved worse than he got from the flight attendant—but he did sit back down quickly, and the crew had mercy and did not divert the plane.

So we’re here, with the five cats of the apocalypse: the scrawny, diffident grey Wop (whose name is onomatopoeic); the surly old Matz Katz; Ocelot the diva, who has reformed her earlier larcenous ways to judge from how she ignored the tempting watch I put in front of her; Galahad the preux chevalier, whose purrs register on the Richter scale; and Gilderoy the new kid in town, who has a voice like an opera star, and impressive breath control to go along with it.

We spent today taking the bus around Fairfax to scope out apartment complexes and neighborhoods. Not as big a place as we were expecting, and certainly nice enough in a faceless-anonymous-suburbia sort of way. We found the library, and a great Indian lunch buffet (Indian lunch buffets being one of life’s great pleasures), and we understand the maps now, and it is all good.

Tomorrow, the rental agent.

Suitcases packed (all but the Silver Surfer, and where at’s my wireless card?), taxi summoned, Goths fed and watered, house-hunting appointments made, in-laws notified (not to say “warned”)… I think we’re about ready to roll.

I have so many pill bottles in my carry-on that I feel like a junkie, though.

Aha. There’s the wireless card. Excellent.

See you folks Wednesday if not sooner. Stay out of trouble, you hear me?

Sleep is a wonderful thing, yes it is. Otherwise, I’d not touch those horse pills they gave me.

This is Serious Medicine, the size of those pills proclaims. Do not take this stuff unless you are in such dire straits that you don’t even mind the possibility that the pill will get stuck and wreak havoc halfway down your esophagus. Do not take this stuff unless it’s all right with you for one pill to take the place of an entire normal meal. Do not take this stuff unless you’re willing to flood your body with water just trying to swallow it.

But hey, it worked. Took one pill at ten, was out cold by eleven, didn’t wake up until five; took another pill and was out until eight-thirty (when Dream insisted vocally on being fed).

Apparently the daily vulture-swoop just after getting up is something I’ll simply have to get used to. Today’s wasn’t as bad as yesterday’s, though, and by now it’s settled down to a level that, while not fun, is at least tolerable. The referred pain has left my wrist and is calming at the elbow. All in all, progress.

Going to see Howl’s Moving Castle this afternoon, if I can get the remaining two suitcases packed this morning. Love me some Miyazaki, I do.

In the “somebody already did this, so I don’t have to” category (there must be a LCC number for that, surely?) is “I am the very model of computerized librarian.”

If you don’t giggle, you’re not a computerized librarian. I giggled. Out loud. A lot. And the cool part is, I can actually do just about all those things…

A sample:

I navigate the Internet with speed and perspicacity;
Evaluate each website for its content and veracity:
In fact, in finding information, most utilitarian,
I am the very model of computerized librarian.

Overuse injury, otherwise known as “Dorothea is an idiot.” About what I figured. Really, one would think I’d know better by now. Not serious, which is good as I’d been fearing a rotator-cuff tear.

I’ve got a more aggressive narcotic-plus-painkiller to take at night in hopes it’ll zonk me out and I can get back to actually sleeping. Other than that, it’s the usual mill of ibuprofen, heat, mild exercise, and avoiding the over-the-head work that caused the problem in the first place.

Oh, and no heavy lifting.

NO HEAVY LIFTING.

How the hell am I supposed to move in four weeks if I can’t lift heavy stuff?

Right, right, not panicking. Really truly not. Will figure something out, probably involving large bribes of pizza to various and sundry friends. In the meantime, I have to go grocery shopping and pack for the apartment-hunting trip.

Without lifting anything heavy. Sigh.

The good news is I got some sleep last night, first unbroken sleep in three nights, and woke up without pain.

Bad news is that the pain swooped down like a vulture as soon as I got out of bed. It’s settled a bit, but my face is still twisted in a rather ugly grimace, so I’m taking the grimace and the shoulder to urgent-care (if I asked for a regular appointment, I’d not get one until the day after my move!) to see what they have to say about it.