Lost and Found

Who's The Boss?

Today I am interviewing two possible interns, which means two things: a) I get to ask someone what she believes her weaknesses are and b) I've reached a new point in my career. I get to be in charge of someone. Granted, I get to be in charge of someone for only 20 hours a week and for three months, but nonetheless, it's pretty exciting.

I did one interview yesterday, and found that I was as nervous as the candidate. While I was asking about her multi-tasking skills, I realized that what I really wanted to ask was, "Can you happily work for someone disorganized and random?"

It's weird to be called "Miss Moorhead."

My first interview today will be with Q, a journalism major. Q cannot spell 'forward' and answers the phone, "This is her." Q is also 13 minutes late. I do not think that I will hire Q.

My co-workers chastise me for caring about these details. I mean, I certainly don't show up on time. But for the first time in my life, I understand what that person on the other side of the desk is thinking, when going through the horrid interviewing process. If a candidate's best talent is journalism, it's kind of scary that she is "looking foreward to working for" me. Nice.

I'm wasting my time writing this, because I found the perfect person yesterday. She was intelligent, energetic and said all the right things. And she's going down to Ohio University for New Years Eve.

I can only hope that she'll be able help me find my day planner.

Bye, Bye Mr. Tinkle.

So I made it through Christmas with the family. Not without the required mix of frustration, tears, embarrassment, estrangement and cigarettes, of course. I'm waiting until I'm ready to publish my tell-all auto biography to give details about my family life, but I will say that I spent the majority of Christmas day suspiciously eyeing the rifle leaning on the front porch of my sister's house, wondering if it were real, or merely a toy for her four year old son.

And now it's time for the New Year. Time to look back on the previous year and reflect. Did I really date Mr. Tinkle in 2004? How many times did I leave my friends to go hang out with K? Have I really been working for the Library for six months? Was my second favorite concert of the year Damien Rice at Bonnaroo or Rufus Wainwright at Promo West? How many times did I clean the bathtub. So yeah, I've been having a period of self-reflection. A three-hour Christmas morning drive to East Liverpool, Ohio will do that to a gal.

I've made a few resolutions for the year. Start carrying the trash all the way out to the dumpster. It doesn’t need to sit on the back porch for three weeks. Try to drink all of the milk before it goes bad; some people don't have the luxury to be throwing away milk. Don't go on more than one date with someone that I don't really like; it's a waste of time. Get my hair cut often enough that I don't start to develop dreads. Read more literature. Try to finish a New York Times crossword puzzle. Learn not to be terrified of driving on snow. Put that plastic stuff up over the windows. Pay my gas bill on time. Suck it up and get internet in the apartment. Volunteer more often. Floss.

I've got less than a week to fulfill my resolution from last year, which was to learn the average height and weight of a baby, so I know what to say to new parents. (This is where readers come in - help me out with this, otherwise 2004 will have been a total failure.)

Look forward to at least one top ten list in the next couple of days. I'm hoping it will be good. You'll want to print it out to commemorate the year. I promise. (It's not completely done, but I'm thinking that it might have something to do with 2004's Best 10 answers for 20 Questions.)

Crush.

I must admit that I have a crush. It wasn't an instant crush; it snuck up on me overnight. You know how it is. One day the guy from Speedway is ringing up your cigarettes and Sunday paper, like he has for two years, and then he helps you dump coolant into your engine - or whatever it is that you dump coolant into - and all of a sudden you realize his name is Josh and he has a personality.

This new crush is not on Josh at Speedway.

I'm enamoured by a group of 40-year-old women. No I haven't joined a commune, though I've always admired that lifestyle. Instead, my crush is on the librarians that I work with.

They're amazing. Collectively, they can finish a New York Times crossword puzzle, offer fifteen different medications and cures for the common cold, tell you about new musical trends in Poland and pretty much revitalize faith in humankind.

It started with our holiday luncheon last week. We sat around the board room table, ate our lunches and exchanged white elephant gifts. It was the first time that I'd actually had a chance to socialize with these women and I soon realized that they weren't just suburban housewives. Of course they were motherly, but they were also witty and even let the conversation get a little bit racy when one of them opened up a teacup wrapped in a Victoria's Secret box. I was proud of them.

Like most crushes, I just can't explain my attraction, but I've been spending more time at the Library. I want to chat with J about knitting and my sex life. I want to ask W about the strangest questions she's heard at the reference desk. I want to see the books that people are checking out and peruse the reserved section. I want to whisper with S about the page who's has been living in the employee lounge for the last month. Does he really live in his car?

In short, I want to be a librarian.

But I know that I am a fickle woman. My crushes aren't meant to be pursued. Because you know that once I flirt with Josh at Speedway, we might go on a date, and it would be horrible. And then I'd have to find a new gas station to buy my cigarettes. While that's not a travesty, finding a new library would be.

So I'll stick with my marketing, and try not to visit the reference desk too often. I don't want to make my crush obvious.

Holiday Party Recap.

1. Apparently there was an ornament on fire in our living room. (Part of the ornament's charm was a sparkler attached to it. Unfortunately, the plastic parts of the rest of the ornament are flammable.) The ornament fire is significant for three reasons. A) We recently had a fire in our oven involving half-empty pizza boxes and a piece of chicken. B) The guest's first reaction to the burning ornament was to put it back on the (real) Christmas tree. (Luckily her husband thought it would be best to take it outside.)And C) Sarah and I didn't even notice the ornament was on fire. We dubbed it first place, even though this morning we realized that half of it was melted.

2. I learned a little about Sarah's music collection. She has a Journey album and a CD with Bobby McFarin and Yo Yo Ma. At least one of these were played last night.

3. We watched marching band videos projected on our basement wall, and our guests didn't immediately leave.

4. I have scraches, cuts and burns all over my hands. This might have something to do with the beer boxes and New York Times that we were burning in the oil barrel outside. But I can't say for sure.

All in all, the party was a success. Perhaps I'll write something about it of higher quality when the thought of white zinfandel no longer makes me want to vomit.

Things I've Learned in the Past 48 Hours.

My doctor is no longer doing family practice. Instead she's specializing in botox. Which is great if you need a lift and not so great if you feel like your nose is going to fall off of your face.

The "Urgent Care" center at the closest hospital is not so much an "Urgent Care" center, but an "Emergency Room". Both do the same thing if you have a sinus infection. The latter will just cost you $200.

No doctors are taking new patients until after the holidays.

The "Urgent Care" center in the suburb closest to my house closed a month ago.

If you walk into a random doctor's office holding tissues, sneezing and crying at 4.45 p.m., they will take you in as a patient.

My new phone's "on" button is the same as the "off" button. This took me three hours to figure out. It took Sarah six seconds.

When you stack a shelving unit on top of crates, decorate it in a candy cane motif, fill it up with wine, tall jars filled with blueberries and vinegar, expensive laundry fragrance in glass containers, salsa jars, fruit dips and hand lotion, when it falls over, you'll have a giant puddle of broken glass, wine, blueberries, vinegar, laundry fragrance, salsa and fruit dip on the floor. Also, twenty people will stare at the display crashing to the floor, and then they'll look at you, to see if you'll cry or curse in public. And you'll smell like laundry perfume (grass scent) for a good six hours.

NyQuil is amazing. (Okay, I already knew that.)

Woo Woo!

I went to see LeAnn Rimes and now I have a cold.

Going to her concert was similar to going to church, what with the mind-wandering, boredom and the closing of the evening with Amazing Grace. I went because Kristin had free tickets, because the Columbus Symphony Orchestra was accompanying Ms. Rimes, because they were playing holiday music, because I was hoping for a nice rendition of Carol of the Bells.

Instead of Carol of the Bells, we got to hear that "How Can I L-eeeeve Without You" song, a few pieces off her new album, which Ms. Rimes says has so much of her heart in it, she listens to it over and over, and Santa Baby.

The venue was far from full, which was surprising. I figured that Columbus pretty much loves country music and Jesus. Perhaps fans were scared off by the orchestra. Or, as Kristin suggested, the price of the tickets ($30+) and the fact that it was on a Tuesday evening. Per usual, the fans that did come were fun to watch. An old couple sat in the center, she happy, he looking displeased. We decided that she told him that they were going to a basketball game. Other single fans waved furiously at LeAnn while she was on stage, as if they were best friends. She, of course, waved back. Because that's what her publicist told her to do.

And then there was the couple in front of us. They were wearing Christmas sweaters and in their early thirties or late twenties. It was obvious that he was salivating over Ms. Rimes because he'd yell out "woo!" when she was trying to be sexy. He clapped longer, harder and louder than his wife, and threw in enough "woo's" that I wanted to kick him. The entire last two songs of the concert were wasted on me, as I thought to myself, "I do not want to be married to someone who likes LeAnn Rimes more than I do."

And despite the cold medicine, I still believe that.

Ouch.

It hurts me to say it, but I'm afraid it's true. Columbus, Ohio is the fat kid with indigestion and untied shoelaces on the school bus of America. I spent a year in Chicago (and two three-month stints in Great Britain) trying to talk up the city. It was difficult to do, what with our lack of public transportation and all night dance clubs. I ended up resorting to Ohio State football to impress the Ohio-ignorant.

But with Maurice and his mouth, even Ohio State football is failing our city. Add to that our "270 Sniper", our fame as the state that lost the election for Kerry, and the shooting of "Dimebag" Darrell this week at a heavy metal club, we've created more fodder for jokes than California.

We do have some good things going for us. Our library systems are the best in America. Columbus is highly rated as a place to be African-American and raise a family. We're a test market for restaurants and we're the home of Dave Thomas and Jack Hanna. Oh. And it's rumored that Eric Clapton lives here.

Did you hear that? Eric Clapton's our friend. So please quit taking our lunch money.

Three Stars. (Four If I Could Have Had a Drink.)

I went to the soft opening of a restaurant and video bar last night with co-workers. The evening was specifically for friends and family of the owners, investors and the executive chef, and I was lucky enough to be considered a "friend." While I wanted to support the chef, and was somewhat lured in by the free appetizers and half-price entrees, my main motivation for coming was the evaluation that was, in theory, supposed to follow the meal.

I sat through the dinner and kept a checklist in my mind. I liked the cinnamon apple and pistachios in the salad; each bite featured a different flavor. The menu design was beautiful, but I noticed there was an extra space before "crab cakes". This irritated the graphic designer in me. The lamb was wonderful, full of flavor and falling off the bone, while I found the pancetta-minted risotto to be a bit salty.

We never did get the evaluations, and I was somewhat disappointed. The whole thing reminded me of an article in the Sunday *New York Times Magazine.* The article was about companies that use word of mouth advertising, and how in the end, the people who volunteer to do the word of mouth never actually collect their incentives. Basically, people like to give their opinion. It's strange that I never really thought of that before, but it's true. I'm pleased when someone takes my recommendation about a film, a television show, a type of wine. Why wouldn't others feel the same way?

Is that why Lainie recommended DHL to me in an e-mail yesterday?

Probably.

So. Here's my recommendation. Try Network (the restaurant that I went to last night). Avoid the risotto and for maximum enjoyment, wait until they have a liquor license.

Public Speaking.

It's one of my worst nightmares, aside from the one where I'm getting ready to fly to Europe and I've forgotten my tickets/luggage/passport. Back in college, I was part of an independent literary magazine that would throw poetry slams in a local bar to raise money for publication. I'd have to talk during intermissions, remind people to tip their bartenders, thank them for coming. I'd do this sitting down on stage, head buried in a paper, refusing to look up into the crowd that was too drunk to pay attention to me anyway.

Eventually, I conned my friend Matt into being an emcee for the event. He was legendary in the poetry realm for his piece about being attracted to Natalie Portman way before it was appropriate to be attracted to Natalie Portman. This boy shined in the spotlight.

So, last Thursday, I found myself in familiar territory. We decided to host a series of rock concerts at the Library, and as it was my pet project, I was the one who had to address the crowd. I tried to convince one of the Librarians to do the job. They're so professional and graceful. They probably wouldn't have to worry about profanities slipping out during the speech. But they wanted me to do it.

"You're young. These are your people. We'll be in the back." Apparently, they were afraid that they weren't hip enough to talk to this group of indie rockers.

My first fear, of course, was that no one would show up to a dry venue. But once the head count reached 100, I moved on to fear number two. How do I talk to these people? I had a speech scribbled on a piece of paper, thanking the Librarians for being so open to new ideas, thanking the bands for donating their time, thanking the local pizza vendor, thanking everyone for supporting the Library. It was a witty speech (I thought) and relatively simple to perform.

I came in from the back of the "stage", holding my paper and trying not to trip over the drum set and cords. My opening line came out well.

"When I interviewed for this job, I told the Library that I was wonderful at public speaking. I lied. And now they're about to find that out." From that point on, I froze. I raced through the list of people, inserting "um" and "uh" into every phrase. My hand started shaking and instead of ignoring it, I announced to the crowd that my hand was shaking, just in case they didn't notice. At the poetry slams, I'd have a beer or a cigarette in my hand. The Library cards that I held to present to the band members didn't have the same calming power. I rushed through the rest, reminding people to check out the Audio Visual section and raced off the stage and outside to hot box a cigarette.

I decided that from that point on, I'd just whisper announcements to one of the band members to pass along to the crowd, which worked just fine. I apologized to the Librarians, who proved to be wonderful in calming my nerves. The same women that had no qualms with letting me keep the Library open after hours to let in a bunch of twenty-somethings with green hair and nose piercings pulled me aside and said that I have a lovely speaking voice, and next time I'll do better.

Which is why I love my Library. Nonetheless, I'm already terrified about "next time." I wonder if Matt's still available.

Those Can't Be Real.

I may have found the perfect solution to the Holiday Office Party date problem. Bring a co-worker. You don't have to worry about introducing them to everyone, nor do you have to deal with the February, "So whatever happened to so-and-so?" issue. So on Friday afternoon, I wrote a note to Clint, the guy who stocks wine and beer, asking him to the executive party (and the drag show) and requesting that he check yes or no. It turns out that he was much more interested in the drag show, but I explained to him that it was a package deal.

The details of the party are dull, but I can say that the juxtaposition between medium rare prime rib and watching a man in an evening gown lip synch and do an interpretive dance to "Total Eclipse of the Heart" by Bonnie Tyler was amazing. I wish I could have tape-recorded the conversations that Clint and I had while watching the drag show.

"Are those real?"

"I think so."

"But they're better than mine. She's got a better body than I do."

I've never spent so much time staring at breasts. And that's all I have to say.