Sep. 11th, 2007 03:08 pm
Bring me your sutpids
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muckefuckToday would be just fine if people would simply STOP ASKING ME THINGS I DON'T KNOW.
Our first stupid question (actually, line of questioning, but I'm getting ahead of myself) comes from La Vache. Yes, Dear Readers, she's back from another extended vacation. (I don't know how she finagles so much time off and I don't care. In fact, I'd like her to have more; knowing she's getting paid not to work couldn't possibly be as galling as seeing her get paid not to work.) But first, let's cast a thin veil of simulated audience participation over this bitch session: Say you ordered the books of a poet thinking they were in translation but they turned out to be in the original Bulgarian. You want to know if we should keep them or send them back. How do you find out?
[Space left for the reader to come to a reasonable conclusion, such as going to the selector for Slavica titles, telling them what you have, and asking them if they'd like to add these books to the collection.]
If you're La Vache, of course, you go to someone who has nothing to do with selecting titles for the collection in any capacity and ask them, "How many readers do we have for Cyrillic?" God, how do you wrap so much wrongheadedness into eight little words? It took me three minutes to unravel what the hell she even meant (what's a "reader for Cyrillic"? Someone who can transliterate the alphabet?) and another two minutes of repeating the name of the Slavic selector before she finally left me alone. What is so difficult to understand about, "I have nothing to do with this; you need to talk to Vasilia Pupkina"?
Just in case she had it in mind to come back, I left early for my front desk shift. Almost immediately, I'm bombarded with questions about where the head of the section (who, mind you, is my supervisor for a mere two hours a day) is and when he'll be back. Someone's got some brochures and such to drop off. I tell her I'll put them in closet. She says that's not good enough, she wants to give them to someone so they won't be forgotten and tells me all this miscellaneous information about them. Finally, I get her to understand that I don't know when the boss is coming back. Maybe I'll be able to see him and tell him, maybe I won't. So then she's like, "Why don't we put it in the closet and leave a note." Yes, why DON'T we?
An hour and a half, that's all that's left in the day. Why does it seem so long?
Our first stupid question (actually, line of questioning, but I'm getting ahead of myself) comes from La Vache. Yes, Dear Readers, she's back from another extended vacation. (I don't know how she finagles so much time off and I don't care. In fact, I'd like her to have more; knowing she's getting paid not to work couldn't possibly be as galling as seeing her get paid not to work.) But first, let's cast a thin veil of simulated audience participation over this bitch session: Say you ordered the books of a poet thinking they were in translation but they turned out to be in the original Bulgarian. You want to know if we should keep them or send them back. How do you find out?
[Space left for the reader to come to a reasonable conclusion, such as going to the selector for Slavica titles, telling them what you have, and asking them if they'd like to add these books to the collection.]
If you're La Vache, of course, you go to someone who has nothing to do with selecting titles for the collection in any capacity and ask them, "How many readers do we have for Cyrillic?" God, how do you wrap so much wrongheadedness into eight little words? It took me three minutes to unravel what the hell she even meant (what's a "reader for Cyrillic"? Someone who can transliterate the alphabet?) and another two minutes of repeating the name of the Slavic selector before she finally left me alone. What is so difficult to understand about, "I have nothing to do with this; you need to talk to Vasilia Pupkina"?
Just in case she had it in mind to come back, I left early for my front desk shift. Almost immediately, I'm bombarded with questions about where the head of the section (who, mind you, is my supervisor for a mere two hours a day) is and when he'll be back. Someone's got some brochures and such to drop off. I tell her I'll put them in closet. She says that's not good enough, she wants to give them to someone so they won't be forgotten and tells me all this miscellaneous information about them. Finally, I get her to understand that I don't know when the boss is coming back. Maybe I'll be able to see him and tell him, maybe I won't. So then she's like, "Why don't we put it in the closet and leave a note." Yes, why DON'T we?
An hour and a half, that's all that's left in the day. Why does it seem so long?
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http://okfuture.net/2007/09/09/dutch-kids-show-translation/
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So many possible responses to that question, and yet only one opportunity. I think I would have been struck speechless by indecision, in your position.
the graduate librarian's version of do you want fries with that.
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