I got in a fight with the librarian today. Her 'tude has been growing slowly but surely with each visit I make to her little crap-ass attempt at a place of reference, but today it came out in full force. Luckily, I have learned quite a few things about my Inner Bitch (or, as my mom has started referring to her, my "IB") recently, and I managed to not take any shit from Little Miss Librarian Lady.
The issue was that not only has she been incompetant every time I have come to her library, she also likes to sigh and show her general displeasure about the fact that you're asking her to get stuff out of the reserved files for you. Oh, I'm sorry, I thought that was what librarians DO.
Instead, she makes it out as if she's doing me a huuuggge favor, and as if I should bring her chocolates or other forms of ass-kissing just so I can have access to the public files. All the other librarians are just jolly with me. They're perfectly willing to help me find things and go grab stuff from the "Librarians Only" section if needed. But Little Miss Librarian Lady keeps insisting on reminding me that each time I ask her for a file, it also means she has to put it back, and do I realize how much work that is? (Again, here I would argue that this is what librarians do, but maybe I've been misunderstanding the profession).
I give her reference numbers and she goes back to get the files labelled with the approriate numbers. It's very simple. There is no calculus or phsyics involved. I believe nobody has yet thrown out a hip during file retrieval. The process itself requires no emotional involvement, no sleepless nights, and no risk of embarrassment. Overall, it's a rather banal affair.
But today she read the reference number 818 as 919. She did the same thing last week. And honestly, my handwriting is pretty good. There's no mistaking these numbers. My eights are clearly eights. So I sat there waiting to get her attention for over 20 mins, and finally she said, "I see you looking at me but I'm not going to give you any help while you have those files. One folder at a time, that's the rule."
"Yes, I know, but you've given me the wrong folder, again. That's 818 not 919."
She then let out what has got to be the most exasperated, fed-up sigh I have ever heard. The How-the-Hell-Can-You-Be-So-Annoying-As-To-Ask-Me-To-Get-You-Files sigh. The Maybe-If-I-Had-To-Work-More-Than-Four-Hours-Per-Day-I-Would-Realize-That-My-Current-Job-Is-Actually-Pretty-Cush sigh. The I-Can't-Seem-to-Recognize-That-Red-Shiny-Patent-Leather-Flats-Went-Out-in-1982 exhalation of frustration and hatred.
"I can't read your writing," she said. "And I can't take care of you right now, do you see? I'm completely overwhelmed."
(This is what she always says. Once, I saw that there were about ten people in the library and so she was a little flustered. But today, there were only three people in there: an elegant man who is there every day and all he does is read the papers, a college-age kid looking up some financial stuff online, and me. I'm convinced she was just drawing flowers on the papers she kept shuffling around behind her desk, just so she could seem like doing something and could make me wait just that much longer)
"Really? You can't read it?" I asked, not so innocently. "You're the first person who has ever said that to me. It's very clearly 818. And even so, the file name is right next to it, and I'm sure you could recognize that Finaxis isn't the same name as Schneider Electric, right?"
"Fine," she said, throwing a pencil at me, knowing I was right, "Write the number clearly and I'll get you the files. But I can't get them to you for another few minutes. You'll just have to wait."
"I'm not surprised," I said, "That's ok. But you can take these files back because I don't need them anymore."
I thought that was a decent enough statement, but her face puckered and she spat back, "There's no reason to talk to me in that tone, missy."
That really pissed me off. I mean, really, really pissed me off. Would she have said that to someone her age? She certainly wouldn't have said that to me were I a 40-year-old man in a suit, that's for damn sure. She's just jealous because I'm young and carefree and I wear fashionable shoes.
"What?!? I'm not talking to you in any sort of tone, Ma'am. I'm just asking you to do your job, and I'm helping you do so by telling you that I don't need these files anymore."
She let out another agonizing sigh and walked away, defeated.
So, to be a little bitch, I took her pencil and wrote in huge, exagerrated letters 8.1.8. When she came back, the dumbass actually asked, "Ok, where did you write it so that I can actually read it?"
I'm glad I don't have to go back there for another week or three. I'm a little upset about the fact that I have to go there regularly over the next four months, though. However, now that we have fully established our mutual hatred, this may be a wortwhile practice ground for the IB. Just a little yard for her to get some exercise in, if you will.