Seriously, I just realized earlier today that I wrote an entire blog talking about how I’m 53. I’m 54. How do you spell denial?
Personally, I love aging. I was never a hot chick in a bikini anyway so I don’t really know what it’s like to feel devastated now that my breasts touch my belly button. They were halfway there when I was nine.
Maybe I just forgot that I’m 54. God knows I forget a whole lot of other stuff. This all comes to the forefront because I’ve recently watched that Still Alice movie. I’ve always liked Julianne Moore because she’s not your usual cleavage actress. But in Still Alice she really gets to me. She’s got the familial Alzheimer’s and it ain’t pretty. God love her for playing that part and at least bringing a discussion to the table.
The older I get the more I realize that courage is the most effective character trait you could ever have. Anybody can do a lot of stuff, but unless you’re willing to move out of the box and take on something completely foreign to you (and sometimes to everyone else) you aren’t going to make change happen. It’s like all those great quotes I’ve gathered over the years…be the change you want to see in the world….you must do the thing you think you cannot do. That stuff takes courage.
You’ll get talked about and you’ll get discouraged. And I wouldn’t suggest agitating anyone unless you are completely comfortable and prepared for what that means.
And I wouldn’t suggest a move of any kind in any direction in any part of your life unless you are okay with who you are. You gotta know yourself and you have to be okay with yourself before you really move forward in any direction. The beauty of this is that once you know yourself and you are okay with who you are, you have no boundaries. You can literally do anything because you know you can. The only one who limits you is you.
Now, if I could only apply that whole risk-taking mantra to myself, it might really make a difference in my life.
I was turned upside down when I lost my most recent job. Mostly because it meant I wasn’t contributing to my family’s livelihood. I have spent almost 20 years bringing home the biggest paycheck. And after all, isn’t that the most important thing for my family?
This is all a roundabout way of saying that I feel like a loser, with a big ol’ L on my forehead. I am definitely out of my comfort zone.
The fear of the unknown is weighing heavily on me now. I have a lack of confidence in my employment area that I’ve never known before and yet I’m at a place in my life where I feel better about everything else. I had no confidence at age 20; conversely at age 50 I just began to recognize all my awesome goodness.
I guess what I want to say is that your awesome goodness is always there; you just don’t know it. I could feel like crap because I’m in this crazy career limbo or I could keep thinking that the right thing will happen when it’s supposed to happen. And because I’m old, I have a lot of faith in the fact that whatever I’m supposed to do, it will present itself to me one way or another. And it won’t be the way I’m expecting and it won’t happen on my timeline. It will just happen. And I know it will. It always does.
— Connie Berry
Connie Berry grew up reading and loving Erma Bombeck. She is former editor of The Catholic Sun newspaper in Syracuse, N.Y., and a new resident of Martha’s Vineyard where she was copy editor for the Vineyard Gazette. She lives on the island with her husband and youngest son. Her two older children read her blog, thejoblessgoddess.blogspot.com, from Syracuse.
Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, every creature was stirring except for my spouse.
He sprawled on the couch, drinking beer after beer, along with Uncle Timmy, who kept yelling “Cheers!”
“It’s the Twelve Beers of Christmas,” he said with a grin. And we’re staying all week? Oh please, where’s the gin?
The stockings weren’t hung by the chimney with care because there were no stockings of any kind there.
I’d ordered online with “Economy Shipping,” but no packages arrived. Where’s that gin for sipping?
The children were not nestled snug in their beds, but instead were sugared up out of their heads.
My Dad had insisted on making hot cocoa, despite the fact that it made the kids loco.
It’s got too much caffeine; they’ll be up all night. And kids plus Florida décor? A fright!
“Away from that couch! Off Grandma’s white rug! Now go wash your hands. Put down that mug!”
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, it sounded like the hiss of a cat being battered.
“Just the sprinklers,” Dad said, turning up the TV. The sound of Fox News filled him with glee.
The moon on the breast of the freshly cut grass reminded me that the evening was starting to pass.
And since none of my packages were coming, I supposed, I had to get to Walgreens before it closed.
But, oh, I fretted. What presents could I get? A Clapper? A Snuggie? A new Chia Pet?
Celine Dion perfume? Some pore-cleansing cream? A jar of mixed nuts? Trial-sized Listerine?
When what to my wondering eyes should appear, but that lovely old truck, brown as any reindeer.
With a little old driver whose eyes were afire; he was the real deal, not a seasonal hire.
His droll little mouth was drawn up in a bow, until, that is, he saw that the sprinklers aflow.
“Hey,” he said to me with a scoff, “I can’t deliver if you don’t turn those off.”
I started to panic, as frantic as could be. “Dad, I need help, turn off the TV!”
But Dad in his recliner was snoring away. It was all up to me to save the day.
I ran to the garage for the sprinkler control box. Somehow I had to get the water shut off!
I opened the cover, then let out a groan. My dad had labeled each little zone.
With teeny typed stickers, all the way around the dial: Flower bed, palm tree, pachysandra pile.
North bed, south bed, sidewalk, flower trough. West lawn, south lawn, but oh, where was OFF?
I grabbed the dial and just started turning, past lawns north and east, the cycles churning.
I heard a clunk. The water died to a trickle. Was the UPS man still there? Or was he too fickle?
I opened the garage door. Was I too late? And now I was stressed. Walgreens closed at eight!
The door arose revealing our large Christmas haul. Box upon box, packages for all.
He spoke not a word but went straight to his work, carrying so many cartons I felt like a jerk.
From eBay and Walmart and of course Amazon. BestBuy, Old Navy, even Batteries.com.
I thanked him profusely, “Oh, how relieved I am…” But he cut me off saying, “Please sign here, ma’am.”
He strode to his truck and put it gear, then paused and smiled at me with cheer.
I heard him exclaim, a criticism vocal, “Merry Christmas to all, but next year shop local.”
— Sue Gelber
Sue Gelber is a New Englander turned Chicagoan now living in Colorado. She is also a part-time Montanan, although she does not own a cowboy hat. Her work has appeared in The Chicago Tribune, The Examined Life Journal and Realize Magazine. For several years she penned a local fitness column for Patch.com. She recently switched to decaf, however, so she suspects that her best days are behind her. When the mood is right, she blogs at lifeoutsidethecomfortzone.com.
Anyone who’s in a live-in relationship surely has them — those slices of life that reveal what day-to-day cohabitation is really like. With apologies to Ingmar Bergman for co-opting the title of his cinematic masterpiece, here are some scenes from my marriage that take a somewhat — shall we say — lighter tone:
It’s 3 a.m. Hubs has returned to bed from his nightly trip to the bathroom. I’m awakened by his jostling and so decide to get up and pee as well. Upon my return to the marriage bed, I take his hand. He speaks:
Hubs: Ith Teth neckth to you?
Hubs: I thed, ith Teth neckth to you?
I suddenly realize that his unintelligible mumble is because he’s wearing his dental guard and I’m wearing earplugs. We laugh so hard I’m glad I just emptied my bladder. (BTW, he was asking me if our cat Tess was next to me.)
Hubs and I are in the kitchen, having just finished lunch, and are putting our dishes in the dishwasher. I look at him and notice a blob of mayonnaise at the corner of his mouth.
Me: There’s a blob of mayonnaise just outside the right corner of your mouth; can’t you feel it?
Hubs: Yeah, I knew it was there.
Me: You did not.
Hubs: No, I didn’t. Isn’t it weird that as we get older, you don’t feel stuff on your face?
Me: Let’s promise to always tell each other if there’s food on our faces, especially if we’re out in public, okay?
It’s a warm summer day in Maine. All the windows in the house are open to catch whatever breeze may waft by. The air is so still I can even hear our neighbors working in their garden across the street. Hubs and I are walking from the kitchen to the living room, with one of our cats leading the way, when I blurt out loudly:
Me: Dammit, you just dropped a turd on the floor…and you’ve got poop stuck to your butt!
Hubs: (Looks at me, silent.)
Me: I hope the neighbors remember we have cats and don’t think I’m yelling at you.
Hubs and I have just finished breakfast and, in his endearing way, he starts thinking about dinner.
Hubs: So, what’s for dinner?
Me: I don’t know; I hadn’t really thought about it. What would you like?
Hubs: Oh, I don’t care. You’re cooking, so you decide.
Me: Okay, I’ll make that salmon and pasta dish.
Hubs: (Scrunches up face to show distaste.)
Me: Well, I guess that wasn’t the right answer. Did you have something in mind?
Hubs: What about chicken piccata?
Me: Why didn’t you just say that when I asked you what you wanted?
Hubs: I didn’t think of it then.
Since Hubs has retired and I continue to work, he’s taken on several household chores that used to be my domain — laundry and grocery-shopping chief among them. I come downstairs from my home office to find a load of laundry on the dining room table, all folded and ready to be put away.
Hubs: I did your laundry today.
Me: Oh, you didn’t do your laundry, too?
Hubs: You know what I mean.
Me: No, what did you mean?
Hubs: Well, you could say thank you.
Me: Like how you say thank you when I clean the bathrooms, wash the floors, scoop the litter box, wash the windows, vacuum, dust, wipe down the counters, periodically clean out closets and drawers, change the sheets and water the plants?
Hubs: Oh, never mind.
Me: Thank you.
The secret sauce for
has got to be laughter.
Roxanne Jones blogs at boomerhaiku.com, a mostly lighthearted, often irreverent look at life as a baby boomer, 17 syllables at a time. When she’s not tapping out haikus, she’s a freelance medical copywriter, enjoys chardonnay and contemplates plastic surgery to get rid of the wattle on her neck.
Sandwiched between two sisters, it’s easy to see where our special needs son gets his love for all things sparkly, pink and royal.
At first, we decided not to make an issue of it, and our princess boy happily pranced around in mermaid dress-up clothes and asked for dolls at every gift-giving opportunity. While typically developing kids may have a deep interest in a toy, topic or play theme for about six months, our son lived in a magical kingdom for a solid three years.
Really dude, Barbies?
As he grew older, we realized that we needed to manage his obsession with pink-hued play options. For one thing, his peers were starting to notice. “Really dude, Barbies?” asked one younger boy, when our son was discussing his interest in dolls.
Social interactions will always be a big challenge for our son, and we didn’t want his interests to contribute to the problem.
Expanding and redirecting
To help find a balance, we used two strategies: redirecting and expanding. Most parents know the strategy of redirecting, and it works great with typical children: you redirect a child’s attention to something else by offering another option. Here’s an example: your youngest child is throwing a fit because her older siblings are excluding her from a game. You redirect by a) offering to read her a book, b) finding a game that all three can play, or c) banishing all three outside to play while you pour yourself a glass of wine.
Redirecting isn’t sufficient for kids with autism because of their tendency to focus with laser-like intensity on ideas and objects, also known as perseverating. But fortunately there’s another strategy you can use in tandem with redirecting, which builds on the child’s interests and develops them in different directions. It’s called expanding.
We started working with an in-home Applied Behavioral Analysis (ABA) therapist and our son’s teacher to expand his interests. For instance, we expanded his princess theme by getting a castle that any boy would love — dark, scary and complete with dragons, a moat with flames and a prince. His in-home therapist also started to encourage him to play the part of the prince in games. At first, he wasn’t having it: “I’m not a prince, I’m a princess,” he declared, but his (male) therapist kept talking about how great princes and boys are, and one day my son decided he was a boy after all. At school, we shifted his rewards from princess stickers to iPad activities.
We also encouraged his interest in any character or toy that was more gender neutral, or boy-focused. He doesn’t have an interest in sports teams or athletes, but he likes baseball hats, a small victory. Recently he discovered Star Wars and Chima Legos, and happily dressed as C3PO at Halloween. We also bought him clothes and toys featuring gender-neutral characters from popular movies, like the Minions. If that sounds too pricey, printing a picture of the character or toy for him to carry around was often enough.
Finding a balance
While he still gravitates toward his sisters’ interests, and enjoys activities and toys that are more girl-oriented than boy, our son now has enough gender-appropriate interests to engage peers in play and conversation.
— Courtney Bennett
Courtney Bennett is the mom of three kids, two typically developing girls and a boy with special needs. In addition to parenting and blogging, she works in education policy for a university. She has contributed pieces to Sunset magazine, Psychology Today, parenting magazines, public radio and the op-ed pages of The Philadelphia Inquirer. She spent a long time in school avoiding the real world and holds a Ph.D. in communications and an MSc in social psychology.
My name is Helene.
Once upon a time I lived in a nice little town with a Starbucks. I visited almost every day and ordered my usual. They knew me so well that after I gave birth to my third child my husband went in and ordered my drink and based solely on what he ordered they asked, “Did Helene have the baby? How is she?”
They cared or I thought they did. Then in an ironic twist, one day they began to ask customers for their names to put on their coffee orders. It was ostensibly a move that would help the baristas get to know their customers better and distribute the drinks more efficiently but in fact the new methods proved to me that they didn’t know me at all. It was a new company policy, they said. Well, none of us liked the new policy, but what were we at the store level, consumer or employee to do? In the words of Yul Brynner’s Pharaoh, “So it is written, so it shall be done.”
The first time they butchered my name on a cup I was deeply disappointed but not enough to correct the barista. They had enough problems keeping up with the drink orders, didn’t they? Deeply disappointed, you ask? Over a misspelled name? What, after all, is in a name? Just everything — identity, belonging, all that you are. It’s the first thing your parents do, they name you. And, as it turns out, the number of ways you can misspell Helene are as limitless as the stars in the sky and many of the ways were so creative that I wish I had kept all of the cups with my misspelled name just for a hoot.
Time moved on and so did we, to a new town and a new Starbucks and I had the opportunity for a clean slate. So at the new Starbucks when they asked for my name, before I could stop myself I said, “Pam.” You can’t get Pam wrong. It just can’t be done. And, each time thereafter when they asked for my name, I said “Pam” because once you’ve fallen into a hole, unless someone hands you a ladder, it’s hard to climb out. They never ever misspelled Pam, but I never for one second felt good about this foolish, petty deception. A friend saw “Pam” on my cup and asked why my coffee cup said “Pam?” And I was compelled to launch into the whole asinine explanation of my Starbucks alias, and then in yoga class they saw my cup and begin to call me “Pam.” The effort to avoid spelling H E L E N E has ended in long explanations of why my coffee cup said “Pam.” What in the end have I gained?
Then after three years of frequenting this new Starbucks the workers there start to become familiar with me and after a three-day absence the barista says, “I’ve missed you, Pam.” That’s when I crack. I’ve never been a good liar, so I lean across the counter, “My name is really Helene,” I whisper. “What?” she asks. “My name is not Pam,” I say a little louder this time. “Pam is my Starbucks alias. My real name is Helene.” Oh, she says, looking at me oddly.
But, no matter, because I feel lighter, no longer burdened by my alias.
Make that a tall, skim mocha, no whip for H E L E N E.
Let P A M get her own damn drink.
— Helene Hirsch Wingens
Helene Hirsch Wingens is a mother of three boys, wife, daughter, sometimes writer and retired lawyer. With 50 in the rear-view mirror, she’s trying to figure out if there’s a second act — and what it is. Her writing can be found online at themid.com, The Forward and Betterafter50.com.
As I’ve aged, I have realized that Christmas doesn’t feel like Christmas until it’s over.
It’s not until after all the baking ingredients are bought, baked and consumed that I find Christmas.
Christmas, for me, happens long after a turkey is stuffed, cooked and devoured. It’s not until after the gifts are all purchased, wrapped and given, and family has come and gone, that I can find that childhood Christmas peace the season’s about.
It’s the gift of peace from that first Christmas.
The house is now quiet from its annual Christmas Day celebration. The fancy nut and chocolate dishes are left with a small array of what once was. The baking that earlier slid from overladen platters is evident only from crumbs on the many dessert plates scattered and hidden around the room. Punch glasses in varying degrees of half empty and half filled compete with dessert plates for position. The kitchen is filled with dirty plates, cups and bowls that we only use for fancy occasions. It’s a special kind of mess all around the house that you only find at Christmas.
“Let’s leave all this clean up till tomorrow and go to bed,” the wife directs as she tops the stairs. “You coming?” She asks, more out of courtesy than a need to know.
“No, I’m just going to drain the last of the coffee from this pot and enjoy the lights on the tree for a while,” I respond, knowing she can’t hear me anyway behind the bathroom door.
I turn off the little orange light on the Mr. Coffee maker as the upstairs goes dark leaving only the Christmas tree to guide my way back to my favorite chair.
Oh look, I can see the floor under the tree again. For weeks colorful boxes and bags would appear at its base, blocking floor access — and by doing so, any way of watering the now fire hazard that’s been in the house for three weeks.
“Tomorrow, I’ll water it tomorrow,” I think to myself as my butt is halfway to the chair beyond the point of “I’ll stand up and do it now before I forget.” But it’s today! I see only three numbers on the digital display of some gadget around the TV. I was expecting four. I try to convince myself it’s still Christmas Day. But, it’s not.
Christmas is over. That was a short two months, of everything and nothing but Christmas. I guess I’m glad it’s over. Maybe I can breathe again. That was a lot of work to get to this moment. All the “they need, they want, they gotta have or it’s not good enough” is done.
I exhale at the thought, blowing across the top of my coffee as I take the first sip. As I focus on the level of coffee in my mug, I see a reflection of Christmas tree lights in the coffee. It’s just me and the tree now. I don’t know how I’m going to break it to him that he’s now trash. The highly decorated, illuminated, but poorly irrigated, fire hazard will soon be striped of all its man-made bobbles and bangles. Soon to be tossed aside and then dumped in a yet-unknown location. Its once-proud eight-foot splendor has started to become a needle-dripping, unloved eyesore.
Pondering which neighbors are away on holiday and would enjoy an eight-foot, horizontal fir on their front lawn upon their return, I’m drawn to a childhood memory.
Back in the tree behind the 20,000 or more bright LED lights, hidden by plastic ornaments from China and Korea, is my childhood Christmas memory. It’s a glass ornament of a choir boy holding a hymn book, mouth open, eyes closed, singing “Pop Goes the Weasel.” Well, probably not, but as a kid it was fun to think that he was. He was with two other singers back then, the first hand-painted boy band from Germany.
The ornament originally belonged to my grandmother, which would make the last remaining member of the group about 100 years old, old enough to be in the Rolling Stones. Nothing says Christmas like a little glass figurine of Mick Jagger hanging in the tree.
As a kid, I would lay under the Christmas tree and enjoy the colored lights, ornaments and the smell of the tree. It smelled like the little cardboard tree Dad hung from the rear-view mirror in the car.
Ornaments would sparkle under the colored lights and compete with tinsel to see who could outshine the other. Christmas carols would play on the big stereo HiFi — a source of pride for my Dad, who would brag that it was big enough to bury him in.
All these sights and sounds would combine with the heavenly smell of Mom’s Christmas baking. All together, this created an outdoor cinnamon kind of aroma.
My problems back then were too few to worry about, which is the luxury of the young. I had needs and wants that money could still buy. My whole life was ahead of me, and it looked exciting. As a kid, I could lay under a Christmas tree without someone dialing 911. Just lay there in peace and be hypnotized by the sights, sounds and smells of the comforts of home.
I take another sip of coffee and wish for more sugar. My singing choirboy is looking straight at me through lights and ornaments, but actually he’s look at me through time. He looks across the time that’s been my life — from my youth filled with happy Christmas memories with family to my life 55 years later.
My Dad’s gone now, but we didn’t bury him in the HiFi. We wished we had, though. It would have been easier having six guys carrying him out in it, than trying to recycle its seven-foot HIFI splendor. My Mom can still bake but infrequently is her main dish now. And me, I only lay under the tree to water it, which, if not done in a speedy manner, scares the wife.
I’ve married, twice, and am now happily into my 25th year with my second wife. We share three wonderful children and four even better grandkids. We’ve worked together to build a family we’re proud of. I’m lucky to have lived long enough to where money can’t buy me what I want anymore. And all my problems I thought were problems are in my pine-scented rear-view mirror.
The furnace kicks in and reminds me to turn down the thermostat before I make it to bed. My coffee’s cooled to where gulps replace sips. And my shoulders relax as I breathe deep in the satisfaction of another happy family Christmas.
Is all the work and effort surrounding Christmas worth it? Yes, it is, every year. Thank you, Mom and Dad. You created memories for your family that have lasted more than your lifetimes. You set a solid foundation for me to build my own family, one that’s allowing us to create memories for the kids and their kids. We’re building on solid rock, sitting strong in these stormy times.
All is right in my world, little choirboy. Even though outside my door trouble, hate, disease and wars abound, I’m at peace. Bethlehem peace. An inner peace, found only because of that night so long ago.
It’s a comforting peace that spans throughout all time. It’s an all-encompassing peace to surround the grandchildren, shelter them and comfort them when they fear wars, disease and home-grown terror. It’s a peace that’s anchored by strong roots in my humble home.
My childhood ornament, old, still precious, almost hidden, symbolizes the real meaning of Christmas behind the glitz, noise and distractions of the season. So precious, still valued, it represents a quiet kind of Christmas peace.
— Bob Niles
Bob Niles, who answers to Robert, Bobby, Dad, Grandpa, Unit No.2 (his Dad could never remember all the children’s names), honey and super hero, is new to writing but not to storytelling. “I like to make people laugh and to think, with a secret desire make them dance and send me untraceable $100 bills in the mail,” says the happily married, retired father and grandpa from Richmond in British Columbia, Canada. He blogs here.
Let me just start by saying I hate art projects.
Anything that has to do with glitter, glue, scalloped scissors, paint, oil pastels, construction paper, yarn, fabric scraps and colored chalk sends my anxiety into overdrive. I would rather lick the door handle in a public bathroom than have to make something presentable out of those items. By the way, the licking of the door handle comes from my 5-year-old son who made out with one at a rest stop.
According to my daughter, I am the only mom who did NOT volunteer in the classroom last year. Not wanting to endure another year of gossip about my lack of involvement, I decided to make this the year that I volunteer.
In anticipation of this glorious event, I crossed off my calendar at work and contacted her teacher. The next day, I received an email with the dates and time to show up. Feeling like I finally have my act together with this mom gig, I send my cursor to the little trash can. As I’m about to delete the email, I notice the subject line. Holiday Art Projects. Are you kidding me?? You want me to do art. I can teach those little booger eaters how to read. PLEASE, don’t make me do art. I HATE art.
Realizing I am committed, I march my DIY meets WTF attitude into the classroom. Upon entering the land of the littles, I immediately start to sweat. My hands are clammy, my heart is racing and I’m trying to find any excuse to go to the bathroom and hide. Of course, SHE is there. Who invited her? You know, the mom who was born to do these things. She has her own Pinterest page dedicated to all of her original DIY work. Just another reminder that I suck at this stuff.
The kids are waiting patiently for me. Riddled with excitement, there are 48 eyeballs pleading with me to lead them to eternal bliss in craft land. I can’t let on that I am secretly terrified. Hanging on my every word (oh wait, I haven’t spoken yet because I am scared s***less), they wait for me to demonstrate my masterpiece. I can’t back out now. My daughter already thinks I’m lame, so what do I have to lose? It’s time to get to work and embrace the eleven reasons I hate art projects.
1. I can’t follow instructions.
2. I can’t make sense of those Kids Giant Art Jars. You know, the ones that come with 500 different pieces and NO ideas.
3. I have PTSD from my 7th grade art teacher declaring in front of the entire class that “an artist you are not.”
4. No one does paint by number anymore.
5. I can never get the tip of the glitter glue cut right. It’s always too wide and squirts all over the place.
6. I can’t even get past #1 of the Chinese Lantern instructions. It says to fold the paper length-wise. I fold it width-wise, and the whole damn thing is messed up.
7. I always seem to get matched up with the kid who thinks the glue is finger paint and my shirt is a towel. Did I mention that I also caught him with his fingers up his nose before he wiped them on me?
8. Popsicle sticks, pipe cleaners and cotton balls. What do I even do with these things? Frustrated with my lack of creativity, I decide to borrow glue boy and shove the Popsicle sticks in his mouth, jam the cotton balls in his ears and wrap the pipe cleaners around his writs like handcuffs. Genius!! Now he can’t talk, hear or use his hands to wipe glue on me.
9. Foam stickers. I bite my nails, so there is NO way I am ever getting that thin layer of paper off. It’s always a treat to watch little kids get really close to my fingers trying to see if I can get it off. This might be an appropriate time to say sorry to the parents who don’t use bad language. I almost ALWAYS say some colorful words when I am trying to pull these suckers off.
10. Finding glitter in places that is nowhere near where the project was done.
11. Beads. Everywhere. I hate stepping on them, vacuuming them up and jamming my finger in my cat’s mouth to dig them out.
I did survive art day. In fact, I’m pretty proud of the masterpieces produced in that room. I left that day with glue in my hair, glitter on my butt and lots of great memories from some amazing kids.
Do I still suck at this stuff? Pretty sure most people would say YES, but I don’t care.
— Sara Lindberg
Sara Lindberg is a full-time school counselor with two kids, ages 5 and 7. Her background includes a B.S. in exercise science and a M.Ed. in counseling. She has never considered herself a writer, just a woman with a lot of random thoughts in her head and access to a computer.
I work at the circulation desk of a suburban Philadelphia library. I recently handed a patron’s library card back to her after scanning it, but I lost my grip and basically ended up throwing it at her instead. “I’m so sorry!” I said. “I didn’t mean to do that.”
“Yes, you did!” she said.
At first I thought she was just joking around but she was dead serious. She really believed that I’d deliberately thrown the card at her. She lit into me, then promised to write an angry letter to my boss and stormed out.
Flabbergasted and shaken, I logged on to my favorite Librarian Facebook hangout and asked: What’s the weirdest thing a patron has accused you of doing?
I got quite a few responses:
One patron accused me of being “out to get her” because I told her that she couldn’t use the computer because of her outstanding library fines. She got extremely hostile and wanted to “go outside and settle this.”
A patron accused me of trying to kill him telepathically. Because I was Catholic.
I recently had a patron tell me that my face was wrong for working with children.
I am often accused of breaking the Internet.
I had a patron repeatedly accuse me of being “spiritually abusive.” I still haven’t figured that one out.
We have a patron who believes that I am “stealing her information” and sending it to Vladimer Putin.
I’ve had several patrons accuse me of hiding tax forms.
I was once accused of being in the Portuguese Mob. (I didn’t even know that the Portuguese had a mob.)
I have been accused of being part of the Seth Myers clan of the Sea Pirate Mafia. I wish I were joking.
I was recently accused of being anti-Semetic. I’m a Jew.
I was accused of being racist when I wouldn’t let a woman check out materials without her library card or any identification.
I’ve been accused of engaging in cyber espionage and electromagnetic warfare. We’ve got some serious conspiracy theorists here.
I’ve been accused of reading someone’s thoughts. And then stealing them.
I had a little girl tell me that I wasn’t real because I had the same name as her imaginary friend and her mother had told her that imaginary friends weren’t real.
One of our patrons is convinced that I’m a CIA operative who is stalking her.
After I asked a member of the cleaning staff to stop leaving her dentures sitting on my desk, she “rebuked the Satan out of me.”
A patron once threatened to kill me when I told him that he had to move his cell phone call out to the lobby.
A patron who believes that the government is run by Satanic Reptilian Vampires accused me of treason because I refused to help her overthrow them.
Yesterday a homeless man accused me of moving the toilet when I asked him to stop urinating on the floor.
I’ve been told that my whole staff has racist body language.
I was accused of “making children turn gay” because we have LGBT-supportive books in our junior room collection.
A woman demanded that I apologize to her son because my aura was too strong and it upset him.
A white woman who was making a ton of noise accused me, another white woman, of being racist when I asked her to quiet down.
We have a patron who has accused me of having it in for him and adding fines to his card.
A patron whose Internet I blocked lodged a formal complaint against me for interfering with his basic human right to watch pornography.
A patron once submitted a written formal complaint about me for “smiling too much.” He said it wasn’t professional.
It may be unprofessional for a librarian to smile, but by the time I was done reading these comments, I had a big grin on my face. The lesson? You just can’t let the hotheads and the crazies get you down. Instead, you have to laugh. The important thing is that I wasn’t alone. My fellow librarians always have my back. And just like that, I was back to loving my job.
But the next time I’m wrongly accused by a paranoid patron, I just might enlist my pals in the Seth Myers Clan of the Sea Pirates Mafia to steal her information and send it to Vladimir Putin.
— Roz Warren
Roz Warren is the author of Our Bodies, Our Shelves: A Collection of Library Humor. This essay first appeared on HumorOutcasts.com.