Marion the Librarian

If you're coming over from Good Housekeeping, filled with outrage about how mean I was to America's librarians, please hear me out.

The original story was over 1500 words.

Good Housekeeping edited it down to 500 words.

I did not edit it.

Good Housekeeping edited it.

What was originally a story about how I got into a silly power struggle with someone over something which didn't actually matter has become QUINN CUMMINGS IS MEAN TO LIBRARIANS.

If you care, here is the original story. I never said it was my favorite. I never said it was my best. But I also never said I wake each morning to torture librarians.

Actually, I think several librarians would speak of me rather fondly. So long, you know, as they don't read Good Housekeeping.
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Yeah, I'm back! Look at my tan! I'm very rested, thanks for asking. I hope you like the fall motif around here. You didn't notice? Look again, it's very subtle. Hint: I used a mallard and elk fabric print to cover the cushions on the couch. I like to keep it seasonal around the ole QC Report. Wait until you see the singing Santa I'm going to plug in at Christmas.

I wish I could say "And so much has happened since I last wrote, I don't even know where to begin." Many things happen each day, the car never fully cools down, and yet there isn't a fun anecdote or six to point at to prove I'm busy. Daughter is, at this exact moment, not entirely hungry, and I can say that with pride because it's nearly a job unto itself. The pets are well. The house is quietly decaying. Yesterday, Consort spent seven hours fixing something blindingly complicated on his work computer. Eventually, it was fixed but nothing appears to be different or improved. I'm glad this pleases him; if I spent seven hours working hard I'd want something in return besides "I've staved off entropy."

Wait, there is one thing. I currently hold feelings of wild distaste for someone who barely matters to me at all.

It all began a few months ago when I noticed my wallet weighed slightly less than a frozen Cornish game hen. Ruthlessly pruning out expired museum membership cards and "Buy 9, get the 10th free" yogurt coupons was satisfying but my wallet still remained in cold poultry territory. Harder choices had to be made, the first being "no redundancies", which resulted in removing my library card and keeping only Daughter's card -- an arbitrary call. Eventually, I got my wallet down to a small bag of coffee, weight-wise, and we all moved on. I moved on slightly faster, what with having a lighter purse.

Months passed. I'd pick up books from the library and because this is the library we have used since Daughter was born, the desk clerks would scan the card and hand me my books. Then one day, a new clerk scanned my card, paused a moment, examined the card closely, peered coldly at my face and clucked.

"This isn't your name," she said gravely.

"No," I said smiling. "It's my daughter's name. And these are her books."

"Those are books for adults. I think these are your books" she clucked again.

And yes, some of them were from the adult section, but it wasn't as if they were titled things like "Rafe the Virile IT Guy Visits Helen in HR." As it so happens, both Daughter and I enjoy Roz Chast cartoons and books about rare fatal diseases. We would both read these books and so what if we didn't? I didn't like her tone. I quickly established she had no authority beyond clucking, twittering and peering. I grabbed my books and my -- I mean Daughter's -- card and sailed off with a "You have a nice day, now!" whispered over my shoulder to her.

For the new few weeks, no matter what time I went there or what day, there was the Clucker, glaring at me over her glasses. She'd check out my books and hiss something about how I was breaking the rules. I'd grab my books and prance out, occasionally chuckling about how people with no authority who get all rule-tweaked are a little sad. As it turns out, I was right; she had no authority. But she did have a boss. Three weeks ago, I came in to pick up some books and there was the Clucker who, upon spying me, ran into the back room and got her boss, the actual librarian.

I then endured a five-minute speech while Clucker stood right behind her, carefully dusting an empty desk and scrutinizing everything in the immediate vicinity but me. To her credit, the librarian looked embarrassed to be even mentioning this. I explained wallet was a frozen Cornish game hen. She nodded in sympathy. I noted that anything on my daughter's card, since she is a minor, is my responsibility anyway. She nodded in agreement. Eventually, we settled with "Quinn, it would be great if you could bring your own card. You know, just to make everything easy on...everyone."

And you know? Until that moment, I might have even done it, found the card in my desk drawer and changed over. I feel great affection for librarians, because they do important work and make our lives better in so many ways. But I just couldn't give the Clucker what she wanted because...it didn't matter! The very meaningless of this power battle meant I COULD NOT BACK DOWN. Because this person thought she could harangue me into doing something which didn't matter to me at all, I could no more give in to her wishes than I could fly. The Clucker was a wee little bully-queen, ruling over seven or eight electrons of the universe, the electrons which decreed whether I could use Daughter's library card and I couldn't give her the satisfaction. So I smiled at the librarian, thanked her for the hard work she does and watched her check out my books.

[Yes, they were mine. Daughter's not reading about the mosaics of Pompeii any time soon.]

I then grabbed my books, sneered at the Clucker and vowed to find a library with an automatic check-out. But I'd like the record to show I did show some restraint, some recognition that this situation wasn't so much inconsequential as infinitesimal.

At no point did I say "Cluck you."

Oh, sugar, sugar.

Last week, I finally made an appointment with my doctor to have him take a gander at my low blood sugar. Having read the previous sentence, I can only imagine some of you are thinking “Low blood sugar? As in, you’re hungry? Quinn, you are the kind of person who is driving up my health-insurance payments. Just eat something!”, after which you would mumble something about idiots who live in Los Angeles.

Take my word for it, my blood-sugar isn’t normal. Better yet, take Consort’s word for it. This poor man has been stuck with me in a car when the last usable calorie has left my body. Five minutes earlier, had he asked me whether I was hungry, I would have answered jovially “Oh, I could eat a little something” Now, I’m sweating and dizzy, with shaking oven mitts for hands. Worst of all, I’m hostile and irrational:

QUINN (Suddenly, through gritted teeth): We need to eat.

CONSORT: Sure. After we look at the dishwashers, we can get some lunch.

See, he thought I meant “We” as in “Me and the man I love”, when I actually mean “We” as in “Me and the new personality who has taken over my autonomic nervous system”. My voice grows more guttural.

QUINN: FEED. ME. NOW.

Consort, having previously made the acquaintance of Quinn the Destroyer of Worlds, remains calm.

CONSORT: We’ll get you some food in about three minutes.

Destroyer of Worlds grows emotional.

QUINN (Near tears): Just let me out here! I’ll find food!

CONSORT: We’re on the freeway.

QUINN: WHY ARE YOU BEING SO DIFFICULT!

I am eternally grateful and puzzled that he stays with me. But, clearly, the blood sugar thing merited medical attention of some kind. It seems to have gotten worse over the last year or so, so I did what any mature, responsible person would do.

I ignored it.

I ignored it until I found myself standing in the middle of a grimy bodega in a questionable neighborhood, peeling open a bag of the first thing I could find -- salted mangos -- because I couldn’t count on getting all the way through the check-out line of drunks and professional Quick-Pick lotto players before I passed out. This was the sort of place where armed robberies happen with predictable frequency. Was I prepared to deprive my child of a mother for an urgent dosage of exotic carbohydrates? Apparently, yes.

Finally, grudgingly, I made a doctor’s appointment.

Having made the appointment, I became smug. Look at me, I crowed to myself, taking care of my health! Being all… pro-active about my blood sugar! Not waiting until I fall down from hunger and cut open my head and get dragged into an emergency room where a resident does a less-than-aesthetic job closing the wound! I will go to the doctor, and he will check me out, and we’ll have an answer and spit-spot, I’ll be on to some other mature and foresighted activity, like getting my tires rotated!

My doctor is a wonderful man. My doctor’s innate impulse to actually care for his patients means that he talks to each one of his patients. This is soothing and comforting when you are the one with whom he is speaking. When you are waiting outside, and ninety minutes have passed since your appointment time and you aren’t in a paper gown yet, his need to connect is less charming. Being as he is a cardiologist as well as a GP, he sometimes has unscheduled walk-in patients complaining about a crushing pain in the chest and a general feeling of ill-health, not to mention a desire to walk towards the light. Then, what little schedule exists goes all to hell. One terrible day, I waited over two and a half hours.

I really like the doctor so I try to outsmart the system. I make the first appointment in the morning, the first appointment after lunch, or in the case of this most recent visit, the last appointment before lunch. When the receptionist called the day before to confirm, I verified I was the last appointment before lunch. I chuckled smugly, “Well, everyone will want to go to lunch, so I know I’ll be getting in on time”.

“It should work that way”, she said hollowly.

I chose to ignore her lack of faith in my planning genius and was about to ring off when I heard a small voice yelling “Quinn? Quinn?”. I put the phone back to my ear.

“Just confirming you won’t eat or drink anything after midnight tonight”

I blinked.

“I’m sorry, did you say no food?”

“We’re doing a blood-sugar test. We have to do that on an empty stomach.”

Son.

Of.

A…

Breakfast was okay. I sometimes wait until I get Daughter off to her day’s activities before eating so missing breakfast isn't a problem. But by 10:00, my body was puzzled, verging on disgruntled. I spent a lot of time staring into the cabinets, thinking about how black olives were an underappreciated snack. By 11:00, I was sitting on the couch at home, breathing shallowly through my mouth, trying to move as little as possible; I’d call it hibernation except, of course, animals going into hibernation eat. At 11:30 I drove across town, alternately dabbing the sweat off my brow and being annoyed at the sensation of sunlight and the sight of so many people flaunting food. Stupid al fresco diners. How I hated them. My hatred fueled a sort of metabolic generator which allowed me to drive the last few miles.

My appointment was at 12:30. I arrived at 12:28. There were three people waiting in the waiting area. The good news was that none of them were rubbing their left arm or giving off any indication of myocardial infarction. The bad news was -- how does one say this politely? -- they were all old. I mean, in their nineties old. There was a good chance these people had fairly intricate and lengthy problems to discuss with the doctor and there was an equally good chance this appointment was the high point of their day. Who wants to rush that?

I sat down between an elderly woman and a seemingly even more elderly man. The man was wearing sweat pants, slippers and a t-shirt with a cartoon logo on it. The fashion sense of the very young, the very old, and the flu-stricken are uncannily similar. Slowly, methodically, he removed each slipper and put them on the table between us. Not under. On. He then stared down at his toenails, leaned forward and tried to touch a scab on the top of his foot. Between his hunch and his fragility, I was terribly concerned he would just continue to lean forward until he did some sort of Methusalean somersault, but my calorie-depleted brain couldn’t think of a graceful way of saying “Sir, I don’t think you need to touch that scab right now. It’s not going anywhere”. I promised myself I would put my hand out if his head went past his knees, and grabbed Good Housekeeping.

I read half the article on why Meredith Viera is supposed to matter to me when the words started swimming on the page. I let my head rest against the back of the seat, and shut my eyes. My new scabby friend starting trying to clear mucus from his throat. I'm guessing about six years worth by the sound of it. This is new, I thought dispassionately, my eyes can’t focus and I’m getting nauseated. My appointment was an hour ago, I haven’t eaten in -- I checked my watch -- seventeen hours, and now I’m going to pass out into a pair of old-man slippers.

With my eyes shut, I eavesdropped on the conversation of the woman next to me. She had been brought by a woman in her sixties who seemed to be her daughter. I was caught between admiration for filial devotion and a desire to throttle them both. It was probably the plummeting blood-sugar at work, but I was convinced they were having the most inane conversation ever uttered in the history of the world.

DAUGHTER: You sleep okay last night?

MOTHER: Oh, yeah. Went to bed at ten, got up at seven.

DAUGHTER: You seemed to be sleeping good.

MOTHER: I was. I was.

DAUGHTER: I came in to check on you.

MOTHER: I didn’t hear you. I was sleeping.

DAUGHTER: I know. I checked on you. Nothing like getting some sleep.

MOTHER: Yes. Yes.

(Silence. But a topic this rich couldn’t end there.)

MOTHER: I like to sleep.

DAUGHTER: You do?

MOTHER: Yeah. I always feel so rested after a good night’s sleep.

DAUGHTER: Me, too.

MOTHER: Oh, would you look at that.

Something accosted my brain. It was a smell. Since my nose doesn’t actually work, the fragrance must have been overpowering. It was a glorious, seductive mix of ginger and garlic and soy…

My eyes snapped open. Chinese food was being delivered to the nurses and receptionists. Many bags and trays went into the inner offices. I didn’t know whether I hated the nurses more for eating, or the bags more for going inside while I was still stuck out here. My sense of the almost Olympian unfairness of it all propelled me toward the front desk. The receptionist was biting into an egg roll; its glistening skin a perfect golden brown. I spoke very slowly.

“I am here for a blood-sugar test. I am taking the blood-sugar test because I become very sick if I don’t eat. I have now not eaten since eight o’clock last night. My appointment was an hour and ten minutes ago. You are torturing me.”

I rested my shaking hands on the counter.

“Please take my blood before I pass out. I suppose you could also take my blood after I pass out, but I will become extremely nasty before I finally lose consciousness and will probably focus all my rage on you.”

She stared at me, a drop of soy sauce resting on her lip. After a moment she said delicately, “I’ll see what I can do”.

I teetered back to my chair. The elderly man was adjusting something in his sweatpants. I shut my eyes. The woman and her daughter were now discussing the gentleman who had just gone in. He had been talking to them when I arrived.

MOTHER: That was a lovely man.

DAUGHTER: Wasn’t he?

MOTHER: Yes. (A beat) I couldn’t understand a word he said.

DAUGHTER: He had an accent.

MOTHER: I couldn’t understand a word he said.

DAUGHTER: He said he was from South Africa.

MOTHER: But he was white.

DAUGHTER: I betcha that’s why he moved.

MOTHER: Lovely man. So cultured.

DAUGHTER: You know, all those Europeans are like that.

MOTHER: I didn’t understand a word he said, though.

The door to the examination rooms opened. Mr. Scab was summoned. I was pleased to note he took his slippers with him. Having reached the ninety-minute mark, I toyed with lying on the floor so my sudden descent into coma would be less bruising, but dismissed the idea in favor of curling into a ball and shivering in my chair. Noel Coward's mother and sister would, from time to time, look over at me in pity and some curiosity. Clearly, they longed for me to leave so they could talk about me. They didn’t know I now lived here .

After another ten minutes, I heard something familiar. What was it…oh my God, it was my name! I was being called towards the inner sanctum. I whispered, “I’m here!”, fearing she would give my spot to the conversational powerhouses to my right. I grabbed my purse, dabbed the hunger-sweat from my brow and I slowly, gracefully rose to my feet. With only the slightest wobble to my walk, I passed by the nurse. I looked over at the receptionist, and leaned against the inner counter. I pointed to the tray of food on the fax machine.

"Those eggrolls?" I said silkily, "They're mine".

I sailed into the first room, starved but stately.

P.S. My blood-sugar proved there is nothing wrong with me that keeping nuts in my purse won't cure. Or, rather, keeping nuts in my purse and eating them when I'm hungry won't cure. But don't we all know I'm going to reach for them in a panic one day and eat a few of Daughter's Polly Pockets shoes, which also live in my purse?

Even Downtown, Voices Carry

Readers, I need you to help me decide something.

About a month ago, a blog of mine ran in a magazine. It wasn't the entire blog, just part of one. And it wasn't a great blog to begin with. Of the 550 blogs I've written, it was my 550th favorite. But the magazine chose it and they bought it. I offered to write them another one, such was my innate suspicion that this wasn't going to end well for me, but they wanted that one and, overriding my fears, I let them have it. For what it's worth, they paid me $500.

As a pessimist, it's always comforting when things work out even worse than my worst fears. Scores of emails later, I now understand that I am a mean, elitist, stupid bitch. Also, I hate librarians. And I'm an idiot. And I'm mean. And I'm also a bitch. Yes, a few people have written in to say it was possible I was just having a bad day. I was having a bad day so I'm very grateful to them. And let me assure the people who now complain that I'm the MEANEST WOMAN IN THE WORLD, and a BITCH, that I'm certainly having no fun now.

My regular readers know my blog was never meant to be a hagiography. If anything, it's quite the opposite because I am usually a knucklehead and report my knuckleheadedness with frequency and precision. Also, I don't edit out readers' comments even if I come off badly because, hey, what the heck. But after the first fusillade of complaints on the Good Housekeeping article, I posted my own reply in the comments section explaining that I had never been a fan of the original essay, that I hadn't chosen it for publication and that it had been edited for space. I can't say cutting two-thirds of the piece rendered my behavior any less defensible, but it didn't help.

For weeks now, I've let people comment here. I happen to be a big fan of the First Amendment and if readers worked hard enough to articulate an opinion about what a collossal ass I am, they deserved the chance to be heard. But it's been weeks and I'm flinching whenever I hear the sound of an incoming email. Today's hate-letter was from yet another librarian, saying she was cancelling the magazine to all twelve of her libraries and--need it be said--would never buy another book of mine, which I guess is her prerogative as a librarian.

I know it hardly seems to matter at this point, but the pointless little power struggle I originally experienced wasn't actually with a librarian. It was with a clerk. And it may sound a bit "some of my best friends are librarians" to mention this, but I've been an avid library patron since I was old enough to not gnaw on books. I can clearly remember Rita, my first librarian in the San Vicente branch in West Hollywood, helping me pick out books. My daughter received her first library card (a featured player in this particular controversy) when she was two years old. We visit a library at least once every week. Over the years, I have done a lot of volunteer work for libraries. I love libraries. They made me the person I am, which should cause added consternation in those people who hate me.

Such is my desire to make it right with libraries (and such is my overwhelming desire to go back in time and have written a blog about kittens that week) that I am donating the my magazine fee to the Los Angeles Public Library. I'm not doing this so these people who now hate me will like me. That boat, she sailed. I'm sure many of them had never heard of me before and will never see this blog and would sneer at the gesture anyway. But this entire experience has been so unpleasant that the only way that I can possibly start to feel better is to give the money to people I may have unfairly offended.

So here's my question to you:  Is there a point where I can close the comments? I'm sure it's "elitist", "bitchy" and "mean" to even consider this but, quite frankly, I'm very tired of being kicked. Part of me thinks closing the comments will just rile certain people up. They will accuse me of being as dismissive of them as I was of the library clerk with whom they obviously identify. I'm even willing to consider that most people commenting are going to be friends or regular readers, who might say some version of "You served your time. You can close the comments." I'm willing to take my lumps without another peep if even one person makes a good argument for keeping the comments open.

In sum:  I posted a mediocre blog and I'm sorry the magazine bought it. Repeat that a thousand times. I wish I had written it differently, more in keeping with what I actually felt, which was a meditation on bilateral pettiness. But I'm not sorry that two years ago, I was frustrated by a trivial encounter with a bureaucrat and I abided by my original promise to my readers when I started this blog: whatever I wrote about, I would tell the truth.

One woman wrote in that she was appalled at what I had written. That word struck a chord with me. "Appalled" is powerful word, especially when it's levelled at you. Personally, I'm appalled by the fact that 16 million children in the US go hungry each day. If one particular blog continues to appall people, maybe I should continue to give them an outlet.

What should I do? You tell me.

Fighting the Good Fight

We have a temporary ritual in the house. At least four times a day I go into the garage and look at the kittens. My rationale is to make sure Carmen has enough to eat and drink or her litter-box doesn’t need changing.

[One brief note about Carmen and her litter-box: a few days ago Consort walked into the garage and walked right back out again. He was ashen. “I think a Teamster crapped in there,” he said, shaking his head. Sure, this doesn’t move the blog forward thematically, but I thought it was evocative.]

So I visit the garage on a regular basis to do whatever housekeeping needs doing but mostly I go out to stare at kittens. Wouldn’t you? They are fat, fuzzy inchworms with pansy faces and funny little tails. When they aren’t nursing they are sleeping in an undulating clump, suckling each other’s paws. In short, they are wildly adorable and the reason I put up with litter-box duty. If I walk into the garage and Carmen is nestled in with them, she glances up briefly to determine if I’m there to dole out more food; if I’m not, she goes back to dozing.

Sometimes I discover her outside the baby-basket, just hanging out on the opposite side of the cage, enjoying kitten-free nipples while her babies nap in a warm pile. Seeing me approach, she scowls, returns to the nest and curls protectively around her brood, shielding them from me. This, of course, causes them to wake up and demand another meal. Carmen hisses at me for forcing her back to work during her break and for my being near her kittens. I don’t think she despises me anymore. She will even let me pet her while she enjoys her stinky wet food. I think if Carmen had a reasoning center in her brain she’d admit that the humans in this strange environment mean her babies no harm. Still, she is mom and we’re strangers. It never hurts to remind strangers how much damage you are prepared to inflict to protect your babies.

Heather and Mike Spohr hissed plenty during their daughter’s lifetime. Maddie was born eleven weeks early and spent her first 68 days in the hospital. Her entire life was punctuated by intermittent health crises, constantly underscored by her medical fragility. Maddie’s life was also Christmas and trips to the park and Easter baskets and her first birthday and two parents who were prepared to fight off anything which tried to take their darling girl away. But some enemies are bigger than parents can fight and three days ago, Madeline Alice Spohr died suddenly in the hospital. She was seventeen months old. If you can, please donate in her name to the March of Dimes so other children can keep fighting. Or donate something toward Maddie’s funeral so her parents don’t have to suffer the obscenity of paying to bury their own baby.

Heather and Mike fought so hard for Maddie, and they won seventeen months with their lovely and irreplaceable girl. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go kiss my kid.