- Pick a stranger, family member, or friend. Imagine a day in their life. Give us insight. Give us detail. Don’t just tell us about the other perspective, make us forget that you don’t live it every day. How does the homeless man on the street corner see you? What’s on your mother’s mind minutes before you visit? Does your boss like her office chair, or does the squeaking sound drive her crazy, too? Aim for two or three paragraphs.
Okay, here we go.
It takes forty-five minutes to style my blond hair into the perfect librarian up do, and I can accomplish this only because I enjoy interruption free mornings in my silent condominium. Sure, the cat purrs a little loudly at times, but I purse my lips and shoot him instructive looks telling him to keep it down. I treasure my mornings in which the lack of noise is so pronounced it's deafening. Working in the youth section of the town library, I don't get a lot of quiet time. Those children are monsters.
After my hair is perfected, I take exactly seven sips of Earl Grey, rinse my teacup thoroughly, and bundle up for the drive. I pull into the parking lot, and sure enough, it's already packed with those awful mothers herding their unruly brats up towards the library entrance. I can feel my tea creeping back up my throat, and I have to swallow hard, close my eyes, and go to my happy place. I actually have three happy places. One is a dim room. The second is a slightly larger dim room. The final is a room that's smaller, but dimmer.
In the library, I smile tightly at my fellow librarians. In a matter of moments, I have planted myself in my seat at the circular Youth Services desk. Incrementally, I have been inching the computer further over to the left. It is imperceptible, this movement, and yet I am accomplishing my goal. My back is almost fully to the elevator and stairs now. I must avoid patrons as much as possible; I dislike the patrons oh so much.
And yet, even if I can't completely see them, I can hear them. The elevator dings, and there's the sound of little boys roaring. Feet gallop, and a small blur rushes past me. Then, the mother's voice, much too loud for a library. "ANDY!" Then the mother herself enters my field of vision, pushing a stroller containing a toddler who is haphazardly buckled in, missing a shoe, and covered in dried yogurt. Oh jeez. THIS woman.
The library has a lot of regulars. My supervisor says we're lucky that our regulars are crazy stay-at-home mothers with nothing better to do as opposed to winos and pervs trying to view porn on our computers. I don't know; at least the latter is more well-behaved. This woman and her two boys are here at the library every week. Her children are loud. The younger one unplugs our computers, runs around like a wild animal, and rips pages out of our books. I have seen this happen out of the corner of my eye and watched, horrified, while the mother just shoved the torn page back into the book and stuck it on the "to-be-shelved" shelf. The older child is getting better behaved, but just barely. He is loud, of course, and about nine months ago, he soiled himself while scribbling. I could hear the mother's reprimand as she dragged him to the bathroom to be cleaned, and I almost quit right there on the spot.
I am simply not fond of this woman. She tries to smile at me, but I avoid her as much as possible. Her hair is awful. It's like she doesn't comb it at all, just ties it in what barely qualifies as a ponytail. You can tell that she applies make-up each morning while her children climb over her like baboons on a tree; the effect is uneven. Why women subject themselves to becoming mothers, I'll never know. A woman's job is to take care of herself and preserve her femininity. A true woman cannot accomplish this when she is wrangling savages.
I can hear this woman ripping open a bag containing some sort of snack. Really? Does this lady think this is a cafeteria? I tap on my computer keyboard and bring up a list that I have been working on, a new set of library rules. Coming up with rules is easy. I just watch what this woman and her children do and type.
No soiling your pants at the library.
No running.
Certainly no crunchy snacks.
Children must wear both shoes.
No children lingering at the water fountain.
Do not bang on the fish aquarium glass.
No, your child may not have his own library card, he will obviously lose it.
Do not rip the books.
Patrons must leave after fifteen minutes.
After working on my list and the library calender for a bit, I stand up and decide to take my fifteen minute break in the library conference room, which is not too dim but just shaded enough as to allow me a bit of rest. As I began walking to the room, I notice the woman and her sons sitting on the floor near the books about penguins. She is reading to the older one while the younger one licks the books. His tongue is out and everything. I gasp and watch for a moment, my hand fluttering over my heart, which is surely about to seize in a full on attack. It seems that the toddler is trying to kiss the penguins. But his disgusting, wet little face doesn't seem to know how to properly kiss, and the result is slobber. The mother, of course, doesn't even seem to notice.
I start shaking and begin to storm over, ready to give them hell, ready to raise my voice from a six inch whisper to a full nine or ten. I am full of rage. Somebody must teach these people some manners. Somebody must stop this madness. Somebody must teach this child how to kiss, for heaven's sake.
And then my feet tangle up and I find myself slumping off to the side. Is it the heart attack? Am I done for? Am I tripping over my unscuffed shoes; will I fracture a bone for the first time in my forty years? That is not it, though. I am thinking about kissing, and I cannot move any further. I watch this woman and her gross children, I think about their sticky lips on her unpowdered cheeks, and for a long few moments, I just watch, wait, and listen to a story about penguins.
In the library, I smile tightly at my fellow librarians. In a matter of moments, I have planted myself in my seat at the circular Youth Services desk. Incrementally, I have been inching the computer further over to the left. It is imperceptible, this movement, and yet I am accomplishing my goal. My back is almost fully to the elevator and stairs now. I must avoid patrons as much as possible; I dislike the patrons oh so much.
And yet, even if I can't completely see them, I can hear them. The elevator dings, and there's the sound of little boys roaring. Feet gallop, and a small blur rushes past me. Then, the mother's voice, much too loud for a library. "ANDY!" Then the mother herself enters my field of vision, pushing a stroller containing a toddler who is haphazardly buckled in, missing a shoe, and covered in dried yogurt. Oh jeez. THIS woman.
The library has a lot of regulars. My supervisor says we're lucky that our regulars are crazy stay-at-home mothers with nothing better to do as opposed to winos and pervs trying to view porn on our computers. I don't know; at least the latter is more well-behaved. This woman and her two boys are here at the library every week. Her children are loud. The younger one unplugs our computers, runs around like a wild animal, and rips pages out of our books. I have seen this happen out of the corner of my eye and watched, horrified, while the mother just shoved the torn page back into the book and stuck it on the "to-be-shelved" shelf. The older child is getting better behaved, but just barely. He is loud, of course, and about nine months ago, he soiled himself while scribbling. I could hear the mother's reprimand as she dragged him to the bathroom to be cleaned, and I almost quit right there on the spot.
I am simply not fond of this woman. She tries to smile at me, but I avoid her as much as possible. Her hair is awful. It's like she doesn't comb it at all, just ties it in what barely qualifies as a ponytail. You can tell that she applies make-up each morning while her children climb over her like baboons on a tree; the effect is uneven. Why women subject themselves to becoming mothers, I'll never know. A woman's job is to take care of herself and preserve her femininity. A true woman cannot accomplish this when she is wrangling savages.
I can hear this woman ripping open a bag containing some sort of snack. Really? Does this lady think this is a cafeteria? I tap on my computer keyboard and bring up a list that I have been working on, a new set of library rules. Coming up with rules is easy. I just watch what this woman and her children do and type.
No soiling your pants at the library.
No running.
Certainly no crunchy snacks.
Children must wear both shoes.
No children lingering at the water fountain.
Do not bang on the fish aquarium glass.
No, your child may not have his own library card, he will obviously lose it.
Do not rip the books.
Patrons must leave after fifteen minutes.
I start shaking and begin to storm over, ready to give them hell, ready to raise my voice from a six inch whisper to a full nine or ten. I am full of rage. Somebody must teach these people some manners. Somebody must stop this madness. Somebody must teach this child how to kiss, for heaven's sake.
And then my feet tangle up and I find myself slumping off to the side. Is it the heart attack? Am I done for? Am I tripping over my unscuffed shoes; will I fracture a bone for the first time in my forty years? That is not it, though. I am thinking about kissing, and I cannot move any further. I watch this woman and her gross children, I think about their sticky lips on her unpowdered cheeks, and for a long few moments, I just watch, wait, and listen to a story about penguins.
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