Ding Dong Merrily

Before Christmas, I participated in something new. I volunteered as a bell ringer for the Salvation Army.

Source

Crazy, right? I always wondered who these people were that I saw ringing bells outside Wal-Mart. Seems simple enough, though. I mean, anyone can stand and ring a bell.

I got involved through my library and the local Rotary. Minimal instructions were given, but I showed up at the appointed time at a nearby shopping center. I was bundled up and ready to go for two hours.

The volunteer I was replacing passed me the bell and apron, and I started ringing my little heart out.

And ringing.

And ringing.

And ringing.

Has it been two hours yet? What? 10 minutes?

Let's just say that I really underestimated the toughness required to stick it out in the elements. 

The dancing around was a necessity, really. Had to keep the blood circulating.

I was pleasantly surprised at how many people gave. Most donations were a dollar, but it varied. Some gave on their way into the store, while others promised to give on the way out. Either way, they got a smile and a "Merry Christmas!" from me. (And the guy who just said "Aren't you cold?" and did not donate got a bonus fake laugh.) 

Honestly, it was a joy to feel like I was helping in some small way. And all the lovely people I met made the experience feel truly gratifying. And, not to brag, but my crazy good bell-ringing skills and winning smile had people stuffing $$$ in that red bucket like nobody's business.

Of course, awkwardness finds me no matter what, and bell-ringing was no exception. I kept running into the problem of whether or not to keep ringing while someone was fumbling in a purse or wallet. I didn't want to stop and stare, but it seemed strange to RINGRINGRING when they were standing there in the act. 

I don't mean to rush you, but RINGRINGRING.

By the end of the two hours, most of my body parts were numb and I was more than willing to relinquish the bell, which by now just felt like an extension of my hand. 

Uncomfortably cold? Yes. Lengthy and at times boring? Yes. Will I do it again next year?

Also yes!

Ah, Yes. Right This Way.

"It had a red cover."

"The author's name had a 'q' in it."

The main character has a cat and works in a bakery."

Oh boy! I love a good book-finding challenge!

All right, all right. Sometimes it gets a smidge irritating trying to read the mind of whatever random patron is giving me very minimal information.

Here's a tip: be prepared! We can only do so much.

Thanks to Google, I just type in whatever the patron says, then keep modifying my search terms and see what I turn up.

I once spent close to 20 minutes searching online to find a particular mystery series. Every time the patron (an older woman) remembered another detail, I typed it in. My, the satisfaction when I hit up on the correct title!

If the patron does have some helpful information, though, I like to think of it as a challenge to remember a particular author or title. (J.K. Rowling's new book published under a pseudonym? The Cuckoo's Calling. As if I wouldn't know that!)

I'm always happy to help a patron remember a particularly elusive title. I feel like Super Librarian! As he or she exclaims in awe over my skill, all I can do is bask in their admiration.

"It's no trouble," I say. "That's why they pay me the big bucks."

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Oh, I'll Get Her a Journal

I am a girl who owns many journals.

Journals, diaries, notebooks...whatever you want to call them.

I've got a lot. I consider myself somewhat of an accidental collector.

Cool notebooks are a pretty standard gift, after all. People must think, I don't know her very well...I'll get her a notebook! It's like lotion. So versatile. She's a girl, so she must enjoy writing down her feelings and moisturizing her hands.

And....it's true. I like both notebooks and lotion, by the way.

But I've never really liked writing down my feelings. I went through stages where I tried to keep a "diary" but I ended up destroying many pages after rereading. Ugh, feelings sound so stupid when you write them down. And what if someone found them and read them? No thank you.

As a result of me trying to write and then hating to write and then destroying what I'd written, I have lots of notebooks with half of the pages written.

There's nothing quite like starting a new notebook for class, Bible study, lists, whatever. Unless you're starting an old notebook. In which case I may need to tear out five pages of stupid thoughts first.

What is old (and already written in) is new again!

I wish I hadn't thrown so much of my writing away, every time I wanted to start a new notebook. I'd kind of like to read some things over.

Nah. *r i i i i i i i i i p*

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Romance? Yeah, right.

Let me start out by saying: I don't want you to think that we here at the library just make fun of what patrons check out.

Because we really don't. That often.

The thing is, we have regulars. People who are in several times a week and who place holds all the time. We get to know these people. Or, at least, their book and movie preferences.

Sometimes when we get our delivery of items from other libraries in the county and are pulling them out, we try to guess which piece is for which patron.

A huge book on motorcycles? Gotta be for John. Three more Nora Roberts novels? Either Mary or Sue. A brand new movie that is circulating for the first time? Rob. (How does he do it? He always gets things first!)

(*sidenote: names are changed...just in case.)

 And then we have our romance novel-readers. Three regular ladies who we know exclusively get books with pictures of long-haired, bare-chested men holding onto a rope on a ship or bending a corseted women back in what looks like a pretty uncomfortable embrace.

Not my thing. Not my thing at all.

The most I read of these books is their back covers. And why would I only read them to myself when I have coworkers to entertain?

Dramatic readings from the back covers of romance novels can be a truly amusing pastime  I feel that public speaking and theater classes I have taken in the past have helped prepare me for this.

Usually I start off in a low, dangerous tone as I describe the lord or duke who is rich, handsome, and devil-may-care. I move on to the innocent peasant girl whose beauty is only surpassed by her spunk. My tone turns incredulous as the summary goes on to describe a possible romance between these two unlikely and attractive characters. WILL THEY FIND TRUE LOVE?

*rolls eyes*

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The Secret Board Is...

Ta-da! Thank you, Pinterest!

If you don't keep up with the latest Pinterest news (um, I can't help it I get emails from them), guess WHAT? Pinterest has secret boards!

Shhhh.

If you're on Pinterest, you can create boards where you pin images. Like big bulletin boards, but virtual.

So now, if you don't want everyone and their mother to view a particular board you have, you can keep it secret.

Presumably, you can use it to pin baby stuff if you haven't told people you're expecting or pin surprise gift ideas for your loved ones.

As soon as I saw the email from Pinterest, entitled "I'm excited to announce Secret Boards," I thought of one thing and one thing only:

Finally, all those single girls can hide their wedding ideas.

If you see a board called "For the Future" or "One Day..." you may have stumbled upon one of these. Girls with no husband, no fiance, and yes even no boyfriend have pinned the equivalent of an entire ceremony, reception, and honeymoon.

Party favors, aisle decorations, flower arrangements, bridesmaid dresses. You've stumbled upon a single girl's wedding scrapbook!

Slow down there, girl. Do you really need people to be thinking, I thought she was my perpetually single friend, why has she picked out cake toppers?

No. No, I say.

Now you can hide your dirty little secrets! Gather them all into a secret board, in the hope of being able to reveal them to the public if you ever get engaged.

Thank you, Pinterest.

Neville's Receding Leaf-Line

I'm sure you've all been wondering how Neville is.

He's still losing leaves, but he hasn't lost his spirit. I thought I was going to have to chuck him, but he's hanging on.

I do still have to pick dead leaves off, but at least they're not all gone.

And, I may have figured out why he's so dejected.

A plant from a neighboring desk seems to be making some kind of move on him. Observe (and tilt your head to the side because I couldn't load the picture straight for some reason):



See, this other plant is, well, flourishing. It's a bit disheartening to me, so I can't even comprehend how difficult it must be for Neville. Here he is, trying to find his place in this world and hanging on by a thread most days, while this other plant actually appears to be coming over to brag about its good health.

I find its gloating to be rather disgusting, really. Here's a closer look:

As you can see, Trevor the frog pot is protecting Neville as best he can. But those leaves are creeping closer every day. This is a very real problem for Neville, who is having self-esteem issues even without having another plant's thriving leaves pushed into his face.

Notice how you can't even see Neville's leaves in this second picture. The few he has are right on top. Like a comb-over.

Frankly, I'm embarassed for him.

So, morale is low on my library desk. Any suggestions on improving Neville's mental health would be appreciated. Short of therapy, obviously. I'm in grad school; I can't afford a plant psychiatrist right now.

One Man's Trash is NOT the Library's Treasure

For some reason, people think that because we are a library, we will happily take all their junk off their hands.

Let me give you some background:
We have two big book sales a year.
We accept book (and DVD and CD) donations all throughout the year in preparation for these sales.
We are very clear on what we will and will not accept. (for example, no textbooks or reference books)

Sure, we take book donations. But we sell them in our book sale. Do you really think we want to sort through your wet, smelly, or useless material? I love the smell of books as much as the next person, but I do not simply hold onto books because they're books. They're not meant to last forever, people!

That is what the trash is for.

I've had people actually get mad at me for not taking ten-year-old textbooks.

Throw them away.

Just because we are a non-profit organization does not mean we will be weeping tears of gratitude while you try to pawn off stuff that still smells like old attic.

For a sarcastic person like myself, it takes a great deal of self-control to hold my tongue in some of these instances. I almost started laughing when someone tried to give me this pile of large photos someone took of random scenery. Is this a joke? Am I being filmed right now?

Apparently, people would rather feel like they're doing something useful with their junk or crummy books. They would rather take them to the library than stick them out with the trash.

Well, I'm sorry to let you down, now that you've dragged this whole carton of books that smell like cigarette smoke all the way to the library. But guess what?

You might have had trouble throwing that stuff away, but we certainly won't.

Lookie-Loo Minus the Bundle of Joy

"Excuse me, did you go to Pleasant Valley High School?"

"Um, no."

"Oh."

This was a conversation I had with a random guy at a restaurant the other day. He came up, said hi to someone he knew at my table, blurted out the question to me and then left.

Once he knew I wasn't this other person we didn't have much in common, I guess.

So...my question is...

What's this girl look like? Is she attractive? Ugly? Athletic? Fat? Do our faces look the same? Our haircuts? Our body types? Ankles?

I'm always so. stinkin. curious. Whenever people say I look just like someone, I'm like so show me a picture!

Apparently my self esteem is a fragile leaf balancing on the edge of a rocky cliff. I just want to make sure that I'm not being compared to someone, um, odd.

Yes, I know this is self-centered. But admit it, you wonder too about how people would describe you to other people or compare you to somebody else.

So yeah, she's the short girl who looks like a rabbit - or
Picture a cartoon version of George Washington - or what about simply
You know that guy with the big ears?

One time somebody told me I looked justlike the actress who played Jane Eyre in one of those old versions. I looked it up on YouTube and didn't see it, frankly. But also, who wants to be told they look like Jane Eyre? Isn't she sort of known for being, well, a plain jane?

I suppose I've never seen it when people have told me I look like someone. Let's just say I've never been told I'm a dead ringer for Scarlett Johansson or Penelope Cruz.

However, I like to think I'm pretty glamorous for a librarian.

Swooning by My Car and Waiting for Assistance

Okay, in my 10 Things blog post I mentioned car repair. Specifically, tires. Told you I'd come back with more!

So I got my first flat tire.

Suffice it to say, it was embarassing. Lots of people stared at me. On the plus side, I did get to officially use my hazard lights. That felt important. And yet also drew more attention...

Anyway, my dad came to my rescue and showed me yet again how to change a tire.

Now, it all made sense when he was showing me, but what if I don't have to do it again for, like, five more years? I won't remember.

When it comes to car things, I feel very inadequate. And frustrated. And jealous of guys who seem to just instinctually know what to do with all these... parts. Seriously, all you need is an open hood and suddenly guys are clustered around poking greasy items wedged into random spaces and muttering things like "transmission" and "suspension" and "weirdwordthatsoundsmadeup."

Is there some kind of handbook for men? Where can I pick one up? Or perhaps the Cliffs Notes edition?

And what makes a car so interesting? I'll admit it's a smidge intimidating to not understand at all the biggest machine I own. But I don't really care to understand it. I've had guys tell me not to worry, there will always be a man around who is willing to help a "damsel in distress."

Oh boy, that's reassuring. As long as I'm not in the middle of nowhere. And the man willing to help me is not an ax murderer.

Ugh. I just don't like feeling helpless. Or walking into a car parts store for something and having men look at me like, clearly she doesn't have a clue what she's doing. Or maybe I'm just imagining it.

Luckily, I know how to do... things. I can bake a mean batch of cookies. And use correct spelling and grammar. I am creative. I am knowledgeable. And helpless guys are always wandering into the library requiring my assistance.

So perhaps it all evens out in the end.

It's Closing Time, Yo.

When I work at the library on Saturdays, it's usually pretty quiet. People drift in and out, study a bit, make a few copies, snag a movie for the night. But for some reason, around 4:45, fifteen minutes before we close, patrons decide to storm the doors. It has suddenly become a necessity to rush into the library: wild eyes darting around the shelves, relieved smiles when they see they have some time left.

No. No, no, no. We'd like to have everyone gone at 5, not have you read your newspaper until then before swinging by the men's room, thank you very much.

I don't have it much anymore, but when I worked in my college library I used to have this recurring nightmare. I would be walking around the library trying to close up and people would just keep coming in and coming in and I couldn't get anyone to leave. Students would keep wandering around trying to get books or study and I couldn't round people up to get out so I could go home.

Honestly, sometimes it's like herding cats trying to get patrons to vacate the premises. Seriously, all of a sudden the library is so important to you that you have to wait until 5:02 to attempt to check out your books?

And don't smile condescendingly like of course I know the library is closing when I remind you because you clearly. needed. a. reminder.

I'm so pleased you love your library and that you're visiting it. But we're open 71 hours a week. That's right, 71. Pick your time, my friend.

And if you do find yourself in a unique situation and have to run in at closing (our library is open until 9 on weeknights), it's nice to express how grateful and sorry you are. A little grovelling never hurt anyone, is all I'm saying.

I'm thankful I don't work in a grocery store or restaurant. I'm sure if I think getting people to leave the library is tough, these places have got to be worse. More people, more awkward situations, more late nights.

I try to be extra conscientious and leave early when I'm somewhere close to closing. These employees have lives, ya know!

Chapstick, Continued

Readers find my blog through various ways. Word of mouth, referring websites, comments I leave on other blogs that link back to mine, photos I lifted from Google...

And there is one blog post that has, for some reason, always been quite popular. Seriously, it seems that it is viewed every day, despite the fact that it was posted on November 12, 2010. 2010, people!

And the post isn't especially profound. Or funny. Or interesting. Or well-written. It's not one I would point to as a favorite. When I read it now, it doesn't even seem to make cohesive sense!

It's about chapstick. Yes, chapstick. This random blog post about chapstick has garnered close to 1,500 views over the last couple years. Here's my guess: it's the picture.

Now, you've probably guessed this, but I do not do all my own photography. That's right, I shamelessly borrow images off the internet to complement my blog posts. A kitten here, a garden gate there. Here a chocolate fountain, there a snowman, everywhere librarians and piles of books...

I don't copy images that are on a photography website or something, though. Or if the website says clearly not to copy them. I am careful, I think.

And for some reason, hundreds of people search for images of chapstick. And really like the image I chose for my blog post.

It's the oddest thing. My most popular blog post. Chapstick.

Huh.

 

Speak Softly

Sometimes you read something so profound, it's as if someone has reached into your mind and written exactly what you were thinking but have not yet been able to express.

"I realize it's not true that I'm no longer shy; I've just learned to talk myself down from the ledge. By now I do it so automatically that I'm hardly aware it's happening. When I talk with a stranger or a group of people, my smile is bright and my manner direct, but there's a split second that feels like I'm stepping onto a high wire. By now I've had so many thousands of social experiences that I've learned that the high wire is a figment of my imagination, or that I won't die if I fall. I reassure myself so instantaneously that I'm barely aware I'm doing it. But the reassurance process is still happening - and occasionally it doesn't work."

This is an excerpt from Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking by Susan Cain. It's a fascinating book, whether you're an introvert, an extrovert, or feel that you have qualities of both!

As I've written about before, I'm definitely, positively, precisely an introvert. When I read this part in Cain's book, I knew I had to write a blog post about it.

Because it's exactly how I feel! I used to be pretty painfully shy. I blushed. I sweated (perspired? glowed?) I got nervous when speaking with people. I avoided conversations and gatherings of people.

Guess what? I still do all these things. But I deal with them better.

I've learned to talk myself down from the ledge. I've gotten so used to reassuring myself that it almost seems natural.

Almost.

And then I sense the hint of panic in the back of my mind. I feel as if I'm looking at myself from somewhere outside of my body. I remember how unnatural it feels for me to be bold and confident. I fake it so well I nearly fool myself.

But deep down, I'm an introvert. I'd rather not have many conversations, especially about meaningless things. I may appear to be extroverted, especially at my desk job at the public library, but it's me adapting to who I feel I need to be sometimes.

Practice makes perfect, as they say. I've learned what people expect in social situations. I'm not ten years old anymore; I know it's not acceptable to speak softly and to not look people in their eyes.

"my smile is bright and my manner direct, but there's a split second that feels like I'm stepping onto a high wire." Haha!

Tricked you.

Oh, You'll Really Hit It Off

Dear Facebook,

Wow, you're so sweet. Seriously. You just think of everything! How can I ever thank you for all this unsolicited advice?

Oh, THESE are the people I should be friends with. Why didn't I think of that? It's not like there are reasons why I haven't friended these people. Despite our 147 friends in common.

And these are the pages I should like? Good to know. So that's what I've been missing on my page? Advertisements for Pepsi? Updates from Justin Bieber? Wisdom from the Kardashian sisters?

I mean, typically I make my own decisions. So it's nice you don't push these at me or anything. You just line them ALL over the page, helpfully.

And wow, my friends are playing yet another game on Facebook? But this one involves flying cows? Or virtual mall shopping? Or dressing up avatars? Well, thanks for letting me know. I'll get right on that.

No, really. You're too kind.

Love,
Me

Peeking Over the Fence

Sometimes I wonder what I'm missing out on. Is there something more? Is what I have now not good enough? Could I be somewhere better?

I am speaking, of course, of radio stations and tv channels.

I am the worst channel surfer ever. If I'm listening to one song on the radio, a part of me wonders if there's a better song I could be listening to instead. If I'm watching I Love Lucy on TV Land, I'm thinking I should check the Food Network to see if Cupcake Wars is on.

I'm hopeless.

For some reason, I just have trouble sticking with a particular channel. Maybe I'll just run through my options just one more time...see if commercials are over and if something good has come on in the last 20 seconds. I don't want to waste my time here if I could be watching or listening to something INcredible over there!

Just wondering if the grass is greener. It's like when I go out to eat with people and I order something that I feel will be delicious. And then I look over and someone else's food always looks better! And suddenly I am filled with regret.

SOMEbody needs to be grateful with what she has, apparently. And not worry about what's on the other stations.

Instead, I should ROCK OUT to whatever song is on. And ENJOY whichever channel is playing. And RELAX my itchy trigger finger on the radio dial and the tv remote.

Hm...I wonder...should I have written a different blog post today? Perhaps another subject would be more...interesting?

Oh, forget it.

Bang. You're Dead.

I have an irrational fear of fireworks.

Maybe not completely irrational. I mean, people have been hurt from fireworks before. I know that if you're in a crowd of people watching fireworks from a safe distance, your chances of surviving are pretty good. But I tend to think I will not.

Survive, I mean.

I don't particularly care for loud, unexpected noises. When will the next BANG happen? How loud will this one be? Especially when there's that sound delay. A huge burst of light, a second of uncomfortable anticipation, and then kerPOW!

Not my cup of tea. In fact, that's what I'd rather be doing. Sitting in a garden and sipping a cup of tea. Not watching light explode and fearing for my life.

I know, I know. I'm a wimp. And I will go and see fireworks with friends and pretend I don't care that there are sparks flying and loud bangs making me jump.

*cringe*

I can totally understand how dogs feel. Most dogs I know don't really care for fireworks. They don't understand what's happening and why everyone else is just laughing it up. Loud noises mean DANGER! They mean FEAR! They mean whimpering and hiding and eyes filled with betrayal.



I get you, dogs. Let's all go hide together, I say.

Leave those crazy humans and their fire alone.



I am also afraid fireworks will swoop down on me like dragons. Thank you, LOTR.

Apparently I'm Four Years Old

So I have this problem.

It seems like whenever I eat chocolate, I end up with some around my mouth.

Now, I'm not a sloppy person. I use napkins. I eat delicately. It's not like I'm smooshing my face into a cookie and rubbing it into my mouth.

But somehow, some way, chocolate ends up in the corners of my mouth.

Okay, so this is probably also due to the fact that I like to lick bowls. I mean, who doesn't? The batter or the dough is the best part, honestly. And if I make brownies, am I just supposed to rinse the beaters out in the sink? I think not. Waste not, want not.

So then, because I forget that when it comes to chocolate I am four years old, I wander around with chocolate on my face until the next time I happen to glance in a mirror.

Oh, well. I guess one could say my messy face is a tribute to the fact that I really enjoy my chocolate. And of course by "enjoy" I mean devour. Possibly revel in.

Yum.

Rock On, Fellow Drivers!

I'm pretty sure that one of the most wonderful simple pleasures is driving in the car on a beautiful summer day.

(Was that sentence too long and awkward? Pretty sure it was. Don't feel like changing it, though.)

If I had unlimited money for gas, I would want to just drive for hours in the countryside, windows down, breeze blowing my hair into an unrecognizable puff, music blasting.

And I can sing out as LOUD as I want, experimenting with all kinds of harmonies and rapping unrecognizable words because I'm not exactly sure what I'm singing!

And I can dance as much as I can while buckled down into a seat, which means wiggling around awkwardly and pumping a fist in the air or waving it out the window!

I feel free, I feel young! I feel like I can just drive away from all responsibilities, like I'm driving towards adventure and awesomeness.

Friends in the car? Sure, bring 'em in! We can all party together, as long as I the driver don't get too distracted. Because I have seen WAY too many movies that have a frightening montage of a carful of youngsters goofing off and not noticing the semi until it's too late. ANYway...

I love driving in the car in the summertime. Especially when I'm not going anywhere in a hurry. I can just hop in and go...to the park, to the store, to find ice cream...

And it's sunny and easy and perfect. For a few moments, it's all good.

Actually, I'll Just Stand

Sore. I am so, so, sore.

Yesterday I thought it would be a good idea to go to a 6am class at the gym. Boot camp, they call it. Fun, they said it would be.

And it was, sort of. The hour went pretty quickly since we were doing so many different things. Free weights. Squats. Lunges. Crunches. Ouch.

I tried not to pay attention to the fifty-year-old women lifting heavier weights than me. It was my first time, all right? By the end of the class, I could barely raise five-pound weights over my head. Or just my arms over my head.

So all day yesterday I felt a little twingy, but that was it.

Not so today. After not moving all night (mostly), I am now trying to stretch out the aching muscles in my body. It's so annoying how a person can think she's in decent shape until she tries something new. Something new that kills her. And makes her body let out imaginary screams of pain when she tries to sit down in her computer chair to write a new blog post.

Really, this post couldn't be about anything other than the pain I'm in because it's kind of hard to think about anything else.

So, the lesson here is, go easy with the boot camps. And if you do, make sure you have some ibuprofen. Or chocolate.

Really, chocolate is probably better.

In the Event of a Zombie Attack, Break Glass

I think it's important to have a plan.

This is true in an odd way when I hear strange noises. And start to worry.

I have to be alone for this to work. Alone and slightly creeped out.

Suddenly there's a creak or a BANG or a mooooaaaannnn. And I get strangely businesslike.

Okay, there is a criminal/ogre/zombie/etc. who is trying to break in/find me/kill me/etc. Let's try to think through this rationally. Where is the nearest weapon/exit/person? Who will hear me if I try to scream, or would that just be a waste of energy? Should I change my clothes real quick? Is this really the top I want to be wearing when I'm murdered? I mean, really... Should I try to be a hero and save the day, or simply try not to be taken to "the next location"? According to Oprah, I'm doomed if I get taken to the next location. There're so many more things I wanted to do with my life...

Worrying. Daydreaming. Planning. An overactive imagination. It all stews together in my brain, which apparently has nothing better to work on than escape routes out windows, or hiding places under beds (note to self after seeing Taken: does not work).

The best is thinking people have died if they're late to something.

She said she'd be back at 3 and it's 3:30! She's dead.

He said he'd meet me at 11 and it's 11:20. He's dead.

Might as well think through how I'd like the funeral to go. How sad I'll be having to live without this person for the rest of my life. How different things will be. Don't cry, Laura, don't cr-oh, there she is.

Somebody needs to practice thinking happy thoughts.

Come on now, I'm not sure how some people just prance through life, things just working out without any planning or worrying. I'm positive that all the worrying and irrational planning I do really helps my life work out. Replaying horrific scenarios in my head in the dark keeps me firmly planted in reality.

You really should consider thinking through some of this. It's like a weight is lifted off your chest when you can decide on precisely which emergency supplies you can pull together if you have to flee your house during a worldwide disaster to escape the looters.

Just sayin'.

Yo. You Smell Nice

So Friday was Say Something Nice Day. Apparently.

I know this because each month I look up things like national days and author birthdays for blog fodder. Not for this blog, for the library blog. I know, I'm a busy little blogger.

I decided to take Say Something Nice Day to heart. I vowed I would say something nice to every single patron. I would compliment them!

This lasted about fifteen minutes. I complimented about five women on something they were wearing. A purse, a necklace, a pin.

Then I realized there was no way I was complimenting men. They don't usually wear anything interesting enough to compliment. And even if they did...well, let's just say I didn't want to be taken the wrong way.

"Heyyyy...I really like your..." shirt? haircut? cologne? I'm a library worker, not your girlfriend/sister/grandmother!

Speaking of cologne, I like it. And I appreciate guys who wear it. As long as it's not too strong. Or weird. Speaking of weird, I've wanted to compliment guys on their cologne before, but talked myself out of it. I wouldn't mean it in an odd way...but it would for sure be odd. Thank goodness I have some social graces.

So the complimenting thing kind of died. I did notice a difference, though, in being a little extra nice to people. I'm always nice, of course, but being a woman myself I know the kind of impact a simple compliment can make. Women I complimented suddenly got more chatty, more open. I know the power of a compliment, often it will last me all day long and I'll feel better about myself.

I think I need to implement the whole complimenting thing a bit more often. How much effort does it take, really, to notice something good about someone? It's nice to be appreciated, is all I'm sayin'.

Every day should be Say Something Nice Day. I know I'm usually consumed by my own appearance, my own thoughts, my own worries. Taking a moment to care more about someone else is a much better idea.

Hey, you. Blog reader. Lookin' good today. If you were a library book, I would definitely take you out-

too much? Yeah, that's kind of what I figured. Use good judgment when it comes to compliments. I trust you.