In a time of economic uncertainty, you know what a really great idea is? Doing something so stupid that you piss off half your customer base.
Amazon, massive online book retailer, has removed a whole whack of titles from their sales rankings because of "adult content." In many cases, this means those books don't show up in a search of the Amazon site, either. One wonders how Amazon plans to sell these phantom books. One also wonders how Amazon defines adult content. The answer? "As poorly as everyone else who's ever tried it." In one of the more ridiculous examples, Bret Easton Ellis' American Psycho (complete with horrific serial killings) still shows up, but Unfriendly Fire, a book about queers and American military policy, is apparently too racy for us.
Books with queer content are disproportionately represented (or unrepresented, I guess) in this new system, regardless of whether that content consists of frolicsome fisting threeways or the mere mention of our existence. Also missing in action are romance and erotica titles (though which ones appears to be a crapshoot), and I'm sure there's more.
The internets are already ablaze with fury, and I think some fury is warranted. But you know what else is warranted? Hysterical laughter. Seriously, Amazon? Seriously? What were you thinking?
I'm with the Smart Bitches on this one. I say we Google Bomb them. Click for a new definition:
Amazon Rank
ETA: Apparently Amazon is now claiming that it's a glitch and not a new policy. And you know, if they had offered this as the first explanation, I'd've been willing to believe it, because the alternative is just so mindbogglingly dumb. But here are a couple of points to consider.
Showing posts with label stop me before I kill again. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stop me before I kill again. Show all posts
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Monday, February 23, 2009
how you are in the world
This was not the most successful day ever, from a keeping-the-nice-lady-calm perspective. Having learned my lesson from my first ultrasound, I belatedly took the advice my friends gave me six weeks ago ("You are a tiny woman. You do not need to drink the entire litre of water they're telling you to drink. That's ridiculous.") and so I was at least not as uncomfortable this time.
Not so good was getting into the little room and having the woman who was supposed to do my ultrasound tell me that I was only seventeen weeks pregnant, and therefore it was too early to run an anatomy scan. Now, I have done the math on this several times, and had a number of different other people do the math, and come up with a different answer (and so had my doctor) but do you know, people? She was right. Except I had fucked it up somewhere along the way and thought this last Saturday marked eighteen weeks. Well, hell.
The good news is that the systems for determining how pregnant you are are so nonspecific that when she did the ultrasound, she said to ignore the math because based on the baby's measurements, my addled calculations were actually closer. She did, however, move our due date back into late July from early August. (Relax, Team Leo--barring something unexpected, the shrimpbaby is still one of yours.)
We then went upstairs to get the accompanying bloodwork done. While I waited at the counter, spook went out to put more money in the meter. The guy at the desk looked at my paperwork and said "We need the form for this. This isn't the right form. Go back downstairs and tell them you need the right form." I went. Downstairs, the very nice woman at the desk said "They always do this. Wait a sec, I'm gonna send you up with a note. They don't need a form for this. They need a form for the first part of this test, which they did six weeks ago." She wrote a note, including her phone number in case the guy had any questions, and the instruction "DO NOT send patient back down." Upstairs, the guy was all, "This isn't the right form." As calmly as I could, I said
"Well, the people on six say you don't need a form."
"We can't do anything without a form." He tried to hand it back to me. I didn't take it.
"Perhaps you could call the people on six and sort this out with them." I watched him think about refusing, then put in a perfunctory call. He hung up immediately.
"It's their answering machine. We're not associated with the radiology department. They're a different company. We need a form, we won't do anything without--"
I walked away on him. Not politely.
Went back downstairs. The nice lady, April, was just getting on the elevator as I got off.
"The guy up on eight says they won't do a damn thing without a form." I told her, and burst into tears.
"Oh, no. Okay. I'm going to fix this for you. You need to get that test done. Come with me."
She called my doctor's office, was transferred around a bit, explained the situation to them. Told me that my doctor's office was going to call upstairs to wrangle unpleasant guy. "I'll come with you." she said, and did.
When we got back up to the eighth floor, we ran into spook, who had been frantically searching for me for some minutes now. "What happened?" he asked. "I'll tell you later," I said, grimly wiping away tears. Stupid pregnancy hormones.
April went through the same routine with surly guy, who by now I think disliked me almost as much as I disliked him. Then she turned to me and said "If your doctor hasn't called in half an hour, you come down and see me, and I'll call them again."
We sat for twenty minutes and then determined that even if my doctor's office did call at this point, we were going to get towed waiting for my blood work, because we were flat out of change. spook went back downstairs to confer with April, who reassured him that in fact we could go to another lab, one where they were not assholes, so long as we went soon. As we were gathering up our stuff to leave, another woman in the waiting room asked if we'd been there a long time. I said no, but there was some paperwork mixup. She said "Yeah, I've been here before. These people are not nice."
In the lobby, spook called my doctor's office and told them our story again, asked if we could come in and get my blood drawn by the sweet nurse there instead. "Because here they were mean to my wife and made her cry." So we're going in tomorrow morning, and Daniel will tell me a funny story and reassure me that my terrible fear of needles is just an extreme response to very old programming that tells our bodies not to let other people stick things in us.
This is a thing I will remember in my work, when I have the opportunity to make something easier for someone. The guy at the desk could have said the very same thing to me without being an asshole about it, could have suggested that we call my doctor, or, y'know, offered me the phone so I could do it. And while my job does not involve facilitating important medical tests for people, I still think it matters how I do it.
Thanks, April.
Not so good was getting into the little room and having the woman who was supposed to do my ultrasound tell me that I was only seventeen weeks pregnant, and therefore it was too early to run an anatomy scan. Now, I have done the math on this several times, and had a number of different other people do the math, and come up with a different answer (and so had my doctor) but do you know, people? She was right. Except I had fucked it up somewhere along the way and thought this last Saturday marked eighteen weeks. Well, hell.
The good news is that the systems for determining how pregnant you are are so nonspecific that when she did the ultrasound, she said to ignore the math because based on the baby's measurements, my addled calculations were actually closer. She did, however, move our due date back into late July from early August. (Relax, Team Leo--barring something unexpected, the shrimpbaby is still one of yours.)
We then went upstairs to get the accompanying bloodwork done. While I waited at the counter, spook went out to put more money in the meter. The guy at the desk looked at my paperwork and said "We need the form for this. This isn't the right form. Go back downstairs and tell them you need the right form." I went. Downstairs, the very nice woman at the desk said "They always do this. Wait a sec, I'm gonna send you up with a note. They don't need a form for this. They need a form for the first part of this test, which they did six weeks ago." She wrote a note, including her phone number in case the guy had any questions, and the instruction "DO NOT send patient back down." Upstairs, the guy was all, "This isn't the right form." As calmly as I could, I said
"Well, the people on six say you don't need a form."
"We can't do anything without a form." He tried to hand it back to me. I didn't take it.
"Perhaps you could call the people on six and sort this out with them." I watched him think about refusing, then put in a perfunctory call. He hung up immediately.
"It's their answering machine. We're not associated with the radiology department. They're a different company. We need a form, we won't do anything without--"
I walked away on him. Not politely.
Went back downstairs. The nice lady, April, was just getting on the elevator as I got off.
"The guy up on eight says they won't do a damn thing without a form." I told her, and burst into tears.
"Oh, no. Okay. I'm going to fix this for you. You need to get that test done. Come with me."
She called my doctor's office, was transferred around a bit, explained the situation to them. Told me that my doctor's office was going to call upstairs to wrangle unpleasant guy. "I'll come with you." she said, and did.
When we got back up to the eighth floor, we ran into spook, who had been frantically searching for me for some minutes now. "What happened?" he asked. "I'll tell you later," I said, grimly wiping away tears. Stupid pregnancy hormones.
April went through the same routine with surly guy, who by now I think disliked me almost as much as I disliked him. Then she turned to me and said "If your doctor hasn't called in half an hour, you come down and see me, and I'll call them again."
We sat for twenty minutes and then determined that even if my doctor's office did call at this point, we were going to get towed waiting for my blood work, because we were flat out of change. spook went back downstairs to confer with April, who reassured him that in fact we could go to another lab, one where they were not assholes, so long as we went soon. As we were gathering up our stuff to leave, another woman in the waiting room asked if we'd been there a long time. I said no, but there was some paperwork mixup. She said "Yeah, I've been here before. These people are not nice."
In the lobby, spook called my doctor's office and told them our story again, asked if we could come in and get my blood drawn by the sweet nurse there instead. "Because here they were mean to my wife and made her cry." So we're going in tomorrow morning, and Daniel will tell me a funny story and reassure me that my terrible fear of needles is just an extreme response to very old programming that tells our bodies not to let other people stick things in us.
This is a thing I will remember in my work, when I have the opportunity to make something easier for someone. The guy at the desk could have said the very same thing to me without being an asshole about it, could have suggested that we call my doctor, or, y'know, offered me the phone so I could do it. And while my job does not involve facilitating important medical tests for people, I still think it matters how I do it.
Thanks, April.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
mama said knock you out
The maternity shop--the same shop where a scarily enthusiastic woman told me three weeks ago "Come back when you grow out of your bra! Don't just buy a size bigger! We'll help you find one that you'll get more use of out!"--does not carry a bra in the size that I am. Does not carry one. At all.
I am told by one of my similarly-built friends that I can look forward to continuing this fun trend when I need to buy nursing bras, which also may not exist in my size.
A trip to a regular-old bra retailer did not turn up anything that was going to remotely work either, although they did have a range of sizes, one of which you would think would have to fit me, but no. I am a freak of nature, and nothing fits.
I suppose I will continue to wear uncomfortable and ill-fitting bras, while ever increasing numbers of my co-workers point out my ever-increasing rack.
AAAAAAAAAAH!
I am told by one of my similarly-built friends that I can look forward to continuing this fun trend when I need to buy nursing bras, which also may not exist in my size.
A trip to a regular-old bra retailer did not turn up anything that was going to remotely work either, although they did have a range of sizes, one of which you would think would have to fit me, but no. I am a freak of nature, and nothing fits.
I suppose I will continue to wear uncomfortable and ill-fitting bras, while ever increasing numbers of my co-workers point out my ever-increasing rack.
AAAAAAAAAAH!
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
food, why are you my enemy?
Today, I threw up Cheerios, the most innocuous of the breakfast foods. Yep. I'm definitely pregnant.
I'd like to apologize for my weeks-long absence from the blog world. It's just that I feel like I've had a stomach bug for almost a month, and I'm so damn tired it's an effort just to sit up in the mornings. Sitting in front of the computer and stringing my words together into sentences has been way, way beyond me. So, does this blog entry represent a new, better feeling? Mostly, it represents my desperation to do something other than dry-heave or demand that poor spook drive me around the corner so that I can get a caesar salad right now. (Pregnancy nausea does not conform to the rules of nausea that we can all usually count on. Just one of the many fun quirks I've been learning all about.) I am just beginning to understand the outrage of my friend M., who spent her entire first pregnancy saying "Nobody tells you it's going to be like this!" This is substantially true. But also? Even if they did tell you, you wouldn't believe it. I know, because I really thought I was listening to her, and I'm shocked and horrified. So let me add my voice to the chorus of ignored women's voices to say: pregnancy sucks.
Yes, I'm happy to be having a baby, yes, I'm aware of how lucky I am, given that some women struggle for years just to get pregnant. I just don't think that means I have any obligation to sugarcoat four weeks of barfing.
Let's all hope I feel better before I bore everyone to death with my whining.
p.s. Aunties! Uncles! Your enthusiasm is welcome! It helps me remember why I thought this was a good idea in the first place.
I'd like to apologize for my weeks-long absence from the blog world. It's just that I feel like I've had a stomach bug for almost a month, and I'm so damn tired it's an effort just to sit up in the mornings. Sitting in front of the computer and stringing my words together into sentences has been way, way beyond me. So, does this blog entry represent a new, better feeling? Mostly, it represents my desperation to do something other than dry-heave or demand that poor spook drive me around the corner so that I can get a caesar salad right now. (Pregnancy nausea does not conform to the rules of nausea that we can all usually count on. Just one of the many fun quirks I've been learning all about.) I am just beginning to understand the outrage of my friend M., who spent her entire first pregnancy saying "Nobody tells you it's going to be like this!" This is substantially true. But also? Even if they did tell you, you wouldn't believe it. I know, because I really thought I was listening to her, and I'm shocked and horrified. So let me add my voice to the chorus of ignored women's voices to say: pregnancy sucks.
Yes, I'm happy to be having a baby, yes, I'm aware of how lucky I am, given that some women struggle for years just to get pregnant. I just don't think that means I have any obligation to sugarcoat four weeks of barfing.
Let's all hope I feel better before I bore everyone to death with my whining.
p.s. Aunties! Uncles! Your enthusiasm is welcome! It helps me remember why I thought this was a good idea in the first place.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
cheerful, calm and helpful
I am heartily sick of the general public, and it's only November 27th.
"I just hit the wall." I told Geoffrey.
"Don't say that! We have six more weeks!" Liar. It's...well, okay, by the time you factor in Boxing Day sales, it's almost six weeks. I remind myself that 75% of the exasperating behavior I witness is not the result of people being jerks, it is the result of people being in a crowded, overwhelming, unfamiliar environment. It's the other twenty-five percent I have trouble with. Lady, I have explained in a clear and friendly manner why you cannot sit in front of the shelves. I have even invoked wheelchair access. You know, access? So that people can move around as freely as possible in the mall which at the best of times is challenging but during holidays takes on a nightmare quality? That. People might want to look at those books that you're leaning on. Don't be mean about it.
In fact, here's my new rule for how adults should behave (also known as "Why I will never be Empress of the world"): if you can't measure up to the standards I would have for a toddler in my care, you should have to take a timeout. If it's good enough for a three-year-old, it's good enough for you. Say please. Say thank you. Share the toys. Wash your hands. Don't wait for re-election to say that you won't scream at people in Parliament any more. You know, the basics.
Since this also applies to me, I am going to spend my evening doing something soothing, so that tomorrow I'll be ready to go back and face people again, the majority of whom are actually much nicer than you'd think. Just--thank god I get a break till tomorrow.
p.s. Thanks to Ben and Jillian for bringing cookies to us retail drudges. It warms a girl's heart.
"I just hit the wall." I told Geoffrey.
"Don't say that! We have six more weeks!" Liar. It's...well, okay, by the time you factor in Boxing Day sales, it's almost six weeks. I remind myself that 75% of the exasperating behavior I witness is not the result of people being jerks, it is the result of people being in a crowded, overwhelming, unfamiliar environment. It's the other twenty-five percent I have trouble with. Lady, I have explained in a clear and friendly manner why you cannot sit in front of the shelves. I have even invoked wheelchair access. You know, access? So that people can move around as freely as possible in the mall which at the best of times is challenging but during holidays takes on a nightmare quality? That. People might want to look at those books that you're leaning on. Don't be mean about it.
In fact, here's my new rule for how adults should behave (also known as "Why I will never be Empress of the world"): if you can't measure up to the standards I would have for a toddler in my care, you should have to take a timeout. If it's good enough for a three-year-old, it's good enough for you. Say please. Say thank you. Share the toys. Wash your hands. Don't wait for re-election to say that you won't scream at people in Parliament any more. You know, the basics.
Since this also applies to me, I am going to spend my evening doing something soothing, so that tomorrow I'll be ready to go back and face people again, the majority of whom are actually much nicer than you'd think. Just--thank god I get a break till tomorrow.
p.s. Thanks to Ben and Jillian for bringing cookies to us retail drudges. It warms a girl's heart.
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
not a fan
Operation Pave the World continues apace on my block. I hadn't noticed it so much until Paul and Sarah came over, and Sarah said "What is up with your street? I've never seen so much front-yard parking in my life!" And I had to admit that indeed, there was a lot of front-yard parking. Now I can't stop noticing. Up the street one way, three houses got together and covered their entire fronts with asphalt. Yesterday it was the house a couple doors up from us.
"I can't even remember," Lizbeth said, "was it--"
"I'm pretty sure it was lawn." Now it is an expanse of shiny blackness. As you all know, I am not a fan of grass, but I am now freaking out about runoff and water pollution. Stop the insanity! Try interlocking pavers or something! Geez!
Also, it smells funny.
Right now I'm listening to one of the guys doing construction next door shouting about how these other guys "don't appreciate him or value his experience!" I'm like, um, I'm sorry they hurt your feelings, but could you not wake up the baby? 'Kay, thanks.
"I can't even remember," Lizbeth said, "was it--"
"I'm pretty sure it was lawn." Now it is an expanse of shiny blackness. As you all know, I am not a fan of grass, but I am now freaking out about runoff and water pollution. Stop the insanity! Try interlocking pavers or something! Geez!
Also, it smells funny.
Right now I'm listening to one of the guys doing construction next door shouting about how these other guys "don't appreciate him or value his experience!" I'm like, um, I'm sorry they hurt your feelings, but could you not wake up the baby? 'Kay, thanks.
Friday, July 18, 2008
I think I just threw up in my mouth a little
You know what's even more irritating than someone with only mediocre talent becoming somehow representative of my entire demographic, at least as far as Canadian media is concerned?
It's when that person is a smart woman who trades on acting stupider than she is.
Therefore, this:
"CBC has also ordered Abroad, a back-door pilot about the romantic misadventures of a Canadian woman in London, based on the experiences of Globe and Mail columnist Leah McLaren."
causes me to shake my head in weary dismay.
It's when that person is a smart woman who trades on acting stupider than she is.
Therefore, this:
"CBC has also ordered Abroad, a back-door pilot about the romantic misadventures of a Canadian woman in London, based on the experiences of Globe and Mail columnist Leah McLaren."
causes me to shake my head in weary dismay.
Friday, April 04, 2008
"I want more options!" "Don't we all?"
Random dude: "I'm looking for Neil Strauss."
Me: "Oh. The Game." [stands up, brushes dust off pantlegs, heads in direction of book]
RD: "You know it."
Me: "Yep."
RD: "Does it work on you?"
Me: "Lemme see: sad men trying to make a connection with women and sabotaging themselves because they chose manipulation as their opening gambit?" [two beats] "No."
RD: "Come on, you can't lie to a woman, I mean, if she falls for it..."
Me: [rounding on the dude with that smile that's more like showing my teeth] "Let me ask you this: if you lie to a woman and she believes you, who exactly is at fault there?"
RD: "You can go away now."
Me: [customer service smile] "Have a nice afternoon!"
There was a much less amusing story featured in one of our local weeklies about pickup artists (or, as they're apparently called, PUAs--pwahs?--am I the only person who thinks that acronym should be avoided at all costs?) and the pickup scene, which is apparently big in my city. Huh. For the record, I am not against the notion of picking up, or the idea of casual sex. All I ask is that all parties give informed consent, (which, duh, means that you can't lie to each other about what you're looking for out of the experience) and that everybody tries to make sure that everybody else is having a good time. If that seems like an unreasonably stringent standard to you, then don't bother commenting, because we have nothing to say to each other.
(I'm not going to link to the article, because frankly I don't have time or energy to handle the trolls and all the tedious, tedious things I know they'd call me, but if you would like to throw up in your mouth a little, you can find it by googling "pickup artist" along with "worship the cock." Yeah.)
One of the discussions we had at my place about it was about whether the author had a responsibility to frame the discussion a bit more around the guy she was profiling. My opinion on the subject is that while there's a valid critique about whether you want to give this man a lot of airtime, framing the discussion would have been a mistake, because it implies that there's a discussion to be had. There isn't. Not with this guy. Because he fucking hates women. There's no discussion possible with that level of pathology. The guys you want to discuss with, they're the guys who end up in pickup workshops because they'd just like to meet girls. Maybe for a long-term relationship, maybe for sex. I think there's a hole in the culture where we could be talking about the challenges that men face in meeting women, and an article about that and where/whether the pickup wave falls into that would be...interesting.
Based solely on a short trip down the relationship aisle in the bookstore I can tell you--newsflash--that folks looking for love, sex, and romance have no clue how to go about it. Well, there's no shame in that. Our culture, gender roles, and expectations continue to evolve, and they're damn confusing. I long, however, for strategies which are less depressing; for every book about how to have sex with women you met in bars by being an asshole, there's at least one about how to get some guy (apparently, any guy will do,) to marry you. Also by being an asshole. The Mystery Method, meet The Rules. You totally deserve each other.
Me: "Oh. The Game." [stands up, brushes dust off pantlegs, heads in direction of book]
RD: "You know it."
Me: "Yep."
RD: "Does it work on you?"
Me: "Lemme see: sad men trying to make a connection with women and sabotaging themselves because they chose manipulation as their opening gambit?" [two beats] "No."
RD: "Come on, you can't lie to a woman, I mean, if she falls for it..."
Me: [rounding on the dude with that smile that's more like showing my teeth] "Let me ask you this: if you lie to a woman and she believes you, who exactly is at fault there?"
RD: "You can go away now."
Me: [customer service smile] "Have a nice afternoon!"
There was a much less amusing story featured in one of our local weeklies about pickup artists (or, as they're apparently called, PUAs--pwahs?--am I the only person who thinks that acronym should be avoided at all costs?) and the pickup scene, which is apparently big in my city. Huh. For the record, I am not against the notion of picking up, or the idea of casual sex. All I ask is that all parties give informed consent, (which, duh, means that you can't lie to each other about what you're looking for out of the experience) and that everybody tries to make sure that everybody else is having a good time. If that seems like an unreasonably stringent standard to you, then don't bother commenting, because we have nothing to say to each other.
(I'm not going to link to the article, because frankly I don't have time or energy to handle the trolls and all the tedious, tedious things I know they'd call me, but if you would like to throw up in your mouth a little, you can find it by googling "pickup artist" along with "worship the cock." Yeah.)
One of the discussions we had at my place about it was about whether the author had a responsibility to frame the discussion a bit more around the guy she was profiling. My opinion on the subject is that while there's a valid critique about whether you want to give this man a lot of airtime, framing the discussion would have been a mistake, because it implies that there's a discussion to be had. There isn't. Not with this guy. Because he fucking hates women. There's no discussion possible with that level of pathology. The guys you want to discuss with, they're the guys who end up in pickup workshops because they'd just like to meet girls. Maybe for a long-term relationship, maybe for sex. I think there's a hole in the culture where we could be talking about the challenges that men face in meeting women, and an article about that and where/whether the pickup wave falls into that would be...interesting.
Based solely on a short trip down the relationship aisle in the bookstore I can tell you--newsflash--that folks looking for love, sex, and romance have no clue how to go about it. Well, there's no shame in that. Our culture, gender roles, and expectations continue to evolve, and they're damn confusing. I long, however, for strategies which are less depressing; for every book about how to have sex with women you met in bars by being an asshole, there's at least one about how to get some guy (apparently, any guy will do,) to marry you. Also by being an asshole. The Mystery Method, meet The Rules. You totally deserve each other.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
Time Traveller's Wife: the gateway drug
It is possible that I have not had my genre-fiction bitch here at the blog. There are all kinds of erudite things I could say about genre snobbery, but at the moment I'm stuck at my first point of reference, which is: if you say to me "Oh, I don't read fantasy," in a voice dripping with contempt, right after you've finished telling me how much you loved Gregory Maguire's Wicked, a novel based on the freaking Wizard of Oz, you richly deserve the dressing-down you'll be getting in the staff room later on.
Luckily, I've been following not one but several spirited discussions about how genre fiction is denigrated by folks who don't read the genre in a variety of sexist, class-based ways. So if you're interested in losing a whole afternoon learning the intracacies of these arguments: what they said.
*
I've been thinking about whether there is a non-snarky way to address this in my job, say, with a clever display. There's got to be some way for me to say "Look, I'm not saying that if you loved the Time Traveller's Wife you're going to love a book with dragons in it. But you might enjoy some other well-written time travel fiction. What do you say you give it a whirl?" Um, in fifty words or less, on a placard.
Any ideas for books I should be linking up? I'll take suggestions in mystery, romance, sci-fi/fantasy, and pretty much anything else you can think of. The thing I'm the weakest on is what literary fiction works I could be using as examples. It just--more things to like in the world, you know? That's got to be a good thing.
*I freely admit that only a tiny bit of the Robin McKinley discussion is about genre, but it ranges freely into people's book prejudices, and I adore Robin McKinley, so any chance to direct people to her is a chance I'll take.
Luckily, I've been following not one but several spirited discussions about how genre fiction is denigrated by folks who don't read the genre in a variety of sexist, class-based ways. So if you're interested in losing a whole afternoon learning the intracacies of these arguments: what they said.
*
I've been thinking about whether there is a non-snarky way to address this in my job, say, with a clever display. There's got to be some way for me to say "Look, I'm not saying that if you loved the Time Traveller's Wife you're going to love a book with dragons in it. But you might enjoy some other well-written time travel fiction. What do you say you give it a whirl?" Um, in fifty words or less, on a placard.
Any ideas for books I should be linking up? I'll take suggestions in mystery, romance, sci-fi/fantasy, and pretty much anything else you can think of. The thing I'm the weakest on is what literary fiction works I could be using as examples. It just--more things to like in the world, you know? That's got to be a good thing.
*I freely admit that only a tiny bit of the Robin McKinley discussion is about genre, but it ranges freely into people's book prejudices, and I adore Robin McKinley, so any chance to direct people to her is a chance I'll take.
Friday, January 11, 2008
sometimes the news is bad
"If you have anything of any importance to tell me, for god's sake start at the end."
-Robin McKinley
spook is mostly okay. He's sore and unhappy, but he's back at work, and he's going to be all right.
On Wednesday night he woke me up by saying my name. It was pretty late; he'd been out and I'd been asleep for a couple of hours. I could tell something was wrong, but I was still sort of swimming up from sleep, and he had to say my name again. I sat up.
"What? What is it? Are you okay?"
One of us turned the lights on, and he sat down on the edge of the bed. There was blood on his face and shirt, and one of his eyes was swelling up. I must have been staring, because he said "I got beat up," and I, full of first aid training, promptly burst into tears.
Yeah, I wasn't impressed either.
He told me the story while I sponged blood off his temple and upper lip and sobbed: he was walking home, there were a couple of guys behind him, he turned up a street to get away from them. They followed him. When he cut across the park to get back to a busier street, they hit him, muttering something about fags to each other and laughing. "It was sort of like getting beaten up by Beavis and Butthead," he said wryly. No, we didn't call the police. He didn't really see them and no one thought that 'a couple of white guys in hoodies' was much of a description.
You know that song 'Today I Hate Everyone'?
p.s. Expressions of sympathy are welcome, but spook does not wish to talk about it right now--please do not ask him. Your love is the important thing.
Saturday, December 08, 2007
I keep telling you I'm only the good cop some of the time
A brief rant regarding competence:
I get that different people have different skills to bring to the table. I really do. A clear example of this plays out between my co-worker Karen and I. She is fantastic with detail, and if you give her a list, she runs down it until it's done. I? Am horrid with detail. But great at answering questions like "I'm looking for this book by a Belgian author...I can't remember her name. It's about a woman. Do you have it?"* And smiling my face off for hours at a time.
I'm also good at being patient with people who are just learning the job. None of it is rocket science** but there are approximately ten thousand details, and nobody is going to remember all of them. There are a lot of honest mistakes to be made, and most people at one time or another will make all of them. This does not trouble me.
But there are other kinds of mistakes that I do not have a lot of patience for. An example: what would possess you to shelve the new Sue Grafton novel in the Investing section? That scanner? Is a machine whose SOLE PURPOSE IS TO GIVE YOU INFORMATION ABOUT THE BOOK IN YOUR HAND. Is it too much to ask that you press the button and check what it says? Or this: I know that I have said to you "the maximum number of copies you should have on the shelf is a facing and five spines." I have said it until I am hoarse. So when you shelve a facing, and beside it 27 spined copies of a book, is there no little bell that goes off in your mind? Even if you were struck on the head on the way to work that day, how is it possible not to look at that and think "Something has gone terribly awry"!?
And then there's the "I somehow think you have missed the entire point of this" stuff. For example, when you cannot find a book on the shelf, and I say "Okay, check the staff picks wall," do you know what the correct response is? I'll give you a hint. It's not "So...I have to go downstairs?" YES! YES, YOU HAVE TO GO DOWNSTAIRS! Especially when you've just finished telling me that people keep asking you for this book, and the computer thinks we have three copies somewhere. Also, yes, you are expected to smile, yes, you have to make eye contact, and yes, your coworkers will eventually get pissed off if you do nothing at work, thereby making their jobs harder.
:pant pant pant:
I know that lots of people hate their jobs, and I understand that. But if you hate it that much, maybe you're just wasting your life, eight hours at a time. There's got to be something better you could be doing. Like looking for something you can connect to in the work you're doing. Or quitting and looking for different work.
*Amelie Nothomb. And yes, we do.
**Although, some of it may involve physics. How else do you explain wrangling 12 tonnes of books into a space where only 10 tonnes can go?
I get that different people have different skills to bring to the table. I really do. A clear example of this plays out between my co-worker Karen and I. She is fantastic with detail, and if you give her a list, she runs down it until it's done. I? Am horrid with detail. But great at answering questions like "I'm looking for this book by a Belgian author...I can't remember her name. It's about a woman. Do you have it?"* And smiling my face off for hours at a time.
I'm also good at being patient with people who are just learning the job. None of it is rocket science** but there are approximately ten thousand details, and nobody is going to remember all of them. There are a lot of honest mistakes to be made, and most people at one time or another will make all of them. This does not trouble me.
But there are other kinds of mistakes that I do not have a lot of patience for. An example: what would possess you to shelve the new Sue Grafton novel in the Investing section? That scanner? Is a machine whose SOLE PURPOSE IS TO GIVE YOU INFORMATION ABOUT THE BOOK IN YOUR HAND. Is it too much to ask that you press the button and check what it says? Or this: I know that I have said to you "the maximum number of copies you should have on the shelf is a facing and five spines." I have said it until I am hoarse. So when you shelve a facing, and beside it 27 spined copies of a book, is there no little bell that goes off in your mind? Even if you were struck on the head on the way to work that day, how is it possible not to look at that and think "Something has gone terribly awry"!?
And then there's the "I somehow think you have missed the entire point of this" stuff. For example, when you cannot find a book on the shelf, and I say "Okay, check the staff picks wall," do you know what the correct response is? I'll give you a hint. It's not "So...I have to go downstairs?" YES! YES, YOU HAVE TO GO DOWNSTAIRS! Especially when you've just finished telling me that people keep asking you for this book, and the computer thinks we have three copies somewhere. Also, yes, you are expected to smile, yes, you have to make eye contact, and yes, your coworkers will eventually get pissed off if you do nothing at work, thereby making their jobs harder.
:pant pant pant:
I know that lots of people hate their jobs, and I understand that. But if you hate it that much, maybe you're just wasting your life, eight hours at a time. There's got to be something better you could be doing. Like looking for something you can connect to in the work you're doing. Or quitting and looking for different work.
*Amelie Nothomb. And yes, we do.
**Although, some of it may involve physics. How else do you explain wrangling 12 tonnes of books into a space where only 10 tonnes can go?
Saturday, October 20, 2007
suckerpunched by biscuits
Peek Freans, I am so angry at you right now. More specifically I am angry at someone or a group of someones in your marketing department.
Okay, perhaps you've seen the noisome ads for their new line of "better-for-you" cookies, where they tell you you'll have to "find a new way to be bad." I don't think I could possibly rant enough about how much I hate the equation of eating with badness. I hate it when desserts are called "sinful," I hate it when people talk about "being bad" when they have a piece of cake, and I especially hate it in smarmily self-satisfied ads that feature adult women making use of whoopee cushions. If you want to talk about the morality of food, there is a perfectly legitimate discussion to be had about food production, animal treatment, and the environmental impact of transporting foods over long distances. Go to it, people. I will not be joining you, but it is a conversation I can respect.
There are a million and one things going on in the world that can be described as "bad," but calories are not among them. I suppose, however, that judging ourselves and each other about what we eat is a nice distraction from worrying about, say, genocide. So that's a plus.
I will admit, however, that I had brushed off the advertising with no more than a withering glare at the TV, and the application of my mute button. No, the thing that pushed me over the edge was today's cookie promo party in the mall. It wasn't the annoying dance music. (Not even when they played "Bad Girls.") It wasn't the perkiness of their spokespeople repeating the slogans into the microphone. It was that they were handing out packages of sample cookies labelled "for women only."
Let's just take a minute to absorb that one, folks.
If there had been even one person there I could reasonably have screamed at, I would have done it. Instead, I'll have to exercise my bad girl muscles by writing a furious letter. So much more rewarding than either eating a whole bag of cookies or agonizing about it.
Okay, perhaps you've seen the noisome ads for their new line of "better-for-you" cookies, where they tell you you'll have to "find a new way to be bad." I don't think I could possibly rant enough about how much I hate the equation of eating with badness. I hate it when desserts are called "sinful," I hate it when people talk about "being bad" when they have a piece of cake, and I especially hate it in smarmily self-satisfied ads that feature adult women making use of whoopee cushions. If you want to talk about the morality of food, there is a perfectly legitimate discussion to be had about food production, animal treatment, and the environmental impact of transporting foods over long distances. Go to it, people. I will not be joining you, but it is a conversation I can respect.
There are a million and one things going on in the world that can be described as "bad," but calories are not among them. I suppose, however, that judging ourselves and each other about what we eat is a nice distraction from worrying about, say, genocide. So that's a plus.
I will admit, however, that I had brushed off the advertising with no more than a withering glare at the TV, and the application of my mute button. No, the thing that pushed me over the edge was today's cookie promo party in the mall. It wasn't the annoying dance music. (Not even when they played "Bad Girls.") It wasn't the perkiness of their spokespeople repeating the slogans into the microphone. It was that they were handing out packages of sample cookies labelled "for women only."
Let's just take a minute to absorb that one, folks.
If there had been even one person there I could reasonably have screamed at, I would have done it. Instead, I'll have to exercise my bad girl muscles by writing a furious letter. So much more rewarding than either eating a whole bag of cookies or agonizing about it.
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