Klamath Falls, Oregon. August 1994. A small town with big dreams. Well–actually a small town with a smallish academic institution and a big-ass lake. We’re in town looking for a for an apartment where rentals were in short supply. After being endlessly warned about the housing situation throughout the interview, I called a few numbers listed in the classifieds. I got a place on the first day. Why?
Because I told my prospective landlord I was a librarian. Just from the sound of his voice I could tell that in his world he had just hit the tenant jackpot. Renting to me was better than renting to a nun–unlike nuns, I wasn’t going to burst into fits of religious ecstasy or French folk songs. No midnight chanting from me, just tasteful reading with light classical music in the background. That’s when it dawned on me: I could get away with just about anything.
But I’m ever-so-much the good girl to even think of exploiting the stereotype for such base purposes. That and the fact that I’m one of the biggest chickens you’ll ever meet. So there will be no bank robberies, no drunken assaults, not even the occasional ordering sushi and not paying. Heck–I’ll even go back and let a cashier know if he undercharged me. I’m just that disgusting.
Y’all Are Scaring Me Dept: I think I’ve created a monster: a I’m a librarian, bitch! monster. Since the shirts premiered, I am shocked at just how many of you are pissed and proud. Of course I love the money, but I’m also very, very scared. Then again, there is the money….
So for my own self-serving amusement, the first person I see at ALA in Orlando wearing one of my shirts gets a free latte or scone from me (scone choice dependent upon what’s left on the complimentary continental breakfast table). In the interest of fairness, I am disqualifying my niece, who lives in Orlando. (Actually, the shirts are way too embarrassing for her to contemplate wearing, but hey–disqualified is disqualified.)