"That little girl who's attached herself to you, helping you shelve books and so on? We just can't have That Sort of Thing," my new liberry supervisor explains, none too gently, as if I'd offered the kid candy to pull up her dress. "All the other kids will want to, and we Just Can't Have It."
And I've been seen to be reading books, an activity evidently defined as skimming tables of contents while standing up. No more of that, either! Just get those books on the shelves. That's my job, and nothing else. No more fun with Rachel. Wouldn't want That Sort of Thing in a liberry! of all places.
So I was in a fine rage yesterday, having for some reason refrained from sinking my fingers into the supervisor's neck, I'm not sure why, but was somewhat mollified to retrieve from my mailbox a nice letter from the City Council, informing me of my appointment to the local Historical Preservation Committee. Yippee! I really wanted that--applied hard, interviewed hard, was pretty sure I sold them, but you never know; the surest-looking things often go haywire in my little life.
I'm so glad this one didn't. We have so much around here that needs preserving: the last adobe date plantation house; the first-ever condominium development; Hopalong Cassidy's former motel; a ratty old bar; even a country club swimming pool that's an icon of 50s design. I have lots to learn, of course, about the process of designation, legal implications, and so on, but I'm thrilled by the prospect of having an actual voice? rather than having my hands tied in yet another infuriating configuration.
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