Usually, I am a 'hit snooze' kind of gal. I have so many alarms set, and manage to sleep or snooze my way through all of them. Usually. Today, however, I couldn't sleep-in for the life of me, so there I was, at work early. Surprisingly, the archaic time-card machine didn't explode, and I was inside the DLO before everyone.
I will admit, I didn't use my time productively. Instead of catching up on emails, or following up on outstanding searches, I did a little bit of a nostalgic tour. This place is crazy. It is cluttered with the oddest things – reel to reel tape players, antique rugs, card catalogues that I am sure no one has used this century, globes, misplaced furniture, a swear jar I am sure is there solely for my contributions, and more reference material than the Library of Congress. So why does it feel like my safe space? My house is too, but I am worried that this feels just as much like home. I worry, because that dumpster fire that I refuse to call a date makes me wonder if this will be my safe space for too much longer.
These sad thoughts were interrupted by the sunshine that is Norman and Rita, ready to start their work week a little early too. I was so thankful that these two were there before Oliver. I like having little human shields around me.
Next came Mr. O'Toole. I have a theory. It involves Oliver's emotions expressed through his clothing. I call it the 'Plaid Scale'. It basically involves seeing how many different checks he is wearing on a given day, factoring in the size of the checks as well as the combination of patterns, and deciding from this (correcting for the intensity of the blue he is wearing) how he is dealing emotionally. Let me analyse today's outfit. Today, he was sporting a suit that I initially thought was grey, but did indeed turn out to be very tiny, grey check. He had matched this with a white and lavender-blue checked shirt. Double check indicates possible storms, especially when accompanied by an almost but not quite, blue palette. Conclusion: Oliver is feeling out of sorts today. The chance of snark is high.
I think I was saved from some possible early morning squalls by a call to the Office of Postal Security for Mr. O'Toole. I didn't even think of hacking into their systems to find out what it was about. Okay, I thought, but I didn't do. I metaphorically polished my only slightly tarnished halo.
Oliver leaving left me to contend with a friendly interrogation from Rita. Of course, she wanted details about the almost date on Saturday. What could I say? Spinsterhood is lovely? Montaldo's is cursed? I am thinking of buying a pet? Happily, I was called to the front desk, saving me Rita's well-meaning, but painful questions – temporarily.
Upon arrival at the front counter, I had a short conversation with Michelle, the front office manager. Apparently, the young woman waiting to see me had asked for the blonde lady from the Post Office who was at Montaldo's on a date on Saturday. Really? And from that she picked me? Why do I get the feeling that the staff of the Denver Main Branch are overly invested in the potential relationship between Shane McInerney and Oliver O'Toole? Should I write an article for the weekly staff newsletter? I shall call it, 'All Quiet on the Western Front'? Or perhaps, 'Lost in Translation'? Anyway, I went to speak to Nicki, the witness to our dating disaster.
Nicki needed a form 10/67-E because she wanted to un-send a letter to her ex-boyfriend. Wow! Someone whose love life was about on par with mine! While I waited for Nicki to fill in the form, I returned to Rita and her questions. Poor Rita. I am sure she was looking forward to hearing about a hopeful and happy first date. Instead, I let her know the whole, pitiful story. How we were 'just friends', and the awful musical selections – the group therapy with seafoods.
Norman saved me from more disclosures with smoothies and Rita's more than generous support of the something, something owl. I vowed to get to the bottom of that later. Norman's interruption was interrupted by Oliver, complete with map, duck, wedding topper, a can, and a need to chug Yoo-Hoo like he hadn't had any for a month?
Well, it seemed like I got my wish – something to take my mind off of my dessert of a personal life.
Oliver was clearly upset. Apparently, mail had been stollen by a postal employee, and in his or her wake, he/she left a stuffed duck, a wedding topper and a tin of kidney beans. 'Work for the Post Office,' my mother said. 'It will give you stability and consistency,' she said. Sorry mother, you haven't a clue! Anyway, finicky as ever, Oliver enjoyed telling me that I was wrong, and that the duck was in fact a goose. Good work Sherlock. Case cracked!
Poor Rita and Norman. Oliver and I must be the most awful friends ever. I feel like they are the aforementioned human shields in the ongoing skirmish that is whatever is between Oliver and I. Oliver fired the opening salvo with his comments about Lester being hard to say no to, but I returned fire with a volley about the lovely, musically gifted and law enforcement-ally connected Dale. Both of us were shaken, but still on the field of combat. A distraction arrived in the form of my realization the Nicki may have witnessed the culprit in action. Nothing interrupts the work, right? Hmmm, those pale blue suspenders were nice. Do I need to adjust my plaid rating…. Anyway, Oliver and I might struggle to progress in our personal interactions, but we know how to work together (with or without additional snark). Maybe sticking to the work is the way we will work through whatever this is?
Sorry Diary. I know, I haven't made it to 10 o'clock, but I really need chocolate. Recounting a visit to Dale definitely needs chocolate.
Serious chocolate.
Buckets of serious chocolate.
Serious buckets of serious chocolate? No, too far.