So That Happened

I realize that a space shuttle could have conceivable circled the earth seven times since my last So That Happened post. For this I apologize. In my defense, I have had nothing remotely noteworthy to report. I figured it would be a waste of your time to read about how the high point of my week was vanquishing a gigantic mud stain on my friend's carpet while we watched House, so I've been waiting for a substantial momentous occasion to occur before I aired my latest stupidity. Now that such stupidity has been achieved, I can air it.

It has been a long time since I've had an active library account. The last time I borrowed a book was probably 15 years ago. This recently changed, though, since my New Year's Resolution is to read every National Book Award winner for fiction and I unfortunately do not own every National Book Award winner for fiction. 

So a couple weeks ago I went to the library, reactivated my account and received a snazzy new card for my keyring. (My last card was about the size of a billboard, and on it I had written "LIVVY" in a scrawl so illegible that I was forced to realize that I was not, in fact, right-handed. I had previously been convinced otherwise.) I checked out two books, read one, and went to return it. If you have not returned a book to the Bothell Public Library recently, I encourage you to drag along a friend for emotional support. What was once a self-explanatory drop-box--you opened the handled door, slid your book down the chute, and closed the door--is now an automated book depository that requires you to push a button to open a slot, place your book beneath the red scanner, wait for the scanner to turn green, then slide the book through the slot. Gone are the days of the .02-second returns. Now you're asked so many questions--"Would you like assistance?" "Are you finished?" "Would you like a receipt?"--that it's like you're filling out a personal profile on Match.com. I was so perplexed by the simple process of bringing a book back to the library that before I knew it a line of anxious book-returners had formed behind me. It was like that scene in Elf when Buddy doesn't know how to ride an escalator. When I got home, I announced to my mother that "Those new book return slots are crazy!" "New?" she asked. "Try at least five years old."

So many fails.