wile away the hours, conversing conferrin' with...


I swore I'd never do this, but...

OCL*C is down. Not fully down, but boggy and weird and sluggish, like the stuff you have to drive through on Cherrie Valley Rd. throughout the winter. And I'm so sick of trying to load records that I'm giving up. I'm just kicking back, Cat-style, and doing something else.

What else am I doing? Listening to the "clean" version of Uncle Kracker's Double Wide. Great CD, but "clean"?--my white ass. The office door's closed, naturally. I might have a target on my back, but I'm not stupid.

I'm eating my ubiquitous PB&J. For the unenlightened, that's smooth peanut butter on one slice, chunky on the other, with either raspberry or strawberry jam between. Today it's strawberry. And the bread is potato. Sometimes I'll have "country white," but more often it's some wheat variety. Fascinating, eh?

I'm drinking Republic of Tea Blackberry Sage. It's lukewarm now. Tea purists should not read the rest of this paragraph. I leave the bag in the cup until I've drunk the whole thing. I like my tea strong.

My best guess for the number of books and other items sitting in my office right now, awaiting cat'ing, retroactive cat'ing, withdrawal, or processing? 4500. My officemate, T's guess? Maybe 3000. But our office is not nearly large enough to withstand this kind of volume, so it's ridiculous, regardless. We have a full set of shelves on the wall, 6 full carts, a table stacked with [ancient] law books, a stack of boxes with 4 stacks of [ancient] law books on top, 4 random boxes of [really old] law books stuffed under tables, 3 stacks of books on the counter near the sink, and 5 stacks on my desk and 3 stacks on T's desk. It is, to put it mildly, fucking claustrophobic in here.

Too much dawdling; my work awaits. Job security, right?

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