the not so secret world of librarianship

In Cataloguing, we are learning about Dewey Decimal Classification. Now, there was an initial novelty of wondering what my phone number, in Dewey, classifies. (Nothing, sadly, though I was envisioning coy ways to give out my phone number involving attractive male librarians and the Dewey tables -- "It's Christina, and my phone number is 'Oriental antiquities' -- look it up.") I will admit, however, that I'm a little resistant to studying it. Not because it is unnecessarily complicated and breathtakingly dull, no. Just because it's the punchline of every joke made to me about my degree. Choose one term, punchline or joke, to put air quotes around.

"So, what are you studying?"
"Library Science."
(Cue blank stare. Cut to me explaining that, yes, to be a librarian, you need a master's degree.)
"So, what, heh, you just memorize the Dewey Decimal System?"

How clever! You must be related to the two hundred middle aged men who asked me if Tufts was tough. At least they managed to make up a pun.

Sometimes people ask that question seriously, and my faith in the world, already bottomed out, finds new lows.

So you see my concern, that my education may be starting to resemble its own parody. The other 50% of MLIS-related wisecracks remain only wisecracks unless one of my classes next semester involves the mechanics of shelving books (the best material for the shelf? how many books to carry at once? how to slide around the room on a ladder like Belle?). I've already got the glasses, the introversion, and the cat-lady tendencies. I don't need any more help with the stereotype.

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The nice thing about library school? Nobody in my class thinks leggings are pants.

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Overheard recently:

Thirtysomething man on McGill campus: "My mom smoked like a chimney. We, like, ate out of ashtrays."

At the American Museum of Natural History:

Twelve year old, pointing to a model of a Malayan tribeswoman: "Is that what Indians look like?"
Mom (looks up): "Some."
(Both leave.)

Mom in leather jacket, to daughter in leather jacket: "That's a sloth bear. That means he's lazy. Like your father."

bits and anglophone bobs

Every time I hear a Canadian pronounce the name of this city, I hear "Mun-treal." Maybe it's just my broad-voweled Boston accent, but my pronunciation is a bit more drawn out and sounds more like "Mawn-treal," which would rhyme with "John-treal."

Overheard in the McGill Student Ghetto:

Girl: "I really liked Ernie and Bert as a kid."
Guy: "What was with them? Two grown men sharing a bed!"
Girl: "They didn't share a bed! They had their own beds! I remember because there was a bit where Bert tells Ernie not to eat cookies in bed, so he eats them in Bert's bed instead."
Guy: "Oh."
Girl: "I always got so upset for Bert. The poor guy; he just wants to get some sleep!"

Imitation carnivory

Montreal is apparently famous for smoked meat sandwiches, specifically from a certain charcuterie on St. Laurent, Schwartz's.



As a vegetarian, I've mostly ignored this phenomenon, aside from being annoyed at the dozens of tourists blocking the sidewalk. But today, while on a mission at Metro (stocking up on their 5-lb bags of root vegetables for 99 cents each [you're welcome]), I spotted this:



I hold no expectations for the quality of the "Smoked Wheat"/"meatless smoked meat," and naturally I have nothing to compare it to, but since it was cheaper than all the other vegetarian products, if it's remotely tasty I'll call it a win. (Also, what idiot at Veggie Gourmet thought that "Smoked Wheat" would be an enticing name for this product? Given that it's a specialty product based on a specific type of meat, I don't think people buy this product because the name sounds tasty, but poorly-named meat substitutes make it quite difficult to be taken seriously when I attempt to share my soy-inspired joy with omnivores.)

Now, pardon me while I spend the next 24 hours in an election-induced tizzy. I got out the vote some two weeks ago, so it's out of my hands. It's looking good for my man Obama, but tomorrow night you'll still probably be able to find me dangerously hyped up on election nerves and caffeine, frantically hitting F5 on CNN.com.