good gravy.
Jul. 19th, 2007 06:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
whitereflectionGod, I'm such a fucking spammer today. Just seems like some days things keep coming up that I need to either laugh, squee, or bitch about. This time it's the last option (yeah, again). The brilliance of our Dean and the building operations manager have struck again. But mainly the mouth-breathing idiot ass-monkey that is our Dean. His latest bright idea...well, see, he's worried that it being so humid means our books are going to develop mold problems. (Which is dumb as is--we're a library. We have old books. Old books already have mold.) But gotta prevent new mold, right. So how does he decide this is to be done?
I guess the intention was that this mass Lysoling was to happen nights or weekends (and gets to happen every two weeks?). But! Mistakes happened. (No, *really*.)
Imagine now, middle of the afternoon, and suddenly there are building operations student workers walking the third floor stacks, cans of Lysol in each hand...spraying up into the air. Spraying and spraying. Okay, so yeah, all that dust haze and diesel and exhaust fumes thing I keep whining about? Still going--in fact, they were pretty bad today. And the sometimes they turn the AC off thing I keep whining about? Yeah, off for most of the day. So they sprayed the building full of Lysol, when it was already bad with dust and exhaust, and there was no air movement or ventilation.
So there we were. Building chokingly full of Lysol mist, and other crap. And you know, I'm sure randomly spraying into the air is going to cover all the books, and get down between the pages and into the cracks where bookmold hides out. Yeah. I'm sure this brilliant idea is going to *work spectacularly* and be worth the fact that my lungs and throat are raw from coughing. No, *really*.
At my allergy shot after work, my dr. was trying to get me to do one of their nebulizer breathing treatments since the coughing kept going. Like an idiot I turned it down, just wanted to be home. But I ended up having to use my albuterol inhaler (haven't had to resort to that in a couple years--the Advair one I do is just a preventative, not rescue type), which finally did get the asthma coughing to chill out some. Still's bothering me some though, but feel cruddy otherwise--good number of my coworkers were sick from it all, too. (They're lucky they haven't put someone in the emergency room yet--my mother's or her sister's asthma are bad enough and sensitive enough that both would have had at least one visit by now. Probably several if my aunt were around this.)
One woman I work with not quite jestingly said she thinks they're trying to bump us off. At the least, their idiocy and thoughtlessness might result in that by accident. Or knock a few years off the ol' lifespan. I feel awful for the construction workers--they're down in the worst of it, and their company doesn't have them in masks or breathers or anything. But at least they didn't get Lysoled. But honestly, I wish our Dean would get a fucking clue about setting up precautions to ensure the health and safety of staff and patrons (at least patrons can leave without hurting their work or vac/sick time). Who knows what'll happen next when they finish out the first floor (esp. not looking forward to drywall dust, glues/paints/varnish)--or as the renovation starts on the other floors.
Seriously, it's like a story. The subject line was "it similarly" and read as follows:
but it was only his good friend, Cotton Mather, proud of his well-won which accident had brought to their full maturity in him. Nor will I last the Dodo said, EVERYBODY has won, and all must have in a wig coming out at the iron door? That used to be Tootles. The
first year. She flew away with Peter in the frock she had woven from know how to begin. For, you see, so many out-of-the-way things untasted lips, who had slept in their virgin graves apart from all Peter rose and bowed to her, and she bowed to him from the bed.
considering how in the world she was to get out again. and called out to her in an angry tone, Why, Mary Ann, what ARE Searching, continued Leonard, into the breast of Walter Brome, I scene as the final one. Amid this unearthly show, the wretched brother
He says it kills all the rats and-oh dear. cried Alice in a looking for the fan and the pair of white kid gloves, and she conclusion, that wherever you go to on the English coast you find But do cats eat bats, I wonder? And here Alice began to get
think- she was rather glad there WAS no one listening, this white kid gloves while she was talking. How CAN I have done At last the Mouse, who seemed to be a person of authority among them like joint possessors of an individual nature, which could not
horizon; the few small clouds aloft were burdened with radiance; but of grass was visible from the base upward. This deceitful verdure water, and seemed to quiver all over with fright. Oh, I beg through distant years, had been borne to its dark chamber, but now
down here with me. There are no mice in the air, Im afraid, but wretch and Leonard Doane, in the wizards hut, situated beneath a awe with which ghost and devil fled, as from the sinless presence of hearers mistook him for the visible presence of the fiend himself;
man told how Walter Brome had taunted him with indubitable proofs of As she said these words her foot slipped, and in another through a warriors breast-plate, and there the letters of a where so many had been brought to death by wilder tales than this, I
and confusion, as the large birds complained that they could not Dear, dear. How queer everything is to-day. And yesterday express themselves in the same words from our lips, proving a What is gay and innocent and heartless? I do wish I was gay and
The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, the Mouse only shook its head impatiently, and walked a little the body of Walter Brome, gazing into his face, and striving to make
Also had a pretty awesome one in an email a week-ish ago, a poem type one. Some Viagra mail, but had the following text:
That this mud draws on the stone.
Rain. We are forced to fly,
Sits at the limit of a kind of world
When Arctic winds crack down from Canada
XIII. The Route to the North
References
Away, my songs, must we go
snoozing. A schoolgirl on vacation gapes,
Appear to lift up from the lake;
And still my mind goes groping in the mud to bring
As if your absence now concluded long ago.
By bloody pool—rattling, gasping his last.
Reshaping magnified, each risen flake
Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeing
To follow in the path of their brief blossoming
Trampled snow is the only rose.
Are muffled into silence that refuses
demonstrating their talent for comedy—stroke
Seized from creation by nonentity,
*snaps* Groovy.
Also, I am an absolute sucktastic friend lately, completely and utterly. Either neglecting certain persons, or being a hassle. I can blather this long on *yet another* LJ post, but can't be bothered to treat people right? Lame.
I guess the intention was that this mass Lysoling was to happen nights or weekends (and gets to happen every two weeks?). But! Mistakes happened. (No, *really*.)
Imagine now, middle of the afternoon, and suddenly there are building operations student workers walking the third floor stacks, cans of Lysol in each hand...spraying up into the air. Spraying and spraying. Okay, so yeah, all that dust haze and diesel and exhaust fumes thing I keep whining about? Still going--in fact, they were pretty bad today. And the sometimes they turn the AC off thing I keep whining about? Yeah, off for most of the day. So they sprayed the building full of Lysol, when it was already bad with dust and exhaust, and there was no air movement or ventilation.
So there we were. Building chokingly full of Lysol mist, and other crap. And you know, I'm sure randomly spraying into the air is going to cover all the books, and get down between the pages and into the cracks where bookmold hides out. Yeah. I'm sure this brilliant idea is going to *work spectacularly* and be worth the fact that my lungs and throat are raw from coughing. No, *really*.
At my allergy shot after work, my dr. was trying to get me to do one of their nebulizer breathing treatments since the coughing kept going. Like an idiot I turned it down, just wanted to be home. But I ended up having to use my albuterol inhaler (haven't had to resort to that in a couple years--the Advair one I do is just a preventative, not rescue type), which finally did get the asthma coughing to chill out some. Still's bothering me some though, but feel cruddy otherwise--good number of my coworkers were sick from it all, too. (They're lucky they haven't put someone in the emergency room yet--my mother's or her sister's asthma are bad enough and sensitive enough that both would have had at least one visit by now. Probably several if my aunt were around this.)
One woman I work with not quite jestingly said she thinks they're trying to bump us off. At the least, their idiocy and thoughtlessness might result in that by accident. Or knock a few years off the ol' lifespan. I feel awful for the construction workers--they're down in the worst of it, and their company doesn't have them in masks or breathers or anything. But at least they didn't get Lysoled. But honestly, I wish our Dean would get a fucking clue about setting up precautions to ensure the health and safety of staff and patrons (at least patrons can leave without hurting their work or vac/sick time). Who knows what'll happen next when they finish out the first floor (esp. not looking forward to drywall dust, glues/paints/varnish)--or as the renovation starts on the other floors.
Seriously, it's like a story. The subject line was "it similarly" and read as follows:
but it was only his good friend, Cotton Mather, proud of his well-won which accident had brought to their full maturity in him. Nor will I last the Dodo said, EVERYBODY has won, and all must have in a wig coming out at the iron door? That used to be Tootles. The
first year. She flew away with Peter in the frock she had woven from know how to begin. For, you see, so many out-of-the-way things untasted lips, who had slept in their virgin graves apart from all Peter rose and bowed to her, and she bowed to him from the bed.
considering how in the world she was to get out again. and called out to her in an angry tone, Why, Mary Ann, what ARE Searching, continued Leonard, into the breast of Walter Brome, I scene as the final one. Amid this unearthly show, the wretched brother
He says it kills all the rats and-oh dear. cried Alice in a looking for the fan and the pair of white kid gloves, and she conclusion, that wherever you go to on the English coast you find But do cats eat bats, I wonder? And here Alice began to get
think- she was rather glad there WAS no one listening, this white kid gloves while she was talking. How CAN I have done At last the Mouse, who seemed to be a person of authority among them like joint possessors of an individual nature, which could not
horizon; the few small clouds aloft were burdened with radiance; but of grass was visible from the base upward. This deceitful verdure water, and seemed to quiver all over with fright. Oh, I beg through distant years, had been borne to its dark chamber, but now
down here with me. There are no mice in the air, Im afraid, but wretch and Leonard Doane, in the wizards hut, situated beneath a awe with which ghost and devil fled, as from the sinless presence of hearers mistook him for the visible presence of the fiend himself;
man told how Walter Brome had taunted him with indubitable proofs of As she said these words her foot slipped, and in another through a warriors breast-plate, and there the letters of a where so many had been brought to death by wilder tales than this, I
and confusion, as the large birds complained that they could not Dear, dear. How queer everything is to-day. And yesterday express themselves in the same words from our lips, proving a What is gay and innocent and heartless? I do wish I was gay and
The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, the Mouse only shook its head impatiently, and walked a little the body of Walter Brome, gazing into his face, and striving to make
Also had a pretty awesome one in an email a week-ish ago, a poem type one. Some Viagra mail, but had the following text:
That this mud draws on the stone.
Rain. We are forced to fly,
Sits at the limit of a kind of world
When Arctic winds crack down from Canada
XIII. The Route to the North
References
Away, my songs, must we go
snoozing. A schoolgirl on vacation gapes,
Appear to lift up from the lake;
And still my mind goes groping in the mud to bring
As if your absence now concluded long ago.
By bloody pool—rattling, gasping his last.
Reshaping magnified, each risen flake
Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeing
To follow in the path of their brief blossoming
Trampled snow is the only rose.
Are muffled into silence that refuses
demonstrating their talent for comedy—stroke
Seized from creation by nonentity,
*snaps* Groovy.
Also, I am an absolute sucktastic friend lately, completely and utterly. Either neglecting certain persons, or being a hassle. I can blather this long on *yet another* LJ post, but can't be bothered to treat people right? Lame.
