TRANSLATION:
Sennan, who was Alison's boss when she worked in a pub in London, taught her a phrase from his Irish youth—he was one of 11 children—that could be used in times of stress without dooming oneself to Hell: "Jesus, Mary, and Tap-Dancing Joseph!" (I've always thought that Sennan taught her that because she was way too fond of using the f-word as a verb and an adjective.)
Now, pretend that you've just heard me yelling Sennan's cuss at the top of my lungs.
My VW Beetle, the only "thing" I've ever really cherished, was rear-ended today by a Ford Explorer. Its forthcoming visit to the body shop will be its third this year: It was hit while parked on our street in Brussels. It was dented during the trip back to the States from Belgium. Now this.
I know that Jesus said, "If you wish to be perfect, sell your possessions, and give the money to the poor and you will have treasure in heaven," but, damnit, I love that little red car, which was bought with some of my inheritance after my Dad collapsed and died from a stroke on my 50th birthday. (Dad worked in the auto industry for most of his life. When I drive the Beetle, I often see him—despite his large size—riding shotgun.)
Dear God, is this latest accident a message that I should just sell the damned car?
JESUS, MARY, AND TAP DANCING JOSEPH!
My brain finally clicked on why this pair in the shelter look so familiar. Rascal and Semoran are living, breathing, snuffling versions of Snowy, companion to Tintin, the most beloved of Belgian comic strip characters. 2007 was the 100th anniversary of the birth of Hergé, Tintin's creator, and images of the boy and his faithful dog were even more ubiquitous in Brussels than usual.
Perhaps Steven Spielberg could use these little fellows in his upcoming film of Tintin's adventures.
. . . what is actual is actual only for one timeT.S. Eliot, Ash Wednesday
When we moved to Brussels, what I missed most—aside from friends and family—was my job in a public library. Like every worker in every workplace, I complained, but the fact was that "Public Relations/Public Services Librarian" was the perfect job for me, one that drew fully on my education, skills, and interests. That many of my colleagues came to feel like the sisters I never had was icing on the cake.
Although I was sorry to leave Europe ahead of schedule, I assumed that I'd be able to jump right back into the public library world. Bad, bad assumption.
In the seven months since we arrived in Colorado, there have been only four (4!) public library jobs posted that a) I was qualified for (it wasn't a Youth Services position); b) I was interested in (it was what librarians call a "front-desk" position, as opposed to a "back-room" position); and c) I could get to with a commute of 25 miles or less.
Job 1: This position was actually posted before we moved back to the States. I had no Colorado address and no local phone number, so it's no surprise that I didn't get an interview. Hiring is hard enough without having to chase down candidates halfway around the world.
Job 2: I got an interview, but not the job. Ironically, this particular library district seems to be the only one hiring right now. It has had several openings since spring.
Job 3: My application—online, as many job applications are these days—apparently vanished into a black hole.
Job 4: I received a lovely letter saying that the library had decided not to interview for the position at this time, but that I might hear from them in the future.
Which leaves me with the problem of, "If not a library job, then what?" Writing? Editing? Barista-ing? Cleaning kennels? Part of me is desperate for intellectual stimulation, as I envision my brain turning into a bowl of mashed potatoes. Another part of me would be content to give a person or an animal a moment of happiness.