hiding from the library

The Calgary Public Library is a fabulous place. They bring me books about Khazakstan and Superman, recordings by Amy Mann, cartoons about ducks. I am tearfully grateful to them for offering me the world even though I am a couch potato in a voodoo bungalow. If I could only remember to return books on time, it would all be perfect. But I cannot remember. And what's worse, I cannot remember where Scooby-Doo and the Caveman Caper has gotten to. The Library wants it back. They keep leaving polite recordings about how other children want to read this book that I've selfishly kept off the shelves for more than two months, and about how my fines are piling up. And now they're taking hostages. I cannot drop by and pick up my reserved copy of "A Journey Round My Brain" unless I am waving a small lime-green paperback in front of me.

Bright side: I understand many things now. The Cold War, the Wall Street Bailout, the relative cultural values of Kasey Kasem avatars vs Hungarian psychologist memoirs.