poker face

I get how I look to them: I'm a young female who does her hair and makeup everyday. Not for their sake, of course, but for mine: eyeliner and mascara are my weapons for confidence and control, but I'm also fairly confident that eyeliner and mascara make me look like an easy mark. And, in the beginning, I admit that I was. But I've been here for nearly nine months now and I've got a fairly good handle on dealing with the lovely little boys locked up here.

Tonight, however, they are all in rare form. I went ten rounds with one inmate who somehow thought I wouldn't write him up for leaving early, despite the fact that I wrote his friend up last week for the exact same thing. Round and round we went: "I'm gonna leave. Write me up." "Okay. I will." "Seriously. I'm gonna leave." "Knock yourself out. It would take me all of five minutes to write you up." "I'm out in three days. You really think I care about a ticket?" "Door's right there."

And, of course, he didn't leave. Seriously? You think I won't call your bluff? And, honestly, at first, I wasn't 100% sure he was bluffing. But either way, I had nothing to lose: he left, I wrote him up. He stayed, I just called his bluff. Game over.

But as we were having this conversation, another inmate was listening in and acted all surprised at the fact that he couldn't leave, despite the fact that I tell every inmate when they walk in the door because I do not want to continually have the same "What do you mean I have to stay?" conversation an hour later. So, a little while later, this second inmate comes up and says he needs to use the restroom. There is no inmate restroom in the library, they have to walk next door (all of three yards) to education. So I tell him sure, go next door. He starts to head back to his table, and I tell him to leave his coat here. He looks at me, taken aback that I somehow was able to ascertain his plan to go straight back to his house from education. In fact, as he left to go to the restroom, he actually smiled and shook his finger at me, like "Well done, sir. Well done."

All I ask is that you guys send me lots and lots of cookies when I inevitably get thrown in jail for punching an inmate.

she keeps going and going and

Next Friday the 13th (oooh! spooky!) is my birthday party. The weekend after the party I am attending a vegan Thanksgiving potluck dinner (where I intend to attempt the five-spice sweet potato recipe in the current issue of Food & Wine) and the Wednesday before my party I'm going to go see Mamma Mia at the Palace Theater in Cleveland with a friend/co-worker thanks to free tickets from another friend who is touring with the production.

Last weekend I was out until 5am (pre-time-change time) for Halloween. And that was after getting up at 5:45am for work the day of. Last night I had a lovely dinner out with one girl friend where I remembered why I love both Johnny Mango and margaritas (Bookslut, take note: this is so where I am taking you next time you are in town), while Thursday night I met another girl friend for last minute drinks. Last minute as in I was already in my pjs and settled in for the night, but as soon as her text came through I threw on a pair of jeans and was happily out the door.

I'm not sure which is more surprising: the fact that I've become such a social butterfly, or the fact that I like it. If nothing else, going out so often makes those nights where I elect to stay home curled up watching hours of "House" and "The Office" on DVD so much more enjoyable. And way less embarrassing.

librarian's paradise

I have a long and complicated last name, one that is so long and complicated that both my sister and I have very short and simple first names to balance it out. It also is a name that is open for reinterpretation in the spelling area and caused quite a bit of trouble awhile back in regards to the title of my car, Miley. Of course, while such annoyances are, well, annoying, I also love knowing that a variation of my name appeared in Margaret Atwood's book The Robber Bride and Sylvia Plath gave her alter ego Esther the Anglicized version.

All of this means that when I began working here at the prison, I ended up following in the footsteps of so many teaching relatives before me and made it simple for all involved by just going by "Ms. G". All of the inmates call me that and some of the staff, too, although it took a few to get comfortable with it because it made them "feel like an inmate." Some staff call me by my full last name, although in the past eight months of my employment I don't think my supervisor has ever spelled it right, including throwing in a completely random F every once in awhile, a letter that doesn't even appear in my name in its original form. A few in admin call me by my first name, which I'm actually not crazy about, if only because I feel like they use it as a power maneuver. But when it's the guys in charge, sometimes it's better to just go with the flow.

This evening I was sitting at my desk when two inmates walked in, one who is a regular and has been here at the prison for awhile and another inmate who appeared to be fairly new. When they walked in I informed them that the prison was now operating on winter hours, which means very little inmate movement after dark, which means once they decide where they want to go for the evening (library, chapel, rec), they are stuck there until said place closes. For us, this means 7:15 pm. They opted to leave and head elsewhere, not wanting to be marooned in a sea of books for the next two hours, but not before the new guy asked me my name. I told him, and he repeated it back to me, wanting, I think, to get the correct letter, and then asked "Is that all?" The more seasoned inmate then jumped in and said "Y'know, Ms. G. As in Gangsta!"

It's those moments that make the rest of the bullshit tolerable.

shut up. you're in dubrovnik, i can't hear you

When I was 15, I became obsessed with "The X-Files" and started wearing black nailpolish. I stayed up late reading old-school Stephen King novels and saw "The Rocky Horror Picture Show" for the first time. My birthday falls less than two weeks after Halloween (*wink wink*) and instead of having a traditional Sweet 16 party that year, I had a Halloween party where I went as Magenta from RHPS. It was also around this time that my dad started to show some fatherly concern for me (apparently it was the black nailpolish that pushed him over the edge. Somehow my fashion sense made him think I was dabbling in the dark arts), but, all in all, I'd like to think that over the past 13 years I've managed to turn out all right despite the fact that I still have a secret love for Fox Mulder and have included "The Time Warp" on my upcoming birthday party playlist.

Today is my favorite day of the year. Oh yes, even more than Christmas and my birthday. Perhaps even more than Christmas and my birthday combined. Oh sure, parties and presents are quite fab, but I live for that one day a year when I can dress up and indulge in my love of the macabre and belief in the Great Pumpkin. Some people spend months putting together their Christmas wish lists, I spend months putting together my Halloween costume (I've already decided that next year I'm going as Sue Sylvester from "Glee"). Growing up, I always wanted to be that person who gave the annual kick-ass Halloween party in the neighborhood and my only reason for ever wanting to rent or buy a house is so I have an entire yard to decorate.

I tell you all of this so that all of you dear faithful readers will understand how sincere I am when I wish you a very Happy Halloween. While I would much prefer to be at home right now hanging out with Rosemary and her baby, I am sadly at work (although with the current weather and flock of seagulls currently hanging out on the yard, the prison looks like a scene from "The Birds" which almost makes up for my having to be here). But tonight I am donning my devil horns and red dress and heading out into the Land of Cleves to celebrate All Hallows' Eve.

The best part is that we change our clocks tonight (and I bet you forgot. Aren't you glad you read this blog?), which means my Halloween night will last a full hour longer. Thank you George Vernon Hudson. I knew there was something about you I always liked.

sticks and stones

A polite person would call me sensitive. A blunt person would call me really fucking emotional. I won't deny either label and have always been the type who can, and will, cry at the drop of a hat. Especially when I'm feeling stressed or flustered. Or angry. Or put on the spot. Truthfully I'll cry at just about anything. I've cried at work, cried at school, cried in my car. Hell, just a few weeks ago I cried at the end of the old-school Haley Mills version of "Pollyanna" and four or five years ago I had a phone break from water damage and I'm pretty sure it was my tears that caused it.

I firmly wear my heart on my sleeve. In high-school, my face would turn tomato-red whenever I was around a boy I found cute which, of course, made any coy flirtation attempts impossible (luckily both the blushing and the flirtation have improved with age). And the slightest rejection from said boy would send my heart breaking into a million pieces. My emotions are very much in-the-moment and reactionary, and I fully own up to the fact that this causes me to sometimes respond poorly and overreact to highly charged situations.

The thing is, when you work in a prison you have to keep your emotions in check. Show any sign of weakness to the inmates and they'll take full advantage of it. Expose any crack and they will press and press until it splits wide open. And a thick skin is an absolute must, because that is the one way they will test your limits. How do you respond to compliments? What about insults? And not reacting can be just as damaging overreacting.

I have been employed here for eight months and in that time I have seen a remarkable change in how I handle my patrons. Yes, yes, they are people and have feelings and blah blah blah. But they are also criminals and I'm not here to make friends with them. I have quite enough friends on the outside of the fence, thankyouverymuch. So they can complain to other employees about how I won't bend the rules for them and they can call me all the names they want. They can even try and use their stupid jedi mind tricks on me. None of it will be enough to break me.

So, today, when I heard an inmate walking into chow call me a "redheaded fat bitch," did I cry or get angry? Nope. Did I hunt him down and write him up? Nope. I laughed it off. See, you can't let their age fool you: they might look like adults, but they're actually more like little boys. This might look like a prison, but really, it's more like a daycare center. They act like they are these big scary men, but when they don't get their way they are just as likely to throw temper tantrums and go whine to those in charge about mean mommy who won't make an exception for them.

And they are also apparently not able to man up enough to insult me to my face. Nope, they have to call it out from a crowd of 50 guys, knowing I won't have any way of identifying the culprit. Way to be a grown-up, boys. Your mothers must be so proud.