Oh, let me tell you this story, though. When I was at West Virginia, my brother was back home, going to high school. Cory decided to get involved with this particular record company as well, only he had a plan. He got his own membership first, taking advantage of the "11 CD's for the price of one" deal. Then he enrolled Mom. Not that my mother had any interest in being a member, but Cory was then able to get her 11 CD's as well as the bonus CD's he got for referring a new member. After a while, he cancelled her subscription, and referred me.

Problem: I was already a member. Not a problem; I have a different shipping address, so the two memberships never came into conflict. Plus, the "Carrie" who was invented by my brother had a strictly rock'n roll membership, so as to suit his tastes, while my personal membership was classical only.

And then summer rolled around. I moved back home. Problems ensued, as was predictable. Cory was running up high tabs with his accounts, and I wanted no part of his bills. This was especially complicated considering that the "CD's of the Month," which had to be returned in their unopened boxes for us to avoid being charged, came unlabeled; we had no way of knowing whose was whose.

I was able to resolve the dilemma myself with a telephone call to BMG explaining that I had just moved in with my aunt of the same name, who also had an account, and therefore needed to add another initial to my name. Of course, Cory cancelled the other "Carrie's" account a month later, and enrolled our father...

I keep thinking I might go back. Eric's pretty good at remembering to send in little slips of paper, so maybe we could actually handle the membership this time around. The classical selection is actually quite good. Maybe I will do it. I could use some fresh music.

The computers were doing their oh-so-hilarious "Now we're up, now we're down!" routine again today. Maddening! I've been informed that the problem is with our phone lines, and I overheard the phone repair guy telling somebody on the other end of his cell phone, "I'm surprised they're working as well as they are!" so I guess that full repairs loom distant for the library. This is getting old. I hate not knowing where books are, or even whether we own the book in question.

We had a bit of excitement this afternoon, when Boss-Zilla came running over to tell us that we had a missing child situation. Apparently, a three-year-old boy had wandered off, and nobody could find him. We fanned out and did a search, trying not to think about the fact that the bus line has a stop right outside the library, but thankfully he was found a short time later. He had managed to get himself locked in a stall in the ladies' bathroom, and was tearful, but safe.

My brother and I used to disappear from Mom in public places at that age. Mom says we liked to "play hide and seek with Mommy" in the clothes racks in department stores, giggling and refusing to come out from between the clothes no matter how frantic she got. I stopped doing that at about age six, and I remember quite vividly why: that was the year I happened to see a rerun of the television movie about Adam Walsh, and I heard them say that they found his "remains" in a ravine. Innocently, I asked my mother what "remains" were, and she responded, "I think they found his head."

I can't even tell you about the nightmares that gave little me. I kept thinking about the little boy's head, and my head, and the methods entailed in removing one's head. My mom said, "And that's why you should always hold my hand in stores. There are bad people out there." I began to look for them everywhere, and "hide and seek" was no longer the fun it used to be.

When I had school fundraisers, Mom wouldn't let me go out without supervision. A wise idea, but the motivation had a weird twist. Dourly, she would shake her head and say, "It would only take a minute for somebody to grab you, pull you inside, and shove a Coke bottle up inside of you!" Now, I ask you, what purpose did telling me that have? I was a kid! I had no idea why anybody would want to do any such thing, and I became terrified of our neighbors as a result of hearing it. I'm not sure why Mom felt the need to share her deepest fears with her small daughter, but it worked: I never went door to door without making sure that Mom was standing at the end of every driveway.

I'm a paranoid person now, though I'm not sure it's necessarily a bad thing. Scary and potentially unsafe situations scare me out of my wits; the other night, I had to go back into the library after it had closed, and I walked quickly and nervously, jumping at every creak of the furnace. I still try to keep my eyes to myself when driving through bad parts of town. I always keep my keys ready when I approach my car at night, and I stand far away from it as I unlock it, even in the affluent neighborhood in which I work.

Hey, at least I don't check pay phone coin slots and movie theater seats for AIDS-infected needles. Woo-hoo, life in the fast lane!