Today I had to lead the library staff meeting and try to get everybody fired up over the Summer Reading Program. Normally Boss-Lady would have done this, but she's been out with her knee surgery, so the task fell to the underlings, and the other lady is only part-time. I thus found myself in charge of the project, and I was not looking forward to it. Staff meetings are, by definition, dry things during which most people barely manage to keep awake and semi-coherent; we have them before the library even opens in the morning, so everybody dreads them. Get people "fired up"? Ha!

But then I recalled the unholy power of inane crafts, and I thought, Could it work a second time? And we began to plan. Chia spacemen! Odd headgear! And games - a Comet-Hurling Competition! I rather think that the other youth librarians considered that we would just be working to fill our time slot and make sure everybody remembered that the Program will begin on Saturday, but I had ulterior motives: if I had to suffer, then everybody had to suffer.

And so we made our shopping lists. The refreshment table would bear themed food, such as croissants (crescent shape...moon...get it?), Starburst candies, and aluminum juice pouches. I drew the line at serving Tang; "Drink of the Astronauts" or not, I find it foul. The other librarian somehow got stuck with the bulk of the shopping; I didn't plan it that way, but, as she didn't seem to mind, I didn't feel any regrets. Let her waste the gasoline; the library was picking up the tab for the supplies, anyway. My own list:

• Nylons (for the Chia spacemen);
• Sawdust/mulch, or whatever would stuff the majority of the little heads;
• Marbles, to serve as prizes ("You win...an asteroid!"); and
• Baked potato dishes, to hold the drying Chia things.

"Welcome to Wendy's; may I take your order?"
"This is going to sound strange, but I need thirty of your baked potato dishes."
Silence. Then, "Can you please pull around to the first window?"

When I opened my door (the window of my car being broken), the man who faced me was not a minimum-wage worker. His shirt was free of grease stains, his name badge was polished, and his face bore a slight frown. He asked me to repeat my request, and then shook his head. "Can't do it," he said. "It'd mess up our inventory. We could call the president and ask, but he'd probably say no." He flashed a toothy grin; his name badge glinted in my eye.

The president? I spied, hiding back in the corner, the teenager who had, no doubt, called for the manager when the "crazy lady" had come through the drive through. Giving him a slight evil eye in my exhausted state, I said, "No thanks, that won't be necessary." Hurrying back to my car, I decided to try another Wendy's; hopefully, the manager would be off duty.

Sure enough, the second Wendy's I tried was being manned solely by two pimply-faced teenage boys. I almost slipped in a puddle of grease when I walked through the door; these guys evidently had no problem with breaking rules. My hopes soared. I reached the counter and made my request. Their faces dropped.

"No can do, sorry," the first guy squeaked. "It's against the rules. The manager would have to call the president for permission."

"Oh, come on!" I wheedled shamelessly. It was no good; these guys were dedicated to the Wendy's cause, come what may. I left without my baked potato dishes. Finally I gave up and ran to the grocery store, where I paid far too much for miniature loaf pans, fuming at the waste. What on earth is this unholy relationship between the president of Wendy's Restaurants and the Styrofoam dishes? Why must he be consulted for a dish donation? If those teenagers were to drop a stack of them, would they be sent before the president to beg for mercy? There's a mystery there for one who would solve it.

I came up with a speech in the car on the way to the library. I tried explaining it to the other librarian as we set up the tables, but when she stumbled over word after word, I finally said, "Just play along and laugh when I laugh, okay?" She agreed and seemed relieved.

When the meeting started and we were introduced, the two of us stood up, donned antennae, and all the power of my frustration, exhaustion, and foul-temperedness was with me as I spoke:

"We are of the planet Trabookien. We have traveled millions of light years to take over your planet, beginning with you. Those of you who can be assimilated into our new Trabookien Society will be allowed, nay, forced to continue in your current positions, at a fraction of your current salaries! Ha, ha, ha!

And on and on it went. The sick part is, they loved it. When they were shown the hula-hoop game, they roared with laughter. They had great fun making the crafts, and not a soul even so much as yawned when I demonstrated the Chia spacemen.

I think I'm getting the hang of this librarian gig. When you're in a good mood, all will go well. When you're in a bad mood, patronize everything that blinks, and all will go well. Easy enough.

We have the Saturn back, and they dealer wants to monitor its oil consumption for a while. I guess we won't have that diagnosis for a while, after all.