Meeting Media are created during actual and very important meetings while I really was paying attention. Names or other identifying information, or inappropriate comments about my boss, have been blocked out to protect the illusion of innocence.
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Friday, March 30, 2012
Things I've Learned in the Library: An Education
At the library, I learn something new every day. Not only do I spend my days surrounded by the accumulated history and knowledge of mankind, but I get to meet the people who need that knowledge and hear all about their projects and ambitions.
While most people look no further than Google to satisfy their idle curiosities, my personal research projects always begin in the library. Last summer when I decided to learn everything science could teach me about the majestic and legendary giant squid, I started with a library book. I took copious notes from it, copied whole chapters, and quoted interesting passages to my long-suffering loved ones. When I finally returned the book to the library, after several renewals and considerable late fees, my husband drank a toast to the book’s eviction from our home.
Sometimes Google is all you need, and I do more Google searches at the library than I would in other jobs. Sometimes you think you’re going to have an ordinary day, and then you end up Googling lobsters. You see, I have a deep and abiding fear of crabs. Therefore my coworkers – darling, lovely people that they are – delight in showing me every crustacean that turns up in the news, such as the report of the newly discovered hairy lobster, complete with hideous and explicit photographs, which made the front page of the paper several months ago and has fueled my nightmares ever since. Or the rare blue lobster someone captured in one of the great lakes, which had me and Charlotte, a volunteer, rushing to the internet to see if it was fake. A simple Google image search for “lobster colors” not only verified the story but also enlightened us to the existence of rare yellow lobsters, white albino lobsters, and translucent yucky lobsters which I have not succeeded in forgetting since then no matter how hard I try.
Academic researches aside, I’ve learned many practical things working at the library. Early in my library career I learned that a fully cooked piece of bacon, when used as a bookmark, will ruin a perfectly good book. Shortly after that, I learned that charging a patron to replace a book - say, one ruined by bacon grease - is easier than actually extracting payment from the patron.
I’ve learned that there are two types of patrons at the library: those who handle hardship with grace and dignity, and those who don’t. I’ve learned that it takes a certain level of skill to handle the latter sort of patron with aplomb. We recently had a patron so angry over the passport application process that she stormed out of the library and stood in the parking lot, shaking her fists to the heavens and yelling obscenities so loudly that we could hear her through the closed doors. We did the only thing we could do: we laughed ourselves into the floor.
An angry patron once confronted me because she had received an official letter informing her that her books were overdue. “I don’t appreciate that,” she said, looking me directly in the eye. I could have told her that the surest way to avoid such sternly worded letters would be to return her books on time, but instead I had a total mental breakdown and failed to come up with any better response than to smile and say “Okay.” The woman, apparently satisfied with this acknowledgement, left without noticing that my coworker Janelle was paralyzed with laughter behind me. “Fat lot of help you were,” I said. “You seemed to handle it very well,” she said, which I suppose is true.
Because sarcasm is seldom the appropriate response. When someone from Andover, Massachusetts, calls, wanting directions to the library in Andover, Kansas, I always tell them, “First, you want to head west for several hours.” I’ve done this more than once and the sarcasm has never yet been appropriate.
But I keep trying because someone someday is bound to find it funny, like the time I informed a patron that he had a late book on his account and he declared, “Blasphemy!” immediately setting me on the defensive. “No, sir, you really do,” I said, pulling up his account, “and the name of the book is… Blasphemy… Oh, I see what you did there,” and we both had a good laugh over it.
I’m constantly amazed at the number of late books we see though, because at the circulation desk we always know what day it is. I've learned that most people are just not as aware of the date as librarians are. When you’re constantly quoting dates at people, you start to take the passage of time for granted. I told a man at the end of August that his book was due “on the 7th.”
While most people look no further than Google to satisfy their idle curiosities, my personal research projects always begin in the library. Last summer when I decided to learn everything science could teach me about the majestic and legendary giant squid, I started with a library book. I took copious notes from it, copied whole chapters, and quoted interesting passages to my long-suffering loved ones. When I finally returned the book to the library, after several renewals and considerable late fees, my husband drank a toast to the book’s eviction from our home.
Sometimes Google is all you need, and I do more Google searches at the library than I would in other jobs. Sometimes you think you’re going to have an ordinary day, and then you end up Googling lobsters. You see, I have a deep and abiding fear of crabs. Therefore my coworkers – darling, lovely people that they are – delight in showing me every crustacean that turns up in the news, such as the report of the newly discovered hairy lobster, complete with hideous and explicit photographs, which made the front page of the paper several months ago and has fueled my nightmares ever since. Or the rare blue lobster someone captured in one of the great lakes, which had me and Charlotte, a volunteer, rushing to the internet to see if it was fake. A simple Google image search for “lobster colors” not only verified the story but also enlightened us to the existence of rare yellow lobsters, white albino lobsters, and translucent yucky lobsters which I have not succeeded in forgetting since then no matter how hard I try.
Academic researches aside, I’ve learned many practical things working at the library. Early in my library career I learned that a fully cooked piece of bacon, when used as a bookmark, will ruin a perfectly good book. Shortly after that, I learned that charging a patron to replace a book - say, one ruined by bacon grease - is easier than actually extracting payment from the patron.
I’ve learned that there are two types of patrons at the library: those who handle hardship with grace and dignity, and those who don’t. I’ve learned that it takes a certain level of skill to handle the latter sort of patron with aplomb. We recently had a patron so angry over the passport application process that she stormed out of the library and stood in the parking lot, shaking her fists to the heavens and yelling obscenities so loudly that we could hear her through the closed doors. We did the only thing we could do: we laughed ourselves into the floor.
An angry patron once confronted me because she had received an official letter informing her that her books were overdue. “I don’t appreciate that,” she said, looking me directly in the eye. I could have told her that the surest way to avoid such sternly worded letters would be to return her books on time, but instead I had a total mental breakdown and failed to come up with any better response than to smile and say “Okay.” The woman, apparently satisfied with this acknowledgement, left without noticing that my coworker Janelle was paralyzed with laughter behind me. “Fat lot of help you were,” I said. “You seemed to handle it very well,” she said, which I suppose is true.
Because sarcasm is seldom the appropriate response. When someone from Andover, Massachusetts, calls, wanting directions to the library in Andover, Kansas, I always tell them, “First, you want to head west for several hours.” I’ve done this more than once and the sarcasm has never yet been appropriate.
But I keep trying because someone someday is bound to find it funny, like the time I informed a patron that he had a late book on his account and he declared, “Blasphemy!” immediately setting me on the defensive. “No, sir, you really do,” I said, pulling up his account, “and the name of the book is… Blasphemy… Oh, I see what you did there,” and we both had a good laugh over it.
I’m constantly amazed at the number of late books we see though, because at the circulation desk we always know what day it is. I've learned that most people are just not as aware of the date as librarians are. When you’re constantly quoting dates at people, you start to take the passage of time for granted. I told a man at the end of August that his book was due “on the 7th.”
“Of August?” he asked me seriously.
“No, of September,” I said, with a straight face, “When we figure out the whole time travel thing, we may reconsider that policy, but in the meantime, all of our books are due in the future.”
It’s not just due dates either. When my husband, who had a big project due at work, lamented in late February that it was almost March, I casually informed him that the library books checked out that day were due March 15th. “Therefore,” I told him, “March is already half over.”
He leveled his grey-green eyes at me and said “Working at the library gives you a skewed sense of time.”
“Space too,” I responded. “Or else I would quit trying to fit more books in the Young Adult section.” I’ve learned that there are always more books in the return bin than can possibly fit in the return bin, so why not the shelves too?
I’ve learned that, as a librarian, not only can I warp time and space, but I have telepathy too. Why else do so many people expect me to read their minds? The first time someone came up to the desk and asked about “you know, the book with the red cover,” I thought they were crazy. They said things like, “I don’t know the title or the author but it was written by a woman and there was a dog on the cover,” and I thought they were barking mad, but after a few months, their feeble mutterings started to make sense. One day I looked up and said, “You’re talking about Because of Winn Dixie by Kate DiCamillo,” and they said, “That’s the one. Thank you.”
Telepathy, because people come to the library with no idea what they want and suddenly I know EXACTLY WHAT THEY NEED. I know where all the travel books are, the books about pirates, or woodworking, or outer space. I know where the diabetic cookbooks and auto repair manuals and Spanish-to-English dictionaries are. I’ve learned where to find the information you want to know before you even know you want to know it.
Working the circulation desk one Friday afternoon, Benjamin didn’t know that he wanted to learn more about giant squid, until I started explaining to him how wonderful they are. “Did you know,” I told him, “that some squid can survive at extremely low oxygen levels? We’re talking ten percent or less. It’s something to do with their blood. It’s copper-based, rather than iron-based like ours is. That’s why their blood is blue.”
“That’s awesome!” Benjamin said. “But wait… What about llamas?”
“What about llamas?” I said.
“Llamas can survive at extremely low oxygen levels too. Is that for the same reason?” he said.
“I have no idea,” I said. “Let’s look it up,” because sometimes you think you’re going to have an ordinary day, and then you end up Googling llamas.
And I’ve learned that the best thing you can do is just go with it.
“No, of September,” I said, with a straight face, “When we figure out the whole time travel thing, we may reconsider that policy, but in the meantime, all of our books are due in the future.”
It’s not just due dates either. When my husband, who had a big project due at work, lamented in late February that it was almost March, I casually informed him that the library books checked out that day were due March 15th. “Therefore,” I told him, “March is already half over.”
He leveled his grey-green eyes at me and said “Working at the library gives you a skewed sense of time.”
“Space too,” I responded. “Or else I would quit trying to fit more books in the Young Adult section.” I’ve learned that there are always more books in the return bin than can possibly fit in the return bin, so why not the shelves too?
I’ve learned that, as a librarian, not only can I warp time and space, but I have telepathy too. Why else do so many people expect me to read their minds? The first time someone came up to the desk and asked about “you know, the book with the red cover,” I thought they were crazy. They said things like, “I don’t know the title or the author but it was written by a woman and there was a dog on the cover,” and I thought they were barking mad, but after a few months, their feeble mutterings started to make sense. One day I looked up and said, “You’re talking about Because of Winn Dixie by Kate DiCamillo,” and they said, “That’s the one. Thank you.”
Telepathy, because people come to the library with no idea what they want and suddenly I know EXACTLY WHAT THEY NEED. I know where all the travel books are, the books about pirates, or woodworking, or outer space. I know where the diabetic cookbooks and auto repair manuals and Spanish-to-English dictionaries are. I’ve learned where to find the information you want to know before you even know you want to know it.
Working the circulation desk one Friday afternoon, Benjamin didn’t know that he wanted to learn more about giant squid, until I started explaining to him how wonderful they are. “Did you know,” I told him, “that some squid can survive at extremely low oxygen levels? We’re talking ten percent or less. It’s something to do with their blood. It’s copper-based, rather than iron-based like ours is. That’s why their blood is blue.”
“That’s awesome!” Benjamin said. “But wait… What about llamas?”
“What about llamas?” I said.
“Llamas can survive at extremely low oxygen levels too. Is that for the same reason?” he said.
“I have no idea,” I said. “Let’s look it up,” because sometimes you think you’re going to have an ordinary day, and then you end up Googling llamas.
And I’ve learned that the best thing you can do is just go with it.
Friday, March 2, 2012
Answering the Reference Question
I get a lot of calls at the library.
Most are fairly vanilla. In a typical day, I will answer
every question on the library website’s FAQs page at least once. “Can you renew
my books?” “How late are you open?” “Where are you located?”
Sometimes patrons call with book questions. “When does the
new James Patterson come out?” “Can you tell me the next book in this series?”
These, too, are well within the normal parameters and we, as librarians, have a
number of tools at our disposal to efficiently locate this information for you.
Other calls take more time. In library school, they call it
“Answering the Reference Question.” In the Pre-Internet Era, librarians were
the only search engines. Many elderly people, technophobes, and elderly
technophobes still call the library when they need to know the capital of
Montana or the phone number of the quaint delicatessen on the south end of Main
street (on a good day, the patron is referring to the Main street of the city
you are actually in). We expect these calls. We are used to these calls.
Still other calls shall live in infamy forever.
“Library. This is
Tori. How can I help you?”
“Yes, hello,” a man said in a Rhett Butler accent. “I am
calling for information on several of the buildings there in town. Specifically
their history, from when they were built to present day.”
I immediately kicked into “Answering the Reference Question”
mode. “Certainly, sir. I’m sure someone at the city historical museum can help
you. I can give you their phone number off the city’s webpage,” I said, because
when I’m giving someone information they could easily find for themselves, I
like to spell out exactly where I found it.
“Much obliged,” he said, oozing southern charm.
I gave him the number. “Will that be all, sir?”
“Do you think they’d have information on who owned various
buildings over the years?” he said.
I couldn’t silence the little voice in my brain ticking off all the creepy, serial-killer reasons he might have had for wanting information on who
owned what. “I’m not sure, sir. Was there a specific building you wanted to
know about?”
“Well, young lady,” he said, “as it happens, I am a ghost
hunter, and I am investigating the haunting of a house on Central Avenue
That. That right there is when the conversation went
so-not-the-way I thought it was going to go. I stared out the front door,
twirling my pen, then remembered I needed to answer the man. “No, sir,” I said.
“You’re probably better off with the historical museum.”
“Thank you kindly,” he said, hanging up.
And after a minute or two of stunned contemplation, I hung
up as well.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Automotive Soul Mates
The Honda was a beast. Every available option: power seats, moon roof, six-disc CD changer, climate control. And it was mine.
It was also years past its prime. I’d driven it into the ground. I couldn’t even care when it broke anymore. It was like the time my mother had an elderly yet incontinent dog and we all politely waited for it to die of old age.
“He’s gone on the floor again, hasn’t he?” she’d sigh.
“Yes, mom,” we’d sigh back.
You couldn’t be upset at a dog like that.
Now, we sighed at the car with the same feeling.
“Is that a new ding in the door?” Sigh.
“Is the engine making a new noise?” Sigh.
“Did a rather small yet suicidal deer just completely destroy the entire front end in the space of two very exciting seconds?”
Sigh.
-
It had been my first car.
Not “my parents car.”
Not “my boyfriend’s car.”
Not “our shared car because we’re poor newlyweds who only need one car.”
MY car.
“My car, with the seats and mirrors permanently adjusted the way I like them because, yes, sharing is nice, but, dammit, I’m an adult now and I don’t have to share.”
Mine. Mine. MINE.
Therefore, I was up all night worrying that I would be incapable of driving another car.
“What if the rental car is nothing like the Honda? What if it’s an alien car with the buttons all in the wrong places?” I asked Matt, on the way to the rental car place.
“Just tell them you want a mid-size car,” he said. “Believe it or not, most cars are remarkably similar to each other.”
“Okay,” I said, looking out the passenger window of Matt’s car, which is not at all similar to any other car I’ve ever driven, a manual car that I cannot, in fact, drive. “What if they give me something I can’t drive?” I asked.
Matt, parking at the rental place, shrugged his shoulders. “Then you trade it in for another one.”
I appealed to his vanity: “What if they give me something that looks stupid?”
In the callous voice of a man who drives a convertible sports car, he said, “Then you’re going to look stupid.”
-
The rental car was nothing like the Honda. Having made it home from work - my normally passive commute remade into a harrowing experience fit for the plot of an opera - I sprawled in the living room floor to mope.
“How does it drive?” Matt asked.
“It’s terrible!” I said. “The brakes are all wrong and the steering wheel makes this horrible wind-up toy noise whenever I turn.”
“Wind-up toy noise?”
“It’s like, well, you know: whhhhirirrr.”
“That’s not a real thing.”
“No, really, it is,” I assured him. “And I have to adjust the seat manually, and I can’t just set the AC to 70 and let it ride! I have to keep readjusting the damn thing! While I drive, no less!”
Matt arched an eyebrow at me. “Okay, now you’re just being silly.”
“No, really! The rental car is evil.”
“The rental car is normal. Those features you had before? They’re not standard features. You’re not going to find them again.”
“Okay, forget the AC. I’m serious about the wind-up toy noise!”
But he wasn’t listening to me.
-
When I called about the suddenly flat tire, the rental agency apologized profusely, promising a replacement rental car within the hour. I began to cheer up a little. “It’s confirmation!” I thought. “I’m not crazy! The rental car really was evil!” A little spark of hope for a better rental car in the next life ignited in my soul, only to flicker and die when an equally nasty rental car took its place an hour later.
That night, nestled on the couch with a chocolate bar and a Jane Austen movie, I grieved. Two out of two rental cars had bested me, a figure which my mind astutely observed equated to one hundred percent of them. I pondered the possibility that the Honda was the only car in the world for me, my automotive soul mate, and that I would never be whole again.
“Dear, I’ve got it!” my husband said, penetrating my grief with his enthusiasm. “You say the rental car doesn’t drive like your old Honda? So why not replace the dead Honda with another Honda? Only, you know, a NEW one? Come look at this.” He led me toward his office, where his monitor showed the 2012 Honda Accord glinting like an unfathomable secret on Honda’s nonEuclidian “Build Your Own Car!” page. Matt clicked the mouse through a 360 degree tour of the cab.
“My god, it’s full of buttons,” I said.
Matt nodded. “You said you wanted all the features your old one had; here you are then!”
I stared at the slowly revolving cab, full of knobs and toggles and voice activated features that would doubtless respond to my every request in the voice of Hal (“I can’t let you do that, Dave.”). “This isn’t a car! It’s an evil robot!” I said.
“No, it’s great! You’d just have to learn what all the buttons did.”
“And while I’m puzzling that out, the steering wheel will come to life and eat my face.”
“Look, we can even order it in that shade of blue you’ve always wanted!”
“What, SkyNet Blue?”
“It’s not that bad!”
“It’s an anime villain!”
Matt, noting my agitation, closed the browser and gave me a hug. “We’ll just see what they have at the used car lot this weekend.”
-
“Are you sure this is the best route for a test drive?” my husband asked, after the third construction zone in as many blocks.
The salesman, who looked no older than eighteen, smiled, addressing all of his commentary to Matt despite the fact that I was driving. “Oh, sure. This curvy bit here really gives you an idea of how the car performs!” Oblivious to my white-knuckled grip on the wheel, the salesman directed me down winding roads in an unfamiliar part of town.
I had spent the morning test driving car after car, each more horrid than the last. I wondered, was there actually something wrong, not with every single car in the world, but with me?
The salesman continued, “If you turn here, it leads right back to the lot! See?”
I parked the latest in a long string of disappointments in the corner, where the salesman immediately picked out the next candidate. “Why don’t we try this one next?” he said, holding open the driver’s side door of a mysterious black car with windows so dark the cab was scarcely visible within. Infernal devices gleamed on the dashboard.
“I’m not getting in there,” I said. “Too many buttons.”
The salesman’s plastered smile faltered. He looked at Matt for guidance.
“We’re just going to look around on our own for a minute,” Matt said.
When the salesman was gone, Matt walked me deeper into the car lot. “How you doing?” he asked.
“I can’t do it anymore,” I said. “I don’t have another test drive in me. They’re all terrible.”
“Let’s stop for the day, then. We can try again next weekend,” he said.
“No. I’m done. I don’t care enough. Just buy me any old car so we can leave.”
“If you can’t have your perfect car, pick one feature you’d like to have and we’ll go from there.”
“Alright,” I said. I thought about all the great features I liked in my Honda. It really had been a great car. If it had been blue, it would have been perfect in every way. “Can I just get a blue one?”
Matt thought about it for a minute, then pointed over my shoulder at a car I hadn’t noticed yet. “Do you mean like that color of blue right there?”
It was SkyNet Blue.
Matt waved the salesman back over. “I think I’d like to test drive this one,” he said. “Or maybe my wife is up for one more?”
“I believe I am,” I said.
-
It drove perfectly all the way home.
It was also years past its prime. I’d driven it into the ground. I couldn’t even care when it broke anymore. It was like the time my mother had an elderly yet incontinent dog and we all politely waited for it to die of old age.
“He’s gone on the floor again, hasn’t he?” she’d sigh.
“Yes, mom,” we’d sigh back.
You couldn’t be upset at a dog like that.
Now, we sighed at the car with the same feeling.
“Is that a new ding in the door?” Sigh.
“Is the engine making a new noise?” Sigh.
“Did a rather small yet suicidal deer just completely destroy the entire front end in the space of two very exciting seconds?”
Sigh.
-
It had been my first car.
Not “my parents car.”
Not “my boyfriend’s car.”
Not “our shared car because we’re poor newlyweds who only need one car.”
MY car.
“My car, with the seats and mirrors permanently adjusted the way I like them because, yes, sharing is nice, but, dammit, I’m an adult now and I don’t have to share.”
Mine. Mine. MINE.
Therefore, I was up all night worrying that I would be incapable of driving another car.
“What if the rental car is nothing like the Honda? What if it’s an alien car with the buttons all in the wrong places?” I asked Matt, on the way to the rental car place.
“Just tell them you want a mid-size car,” he said. “Believe it or not, most cars are remarkably similar to each other.”
“Okay,” I said, looking out the passenger window of Matt’s car, which is not at all similar to any other car I’ve ever driven, a manual car that I cannot, in fact, drive. “What if they give me something I can’t drive?” I asked.
Matt, parking at the rental place, shrugged his shoulders. “Then you trade it in for another one.”
I appealed to his vanity: “What if they give me something that looks stupid?”
In the callous voice of a man who drives a convertible sports car, he said, “Then you’re going to look stupid.”
-
The rental car was nothing like the Honda. Having made it home from work - my normally passive commute remade into a harrowing experience fit for the plot of an opera - I sprawled in the living room floor to mope.
“How does it drive?” Matt asked.
“It’s terrible!” I said. “The brakes are all wrong and the steering wheel makes this horrible wind-up toy noise whenever I turn.”
“Wind-up toy noise?”
“It’s like, well, you know: whhhhirirrr.”
“That’s not a real thing.”
“No, really, it is,” I assured him. “And I have to adjust the seat manually, and I can’t just set the AC to 70 and let it ride! I have to keep readjusting the damn thing! While I drive, no less!”
Matt arched an eyebrow at me. “Okay, now you’re just being silly.”
“No, really! The rental car is evil.”
“The rental car is normal. Those features you had before? They’re not standard features. You’re not going to find them again.”
“Okay, forget the AC. I’m serious about the wind-up toy noise!”
But he wasn’t listening to me.
-
When I called about the suddenly flat tire, the rental agency apologized profusely, promising a replacement rental car within the hour. I began to cheer up a little. “It’s confirmation!” I thought. “I’m not crazy! The rental car really was evil!” A little spark of hope for a better rental car in the next life ignited in my soul, only to flicker and die when an equally nasty rental car took its place an hour later.
That night, nestled on the couch with a chocolate bar and a Jane Austen movie, I grieved. Two out of two rental cars had bested me, a figure which my mind astutely observed equated to one hundred percent of them. I pondered the possibility that the Honda was the only car in the world for me, my automotive soul mate, and that I would never be whole again.
“Dear, I’ve got it!” my husband said, penetrating my grief with his enthusiasm. “You say the rental car doesn’t drive like your old Honda? So why not replace the dead Honda with another Honda? Only, you know, a NEW one? Come look at this.” He led me toward his office, where his monitor showed the 2012 Honda Accord glinting like an unfathomable secret on Honda’s nonEuclidian “Build Your Own Car!” page. Matt clicked the mouse through a 360 degree tour of the cab.
“My god, it’s full of buttons,” I said.
Matt nodded. “You said you wanted all the features your old one had; here you are then!”
I stared at the slowly revolving cab, full of knobs and toggles and voice activated features that would doubtless respond to my every request in the voice of Hal (“I can’t let you do that, Dave.”). “This isn’t a car! It’s an evil robot!” I said.
“No, it’s great! You’d just have to learn what all the buttons did.”
“And while I’m puzzling that out, the steering wheel will come to life and eat my face.”
“Look, we can even order it in that shade of blue you’ve always wanted!”
“What, SkyNet Blue?”
“It’s not that bad!”
“It’s an anime villain!”
Matt, noting my agitation, closed the browser and gave me a hug. “We’ll just see what they have at the used car lot this weekend.”
-
“Are you sure this is the best route for a test drive?” my husband asked, after the third construction zone in as many blocks.
The salesman, who looked no older than eighteen, smiled, addressing all of his commentary to Matt despite the fact that I was driving. “Oh, sure. This curvy bit here really gives you an idea of how the car performs!” Oblivious to my white-knuckled grip on the wheel, the salesman directed me down winding roads in an unfamiliar part of town.
I had spent the morning test driving car after car, each more horrid than the last. I wondered, was there actually something wrong, not with every single car in the world, but with me?
The salesman continued, “If you turn here, it leads right back to the lot! See?”
I parked the latest in a long string of disappointments in the corner, where the salesman immediately picked out the next candidate. “Why don’t we try this one next?” he said, holding open the driver’s side door of a mysterious black car with windows so dark the cab was scarcely visible within. Infernal devices gleamed on the dashboard.
“I’m not getting in there,” I said. “Too many buttons.”
The salesman’s plastered smile faltered. He looked at Matt for guidance.
“We’re just going to look around on our own for a minute,” Matt said.
When the salesman was gone, Matt walked me deeper into the car lot. “How you doing?” he asked.
“I can’t do it anymore,” I said. “I don’t have another test drive in me. They’re all terrible.”
“Let’s stop for the day, then. We can try again next weekend,” he said.
“No. I’m done. I don’t care enough. Just buy me any old car so we can leave.”
“If you can’t have your perfect car, pick one feature you’d like to have and we’ll go from there.”
“Alright,” I said. I thought about all the great features I liked in my Honda. It really had been a great car. If it had been blue, it would have been perfect in every way. “Can I just get a blue one?”
Matt thought about it for a minute, then pointed over my shoulder at a car I hadn’t noticed yet. “Do you mean like that color of blue right there?”
It was SkyNet Blue.
Matt waved the salesman back over. “I think I’d like to test drive this one,” he said. “Or maybe my wife is up for one more?”
“I believe I am,” I said.
-
It drove perfectly all the way home.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
The Video Game Club Plays Oregon Trail
“Today, you will be playing a classic computer game,” I announced, as the video game club shuffled into the library computer lab for their monthly meeting. “Oregon Trail is a historical fiction game where you guide a wagonload of settlers across the plains to a new life on the American frontier.”
The kids clicked the link I had prepared for them on the school’s server. “Mrs. H?” one said as he opened the game’s title screen. “This doesn’t look right.”
“You will be disappointed in the graphics, but I expect you to get over it. This game was played by the people who grew up to make games for people like you. You will respect the history of this.”
The club, mostly eighth graders who thought they were signing up to play Halo, groaned collectively.
“As an added incentive,” I said, “I have here in my pocket five dollars cash for the first among you to reach Willamette Valley and thereby beat the game.”
Excited murmurs filled the room. David, an introspective library assistant, smiled as he said, “How hard can it be?” while Mike, my star pupil, was already spending all of his money on bullets.
----
The students chatted amiably as they prepared for the journey. They were delighted to discover they could name all their party members. Tom named his party members after his friends, including Justin, who was sitting next to him.
“That will make it awkward when they all die,” I said.
“You can die on this game?!” Tom squeaked.
“Of course.”
“But you can continue, right? Or start again from the graveyard?”
“Sweetie, this game is old. They hadn’t invented continues yet, or spawn points, or health packs. This game is cold, hard, and brutal.”
A cheerful song rang out from Mike’s speakers as he began his journey with nothing but a wagon full of ammo.
“Ignore the song,” I said. “Brutal. Don’t forget it.”
----
The wagon train proceeded smoothly at first, but then they were beset by hardship. What had seemed like clever character names in the beginning began to look ridiculous when illness set in.
“Kirby has dysentery!” someone shouted.
“Ate the wrong enemy, I imagine,” I said, eliciting laughter from the students.
“Yomama has measles!” said another.
“Let’s not bandy insults during club time,” I said, grinning.
“House has typhoid!”
“It’s never Lupus,” I said, but the laughter grew strained as each player encountered difficulties of his own.
----
“Thieves stole my bullets!” David proclaimed in astonishment. “Why wasn’t I able to shoot them?”
“At least you’re still alive,” said Justin. “I died of dyslexia!”
I had to think about that one for a moment. “Do you maybe mean dysentery?”
“Yeah, that!”
“I died because they wouldn’t let me buy food!” said Chris.
“What do you mean they wouldn’t let you?” I asked.
“It wasn’t for sale in any of the towns I stopped at.”
“Why didn’t you hunt?” I asked.
Chris stared at me in uncomprehending silence.
“I’ll let you think about that for awhile, okay?”
“What the?” David shouted, drawing my attention. “Renee has a snake bite. How on earth did she get a snake bite? She’s on the wagon! Who told that girl to get off the wagon? This child is special! Now I have to rescue this child ‘cause she got a snake bite and she prolly gonna die.”
“She might live,” I said comfortingly.
“No, she gonna die,” he said, without hope.
----
When Jamal’s self-named character died, I guided him through the process of filling out the tombstone (“Here lies Jamal. He was the best.”) as other students looked on, like rubberneckers at the scene of a pileup.
Others were less sentimental about the game’s unforgiving nature. “Here lies Mario. Stupid typhoid,” aptly portrayed the sentiments of the moment, as did “Here lies Renee. I told you she was gonna die.”
When Tom’s Justin died, he sheepishly turned to the real Justin, who glared. Voice heavy with heartfelt sincerity, Tom asked, “What do you want your tombstone to say?”
Through gritted teeth, Justin replied, “I’m with stupid.”
----
Disease wracked their bodies. Bones were broken. Oxen drowned. One by one, parties fell by the wayside.
“Forget it,” Jamal muttered, giving up. “I’m gonna do math homework instead.”
At the last minute, David came unhinged. “Now Zeke has a snake bite! Jee-sus Christ! Who keeps telling these people to get off the wagon? These people are stupid! You know what? I’m done. Oregon just isn’t gonna be populated. It’s a mythical land that don’t exist.” So saying, he gathered his things and left the library, followed by the others.
Alone in the library with Mike, I watched as he used the keyboard’s arrow keys to steer his wagon down the Columbia River and into Willamette Valley. As I slipped him the five dollars, I asked, “What did you think?”
“It was fun,” he said. “I don’t know what they were complaining about.”
“Well, Mike,” I said. “Some people just aren’t prepared to face the harsh realities of life. Just… well, do me a favor and don’t tell David you won.”
Mike smiled. “But, Mrs. H, what about facing the harsh realities of life?”
“Plenty of time for that later,” I said.
“Like maybe next month?” Mike asked.
“Sure,” I said. “Wait ‘til you see what we’re playing then.”
The kids clicked the link I had prepared for them on the school’s server. “Mrs. H?” one said as he opened the game’s title screen. “This doesn’t look right.”
“You will be disappointed in the graphics, but I expect you to get over it. This game was played by the people who grew up to make games for people like you. You will respect the history of this.”
The club, mostly eighth graders who thought they were signing up to play Halo, groaned collectively.
“As an added incentive,” I said, “I have here in my pocket five dollars cash for the first among you to reach Willamette Valley and thereby beat the game.”
Excited murmurs filled the room. David, an introspective library assistant, smiled as he said, “How hard can it be?” while Mike, my star pupil, was already spending all of his money on bullets.
----
The students chatted amiably as they prepared for the journey. They were delighted to discover they could name all their party members. Tom named his party members after his friends, including Justin, who was sitting next to him.
“That will make it awkward when they all die,” I said.
“You can die on this game?!” Tom squeaked.
“Of course.”
“But you can continue, right? Or start again from the graveyard?”
“Sweetie, this game is old. They hadn’t invented continues yet, or spawn points, or health packs. This game is cold, hard, and brutal.”
A cheerful song rang out from Mike’s speakers as he began his journey with nothing but a wagon full of ammo.
“Ignore the song,” I said. “Brutal. Don’t forget it.”
----
The wagon train proceeded smoothly at first, but then they were beset by hardship. What had seemed like clever character names in the beginning began to look ridiculous when illness set in.
“Kirby has dysentery!” someone shouted.
“Ate the wrong enemy, I imagine,” I said, eliciting laughter from the students.
“Yomama has measles!” said another.
“Let’s not bandy insults during club time,” I said, grinning.
“House has typhoid!”
“It’s never Lupus,” I said, but the laughter grew strained as each player encountered difficulties of his own.
----
“Thieves stole my bullets!” David proclaimed in astonishment. “Why wasn’t I able to shoot them?”
“At least you’re still alive,” said Justin. “I died of dyslexia!”
I had to think about that one for a moment. “Do you maybe mean dysentery?”
“Yeah, that!”
“I died because they wouldn’t let me buy food!” said Chris.
“What do you mean they wouldn’t let you?” I asked.
“It wasn’t for sale in any of the towns I stopped at.”
“Why didn’t you hunt?” I asked.
Chris stared at me in uncomprehending silence.
“I’ll let you think about that for awhile, okay?”
“What the?” David shouted, drawing my attention. “Renee has a snake bite. How on earth did she get a snake bite? She’s on the wagon! Who told that girl to get off the wagon? This child is special! Now I have to rescue this child ‘cause she got a snake bite and she prolly gonna die.”
“She might live,” I said comfortingly.
“No, she gonna die,” he said, without hope.
----
When Jamal’s self-named character died, I guided him through the process of filling out the tombstone (“Here lies Jamal. He was the best.”) as other students looked on, like rubberneckers at the scene of a pileup.
Others were less sentimental about the game’s unforgiving nature. “Here lies Mario. Stupid typhoid,” aptly portrayed the sentiments of the moment, as did “Here lies Renee. I told you she was gonna die.”
When Tom’s Justin died, he sheepishly turned to the real Justin, who glared. Voice heavy with heartfelt sincerity, Tom asked, “What do you want your tombstone to say?”
Through gritted teeth, Justin replied, “I’m with stupid.”
----
Disease wracked their bodies. Bones were broken. Oxen drowned. One by one, parties fell by the wayside.
“Forget it,” Jamal muttered, giving up. “I’m gonna do math homework instead.”
At the last minute, David came unhinged. “Now Zeke has a snake bite! Jee-sus Christ! Who keeps telling these people to get off the wagon? These people are stupid! You know what? I’m done. Oregon just isn’t gonna be populated. It’s a mythical land that don’t exist.” So saying, he gathered his things and left the library, followed by the others.
Alone in the library with Mike, I watched as he used the keyboard’s arrow keys to steer his wagon down the Columbia River and into Willamette Valley. As I slipped him the five dollars, I asked, “What did you think?”
“It was fun,” he said. “I don’t know what they were complaining about.”
“Well, Mike,” I said. “Some people just aren’t prepared to face the harsh realities of life. Just… well, do me a favor and don’t tell David you won.”
Mike smiled. “But, Mrs. H, what about facing the harsh realities of life?”
“Plenty of time for that later,” I said.
“Like maybe next month?” Mike asked.
“Sure,” I said. “Wait ‘til you see what we’re playing then.”
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Meeting Media: Critter Carnival
Happy Glades
In an effort to embrace the country ethic of our new home state, my husband and I wandered the Kansas State Fair with enthusiasm and gusto. We discussed the admirable qualities of the show horses, though neither of us has ever been into horses. We cheered on the pig races. We watched a chainsaw artist demonstration. Sometime after the red velvet funnel cake but before the quaint, toothless, old farmer in the livestock barn lectured us on earless goats, we found ourselves in the John Deere display.
“Let’s go back to that taco stand we passed,” I said.
“Sure,” said Matt, before he did a double take toward the tractors. “Is that a tank over there?”
Looking back, I said, “So it is…”
“Why would it be with the farm equipment?” Matt asked. The tank squatted among the tractors like a fat toad, completely out of place. There was no military recruitment booth nearby.
“I suppose it depends on what kind of animals you raise,” I said.
We gazed silently at the tank for a moment, and then our eyes met. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Yes,” he said. “T-Rexes.” This is one of the many reasons I married this man.
“I’m going to write this down later, you know.”
“I hope you do.”
“What’s the name of our T-Rex farm?”
“Happy Glades,” he said.
Our family-owned, rural Kansas farm is your best choice for locally raised, all-natural T-Rex. At Happy Glades, we believe in a holistic approach to agriculture, using small-scale farming for off-the-scales livestock. All of our meats are produced right here on the farm, 100% free-range in the fresh air and sunshine of the mid-American prairie.
Here at Happy Glades, we know how important it is for you to feed your family wholesome, nutrient-rich foods. That’s why all of our Tyranosaurs are farm-raised, USDA certified organic. Our mouth-watering selection of specialty steaks come only from the very best organically produced grass-fed-beef-fed Tyranosaurs, resulting in the rich flavor of real meat. Additionally, given the realities of Natural Selection, we personally guarantee that our choice cuts of meat come from only the healthiest animals.
Our dinosaurs are never injected with synthetic hormones or vitamins, not only because Tyranosaurs tend to eat the vets who administer the shots, but because hormonal growth enhancers are bad. They’re bad for humans and bad for the environment. Also, artificial hormones come too close to playing God and we’re already pressing our luck with the genetically re-engineered dinosaurs.
But it doesn’t end with steaks! In addition to our fine meats, Happy Glade Farms offers seasonal organic produce, carrying on a fine family tradition of ecologically sustainable growing practices that enhance the environment. The unparalleled flavor of our produce comes from the quality of our all natural, residue-free fertilizer, which is available from Happy Glades in bulk year-round at extremely reasonable rates.
We know you have a choice when it comes to your family's health and diet. For quality, integrity, and really big steaks, choose Happy Glades.
“Let’s go back to that taco stand we passed,” I said.
“Sure,” said Matt, before he did a double take toward the tractors. “Is that a tank over there?”
Looking back, I said, “So it is…”
“Why would it be with the farm equipment?” Matt asked. The tank squatted among the tractors like a fat toad, completely out of place. There was no military recruitment booth nearby.
“I suppose it depends on what kind of animals you raise,” I said.
We gazed silently at the tank for a moment, and then our eyes met. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Yes,” he said. “T-Rexes.” This is one of the many reasons I married this man.
“I’m going to write this down later, you know.”
“I hope you do.”
“What’s the name of our T-Rex farm?”
“Happy Glades,” he said.
---------------------------
Welcome to Happy Glades Farms, Home of the 400oz Steak!
Our family-owned, rural Kansas farm is your best choice for locally raised, all-natural T-Rex. At Happy Glades, we believe in a holistic approach to agriculture, using small-scale farming for off-the-scales livestock. All of our meats are produced right here on the farm, 100% free-range in the fresh air and sunshine of the mid-American prairie.
Here at Happy Glades, we know how important it is for you to feed your family wholesome, nutrient-rich foods. That’s why all of our Tyranosaurs are farm-raised, USDA certified organic. Our mouth-watering selection of specialty steaks come only from the very best organically produced grass-fed-beef-fed Tyranosaurs, resulting in the rich flavor of real meat. Additionally, given the realities of Natural Selection, we personally guarantee that our choice cuts of meat come from only the healthiest animals.
Our dinosaurs are never injected with synthetic hormones or vitamins, not only because Tyranosaurs tend to eat the vets who administer the shots, but because hormonal growth enhancers are bad. They’re bad for humans and bad for the environment. Also, artificial hormones come too close to playing God and we’re already pressing our luck with the genetically re-engineered dinosaurs.
But it doesn’t end with steaks! In addition to our fine meats, Happy Glade Farms offers seasonal organic produce, carrying on a fine family tradition of ecologically sustainable growing practices that enhance the environment. The unparalleled flavor of our produce comes from the quality of our all natural, residue-free fertilizer, which is available from Happy Glades in bulk year-round at extremely reasonable rates.
We know you have a choice when it comes to your family's health and diet. For quality, integrity, and really big steaks, choose Happy Glades.
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