Black Friday, Every Day

“If we skipped Thanksgiving dinner to wait in line,” Matt’s dad said, leafing through circulars before the big meal, “we can get a free door prize worth up to $100, like a grill or some camping equipment.”

This was not a thing I wanted to do, but I tried to keep an open mind. “Do you want any of those door prizes so badly that you’d pay full price for them?” I said.

“No,” he said quickly, his tone implying otherwise would be the height of stupidity.

“Then why take it for free? If you don’t want it enough to buy it, you obviously don’t really want it.”

“Because I could get it for free then sell it for half price on ebay,” he said, sipping his Starbucks.

I nodded. “I could just pay you $50 to stand in line all day and miss Thanksgiving dinner…”

“You’re right,” he laughed. “It’s not worth it.”

-

I have nightmares about it.

The crowds overwhelm me.

So many people, so many of them angry.

I stand no chance against them and have no right to be there.

And that’s just going to the grocery store on an idle Wednesday in July.

Obviously, I don’t shop the Black Friday sales.

In fact, I avoid the mall and the big box stores throughout the Christmas shopping season.

I continue to avoid them in January, when the stores are filled with people returning the things other people painstakingly bought for them in December.

I may not set foot in a store again until February. Or maybe March. Or maybe never.

-

I don't understand Black Friday because I have a bit of a spending problem.

Not the kind of spending problem where I buy things on credit and swim in a mire of debt.

I literally have a problem putting myself in situations where money will be spent.

When I was a child we didn’t have a lot of money. The rest of my family enjoyed window shopping: they could spend hours at the mall without buying anything. For me, it was torture. I developed this philosophy that if I never go to the store, I’ll never see anything new. If I never see it, I’ll never want it. It was the perfect defense against feelings of poverty and lack.

I built up defenses against spending so thick that even now, years later, I have trouble convincing myself to go to the grocery store for life-sustaining food. Unnecessary expenses like clothes and electronics require a heavenly chorus and a sign from God before they even rate consideration.

Besides, stores are busy, scary places, full of overwhelming choices that make me feel tiny and alone in a vast and infinite universe.

So I don’t go shopping.

Laziness? Perhaps.

Paranoia? Maybe.

Or is it a budgeting system brilliant in its simplicity?

-

It’s not that I don’t have wants. It’s just that I can never justify them if I’m being totally honest with myself.

Say I decide I want new yoga pants.

  

I won’t go to the store just for yoga pants; I’ll wait until I have a list of multiple wants.

But by the time I think of something else I want, perhaps a movie I like that I want to get on DVD, well, by then, the yoga pants thing is soooo two months ago! Why, I’ve been making do with one pair all this time and we’re quite happy together. I’ve only just washed it to the desired level of softness, you know! Why get another pair?

So forget the yoga pants. But I won’t go to the store just for that DVD, so then I have to wait until I want something else.

Except I could just get the DVD from the library, so maybe I don’t need anything from the store after all.

By the time I actually make it to the store, for anything, it’s not about the money anymore. Whatever it is that I want will have been wanted for so long, price is no longer an issue. There will be research beforehand. Circulars will be consulted. Reviews will be read. The yoga pants I eventually pick up may be expensive and they may not be on sale, but I will be so focused on finding the perfect pair of yoga pants that I won’t see anything else in the store.

I will wait at the door for the store to open in the morning and I will run directly toward my prize, trampling any hapless shoppers who get in my way.

So I was working the circulation desk...

For a librarian, the phrase, “So I was working the circulation desk…” is the equivalent of “This one time, at band camp…”

Seriously, every work-related story starts that way. We never run out of tales that begin with this scheme.

Sometimes patrons come in one right after the other. Bam! Bam! Bam! We don’t have time to think between crazy patrons and their bizarre demands, and we can tell you such stories about them later. “You’ll never believe the patron I had today,” we’ll say.

Other times, there are no patrons to entertain us. There’s no story time, it’s a school day, and it’s raining. The library is absolutely dead.

Still very much alive, the circulation librarians wait at the desk for something interesting to happen. We process DVDs or put spine labels on new books, working half-heartedly so we won’t finish too soon and run out of things to do.

At times like these, we chat about whatever.

So…

I was working the circulation desk…

Library Shark vs. Crocobeast

“What’s wrong with this chair?” Cathy said, swiveling toward me so I could see the chunk of plastic missing from the armrest. “It looks like someone took a bite out of it,” she said.

“It’s the height,” said Benjamin, getting technical. “If you sit at a certain angle and get up, it catches under the edge of the desk and-”

“Sharks,” I said, cutting him off. “Library sharks.”

Cathy laughed, but Benjamin raised an eyebrow at me. “How do they survive out of water?” Benjamin said.

“They don’t need water,” I said. “They’re library sharks. They survive in the library.”

“So they’re amphibious?” he asked.

“Amphibious library sharks,” I confirmed.

Cathy, running with it, said, “So if someone says a chewed up book was like that when they checked it out, you can blame the amphibious library sharks.”

“They eat books,” I said.

“What eats them?” said Cathy.

Perhaps, someday, we’ll find out.

(To Be Continued?)

The Wrath of Zombie Santa

“No, it’s totally legit! I saw it on a science show,” said Benjamin, telling me about the recipe for napalm he’d heard about. “It's just gasoline and petroleum jelly, but I don't know the ratios.”

“It may call for experimentation,” I said, glancing over at Stephanie and catching her subtle head shake. “Or, maybe not.”

“I should get a flame thrower!” said Benjamin.

“No,” Stephanie and I said together.

Seemingly deflated, Benjamin emptied the return bin, scanned a few books, then said, “Don't you think that would be an awesome weapon to have in the zombie apocalypse?”

“Hrm,” I said, considering, because that’s exactly the sort of direction my imagination goes.

Stephanie, whose imagination runs rather a different direction, said, “What if they were flame retardant?”

Benjamin and I looked at each other, then back at Stephanie. “How many flame retardant zombies do you know?” said Benjamin.

“I don't know any zombies,” she said, looking at us like we were children.

“Zombies are made of people,” I said, patting her shoulder. “Do you know any flame retardant people?”

“Santa,” said Stephanie, imagination running in an altogether different dimension.

“What?” said Benjamin.

“It was in one of those movies! He has a flame retardant suit!” said Stephanie.

“No, it makes sense,” I said. “Because he has to go down chimneys and some of them might be lit.”

“Zombie Santa!” said Stephanie.

“It would be awful!” said Benjamin, but his eyes lit up as he said it. “He'd be able to fly all around the world in the blink of an eye with his zombie reindeer!”

Stephanie and I both looked at him. “What?” I said. “Nobody said anything about zombie reindeer.”

“Yeah,” said Stephanie, “What are you smoking?”

My Blind Doppelganger

The three of us were clustered around a single computer, viewing the headlines with disgust. It was tragic and horrible and a serious matter not to be made fun of.

“What makes somebody do that?” I said, genuinely disturbed.

“He's crazy,” said Carla.

“Well, sure but lots of people are crazy,” such as myself, I thought, “and they're not all like that.”

“Statistically, there must be lots of people like that,” said Carla. “Isn’t that awful?”

“Like I always say,” said Benjamin (who doesn’t always say this, by the way), “If you're one in a million, that means there are seven thousand other people in this world JUST LIKE YOU.”

We let that sink in a moment.

“Wow,” I said.

“Well, that's something to think about,” said Carla.

“They do say everyone has a doppelganger out there. I've never met mine, though,” I said.

“Can you imagine?” said Carla. “That moment when you recognize each other and realize what you're looking at?”

And, of course, because I’m a pessimist, I immediately imagined that when I met my doppelganger she would be blind, so I wouldn't get any reaction from her at all, ruining the whole experience. Maybe if I over-reacted, she could share my excitement? I thought. But what’s to stop me from acting that way in front of any blind person?

“Hey, guys!” I said. “Wouldn't that be the best joke to play on a blind person? To pretend they're your doppelganger? Just walk up to them and be all 'OMG! I look JUST LIKE you! We're doppelgangers! This is amazing! Can we just take a picture together so I can post it on my facebook? No one's ever going to believe this?'”

“It’s brilliant!” said Benjamin.

“It’s terrible!” said Carla. “How do you think of these things? What possesses you to think of these things?”

“Something bad,” I said. “Possession isn't like that Exorcist movie. This, me: that's what it’s like.”

Canned Goods

It was gorgeous outside – or at least it looked that way from my decidedly indoor job. Imprisoned at the circulation desk, quivering with longing like a dog ordered to stay, I gazed forlornly at the city park just outside the library’s glass double doors. Every patron greeted me with some variation of “Have you been out in this perfect weather?”

I would be. Oh, yes, I would be.

The clock rolled over to my lunch break like a starting pistol. I was off, just me and my purple lunch box against the world. On the far side of a small pond replete with ducks, empty picnic tables waited for me under a little-used pavilion in a quiet clearing, a full fifteen minute walk from the library. I set off down the tree-lined path.

It was sunny, but not too hot, with a light breeze rippling the water. Squirrels chased each other through the greenery. I identified what I thought was a red-winged blackbird’s call, then visually confirmed my guess, congratulating myself on my ornithological skills. I belonged in this verdant world. I was mother freaking nature.

At the pavilion, I swiped the dust off a picnic table, slung down my lunch box, and artfully arrayed my little feast on a floral-patterned paper towel: turkey sandwich, pickles, and one foil-wrapped dark chocolate square. “I shall eat you last,” I said to the chocolate, popping the tab on a can of Dr. Pepper and tossing the empty sandwich baggie in a nearby trash can...

Which growled at me.

Hang on, I thought. I know lots of stuff about birds and nature and things; therefore, I know that is not the trash can’s natural call.

I stood listening for a moment. It happened again.

“What the-” I said, peeking inside. (As much as I would like to believe I have more sense than horror movie victims, it’s just not so.) A flurry of claws and teeth flew toward me.

I screamed, clambering on top of the picnic table and spilling my soda. The trash can vibrated, chattering wildly, then rattled to a stop.

What was that? I wondered.

Standing on the table, I peeked over the rim of the can. The trapped creature made another growling leap, sending me nearly over the far edge of the table in my haste to back away. Cause of death: subject fell off a picnic table. Let’s not do that, I thought. On hands and knees, heart pounding, I leaned over the table’s edge, holding my phone up and out to snap a picture of the imprisoned beast.

On my phone’s tiny screen, a small and rather sad raccoon gazed soulfully out at me. I couldn’t believe my own cowardice. Who trembles in fear at a little raccoon? “Hang on, Ranger Rick!” I said, stepping to the ground. “I’ll get you out of there.”

The raccoon growled with renewed fervor, incensed at the sound of my voice. I scrambled onto the table once more as the trash can rocked back and forth in wide arcs, as though the raccoon was throwing himself at the walls.

There’s a 99% chance this is a perfectly ordinary woodland creature, I thought. If I knock that trash can over, he will flee from my human presence with nary a backward glance. The sweet strains of “Born Free” will accompany his furry exodus.

However, there is a 1% chance this is a rabid raccoon-demon with a burning hatred of all humankind. He’s seen my face and he knows my scent and if I release him, there is no sanctuary in this world or the next that can protect me from his fury.

Those were not good odds.

Cross-legged on the table-top, I dialed the library. “Aren’t you at lunch?” Karen said when I identified myself.

“I’m in the park,” I said, as the raccoon cussed me out.  “I need the number for animal control.”

“We don’t have animal control in Andover! We’re too small!” she said sweetly.

Trying to keep the desperate edge out of my voice, I said, “Who do you call when you’ve got a raccoon in a trash can?”

A long silence followed, broken only by the local wildlife’s displeasure with my company. Finally, Karen said, “Couldn’t you just tip it over?”

“He looks angry!”

I heard poorly muffled laughter. “Maybe you should try the fire department.”

After several failed attempts due to trembling fingers, I managed to dial the number. The fire department’s dispatcher apparently lost interest when I wasn’t on fire. Sounding bored, she said, “We don’t really rescue wild animals.”

“Forget the animal!” I said. “Come rescue me!”

“Maybe you could tip it over?”

“That’s not going to work!”

“Try the police station,” she suggested.

The raccoon was screaming by now, which didn’t make dialing any easier. Before the oblivious officer could finish saying “Andover Police Department,” I poured out the whole sorry tale in a single breath.

“-and-she-said-to-tip-it-over-but-the-raccoon-is-angry-so-I-can’t-tip-it-over!” I said, then “Hello?” when I received no response.

“So, you don’t want to tip the trash can over?” the bemused officer said.

“Are you hearing any of this?!” I shrieked. As if on cue, the raccoon chose this moment to voice his discontent.

“Okay!” said the officer. “No worries. We’ll send someone around to have a look.”

“Thank you!” I said, feeling better as I hung up. Then I realized I was still crouched on the picnic table in fear of the malevolent raccoon. Sighing, I reached to the far side of the table for my sandwich. “That went well, I think,” I told the raccoon. I tossed a chunk of sandwich in the trash can, then, as an afterthought, added a couple of pickles.

When I finished eating, I slid off the table as quietly as possible, stuffing my trash in my lunch box to throw away later, and started the walk back to the library. On my way, I passed a police car, circling the park to reach the picnic tables on the other side. I smiled, waved, and kept walking. I was ready to get back to my nice indoor job.

I am so tired of being outside, I thought.

100 Word Increments: Parenting Advice from the Library

Imagine, if you will, that I don’t have friends with kids. Or coworkers with kids. Or relatives who talk to me constantly about kids (namely, the part where I don't have any kids). Imagine I have no access to books or blogs or magazines about parenting and I’ve never seen a family sitcom. Imagine that everything I know about parenting comes from close observation of the parents and children who pass through the library each day. Now, imagine that you have just asked me (the childless wonder) for parenting advice. Based on my extensive observations, this is what I'll say:

1. Other people can still hear your child screaming.

The twins would have been cute in their matching outfits if not for their identical gaping mouths, wailing like a pair of banshees at an Irish hospice. Their mother wandered the library with her double stroller, ignoring the noise, or possibly deafened by it, for half an hour.

Here’s a concept I’ve been toying with - just a thought, really:

How about - I know this is crazy, but when your kid is having a bad day and just wants to stand in the middle of the room and scream, how about we have that day NOT be library day?

2. Kids are sneaky.

Fetching a book from the bottom shelf in the children’s section, I found myself at eye level with a smiling boy.

“Hi!” he said, surprised, as if I had magically appeared before him.

“Hello,” I said.

“How did you get here at the library?” he asked.

“I drove here in my car,” I said. “How did you get here?”

“I drove here in my car too!”

“Really?” I said. “You look a bit young to be driving.”

“No, I’m not!” he said, holding out his mother’s keys.

“How did you get hold of those?” his mother said, taking them back.

3. When all else fails, resort to bribery.

“Rawr!” a pigtailed girl played in the floor with our plastic dinosaurs.

“Whatcha doin’?” her brother asked.

“I’m a dinosaur!” she said, flexing pretend claws. “Rawr!”

The boy shrugged and ignored her in favor of the blocks.

“Kids, it’s time to go,” said their mother.

“We can’t!” said the dinosaur. “I’m not done destroying yet!” She demonstrated by leveling the block city recently abandoned by her brother.

“Time’s up. We’re leaving.”

“Rawr!”

“That’s too bad. I was going to take us for ice cream, but dinosaurs don’t eat ice cream.”

“Ra…” The roar ended on a cough. “Let’s go, mommy.”

4. You have to watch your children.

The adorable little boy in overalls looked like he was on his way to the fishing hole: barefoot, blond duck-fluff hair sticking up, smiling as he walked the stumbling walk of children barely past crawling…

Gaily plucking book after book off the shelves and dropping them on the floor.

It looked like the shelves had exploded.

“Where is your mother?!” I cried aloud.

“Here!” she said from across the room, making no move to interfere.

I glared at her for as long as it took her to gather her child and leave, then spent an hour cleaning up the mess.

5. Teenage nannies are more interested in other teenage nannies than in their charges.

While shelving, I eavesdropped on three teenagers whose toddler siblings played nearby. Toddler Brother wouldn’t leave Teenage Boy alone to get his game on.

“Will you be my girlfriend?” Toddler Brother asked the girls.

“Go play. You can’t have a girlfriend,” said Teenage Boy.

“You have a girlfriend!” said Toddler Brother. “Why can’t I?”

“Because you’re five.”

“Oh,” said Toddler Brother, turning away sadly.

 “So,” snapped Teenage Girl 1, “you have a girlfriend?”

“What?” Teenage Boy backpedaled. “No! He doesn’t know what he’s talking about!”

The girls traded knowing glances. “Uh-huh,” said Teenage Girl 2, collecting their sisters. “Let’s go.”

6. It’s never too early to think about their future careers.

As a haggard mom flipped through the books on the cart, her daughter pointed. “What’s that?”

Mom sighed as though she were tired of answering questions. “It’s a book about squirrels.”

The girl’s face scrunched in confusion. “Why?”

Mom, still flipping through books, shrugged. “Because that’s what the author wanted to write about.”

The girl waited for more.

Mom ignored her. Flip, flip…

Finally, the girl said, “That’s silly.”

Mom didn’t even look up. “What would you write about?”

The girl stared in thought, then said, “Dogs.”

“Well,” said mom, “someday you can be an author and write about dogs.”

A Halloween Conversation with Noah

At the 8th Annual Salamander Halloween Party At The Coles’s’s’s’s, there was candy. There were cookies. There was jello shaped like a brain. And there were about a dozen children singing the praises of all sugar plantation workers everywhere, in the traditional fashion – that is to say, at the top of their lungs and at high speeds.

The parents of those children, my friends, claiming they were all too tired to deal with the hassle of Halloween, had arrived at the party in their normal clothes, changed into costumes for fifteen minutes of photos, and then changed back.

What else has changed, I wondered, since we received the apostrophe-peppered invitation to the First Annual Salamander Halloween Party At The Coles’s’s’s’s all those years ago? I sat alone on the couch nearest the candy bowl, watching the activity around me. There was Sarah, changing a diaper. There were the other girls, discussing toddler discipline. Here and there, the men chased or chastised the children.

Are we old now? I asked. Have we stopped being fun?

My thoughts were interrupted by a red-headed child in skeleton pajamas, climbing onto the couch beside me and pressing me into a hug. “Hi, Tori!” he said.

“Hi, Noah,” I said, patting his back. “Are you having fun?”

“Yes!” he said, gesturing about the room. “Everyone is wearing costumes!”

Everyone except the old fogeys who have already changed out of them, I thought, but I said, “Yes, I noticed that.”

“Are they superheroes?” Noah asked.

“What?” I said.

“All superheroes wear costumes,” Noah said, matter-of-factly.

“Hmm,” I said, mulling it over. “You know what? You’re right.”

Noah seemed satisfied with this response. We watched as child I didn’t recognize tormented another. I felt no need to intervene. Eventually, Noah said, “I have a Captain America costume.”

“Do you?” I looked over at his skeleton costume, wondered why he wasn’t wearing that instead.

“Yup. Mom says I’ll outgrow it someday.”

I thought of a pair of boys who usually attend library storytime wearing Batman and Spiderman costumes because they never want to wear anything else and wondered if Noah’s mother faced a similar situation.

“Where do superheroes get their costumes?” Noah asked, obviously planning ahead for the day when he outgrows Cap.

“That’s a good question,” I said. “Maybe there’s a store in the mall. If we found it, we could be superheroes.” See, I thought. I’m discussing superheroes with a five-year-old. I’m still young. I still know how to have fun.

“I want to be Batman when I grow up,” Noah said, struggling to unwrap a Snickers from the bowl on the table.

“Oh yeah?” I said, reaching over to lend him a hand.

Noah pulled back and squinted at me suspiciously. I pulled my hands away, palms out to show I meant no harm, but he wasn’t concerned about the candy. “Tori…” he said, dragging out my name.

“Yes, Noah?”

“You’re already grown up,” he said, accusingly.

Oh, snap! The jig is up! “So I am.”

He held the Snickers out so that I could help him with it and asked, “What super hero are you going to be?”

False alarm. The immature conversation commences. I opened the wrapper and returned the candy to him. “I hadn’t thought about it, really.”

“You can’t be Batman,” he said.

“Of course not.”

“I’m Batman,” he said, the normal effect of the words dulled by his mouth full of chocolate.

“I remember you said so.” Elsewhere in the room, Ari or Ally or Ellie or some other child with an alliterative name was crying.

Noah chewed his candy, swallowed, dug in the bowl for another. Finally, he said, “You could be Captain America.”

“I bet I’d be good at it,” I said, taking the piece of candy he offered me.

We sat in silence a moment, as I chewed candy and he concentrated on opening his. “I got it!” he said, showing me the chocolate he had unwrapped on his own. Then, almost as an afterthought, he said, “You’d have to learn to use a shield.”

“You’re right,” I said. “What will I do if I can’t find a shield?”

“You could be Catwoman.” He held up his candy wrapper. “What do I do with this?”

I wadded the wrapper into my hand to throw away later. Which I then realized was a very adult thing for me to do. I sighed. “I suppose.”

I started to reach past him for the candy bowl, but stopped when I realized he was squinting at me again. “Tori?”

“Yes, Noah?” I said, feeling to see if I had candy on my face.

“Why don’t you have any kids?”

Speaking of avoiding adult conversations… “Charley!” I called across the room, getting Noah’s father’s attention. “Your son just asked me why I don’t have any kids.”

Charley winced, crossed the room in long strides, and, taking Noah’s hand, pulled him gently to his feet.  “Aaaaand we’re done here,” Charley said, leading his son toward a corner where other children were playing. “Time to give Tori a break.”

Alone on the couch again, I pulled the candy bowl into my lap, feeling a little older than I did before.

The Locker Room Exchange

I’m a disgusting exerciser. I like to think of it as sweating out my impurities: I must forcefully exorcise my dietary demons from deep within my muscles where they have rotted in iniquity for years, or since I ate that donut last week. I imagine sweat is poison leaving my body, clinging to my clothes; anyone who crosses my path will smell me and know I am UNCLEAN.

One morning after my run, sopping with sin and sweat, I stumbled to the locker room, peeled away the sodden skunk pelts my clothes had become, and shoved them in my gym bag like a body I needed to hide in a hurry (…not that I know what that's like). It was when I turned from the locker toward my salvation – the shower – that I encountered the hateful woman.

"Excuse me!!!" she said, stretching the phrase into more syllables than the normal three, enunciating in a way that implied multiple exclamation points. 

Still disoriented from my workout, naked, armed only with a towel and a toiletry bag, I was caught off guard. A dozen questions fired through my soggy synapses at the speed of decaffeinated thought: Did I run into her? Am I in her way? Did I put my filthy clothes in her locker by mistake? It's still morning, after all: is this angry apparition a dream? Will I wake up soon? Can there be coffee? I cautiously said only, "Yes?"

The woman, who was built like an aging supermodel and might have been forty-five, scowled. "Put some clothes on!"

That can't be right, I thought. I've only just taken them all off. They were drenched and so am I. "I'm heading to the shower," I said, by way of explanation. Perhaps she was confused since I was already soaked. I was prepared to forgive her for the misunderstanding.

"Nudity is still uncalled for!" she shrieked.

If you had seen my workout clothes before I took them off, I thought, you would know that in this case nudity is absolutely and totally called for. What I said was, "I'm not naked because I'm trying to offend you. I'm naked because I'm heading to the shower." And because I may need to burn those clothes later.

Her face screwed up like the wadded shirt in the bottom of my gym bag. "Maybe you need to get up earlier so you have time to shower at home!"

“Get Up Earlier” is, of course, the most offensive phrase there is. If this prudish stranger had looked me in the face when I was either fully awake or fully clothed and suggested I "Get Up Earlier", I would have responded with inappropriate language and crude gestures. Instead, I merely said the first thing that came to mind, namely: "Lady, if naked people offend you, maybe you need to get up earlier so you don't have to use the locker room."

She gasped, gathered her things from a nearby bench, and stormed away, sparing me one last glance over her shoulder.

The synapses misfired a few more times: was she right? Are there social mores I'm unaware of, societal constructs around nudity in the locker room that my unathletic upbringing has left me unprepared for? Maybe the showers are just for swimmers to rinse the chlorine off their suits before they get dressed again, carefully covering each body part as they go? Are there changing rooms I've missed? Do I need to bring a bathrobe next time? If she was so offended by my nudity, why didn’t she avert her eyes?

Hearing a polite cough, I turned to see an elderly woman on the bench behind me, white hair disheveled and workout clothes darkened by sweat. "Can you believe that?" I said, and then realized, briefly, that she had a perfectly unobstructed view of my naked ass and wondered if I would have to repeat the entire exchange.

"Honey," she said, lifting her own shirt over her head and slipping off her shoes, "I didn't see a thing." Kicking her pants off, she ambled toward the shower without even a towel to shield herself.  

Meeting Media: It's not always stories.

A friend recently asked me, "Do you end up with a story every time you leave a boring meeting?" Truthfully, no. Sometimes, very rarely, I end up with actual notes about the content of the meeting. A good deal of the time, I end up with a mass of scribbles tangentially related to the content of the meeting, something rather like the following. For those who doubt that these scribbles are in any way related to an actual meeting, I've added some notes to help better immerse the reader into my psyche from that day. 

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.