“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.”
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
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.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Man Versus Spider
We had a lovely date. Dinner and a movie. Making out in the theater. A pleasant drive home with the top down.
It’s nice that our marriage is still great after all these years, I thought to myself. I am SO going to make a move when we get home.
But when we pulled into the garage, something else was moving.
“Holy crap! That spider’s huge!!” Matt said.
I had been wistfully planning the next hour’s entertainment – which did not include spiders – and was brought up short as my mind tried to change gears. “What spider?” I said.
“How can you not see that?” He pointed at the stair rail.
I saw it ringed by one of the headlights, like the spotlit star of a Grand-Guignol. “Oh my god,” I said. It was truly the most horrific thing I’d seen all week. I needed to remember it forever. “Don’t startle it. I’m getting a picture.”
I crept closer to snap a few shots with my phone, all the while expecting it to leap at me, baring ichorous fangs.
“Put your hand by it for scale,” Matt said from the safety of the car.
“Like hell,” I said. But, no, he was right: the shots needed scale. I raised my hand to it slowly. Ichorous fangs continued to be absent.
“What kind is it?” Matt said. Ever since I took up bird watching, he’s always asking me the nature questions.
Of course, insects are not birds, so I had no idea, but I assumed if Kansas hosted a venomous spider that large, I would have heard stories about it, frightful tales whispered in the break room at work. Dredging my memory for the name of a harmless arachnid, I said, “Texas Cotton Spider.” Congratulations, whatever you are. I dub thee Sir Texas Cotton Spider, and so you shall henceforth be known for all your days.
“Is it dangerous?” Matt asked.
“No,” I said, which was probably true. Satisfied with the photos, I put my phone away and looked over at my husband. Damn, but he sure looked good in his fancy sports car. “Anyway, we were going inside, yes?”
Matt, still focused on the spider, ventured forth from the car, grabbing a metal garden stake from a nearby shelf. “I’m just going to relocate it first,” he said, using the stake to scoot the spider down the stair rail and along the garage floor.
“That’s not necessary,” I said edging toward the door (and the bedroom beyond). “I’m sure it’s fine.”
“No, I’d rather not think about it making a home in my tool box.”
I sighed and sat on the steps to watch.
Sir Cotton Spider, who had apparently been quite content on the stair railing, rebelled against this forced march outside, waving its hairy little legs at Matt in a manner that suggested ichorous fangs were not far off. “Harmless, right?” Matt asked.
“Totally,” I said from my seat on the stairs.
Matt poked it with the stake. “Go on,” he said gently, but the spider was having none of it. With astonishing speed, the spider dashed to the left and made a break for the stairs. I shrieked, but Matt headed it off with the garden stake, simultaneously facing down the spider and cringing back from it.
“My hero,” I said.
Matt smiled briefly before the spider regrouped for a second charge. The spider was everywhere. If Matt stepped left, the spider went right. Uttering colorful curses, Matt wielded the garden stake like a weapon, poking and stabbing toward the spider in the time-honored duel of man versus beast, making slow progress.
When he finally reached the edge of the garage, he seemed to be losing patience. Taking aim at the spider, he swung the stake like a golf club, connecting with a muted “thwock”.
The spider sailed up into the night.
And came back down again.
We know not where.
Matt turned to me, eyes wide, the question plainly writ on his face.
“I didn’t see it land,” I said.
He jerked into motion, arms flailing. “Is it on my back?” he said, rapidly turning in circles.
“I can’t tell,” I said, leaping to my feet. “Hold still.”
Instead, he rushed past me into the house, still thrashing. “Must take clothes off!” he called back over his shoulder. “Now!”
I smiled. It had taken longer than I expected, but it seemed the evening would turn out as I had hoped after all. I hit the button for the garage door, watching to be sure it closed before I went inside. As I looked over the garage, I might have seen movement in the area of the toolbox, but I didn’t investigate. I had other things to do.
It’s nice that our marriage is still great after all these years, I thought to myself. I am SO going to make a move when we get home.
But when we pulled into the garage, something else was moving.
“Holy crap! That spider’s huge!!” Matt said.
I had been wistfully planning the next hour’s entertainment – which did not include spiders – and was brought up short as my mind tried to change gears. “What spider?” I said.
“How can you not see that?” He pointed at the stair rail.
I saw it ringed by one of the headlights, like the spotlit star of a Grand-Guignol. “Oh my god,” I said. It was truly the most horrific thing I’d seen all week. I needed to remember it forever. “Don’t startle it. I’m getting a picture.”
I crept closer to snap a few shots with my phone, all the while expecting it to leap at me, baring ichorous fangs.
“Put your hand by it for scale,” Matt said from the safety of the car.
“Like hell,” I said. But, no, he was right: the shots needed scale. I raised my hand to it slowly. Ichorous fangs continued to be absent.
“What kind is it?” Matt said. Ever since I took up bird watching, he’s always asking me the nature questions.
Of course, insects are not birds, so I had no idea, but I assumed if Kansas hosted a venomous spider that large, I would have heard stories about it, frightful tales whispered in the break room at work. Dredging my memory for the name of a harmless arachnid, I said, “Texas Cotton Spider.” Congratulations, whatever you are. I dub thee Sir Texas Cotton Spider, and so you shall henceforth be known for all your days.
“Is it dangerous?” Matt asked.
“No,” I said, which was probably true. Satisfied with the photos, I put my phone away and looked over at my husband. Damn, but he sure looked good in his fancy sports car. “Anyway, we were going inside, yes?”
Matt, still focused on the spider, ventured forth from the car, grabbing a metal garden stake from a nearby shelf. “I’m just going to relocate it first,” he said, using the stake to scoot the spider down the stair rail and along the garage floor.
“That’s not necessary,” I said edging toward the door (and the bedroom beyond). “I’m sure it’s fine.”
“No, I’d rather not think about it making a home in my tool box.”
I sighed and sat on the steps to watch.
Sir Cotton Spider, who had apparently been quite content on the stair railing, rebelled against this forced march outside, waving its hairy little legs at Matt in a manner that suggested ichorous fangs were not far off. “Harmless, right?” Matt asked.
“Totally,” I said from my seat on the stairs.
Matt poked it with the stake. “Go on,” he said gently, but the spider was having none of it. With astonishing speed, the spider dashed to the left and made a break for the stairs. I shrieked, but Matt headed it off with the garden stake, simultaneously facing down the spider and cringing back from it.
“My hero,” I said.
Matt smiled briefly before the spider regrouped for a second charge. The spider was everywhere. If Matt stepped left, the spider went right. Uttering colorful curses, Matt wielded the garden stake like a weapon, poking and stabbing toward the spider in the time-honored duel of man versus beast, making slow progress.
When he finally reached the edge of the garage, he seemed to be losing patience. Taking aim at the spider, he swung the stake like a golf club, connecting with a muted “thwock”.
The spider sailed up into the night.
And came back down again.
We know not where.
Matt turned to me, eyes wide, the question plainly writ on his face.
“I didn’t see it land,” I said.
He jerked into motion, arms flailing. “Is it on my back?” he said, rapidly turning in circles.
“I can’t tell,” I said, leaping to my feet. “Hold still.”
Instead, he rushed past me into the house, still thrashing. “Must take clothes off!” he called back over his shoulder. “Now!”
I smiled. It had taken longer than I expected, but it seemed the evening would turn out as I had hoped after all. I hit the button for the garage door, watching to be sure it closed before I went inside. As I looked over the garage, I might have seen movement in the area of the toolbox, but I didn’t investigate. I had other things to do.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
A day in my life: Psychoanalysis at the Craft Store
The contents of the craft closet had disgorged themselves across the whole house and the ribbon I desperately needed for the project currently at hand had not presented itself. Fists were shaken heavenward but the gods were pitiless and cruel.
I would have to go to the craft store.
Unfortunately, craft stores and I do not mix well. In fact, ever since the notorious Photo-Box Incident of ’07, I am outright forbidden to set foot in craft stores. But I needed ribbon. The need was undeniable. If I put it off too long, the inspiration for the project would dissipate and I would be left with yet another three-quarters-completed project, nicely folded in one of many decorative photo-boxes in the craft closet, waiting for inspiration to strike again.
Taking many deep breaths to steel myself, I set forth.
Oh, I was focused. I was a champion focuser. I was there for ribbon. I would leave the store with ribbon and nothing else. “Ribbon, ribbon, ribbon,” I chanted to myself in the parking lot. We would not have another Photo-Box Incident on our hands.
“Ribbon, ribbon, ribbon,” I continued to chant to myself in the store.
“Can I help you find anything today?” a helpful woman in a blue apron asked.
“Ribbon?” I said.
“Oh, sure,” she said. “What kind of ribbon did you need?”
“Ribbon ribbon?” I said, clinging to my wavering focus.
“Well, let’s see, there’s wire ribbon, satin ribbon, curling ribbon, sequined ribbon… I’m sure if you visit each department you’ll find something that’ll work.”
Visit each department in the craft store? I wondered if, somewhere across town, my husband had sensed a disturbance in the Force. “Ribbon,” I said to her as I walked away.
“Your welcome!” she said.
I started in the floral department. Having never actively pursued floristry, I sailed elegantly through the department, gazing with cool disdain over the sprigs and sprays of dried and artificial flowers that presumably have names. They would not distract me from my goal. “Ribbon,” I continued to chant. “Ribbon, ribbon, ribb- ooh! Feathers!”
And then, my Super Ego apparently decided it was time for a break. I felt my psychic apparatus fracture into distinct and separately functioning pieces. There was Id-Tori, blissfully tossing handfuls of product she did not need into her shopping basket, and there was Ego-Tori, thinking, “What happened to focus and control? ‘Ribbon, ribbon, ribbon,’ remember?”
As Id-Tori pleasure-principled her way through half a paycheck, Ego-Tori marveled at the ingenious organization of the craft store:
For example, she mused, there is no “ribbon” section in the craft store. One finds ribbon in the floral department, the sewing department, the craft department, and the scrapbook department. The same goes for stickers, paints, feathers, and photo-boxes. These and a dozen other products besides are scattered and duplicated across the store, in every department. To find the perfect product, the shopper is forced to search the entire facility, encountering hundreds of unplanned purchases along the way.
One could argue, cleverly and well, that it makes sense for the store to be organized by hobby, whereby the scrapbookers can find all their supplies in the scrapbook section without searching the entire store, and seamstresses needn’t sully their creative energies with, say, knitting yarns. The florist need only concern herself with flowers; the artist, with paints and brushes.
One could say it may not occur to the aforementioned scrapbooker, who works primarily in paper products, that she could use ribbon in her layouts. By keeping the ribbon in the scrapbook aisle, the craft store is, in fact, selling more ribbon by planting ideas in the heads of these grossly uncreative people. “Oh, my! Look here! It never occurred to me to use ribbon in my pages before. My eyes are opened!”
Craft stores, Ego-Tori observed, are ironically the only stores where the managers are creative for you. They don’t do this sort of thing at Walmart, for example. They don’t keep the eggs in the baking aisle, no matter how logical it may seem to do so. They don’t keep the hamburger with the hamburger helper. They don’t keep the honey and whipped cream in the women’s underwear section. Shoppers are expected to make these clever connections on their own.
Id-Tori smiled and nodded through Ego-Tori’s economics lecture. With a cart full of lovely things that were not ribbon, she continued her search, visiting each aisle in each department, checking all the ribbon, finding none suitable for the project du jour. She didn’t care. She’d found scrapbook paper, stone beads, quilt fabric, and a decorative photo box. She was past the checkout lane and halfway to the car before Super Ego slunk back into the room, soliciting a “Where the hell have you been?” from Ego.
At home, I unloaded the car. No longer motivated to work on the three-quarters-completed ribbon project, I folded it nicely into the new decorative photo box and stacked it in the craft closet with the others from the notorious Photo Box Incident of ’07.
“What now?” I wondered.
“Maybe,” said the Id, “we could make something out of all this lovely new scrapbook paper.”
“Good idea,” I said.
Outnumbered and largely ignored, Ego protested, but it was no use.
I would have to go to the craft store.
Unfortunately, craft stores and I do not mix well. In fact, ever since the notorious Photo-Box Incident of ’07, I am outright forbidden to set foot in craft stores. But I needed ribbon. The need was undeniable. If I put it off too long, the inspiration for the project would dissipate and I would be left with yet another three-quarters-completed project, nicely folded in one of many decorative photo-boxes in the craft closet, waiting for inspiration to strike again.
Taking many deep breaths to steel myself, I set forth.
Oh, I was focused. I was a champion focuser. I was there for ribbon. I would leave the store with ribbon and nothing else. “Ribbon, ribbon, ribbon,” I chanted to myself in the parking lot. We would not have another Photo-Box Incident on our hands.
“Ribbon, ribbon, ribbon,” I continued to chant to myself in the store.
“Can I help you find anything today?” a helpful woman in a blue apron asked.
“Ribbon?” I said.
“Oh, sure,” she said. “What kind of ribbon did you need?”
“Ribbon ribbon?” I said, clinging to my wavering focus.
“Well, let’s see, there’s wire ribbon, satin ribbon, curling ribbon, sequined ribbon… I’m sure if you visit each department you’ll find something that’ll work.”
Visit each department in the craft store? I wondered if, somewhere across town, my husband had sensed a disturbance in the Force. “Ribbon,” I said to her as I walked away.
“Your welcome!” she said.
I started in the floral department. Having never actively pursued floristry, I sailed elegantly through the department, gazing with cool disdain over the sprigs and sprays of dried and artificial flowers that presumably have names. They would not distract me from my goal. “Ribbon,” I continued to chant. “Ribbon, ribbon, ribb- ooh! Feathers!”
And then, my Super Ego apparently decided it was time for a break. I felt my psychic apparatus fracture into distinct and separately functioning pieces. There was Id-Tori, blissfully tossing handfuls of product she did not need into her shopping basket, and there was Ego-Tori, thinking, “What happened to focus and control? ‘Ribbon, ribbon, ribbon,’ remember?”
As Id-Tori pleasure-principled her way through half a paycheck, Ego-Tori marveled at the ingenious organization of the craft store:
For example, she mused, there is no “ribbon” section in the craft store. One finds ribbon in the floral department, the sewing department, the craft department, and the scrapbook department. The same goes for stickers, paints, feathers, and photo-boxes. These and a dozen other products besides are scattered and duplicated across the store, in every department. To find the perfect product, the shopper is forced to search the entire facility, encountering hundreds of unplanned purchases along the way.
One could argue, cleverly and well, that it makes sense for the store to be organized by hobby, whereby the scrapbookers can find all their supplies in the scrapbook section without searching the entire store, and seamstresses needn’t sully their creative energies with, say, knitting yarns. The florist need only concern herself with flowers; the artist, with paints and brushes.
One could say it may not occur to the aforementioned scrapbooker, who works primarily in paper products, that she could use ribbon in her layouts. By keeping the ribbon in the scrapbook aisle, the craft store is, in fact, selling more ribbon by planting ideas in the heads of these grossly uncreative people. “Oh, my! Look here! It never occurred to me to use ribbon in my pages before. My eyes are opened!”
Craft stores, Ego-Tori observed, are ironically the only stores where the managers are creative for you. They don’t do this sort of thing at Walmart, for example. They don’t keep the eggs in the baking aisle, no matter how logical it may seem to do so. They don’t keep the hamburger with the hamburger helper. They don’t keep the honey and whipped cream in the women’s underwear section. Shoppers are expected to make these clever connections on their own.
Id-Tori smiled and nodded through Ego-Tori’s economics lecture. With a cart full of lovely things that were not ribbon, she continued her search, visiting each aisle in each department, checking all the ribbon, finding none suitable for the project du jour. She didn’t care. She’d found scrapbook paper, stone beads, quilt fabric, and a decorative photo box. She was past the checkout lane and halfway to the car before Super Ego slunk back into the room, soliciting a “Where the hell have you been?” from Ego.
At home, I unloaded the car. No longer motivated to work on the three-quarters-completed ribbon project, I folded it nicely into the new decorative photo box and stacked it in the craft closet with the others from the notorious Photo Box Incident of ’07.
“What now?” I wondered.
“Maybe,” said the Id, “we could make something out of all this lovely new scrapbook paper.”
“Good idea,” I said.
Outnumbered and largely ignored, Ego protested, but it was no use.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Meeting Media: For the Hoard
Friday, July 29, 2011
100 Word Increments: Road Trips
"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to." J.R.R. Tolkien
Unfortunately for my long-suffering family, this is also the downside.
“Can we stop there?”
“No.”
“Doesn’t that place look neat?”
“Not really.”
“Can we stop there?”
“Maybe next time.”
It’s like a tradition, the repeated requests and subsequent refusals.
“We could stop and get a gun!” Matt said.
I scoffed. “You can’t buy a gun from a Texas pawn shop!”
“Why not?”
“It might be possessed by the vengeful cowboy spirits of old!”
He blinked in confusion. “What?”
“Endlessly riding through the desert on horses of spite and flame, digging in their lightning spurs, rustling the shady cattle of the Damned – Get along, dark little doggies! – and you want to buy their gun?”
Matt sighed. “Dear,” he said. “I love you, but you’re crazy.”
We arrived disheveled after having stopped to play in the waves. I showered while Matt checked the condo’s closets for beach gear. “Dear!” he called “You get your wish!”
“An inflatable turtle floatie?” I asked.
“No…”
“A paddle ball set?”
“No.”
“A parrot kite?”
“No! Sheesh! It’s a rainbow umbrella!”
“Yay!”
“Good grief! You have a lot of beach wishes!”
But, see there? One of them came true.
“Ouch,” he said.
“I know, right?” I said. “Dolphins? What kind of mascot is that?”
“I bet they get beat up all the time by the schools with cooler mascots.”
“Definitely,” I said. “All the bigger, world-weary kids go to school down the block.”
“Their mascot is the sharks,” Matt said.
I giggled. “Dolphins vs. Sharks! It’s a slaughter every time.”
(Later, I said, “You know, in the wild, dolphins really kill sharks.”
Matt patted my knee. “I know.”)
Farther down the road, another said, “Forbidden fruit creates jams.”
Sarah said “I wonder, is there a book that they get these out of?”
“No,” I said “The puns are passed down orally through memorization by members of the secret society.”
“Enlightened Keepers of the Sign?”
“Yes,” I said. “Other people ponder the Bible’s cryptic references to signs and portents, but the Enlightened Brethren merely nod knowingly to each other.”
“Because they know which signs the Book is referring to,” Sarah said.
These are the signs of the apocalypse.
But after the fiftieth “Can we stop there?” I wondered if Richard and Leann regretted their decision to have me along on the drive across Texas, collecting adventures from billboards like a magpie gathering shiny things.
“Let’s eat there!” I said.
“Not hungry,” Leann replied.
“An outlet mall!” I exclaimed.
“Don’t need anything,” Richard said.
Then a billboard said, “Drive-through safari”.
“Can we stop there?” I said.
After a long silence, Richard said, “Actually, I’ve always wanted to do something like that.”
Leann nodded. “Me too.”
So we did.
Mental Wanderlust
I’m very good at road trips… or very bad, depending on your point of view. On the plus side, I’m easily entertained in the car. “Mental wanderlust,” my husband calls it – my mind flits from thought to thought with little provocation. Every billboard is an adventure: I want to eat at every restaurant, shop every flea market, experience every roadside attraction.Unfortunately for my long-suffering family, this is also the downside.
“Can we stop there?”
“No.”
“Doesn’t that place look neat?”
“Not really.”
“Can we stop there?”
“Maybe next time.”
It’s like a tradition, the repeated requests and subsequent refusals.
Rodeo Pawn
A billboard in the middle of nowhere read, “Rodeo Pawn – Best saddles, jewelry and guns” “We could stop and get a gun!” Matt said.
I scoffed. “You can’t buy a gun from a Texas pawn shop!”
“Why not?”
“It might be possessed by the vengeful cowboy spirits of old!”
He blinked in confusion. “What?”
“Endlessly riding through the desert on horses of spite and flame, digging in their lightning spurs, rustling the shady cattle of the Damned – Get along, dark little doggies! – and you want to buy their gun?”
Matt sighed. “Dear,” he said. “I love you, but you’re crazy.”
Beach Wishes
Everything’s beautiful when you’re going to the beach. “Look at that!” I said, pointing out every lovely thing we passed. “I wish we had one of those!” I said more than once.We arrived disheveled after having stopped to play in the waves. I showered while Matt checked the condo’s closets for beach gear. “Dear!” he called “You get your wish!”
“An inflatable turtle floatie?” I asked.
“No…”
“A paddle ball set?”
“No.”
“A parrot kite?”
“No! Sheesh! It’s a rainbow umbrella!”
“Yay!”
“Good grief! You have a lot of beach wishes!”
But, see there? One of them came true.
Mascot
When we passed “Sunnyside Elementary: Home of the Dolphins”, Matt and I glanced at each other, obviously sharing the same thought. “Ouch,” he said.
“I know, right?” I said. “Dolphins? What kind of mascot is that?”
“I bet they get beat up all the time by the schools with cooler mascots.”
“Definitely,” I said. “All the bigger, world-weary kids go to school down the block.”
“Their mascot is the sharks,” Matt said.
I giggled. “Dolphins vs. Sharks! It’s a slaughter every time.”
(Later, I said, “You know, in the wild, dolphins really kill sharks.”
Matt patted my knee. “I know.”)
Signs of the Times?
It was one of those church signs: “Sign broken. Message inside.” Farther down the road, another said, “Forbidden fruit creates jams.”
Sarah said “I wonder, is there a book that they get these out of?”
“No,” I said “The puns are passed down orally through memorization by members of the secret society.”
“Enlightened Keepers of the Sign?”
“Yes,” I said. “Other people ponder the Bible’s cryptic references to signs and portents, but the Enlightened Brethren merely nod knowingly to each other.”
“Because they know which signs the Book is referring to,” Sarah said.
These are the signs of the apocalypse.
Wanderlust Fulfilled
“Ride with us!” Matt’s parents said. “Matt can meet us there.”But after the fiftieth “Can we stop there?” I wondered if Richard and Leann regretted their decision to have me along on the drive across Texas, collecting adventures from billboards like a magpie gathering shiny things.
“Let’s eat there!” I said.
“Not hungry,” Leann replied.
“An outlet mall!” I exclaimed.
“Don’t need anything,” Richard said.
Then a billboard said, “Drive-through safari”.
“Can we stop there?” I said.
After a long silence, Richard said, “Actually, I’ve always wanted to do something like that.”
Leann nodded. “Me too.”
So we did.
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