I have eaten—and enjoyed—a lot of strange things in my life: ostrich burgers, crayons, bison nachos (not to be confused with buffalo chips), venison, crocodile, sidewalk salt (don’t ask), oysters, kangaroo jerky, rabbit, sushi, figs…but I do believe Saturday night’s experience just might top them all.
I ate…tongue.
A couple of months ago my friend sent me a picture of himself eating something. “What are you eating?” I texted back. “Lengua taco,” came the reply. I recognized “taco” of course, but my Spanish is pretty rusty. “Lengua?” “Tongue.” I believe I now hold the Guinness record for “most ewewewewews sent in one text message.”
Fast forward to last Saturday. After spending the day together (go Wolves), we were on our way back to my house rather late at night. “Hungry? I know a good Mexican place.” “Mexican sounds good” I said, tired and half frozen and not really paying proper attention. We went in, sat down, and started perusing the menu.
And there it was: “Lengua Taco.” I cocked an eyebrow at him, suspecting an ulterior motive. Of course he ordered one. It didn’t look like any taco I’ve seen before, but then I’m more used to Taco Bell than authentic cuisine. Picture a flat corn tortilla about four inches in diameter heaped with glistening gray-brown blobs of meat and topped with lettuce sprinklings and cheese. Sounds appetizing, right? The first thing my friend did was reach over and plop a meaty chunk right on top of my burrito. Then he sat back and smiled.
I took a deep breath, picked up my fork, and poked it. When that didn’t make it magically disappear—or fall off the burrito—I stabbed it and held it up for a closer inspection. It looked slimy. And squishy. And it smelled like liver. I closed my eyes and slid it off my fork into my mouth. I chewed twice and my eyes popped open. It was like masticating somebody’s tongue. Somebody who hadn’t been practicing good oral hygiene.
“That is not a happy face,” my friend observed. “Urrrkkgllk” I replied. I had to close my eyes again to concentrate. “Uggghhh!” I swallowed and grabbed for my Pepsi. I could feel the offending morsel slither down my throat and splash into my stomach. I may have shuddered.
It wasn’t my friend’s fault. Well, not entirely. I will admit I was curious about the whole concept. I could have opted out of eating it. I could have said “Nah, I’m not into Mexican tonight.” I could have taken a tiny nibble instead cramming the entire 1”-2” long piece in my mouth. Most importantly, I can cite precedent. I’ve actually eaten tongue before without any histrionics.
One of my uncles threw a big party when a couple of his kids graduated school at the same time and part of the festivities included a pig roast. I was probably in high school—or maybe even junior high—at the time and the spitted swine drew my immediate attention. I’d never seen a whole pig being roasted before and the aggrieved expression on its face fascinated me.
The pig guy, perhaps seeing my interest, asked me if I had any questions (foolish man). I wanted to know how hard it was to get the pig onto the spit, how long it took to cook, if hooves could catch fire, if people ate the head and the tail, and other suitably gross questions (I may have asked about eyeballs too, but I don’t quite remember). About this time another uncle came up to me. “You should try the tongue, Janet,” my older and wiser relative said. “Pig tongue is delicious.”
I looked at the pig guy. “Do people really eat the tongue? Is that healthy?” He allowed as to how it was possible, but not very many people came right out and asked. “Well,” I said, trusting my uncle—who by this time had abandoned me to my fate—“Do you think it’s done cooking yet?” “Should be. You want it?” The pig guy took out a sharp knife, pried Porky’s mouth open, liberated the tongue with a juicy-sounding schluuuuk, and held it out.
Feeling rather brave and morbidly curious at this point, I wrapped it in a napkin and took a bite. Roasted pork tongue, if you’re wondering, has the texture of a pork chop and tastes like any other edible pig part. I gleefully gnawed away as I sought out my trouble-making uncle.
“Hey, Uncle Tay.”
“Hey, Jake! Whatcha eating?”
“Pig tongue. Want a bite?”
I am not entirely sure if Uncle Tay actually knew what he was talking about or if I was an innocent victim. If it was a joke, my matter-of-factness probably spoiled the fun quite a bit. He did, however, end up eating the rest of it once it dawned on me I was chewing something that had up until recently been coated in pig spit.
My most recent experience may have been vaguely nauseating, but I’m willing to give it another shot. Preferably when I’m wide awake and haven’t burnt a hole in my tongue with the complimentary salsa and chips. I had much the same reaction the first time I ate sushi. But I tried it again and now I like it just fine.
And if nothing else, my antics will provide tableside entertainment for my friends!
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Monday, March 26, 2012
Romancing the Judge—version 2012
Yes, folks, it’s that time again. The Greater Detroit Romance Writers of America’s annual Bookseller’s Best Awards are upon us. What does this mean? Well, if you’re a submitting writer, it means that after all the hard work of plotting, researching, writing, editing, publishing, and PR you’re still not done. Now you get to sit on pins and needles, gnawing nervously on your fingernails as you wait to hear if you’ve won.
If you’re a judge, though, it means a big fat stack of books mysteriously appears on your desk one day in March, accompanied by the eager demands of your coworkers (and co-judges) “Did you see your books? How many books did you get? What category are you judging this year?” And, a few days later, “Have you started your books yet? How are they?”
Judge registration takes place every autumn, and along with the usual name/address/qualifications (gotta be a book seller or a librarian) there’s a list of categories you can select from. It’s quite a long list-- everything from inspirational to erotic and from traditional to suspense. You can judge the paranormal category, short historical, long historical, long contemporary, short contemporary, single title, best first book, young adult, or novella. I’ve probably missed a couple of categories…that list seems shorter than usual.
Along with selecting which groups you want to judge, there is also the option to deselect categories you’d rather skip. I usually end up crossing off “erotica.” I’ve only read a handful of that stuff in the past (A.N. Roquelaure being the best) and I prefer not to subject myself to it unless I know it’s going to be well-written. Bad erotica is just painful. If I remember correctly “traditional” and “young adult” also get the ax. I’m not enough of a romantic to stomach Harlequin novels, and reading about teenage angst drives me batty.
Historical is my preferred genre, only because there tends to be more of a plot. I find I can distract myself from even the most graphic descriptions of throbbing members and aching breasts if I focus on the historical details. It usually helps keeps my gag reflex in check.
Once I obtain my books, I try to start with the least appealing one first. If I get the most horrible one out of the way, then things can only get better, right? And because I’m a big proponent of the “rip the Band-Aid off fast” school of thought, I read my entrants one after the other. Get in, get it done, get out. Which, come to think of it, is a very apt description of a romance novel in and of itself!
I have my books delivered to the library and they arrive in a big white tear-proof mailing bag. One energetic struggle with the scissors later, and the bounty pours forth. This year’s contestants: Texas Blue by Jodi Thomas, Passion’s Spirit by Doris Lemcke, The Vampire Voss by Colleen Gleason, The Naked King by Sally MacKenzie, and Defiant by Kris Kennedy (still reading, so no review yet). It’s always rather exciting to get new books, especially when the authors take a moment to sign them (usually something along the lines of “Best Wishes” or “Enjoy the read!”).
A judging form is included with each packet, or you can use the online form in case your vacuum cleaner accidentally eats the hard copy. You write in the title of each book and give it a score of 1-10 (1 being abysmal and 10 being amazing). I admit I’m a tough judge; I think the highest I ever gave a book was a “7.” Then you either pop the paper into an envelope—not included—or e-mail your results to the leader of the contest.
The votes are tabulated, and the winners are announced on the contest’s website (see above). I’m not sure what the authors win besides bragging rights but it would definitely be an ego boost to be able to say “Why, yes, I’ve just won the “Best Long Historical” category…and how are you doing with your writing?” Once the winners are announced, you’re done, at least until next year!
If you’re a judge, though, it means a big fat stack of books mysteriously appears on your desk one day in March, accompanied by the eager demands of your coworkers (and co-judges) “Did you see your books? How many books did you get? What category are you judging this year?” And, a few days later, “Have you started your books yet? How are they?”
Judge registration takes place every autumn, and along with the usual name/address/qualifications (gotta be a book seller or a librarian) there’s a list of categories you can select from. It’s quite a long list-- everything from inspirational to erotic and from traditional to suspense. You can judge the paranormal category, short historical, long historical, long contemporary, short contemporary, single title, best first book, young adult, or novella. I’ve probably missed a couple of categories…that list seems shorter than usual.
Along with selecting which groups you want to judge, there is also the option to deselect categories you’d rather skip. I usually end up crossing off “erotica.” I’ve only read a handful of that stuff in the past (A.N. Roquelaure being the best) and I prefer not to subject myself to it unless I know it’s going to be well-written. Bad erotica is just painful. If I remember correctly “traditional” and “young adult” also get the ax. I’m not enough of a romantic to stomach Harlequin novels, and reading about teenage angst drives me batty.
Historical is my preferred genre, only because there tends to be more of a plot. I find I can distract myself from even the most graphic descriptions of throbbing members and aching breasts if I focus on the historical details. It usually helps keeps my gag reflex in check.
Once I obtain my books, I try to start with the least appealing one first. If I get the most horrible one out of the way, then things can only get better, right? And because I’m a big proponent of the “rip the Band-Aid off fast” school of thought, I read my entrants one after the other. Get in, get it done, get out. Which, come to think of it, is a very apt description of a romance novel in and of itself!
I have my books delivered to the library and they arrive in a big white tear-proof mailing bag. One energetic struggle with the scissors later, and the bounty pours forth. This year’s contestants: Texas Blue by Jodi Thomas, Passion’s Spirit by Doris Lemcke, The Vampire Voss by Colleen Gleason, The Naked King by Sally MacKenzie, and Defiant by Kris Kennedy (still reading, so no review yet). It’s always rather exciting to get new books, especially when the authors take a moment to sign them (usually something along the lines of “Best Wishes” or “Enjoy the read!”).
A judging form is included with each packet, or you can use the online form in case your vacuum cleaner accidentally eats the hard copy. You write in the title of each book and give it a score of 1-10 (1 being abysmal and 10 being amazing). I admit I’m a tough judge; I think the highest I ever gave a book was a “7.” Then you either pop the paper into an envelope—not included—or e-mail your results to the leader of the contest.
The votes are tabulated, and the winners are announced on the contest’s website (see above). I’m not sure what the authors win besides bragging rights but it would definitely be an ego boost to be able to say “Why, yes, I’ve just won the “Best Long Historical” category…and how are you doing with your writing?” Once the winners are announced, you’re done, at least until next year!
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Monday, March 12, 2012
Dummies for a Dummy
I am a fan of Dummies. No, not those creepy humanoid simulacra people use in ventriloquist acts. Or crash test dummies—although I do appreciate their sacrifices (do they ever use pet crash test dummies?). And I may have had a dummy as a child (we just called it a binky) but I’m not talking about those either.
My Dummies of choice are the wonderful “…for Dummies” books. You know the ones I mean. Those instantly recognizable black-and-yellow paperback books with the picture of the guy (who I imagine looks like something Picasso might have created during a rare brush with reality) that’s pointing or holding some sort of essential tool. Why he chooses to point is something I’ve never figured out. Is he having an ah-ha moment? Is he subtly making fun of the reader by “pointing” him/her out as a dummy? Either way, I must admit I am amused by the fact that it’s a man featured on the cover of these books.
When a patron comes into the library looking for a basic book about a subject, I usually point to the Dummies book if we have one. I always preface such a move by saying “Now I’m not insulting your intelligence, but we do have (whatever) for Dummies and that’s usually a good place to start.” The vast majority of patrons usually end up taking the Dummies book (and sometimes the Complete Idiot’s Guide to (whatever) as well) with a relieved smile.
While I’m on the subject, let me just say I am not as big a fan of the Idiot books. They’re both great resources, and I’ve read my share of both. It’s not the way they treat the subject matter, or their writing style. They do a good job. It’s mostly that I object to being called an idiot. Yes, I know they aren’t really calling me an idiot anymore than the Dummies books are really calling me a dummy. To me, “idiot” sounds somewhat mean spirited, whereas “dummy” is at least a little kinder. When given a choice between the two, I guess I’d rather be a Dummy than an Idiot.
And there are so many ways to be a Dummy. With hundreds of titles to choose from, you can cure your dummy-ness in everything from Access 2003 All-In-One Desk Reference for Dummies to Zune for Dummies. Which illustrates a good point. An overwhelming amount of the Dummies books are dedicated to technological terror. At last count, there were fifty Dummies dealing with some aspect of Microsoft. That’s followed closely by forty-three books dedicated to Windows, twenty-eight for Photoshop, and fourteen for Office.
The Dummies books are undoubtedly wonderful resources…but some of their titles can be a tad misleading. If one didn’t know any better, one might think at first glance that Boxers for Dummies was a book about underpants. And for the record, Snort for Dummies doesn’t have anything whatsoever to do with bodily noises. On the other hand, however, sometimes they are exactly what they sound like. Elvis for Dummies anyone? How about Sex for Dummies? Picture Puzzles for Dummies, Stretching for Dummies, Vampire (the requiem) for Dummies, the list goes on and on.
Which, of course, means that I have found a plethora of Dummies books to assuage my own lack of random knowledge. If you, too, want to even out the (sometimes previously unknown) gaps in your education, then I suggest you check out the Dummies' website and get yourself some info, Dummy-style. Dummies of the world, unite!
My Dummies of choice are the wonderful “…for Dummies” books. You know the ones I mean. Those instantly recognizable black-and-yellow paperback books with the picture of the guy (who I imagine looks like something Picasso might have created during a rare brush with reality) that’s pointing or holding some sort of essential tool. Why he chooses to point is something I’ve never figured out. Is he having an ah-ha moment? Is he subtly making fun of the reader by “pointing” him/her out as a dummy? Either way, I must admit I am amused by the fact that it’s a man featured on the cover of these books.
When a patron comes into the library looking for a basic book about a subject, I usually point to the Dummies book if we have one. I always preface such a move by saying “Now I’m not insulting your intelligence, but we do have (whatever) for Dummies and that’s usually a good place to start.” The vast majority of patrons usually end up taking the Dummies book (and sometimes the Complete Idiot’s Guide to (whatever) as well) with a relieved smile.
While I’m on the subject, let me just say I am not as big a fan of the Idiot books. They’re both great resources, and I’ve read my share of both. It’s not the way they treat the subject matter, or their writing style. They do a good job. It’s mostly that I object to being called an idiot. Yes, I know they aren’t really calling me an idiot anymore than the Dummies books are really calling me a dummy. To me, “idiot” sounds somewhat mean spirited, whereas “dummy” is at least a little kinder. When given a choice between the two, I guess I’d rather be a Dummy than an Idiot.
And there are so many ways to be a Dummy. With hundreds of titles to choose from, you can cure your dummy-ness in everything from Access 2003 All-In-One Desk Reference for Dummies to Zune for Dummies. Which illustrates a good point. An overwhelming amount of the Dummies books are dedicated to technological terror. At last count, there were fifty Dummies dealing with some aspect of Microsoft. That’s followed closely by forty-three books dedicated to Windows, twenty-eight for Photoshop, and fourteen for Office.
The Dummies books are undoubtedly wonderful resources…but some of their titles can be a tad misleading. If one didn’t know any better, one might think at first glance that Boxers for Dummies was a book about underpants. And for the record, Snort for Dummies doesn’t have anything whatsoever to do with bodily noises. On the other hand, however, sometimes they are exactly what they sound like. Elvis for Dummies anyone? How about Sex for Dummies? Picture Puzzles for Dummies, Stretching for Dummies, Vampire (the requiem) for Dummies, the list goes on and on.
Which, of course, means that I have found a plethora of Dummies books to assuage my own lack of random knowledge. If you, too, want to even out the (sometimes previously unknown) gaps in your education, then I suggest you check out the Dummies' website and get yourself some info, Dummy-style. Dummies of the world, unite!
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Childless and Happy
In general, small children are not my favorite type of people. It’s not that I hate them. I just choose not to have them. I acknowledge there are plenty of people (parents, grandparents, babysitters, teachers, etc) who simply adore the little rug rats. If you are one of these people, God bless you. But I’m not.
As far as I am aware, there isn’t any law saying one must like children. Instead we have a far more pervasive social expectation. Children are our future! Children are great! Oh, the joy and innocence of a child! Everyone likes children! Wait…you…don’t like children? What do you mean you don’t like children? What’s wrong with you that you don’t like children? Hold on a minute. You don’t…want… children? You must be joking. Of course you want children. Every woman wants children. Being a mother is the best, most rewarding, most fulfilling job you’ll ever have!
Really? The majority of children I’ve seen don’t fulfill anything except my desire not to have them. They cry. And stomp. And scream. And run. And shriek. And kick and howl and hit and shout and spit and throw things and pitch full-blown tantrums in the middle of our science-fiction section. Though that always rather entertains me—what better place for a sudden complete personality morph than in sci-fi?
Their sheer volume and range of noises positively unnerve me. I’ve heard children who sound like small droning insects, squeaky doors, violently angry cats, car alarms, and 747s in full take-off mode—often all at the same time. Some talented small fry, I’m sure, could shatter glass and draw blood from every ear within a five-mile radius. And don’t get me started on the various substances they ooze and squirt.
When I was in my 20s, people would chuckle knowingly when I said I didn’t want kids. “Just wait,” they would assure me, “once your clock starts ticking, you’ll change your mind.” Now that I’ve hit my 30s (prime clock-ticking time, or so I’ve heard) the sly looks and knowing chuckles have changed. People ask me, often while laughing, “Well! Aren’t you glad your parents didn’t feel the same way?” I’m never sure what that means. Are people condemning me because I’m somehow denying a certain human being its single solitary chance at life since I have no desire to be a mother? Is this some sort of obscure guilt trip? Was I in the bathroom the day God passed out maternal instinct?
And I’m pretty sure the feeling is mutual. Most children don’t like me either. The fastest way to piss off a baby is to hand her to me. If you want a kid to run away howling, let me talk to him. One smile from me and the most outgoing kid is cowed into wide-eyed hide-behind-the-parent submission. It makes me feel like the Cruella De Vil of children…albeit without the whole “make a coat of their skins” thing.
So it’s always a bit surreal when I run across a child whom I not only tolerate, but actually enjoy interacting with, and who seems to tolerate me fairly well in return. They climb into my lap uninvited. They hold my hand. They jabber at me. They want to play with me. They brush my hair. They draw pictures with me.
At such moments, I can glimpse the appeal the under-five set has. It’s sort of hard not to like the three-year-old whose highlight of Library Day is seeing me (even if she won’t talk to me…yet). Or the five-year-old who greets me with a flying tackle within seconds of my arrival at her house. They’re engaging little creatures. So I engage. I talk, get down on their level, make a lap, draw, color, play, and do my best to amuse them.
And then I hug them goodbye, head home, and enjoy the fact they’re not mine.
As far as I am aware, there isn’t any law saying one must like children. Instead we have a far more pervasive social expectation. Children are our future! Children are great! Oh, the joy and innocence of a child! Everyone likes children! Wait…you…don’t like children? What do you mean you don’t like children? What’s wrong with you that you don’t like children? Hold on a minute. You don’t…want… children? You must be joking. Of course you want children. Every woman wants children. Being a mother is the best, most rewarding, most fulfilling job you’ll ever have!
Really? The majority of children I’ve seen don’t fulfill anything except my desire not to have them. They cry. And stomp. And scream. And run. And shriek. And kick and howl and hit and shout and spit and throw things and pitch full-blown tantrums in the middle of our science-fiction section. Though that always rather entertains me—what better place for a sudden complete personality morph than in sci-fi?
Their sheer volume and range of noises positively unnerve me. I’ve heard children who sound like small droning insects, squeaky doors, violently angry cats, car alarms, and 747s in full take-off mode—often all at the same time. Some talented small fry, I’m sure, could shatter glass and draw blood from every ear within a five-mile radius. And don’t get me started on the various substances they ooze and squirt.
When I was in my 20s, people would chuckle knowingly when I said I didn’t want kids. “Just wait,” they would assure me, “once your clock starts ticking, you’ll change your mind.” Now that I’ve hit my 30s (prime clock-ticking time, or so I’ve heard) the sly looks and knowing chuckles have changed. People ask me, often while laughing, “Well! Aren’t you glad your parents didn’t feel the same way?” I’m never sure what that means. Are people condemning me because I’m somehow denying a certain human being its single solitary chance at life since I have no desire to be a mother? Is this some sort of obscure guilt trip? Was I in the bathroom the day God passed out maternal instinct?
And I’m pretty sure the feeling is mutual. Most children don’t like me either. The fastest way to piss off a baby is to hand her to me. If you want a kid to run away howling, let me talk to him. One smile from me and the most outgoing kid is cowed into wide-eyed hide-behind-the-parent submission. It makes me feel like the Cruella De Vil of children…albeit without the whole “make a coat of their skins” thing.
So it’s always a bit surreal when I run across a child whom I not only tolerate, but actually enjoy interacting with, and who seems to tolerate me fairly well in return. They climb into my lap uninvited. They hold my hand. They jabber at me. They want to play with me. They brush my hair. They draw pictures with me.
At such moments, I can glimpse the appeal the under-five set has. It’s sort of hard not to like the three-year-old whose highlight of Library Day is seeing me (even if she won’t talk to me…yet). Or the five-year-old who greets me with a flying tackle within seconds of my arrival at her house. They’re engaging little creatures. So I engage. I talk, get down on their level, make a lap, draw, color, play, and do my best to amuse them.
And then I hug them goodbye, head home, and enjoy the fact they’re not mine.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
“Beyond Assistance”
I must confess. There is a certain type of patron that I am less than thrilled to see. As non-patron individuals, I genuinely like a good many of them. They’re not problem patrons. The vast majority are always very kind, polite, and friendly. Most of them know me by name—even when I don’t have my nametag on. They come in, smile widely, say hello, and make a beeline for the computers.
They’re the chronically (sometimes frustratingly) computer illiterate. How do I log in? What do I click on to get to the Internet? Do I double-click or single click? Which mouse button do I use? I typed “jobs” into Microsoft Word. Why doesn’t it show me local job openings? How do I get to Monster.com? It says “Log In,” what does that mean? Do you know my password? I’ve filled in page one and it says “click here to continue,” where do I click? What’s my e-mail address?
Now, I work with plenty of patrons who are less than computer savvy (put me in front of an Excel spreadsheet and I quickly become one of them). Guiding them onto the Internet, or through the wilds of Microsoft Word, or demonstrating how to print their stuff is nothing new. I’ve had to explain that librarians don’t automatically know the ins and outs of every website and program in the universe; we don’t know their passwords, e-mail addresses, or screen names; and we really can’t comment on whether the recent technological advances in security mean Facebook’s settings are foolproof.
Some patrons, though, simply seem beyond assistance. You can—and I have—tell them how to do whatever it is fifteen times in the same hour. You can show them over and over until the guy on the machine next to them knows how to do it better than they do. You can break it into baby steps, write it down, print it out, and tape it to their folder. And tomorrow the patron will come to you, smile, and say “I’ve forgotten. Can you show me again?”
And I smile sweetly, nod, and say “Of course.” I may be gritting my teeth and rolling my eyes on the inside, hanging grimly onto my evaporating patience by the tips of my fingernails, but you’ll never know it. I’m paid to help everyone that walks in, no matter their degree of knowledge.
Then it occurred to me. How dare I? How dare I style someone as being beyond assistance just because they don’t know how to use a computer? This isn’t a random nameless being I’m dealing with. This is someone’s grandfather. Someone’s mother. I’m only seeing them in a very small area of their existence. They could have skills the likes of which I’ve never dreamed. If you put me down in another area of their life, I might very well be the one who needs help. And they’d have to show me, patiently, endlessly, how to accomplish a task that seems so simple to them.
Maybe they’re so wrapped up in Something Awful that they simply can’t concentrate on what I’m trying to teach them. If, say, I’d been out of a job for close to two years and were in danger of losing my family home, I wouldn’t be focused on how to copy and paste my résumé. And if I had to cope with, for example, losing my spouse to cancer, damned if I’m going to remember how to access the internet to research treatment.
For all I know, they could have a learning disability and I’m not teaching them the way they need to be taught. Or there’s simply a mental block against whatever they’re trying to learn. Lord knows I have several of those. I can’t remember how to process some of our finance brochures. I’ve asked each of my coworkers—many times—and I still don’t get it. The finer points of Excel mystify me, and I’ve accepted the fact that I will probably never understand how to download a video from our online consortium.
If you stop and think about it, the so-called “beyond assistance” people of the world are the bravest. They know exactly how many times they’ve asked that same question, but rather than meekly accept the fact they’re not going to learn whatever it is, they stand up for themselves. They’re not embarrassed. And they speak up. Again. And again. Until they finally have their answers.
They’re doing the best they can to learn, so I have to do the best I can and teach.
They’re the chronically (sometimes frustratingly) computer illiterate. How do I log in? What do I click on to get to the Internet? Do I double-click or single click? Which mouse button do I use? I typed “jobs” into Microsoft Word. Why doesn’t it show me local job openings? How do I get to Monster.com? It says “Log In,” what does that mean? Do you know my password? I’ve filled in page one and it says “click here to continue,” where do I click? What’s my e-mail address?
Now, I work with plenty of patrons who are less than computer savvy (put me in front of an Excel spreadsheet and I quickly become one of them). Guiding them onto the Internet, or through the wilds of Microsoft Word, or demonstrating how to print their stuff is nothing new. I’ve had to explain that librarians don’t automatically know the ins and outs of every website and program in the universe; we don’t know their passwords, e-mail addresses, or screen names; and we really can’t comment on whether the recent technological advances in security mean Facebook’s settings are foolproof.
Some patrons, though, simply seem beyond assistance. You can—and I have—tell them how to do whatever it is fifteen times in the same hour. You can show them over and over until the guy on the machine next to them knows how to do it better than they do. You can break it into baby steps, write it down, print it out, and tape it to their folder. And tomorrow the patron will come to you, smile, and say “I’ve forgotten. Can you show me again?”
And I smile sweetly, nod, and say “Of course.” I may be gritting my teeth and rolling my eyes on the inside, hanging grimly onto my evaporating patience by the tips of my fingernails, but you’ll never know it. I’m paid to help everyone that walks in, no matter their degree of knowledge.
Then it occurred to me. How dare I? How dare I style someone as being beyond assistance just because they don’t know how to use a computer? This isn’t a random nameless being I’m dealing with. This is someone’s grandfather. Someone’s mother. I’m only seeing them in a very small area of their existence. They could have skills the likes of which I’ve never dreamed. If you put me down in another area of their life, I might very well be the one who needs help. And they’d have to show me, patiently, endlessly, how to accomplish a task that seems so simple to them.
Maybe they’re so wrapped up in Something Awful that they simply can’t concentrate on what I’m trying to teach them. If, say, I’d been out of a job for close to two years and were in danger of losing my family home, I wouldn’t be focused on how to copy and paste my résumé. And if I had to cope with, for example, losing my spouse to cancer, damned if I’m going to remember how to access the internet to research treatment.
For all I know, they could have a learning disability and I’m not teaching them the way they need to be taught. Or there’s simply a mental block against whatever they’re trying to learn. Lord knows I have several of those. I can’t remember how to process some of our finance brochures. I’ve asked each of my coworkers—many times—and I still don’t get it. The finer points of Excel mystify me, and I’ve accepted the fact that I will probably never understand how to download a video from our online consortium.
If you stop and think about it, the so-called “beyond assistance” people of the world are the bravest. They know exactly how many times they’ve asked that same question, but rather than meekly accept the fact they’re not going to learn whatever it is, they stand up for themselves. They’re not embarrassed. And they speak up. Again. And again. Until they finally have their answers.
They’re doing the best they can to learn, so I have to do the best I can and teach.
Monday, October 24, 2011
Gadgets 2.0—iPod Touch
My library recently received a grant enabling us to purchase all sorts of new goodies to play with. We have Kindles and iPod Touches and iPads and Nooks and Nook Colors and Kobos (oh my). Each department received a set of gadgets, with the understanding that staff are fully expected to check them out, take them home, and play with them.
Cool.
I already own a regular Nook, so I crossed that off my “things I’ll probably break” list and put myself down for the iPod Touch. This is, I think, some type of über smart MP3 player that can do all sorts of tricks. Within the first hour of having it in my possession I dropped it twice and accidentally took a picture of my lap. I’m sure my coworker (a.k.a. the official departmental iPod Touch expert) was having second thoughts about letting me out of her sight with it. I’m paranoid I’ll lose the silly thing.
But I took it home, and after a good deal of coaxing and a few threats involving submersion in water or a swift boot out the window, I got it to connect to my wi-fi and managed to download not only an e-book but an e-audiobook as well. This was rather cool, since it downloads wirelessly directly from the website’s mobile app to my device. Browsing the site is pretty clunky though, so I’d use my laptop for that and then just switch the Touch on to actually checkout and download. Which I’m pretty sure defeats the entire purpose of a mobile device.
The screen on the Touch is very small, so it’s not the best choice for an e-reader device. I’m a fast reader, so I was swiping to turn the page every five seconds or so. No sooner would I move my hand, swipe, and replace my hand then I’d have to swipe again. I did like the e-audiobook experience. Since the Touch has a speaker, it can sit next to me and not require headphones. The tone was pretty good (duh, that’s what it’s made for, dummy) and it was nice not to worry about skipping or scratched discs.
In addition to a cleaning cloth, directions, and all necessary cords, each toy also comes with a comment card. We have to check a box next to whether we thought it was “simple;” “not too complicated, but not for me;” or “how frustrating!”. Then there’s a space for us to write our impressions—good or bad.
I went with the “not too complicated, but not for me” checkbox. I understand the concept, and can get it to do 99% of what I want. There is a limit on the amount of tiny devices I can keep up with—most days I lose my phone at least twice—so the concept of another tiny devices kinda freaks me out. If I want something that small and that smart, I’d buy a smart phone. Besides, unless I’m somewhere with wifi, the Touch is kinda pointless. It turns into just a regular MP3 player, and I already have one of those.
So, cross off the iPod Touch from my list. Next up…Kindle!
Cool.
I already own a regular Nook, so I crossed that off my “things I’ll probably break” list and put myself down for the iPod Touch. This is, I think, some type of über smart MP3 player that can do all sorts of tricks. Within the first hour of having it in my possession I dropped it twice and accidentally took a picture of my lap. I’m sure my coworker (a.k.a. the official departmental iPod Touch expert) was having second thoughts about letting me out of her sight with it. I’m paranoid I’ll lose the silly thing.
But I took it home, and after a good deal of coaxing and a few threats involving submersion in water or a swift boot out the window, I got it to connect to my wi-fi and managed to download not only an e-book but an e-audiobook as well. This was rather cool, since it downloads wirelessly directly from the website’s mobile app to my device. Browsing the site is pretty clunky though, so I’d use my laptop for that and then just switch the Touch on to actually checkout and download. Which I’m pretty sure defeats the entire purpose of a mobile device.
The screen on the Touch is very small, so it’s not the best choice for an e-reader device. I’m a fast reader, so I was swiping to turn the page every five seconds or so. No sooner would I move my hand, swipe, and replace my hand then I’d have to swipe again. I did like the e-audiobook experience. Since the Touch has a speaker, it can sit next to me and not require headphones. The tone was pretty good (duh, that’s what it’s made for, dummy) and it was nice not to worry about skipping or scratched discs.
In addition to a cleaning cloth, directions, and all necessary cords, each toy also comes with a comment card. We have to check a box next to whether we thought it was “simple;” “not too complicated, but not for me;” or “how frustrating!”. Then there’s a space for us to write our impressions—good or bad.
I went with the “not too complicated, but not for me” checkbox. I understand the concept, and can get it to do 99% of what I want. There is a limit on the amount of tiny devices I can keep up with—most days I lose my phone at least twice—so the concept of another tiny devices kinda freaks me out. If I want something that small and that smart, I’d buy a smart phone. Besides, unless I’m somewhere with wifi, the Touch is kinda pointless. It turns into just a regular MP3 player, and I already have one of those.
So, cross off the iPod Touch from my list. Next up…Kindle!
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