Category Archives: Cartoon Blogs
On Surveys
It seems that most people can’t wait to share their opinion, on just about any topic, with zero prompting. Perversely, the less interested you are in what they think, the more intense becomes their desire to share.
So why do we cringe when approached by a friendly smile and a clipboard?
They’re standing RIGHT THERE, for heaven’s sake! With paper, a sharpened pencil, and an open mind, all they want to do is document for the benefit of all mankind (and the company that hired them) the gems of wisdom ready to spill from our lips.
This is not just a hypothetical rant. Today at a gas station, I almost caught my elbow in the car door trying to escape one of these opportunities.
I did door-to-door surveying, once.
I was attending Simon Fraser University in Burnaby, British Columbia, in the late 1970’s, and for reasons (and a cause) that elude me just now, earning cash by asking people what they thought on an important subject looked like easy money. I was to be paid per completed survey. Given my 19 years experience of the human race and what makes them tick, I was sure I would be a millionaire by mid-morning.
I lasted about 45 minutes.
That job has to rank in the “Jobs I Have Held and Hated” surveys just under “telemarketer” and “bowling shoe deodorant sprayer.”
Nobody, I repeat nobody, cared to discuss their opinions on the subject I can’t quite remember. Why? I didn’t understand. Hell, most of the time, you can’t get people to shut up long enough to tell them what you think.
My theory is that deep down, we all believe everyone is selling something.
The only way you can be sure you’re not being sold unto is to go first.
That’s why when a guy approaches me at a gas station with a clipboard in his hand and the beginnings of a “Crap, I hate this job!” look on his face, I know two things:
1. I didn’t start this interaction.
2. Whatever this guy is selling, I don’t want it, and I’m willing to risk my elbow to not have that conversation.
I’m saving my opinions, thank you very much, for this blog.
Leaving House
I love language, and, given a single idle moment following even a brief conversation, will often find myself fixating on a word that surfaced during the chat.
This week’s notable example went something like, “Hey, nice to see you! How was your vacation?”
After “Fine, thanks,” I walked away thinking, “… ‘vacation’… ‘vacation’… vacation… hmmm…..”
I know (in fact, it’s one of the very few things I remember with certainty from university) that the root “vaca” comes from Latin, meaning “relating to cows.”
Think “vaccine,” “vaquero” (Spanish for “cowboy”) “baccalaureate,” and “Kirstie Alley.”
Was the five-pound weight gain that noticeable? Darn.
This just in from the “Online Etymology Dictionary”:
vacation: c.1386, “freedom or release” (from some activity or occupation), from O.Fr. vacation, from L. vacationem (nom. vacatio) “leisure, a being free from duty,” from vacare “be empty, free, or at leisure” (see vain). Meaning “formal suspension of activity” (in ref. to schools, courts, etc.) is recorded from c.1456.
Okay, so no connection between “vacation” and cows, it turns out, except that I do believe cows feel pretty much “at home,” wherever they are.
And that’s how I feel, as long as Rick is there.
Cell Phone Etiquette, Part 2
Until recently, I didn’t realize what the fuss was all about.
Why are people so upset about fellow diners using their cell phones in restaurants? Inevitably there are people chatting with one another at every table anyway, and nobody seems to get their knickers in a twist about that.
That was until yesterday when we almost enjoyed breakfast.
The couple at the table beside us were chowing down in relative silence, each with a section of the paper. There was only the occasional monotone interchange of “They have starter tomator plants on sale at Osh Hardware” type banter. When he declared he was going back to the room, she said she wasn’t quite done with her paper and would sit quietly over her coffee for a bit longer.
Liar.
The second his substantial backside made it around the corner, she whipped out her cell phone and hit the speed dial. I don’t know if it was the thrill of a covert call or if the coffee kicked in big time, but as she waited for the recipient to answer, she appeared to be hyperventilating like a competitive skin diver winding up for a shot at the record. The moment the call was answered, she let rip with the most shrill, inane, and relentless babble I had heard since using the restroom during a high school football game in mating season.
Short of ripping the phone out of her hand and dropping it into her coffee cup, there seemed to be no way to staunch the flow. I didn’t of course, because that would have been plain old rude, so we left.
But I am considering having a stash of business cards made for the next time that will read, “Voice too loud? Annoying friends and family? Call Sheila for help at 1-800-SHUT-T-F-U.”
Think they will sell?
In the meantime, the 4-panel cartoon is available as a notecard…
Get the card
Letting Jafar Have His Way With My Head
Looking effortlessly elegant takes an obscene amount of work.
This is true for all women, but it has even more impact on those of us born with ambivalent hair.
Take my head, for instance.
The top half of my head produces dry kinky curls, except for a patch just north of my right eyebrow. From the nape of my neck to the bottom of my ears, the hair is stick straight and well lubed.
Some days, the resulting fashion dissonance can really bum my hide, not to mention making me late for work. With very little effort, I can leave the house looking like a two-dollar helping of cotton candy on the ten-dollar cardboard cone.
This is not a great look for the boardroom.
This is why I need Jafar.
Jafar understands the deep-seated angst that recalcitrant coiffures can create. So when I plunk myself in his chair and say, “I don’t care what you do with it. I just want to look gorgeous twenty-four hours a day,” he doesn’t snort coffee out his nose with laughter. He just gently pats me on the shoulder and says, “You already are gorgeous. Let’s just do something about the hair.”
With this, I remember that I love Jafar, in a customer and hairdresser kind of way. Once again, I decide to let Jafar have his way with my head.
His confidence is contagious. He executes his alchemy with mysterious goop and tinfoil and scissors that come in eight pieces. Really. Eight different pieces that he uses in combinations and permutations that subdue even the most stubborn cowlicks presented. It’s like having my very own Edward Scissorhands but without the eyeliner.
When Jafar has pronounced me a work of art worthy of the Dubai annual hair show, Marjan sprays me with some magic fairy spit and blows me dry. I have asked Marjan to come and live at my house. If she must, she can even bring her son. We don’t have enough room for them to each have their own rooms, but no worries. We’ll move.
My locks gleam with pampered contentment. The hair is symmetrically obedient and calm. I feel that I look professional yet perky.
And then I step out of the shop into the humidity. My hair promptly whips around, waves good-bye to Jafar and Marjan with the single finger salute, and yells, “Ha ha! I LAUGH at fairy spit!” And that’s that, until the next time.
Learning To Play
It seems easy enough when you watch other people do it.
One just casually places the soft pads of one’s fingertips gently on the sweet spots on the neck. The other hand strums and plucks with confidence. Steel laughs and hums into the wooden cave, and then the miracle happens: beautiful ballads, haunting love songs, and soft pink lullabies waft forth.
Not.
The reality is that learning how to play my upright bass activates myriad uncharted neuropathways, all clamoring for personal and immediate attention. What note am I supposed to be playing? What string do I need to find, with both hands committed to completely different tasks? The tender tip of my finger needs to press the thick steel string on to the neck at precisely the right spot, and hit it HARD.
I am to ignore the pain.
Simultaneously, my right hand has its own assignment: damp the previous note, find and play the new one. All this while my short-term memory gropes for the words, and my ears, lungs, and vocal cords strain to croon like Diana Krall, with the whole thing on pitch and in perfect time.
I know it’s possible. I just don’t know if it’s possible without peeing my pants.
I’m seeing glimmers of hope, though. I played a whole song without an error yesterday. (Okay, there are only 2 open-string notes in the bass line of “Sally Goodin,” so technically, you could do it on a set of well-tuned drums, but still….) I can play both the C and G scales in both directions. I figured out both “Frere Jacques” and “Doh! A Deer” by ear.
Rick and I even wrote a song together: Silent Angels. We’re going to perform it, as well as ten other songs, at a Rett Syndrome benefit concert in Teton Valley.
In front of many attentive people.
Just the two of us.
With nowhere to hide.
Excuse me. Gotta pull on the Depends and practice now.
Griddle Girl Rides Again
I have rediscovered the joys of making pancakes. It’s been a while, but I’m back in the griddle.
Part of it is that I have the right equipment. The new cast iron scorcher and I have finally reached detente: I have agreed not to overheat its saucy bottom, and it has signed up for the breakfast “catch and release” program. Between a compliant cooking surface, the sturdy flipper, and enough cooling racks, I had all I needed but the motivation.
The San Jose Mercury News was the unlikely source of inspiration. They ran an article citing a panel of pancake experts, and I quothe: “Use real butter, real maple syrup, and don’t beat the batter too much.” How can you not be attracted to a food item so simple that a panel of experts couldn’t find anything to fight about?
The article also included a multi-batch recipe for straight-up pancakes. Mix the dry ingredients in a big bucket and store in the cupboard. When the maple muse strikes, pull out three cups, add eggs, milk and a little melted butter, and voila! You’ll be flapping these jacks before you know it.