Twisty

Cultural Convergence & Dave

I left my glasses at home, so I can’t see a damn one of the Power Point slides. (Blackboards are now pretty much out of fashion.) The only thing I have with me is my brand new-ish pair of sunglasses, which I am throwing on occasionally to jot down a note or two about cultural convergence, today’s topic. I’m doing this on the sly, as the last thing I wish to do is attract any more attention to myself in this class.

Right now, we’re on the topic of language. This brings to mind a story about my college German class.

The Language Requirement

I attended a liberal arts college. As such, in order to graduate, we had to take a mixed bag of classes, ranging from science, to literature, to music, to yoga. Along this vein, we had to complete a rather comprehensive foreign language requirement. Unless a student had outstanding ability and was able to test out, she/he was required to take three sequential classes in the same language. Essentially the college wanted each student to read, write and speak a foreign language at an intermediate level.

To me, this was a bit of a no brainer. I had been studying German since the 6th grade. Although I was (and am) – by no means – fluent, I had down the basics (e.g. ordering food, giving directions and finding the nearest bathroom). So, with minimal effort, I sailed through my language classes. However, I was one of the lucky few. Many people, like Dave, had problems.

Dave's Special Brand of Conversation

My German 116 class had nine students and met on Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings. Herr Schmidt, our professor, believed the only true way to learn a language is to be immersed in it and to speak the language at all times. As such, from the moment you walked in at 9 a.m. to the moment you walked out at 9:50 a.m., all you saw, heard and spoke was German. The typical class would start with a quick grammar and vocabulary lesson. Then, the bulk of the class would be spent honing our conversational skills. Herr Schmidt, a friendly, jovial gentleman, would walk around the class asking students simple questions to get the conversation rolling…

Herr Schmidt: (In Perfect German) TJ, wie is das Wetter heute?
(Translation: “TJ, what’s the weather like today?")

TJ: (In Crappy German) Heute ist das Wetter nicht so schoen.
(Translation: “The weather isn’t so good today.”)

Herr Schmidt: (In Even More Perfect German): Was machst du?
(Translation: “What’s up?”)

TJ: (In Even Crappier German): Heute ich habe viel zu tun. Mein Deutscher Lehrer gab uns viel Hausarbeiten. Ha! Ha! Ha!
(Translation: “I have a lot to do today. My German teacher gave us lots of homework. Ha! Ha! Ha!")

And then there was Dave…

Herr Schmidt: (Again, Gorgeous German) Gestern was hast du gemacht?
(Translation: “What did you do yesterday?”)

Dave: Uh…Ich habe Americanische Football gespielt…uh…mein Roomate threw me das Football and zen I zaid, “Spater I vill buy you ein Beer!”

Dave failed to notice that speaking in a German accent was not the same as speaking the German language.

Frankly, I don’t even think he knew he was doing it. I found myself stifling giggles as Herr Schmidt would seem to ignore Dave's obvious errors and plow ahead asking him questions. I would think to myself -- "Huh?"

After doing a little bit of research, I found out the whole story. This was not Dave’s first time in German class – more like his fourth. A brilliant science student, he knew a lab like the back of his hand. However, he couldn’t pronounce “Knockwurst” if his life depended on it. Word spread quickly around the class about Dave’s struggles. If he didn’t pass German, he would not graduate. So, we rallied. Rather than cast sideways glances at him whenever he busted out his Colonel Klink-inspired pseudo-German, we all bound together to help him out. We would interject and mention the word he needed to finish a thought. We would beg for him to be part of our discussion groups so we could cover his tracks. Essentially we created one, big collective ruse.

I think we learned to love his enthusiastic but mismatched chatter. We would all nod and smile when he would sincerely say, “Ze Veather is Vonderful” during class discussions. Better yet, we all cheered the day he received the grade on his final – a “C –“. To this day, I still say, “Wunderbar, Dave!”

Lists to Pass the Time

freely admit to you that I am writing this in class. (I will key this in -- bleary eyed -- when I get home. Alas, without a wireless card, I can't take Twisty on the road.) I feel like an animal in a trap, ready to gnaw off my own limb in a desperate attempt to break free. You may think I'm exaggerating. If you do, you must never have taken a night class.

After 8 p.m. EST, I just can't think anymore. All I want to do is grunt like a cave girl and watch some deliciously mind-numbing crap on VH-1.

In order to occupy my mind in a desperate attempt to ward off yet another series of yawns, I thought I would put together some lists.

So, for my entertainment (and yours too, I hope), here we go...

Top 5 Celebrities (Living) Off the Top of My Head With Whom I'd Like to Share a Beer

• Bill Clinton (Former President of United States) - Looks like he would be a good time.
• Joss Whedon (Creator of Buffy, Firefly and a host of other things) - Genius. However, I would probably freak him out with my near-freakish admiration.
• Alison Weir (Historian & Author) - I'm a British nobility junkie. I would pump her for old-school gossip about Henry VIII and Elizabeth I.
• Moosewood Restaurant Team (Famous Vegetarian Restauranteurs) - Their recipes (surprisingly!) kick ass. I would buy them a round and askm them for creative ways to use squash.
• Charles Osgood (Broadcaster) – Although my friends tease me mercilessly about it, I watch CBS News Sunday Morning almost every week. Also, it looks like he would have some interesting stories to tell.

Top 5 Celebrities (Deceased) Off the Top of My Head With Whom I’d Like to Share a Beer

Grandma (Grandmother) – Yeah, I know *you* don’t know her, but she’s a celebrity to me. I would love to watch her smoke, slug back a brew and listen to her sassy, colorful commentary about the afterlife.

Jesus of Nazareth (Son of God) – I’d buy a round. If Christian tradition is indeed true, I think I owe him one.

Ben Franklin (Politician, Author, Inventor, etc.) – Heard he was a closet party animal. Also, I want gossip on all the Framers because I heard Jefferson was an asshole!

Princess Diana (Princess of Wales) – She had an amazing and tumultuous short time on this earth. I would love to feed her some cheddar and bacon-smothered potato skins and let her vent.

Dave Thomas (Founder and former CEO of Wendy’s) – He looked like a very nice guy. I also want to personally thank him for his Spring Mix Salad, cheese fries and, of course, the Frosty.

There are a thousand more I would love to add but, frankly, I'm pooped. Also, I have to actually jot down some notes about globalization.

Good night!

A Recent Loss

Many years ago, I read this advice for beginning the long journey towards self-actualization:

Sit down with a blank sheet of paper and write your own eulogy.

Then, when you’re finished, take a good, hard look at yourself. Do you resemble what you put on paper? If not, you have some work to do.

I have done this exercise more often than I usually admit. (It sounds somewhat morbid, so it is no wonder that I keep it to myself.) However, it is a great way to self-analyze, remind you to be good to people and outline your goals.

This week, J and I lost a neighbor and family friend. He died suddenly of a heart attack while on vacation with his family. He was a terribly young 53 years old.

His death is especially tragic because he was one of the goodies. He and his wife were immeasurably helpful when our family suffered a death in January. A friendly man, he was always willing to lend a hand. He stopped in – more than his share -- to look in on my Mother-in-Law. He loved Springsteen. (He was supposed to have attended a concert with his daughter this evening.) He volunteered countless hours with the local Rescue Squad. He saved lives. As his final gift, he donated his remains to scientific study so that through his death, others may live.

Even though I have not known him long, he has touched my life and the lives of countless others.

I hope he is sitting in heaven right now, listening to his eulogy and smiling. He should be proud.

A Baby Odyssey

Today I went to Babies R Us. Man, I love buying baby stuff!

You think I’m being sarcastic. Really, I’m not.

It’s a great store! The decor is a sea of muted pastels. The bathrooms are sweet-smelling and sparkly clean. The best part is: the team members are friendly and exceedingly helpful. The don’t look at you funny when you ask questions such as this*:

“So, like, when babies are a year old, how big are they? Like, I mean, how much do they weigh?”

(Answer: At one year of age, most babies range between 18-22 pounds.)

or

“Would a baby think this (fill in name of toy) is fun? Do they like fuzzy shit?”

(Answer: Yes, babies like toys of all shapes and sizes. Her more specific answer was, “This is cute. What a fine choice! However, newborns might find this a little complex. Maybe you’d like to get the baby this on their first birthday.”)

* Yes, I really did ask these questions. As mentioned before on the Blog, I have little experience with the wee ones.

Admittedly, I look at the prospect of motherhood with a mix of joy, uncertainty and sheer terror. However, I am totally digging the role of soon-to-be aunt.

Sigh…

Well, off to wrap!

The Cardboard Man Commeth

Every Friday, a representative from the waste management company drives to our office to pick up the cardboard and paper. He collects the used manila folders, mounds of copy paper and well-worn cardboard boxes, tosses them into his truck, pulls a switch and smooches up the former office supplies into nice, relatively bio-degradable bits.

During most weeks, I help by dragging over an occasional trashcan and throwing papers in the large compost heap.

Today, our administrative team cleaned out our files. Any pre-1996 documents we now destined for the trash heap. As such, we had well over 50 boxes to dispose of.

The cardboard man looked dismayed when greeted by the ominous towers of boxes. Regardless, he slipped on his gloves and got right to work.

I asked: “Do you mind if I help?”

He replied: “If you don’t mind; that would be nice.”

So, I grabbed my first of many folder-filled boxes and hurled them in the truck.

Wow! I felt great!

Over the past few weeks, I’ve been very stressed out. The daily grinds of work and graduate school have been taking their toll.

This was so cathartic. I hurled in these old, stuffed boxes and watched as the gargantuan steel arm applied tons of pressure.

After hauling the last of the heap, I looked behind me. The once dusty, cluttered space was now wonderfully clear.

I breathed a deep cleaning breath and waved goodbye to the Cardboard Man.

Yep. Feeling better now.

My Embarassing Confession: A Richard Obsession

A few days ago at the supermarket, for shits and giggles, I decided to put my arm in one of those blood pressure testers. I’ve been feeling a little stressed lately, so I figured it couldn’t hurt to check.

I think my cry of, “Holy f*cking shit!” alerted the pharmacist, so he dashed over, perhaps thinking I got my arm caught in the machine.

Nice Cute Pharmacist (NCP): Are you okay?

Me: This can’t be true! My blood pressure is too high! Is this thing right?

NCP: We had it calibrated two days ago. It’s pretty accurate. (Looks at reading.) Whoa! That *is* high! What are you at usually?

Me: About 25 points lower.

NCP: Wow! Um…(trying not to freak me out, adds thoughtfully) sometimes it jumps when you’re stressed --

Me: I guess I’m stressed. I just got married a few months ago. I’m under serious pressure at the office. I’m out of vacation time. I’m juggling two graduate school classes. Did I mention we’re considering buying a house? Oh yeah, and I’m applying for a PhD program --

NCP: Um…(sneaking away, obviously uncomfortable). Go see your doctor.

Admittedly this freaks me out a bit. Why? I pride myself on my low blood pressure; I brag about it. Why? I don’t exercise much at all. I eat French fries. Salt is my best friend. Now, I think things may have to change a bit, as I prefer to remain in the wonderful world of the living.

Today I mentioned this situation to my cubicle mate.

Her: (Quietly, leaning in) Can I tell you a secret?

Me: (Surprised) Sure. Yeah.

Her: You know what you should do? (Whispers) Richard Simmons tapes. I do them four times a week. They really mellow me out. (Embarrassed) You probably think I’m a geek right?

Me: What are you talking about? I love “Sweatin’ to the Oldies?!?!?!?!”

Then, for the next ten minutes, in very hushed tones, we compared notes on all of Richard’s bootie-shaking video extravaganzas.

Richard is my guilty little secret – the other man in my life. My Richard tapes are carefully hidden away in a dusty, unmarked box tucked way in the back of the closet behind the AERObed and my collection of bridesmaid dresses. Only under cover of darkness and in a completely empty house would I even consider whipping out my secret stash.

When I’ve felt down, needed an energy boost or a quick 5-lb loss, I’ve turned to Richard.

The music is happy. The dance moves are easy. Also, seeing a 240-pound woman kick higher than me is excellent motivator.

So, now that my stress levels are higher than ever, I need a more constant dose of Richard. As such, I figured it was finally time to come clean.

Me: Hey, J, I’m goin’ upstairs to work out.

J: That’s nice, honey.

Me: I’m doing some Richard Simmons – you know R-I-C-H-A-R-D S-I-M-M-O-N-S. You know, the guy who did “Sweatin’ to the Oldies,” “Disco Sweat,” “Groovin’ in the House” – you know, Riiiiiiiichard Siiiiiiiimmons.

Him: Okay. See you later.

Huh? After years of Richard-associated shame, that was it? No mocking? No nothing? Man, I figure I got off easy with this one.

Regardless, I didn’t taken any chances. While playing the air bongos to “Hot, Hot, Hot,” I made damn sure the door was locked.

Overheard at the Little Italian Deli by my Office

Overheard at the Little Italian Deli by my Office...

Counter Guy: Can I help you?

Customer: Do you have tuna?

Counter Guy: Yes, we do. Is that what you would like?

Customer: Is it "individual tuna?"

Counter Guy: Um...Pardon?

Customer: Like, tuna, out of a can, just for me.

Counter Guy: We have some nice tuna. We made it this morning. I can give that to you.

Customer: That's not individual tuna! (Pause. I lock eyes with Counter Guy and stifle a grin.) I guess I'll have to have something else, now won't I?!?

Good Lord!

J on Anniversaries

Yesterday J sent me an e-mail reminding me of something very important...

"Honey,

We've almost reached our three month anniversary. That's longer than most Hollywood marriages.

In your face, Shannen Dougherty!"

Ha!