Alternate Definitions

Small American children and foreign visitors have something in common: bizarre and comical manglings of the English language. In college, there was an extremely diverse student body; the phrase "How to say in English..." was pretty common in my dorm. (I'm sure my Swiss friends were equally entertained by my strange grammatical constructions in French Literature class.) Nowadays, I enjoy the mispronunciations and inappropriate usage of various words and phrases by my own offspring (4 and 6 years old).

"Observe and learn," as my son advised me:

1. CANDACE = the large white boards used by artists

2. BAKING = long strips of breakfast meat, procured from a pig

3. HEE-HILES = stilletto shoes worn by ladies and Barbies

4. KINGBURGERS = what you order at the fast-food joint with the "flamebroiled" slogan

5. DEEYOND = far far away, as in "way deeond the fence"

6. OBSTACLE = a delicious frozen treat on a stick

7. ATTEND = not real, as in "Let's attend to be pirates."

8. BY PURPOSE = by specific design, not accidental: "He broke my toy by purpose."

9. AHMAY = the word you say at the end of a prayer

10. HEART SALAMI = not the soft salami from Genoa, the other kind

11. ANDBANNA = a square, usually paisley-print, cloth you can wear on your head (or your neck if you're a cowboy)

I guess at some point I should actually correct these gentle mistakes, but WHY NOW when there's still so much entertainment in it for the overstressed grownups?

Blood Work

The local blood center is on the prowl for donors this week, so of course I was on their call-list (having been a consistent help in the past). As I talked to the Blood Lady, I considered begging off with a little white lie ("I’m really busy this week" or "I’ve just gotten over malaria" perhaps), but I made the snap decision to tell her the real reason why I wouldn’t be dropping by to open up a vein: my last horrifying blood-letting experience with her "team."

A couple of months ago, the Blood Lady called me at work with a plea for me to donate at my local center. Supplies were running dangerously low in the metro area, she warned, and I would truly be making a critical contribution for the needs of my fellow citizens. The blood center is not far away and I had a lunch hour to spare that day so I said sure and headed over there.

This particular blood center is a small affair in a strip mall, one giant room with about 10 beds serving all donors in an open setting. TVs, movies, magazines, and video games complete the scene for a relaxing half-hour of community service. I checked in and they escorted me immediately to a bed---no waiting! I looked forward to a quiet power nap. The Technician was pleasant and efficient with the familiar but required paperwork and soon she was ready to get to the actual medical procedure to get the precious red juice flowing.

My afternoon of hell began slowly, with the usual alcohol swab and rubber ball to get the veins plump and primed for a quick drain. I must interject here that I am typically considered "easy" in terms of medical procedures, with the blood-draw in particular never a problem in the past: I stick and flow well, as they might say. On this day, however, the Technician had as much difficulty getting the needle in as she might have with a vein-flattened heroin addict. She apologized throughout the experience, changing needles once and starting all the way over. She called for help from another tech at one point. Eventually (15 minutes or so of digging around in my arm), the needle was in and the bag hung up to collect the blood. At last, naptime.

About 10 minutes into my relaxing doze, the Technician came over to check the situation with my bloodflow. I had noticed during my stay that another patron had already come and gone (less digging for a vein and super-fast blood gush, I guess), and things did seem to be proceeding at a snail’s pace. She looked at the blood bag and pronounced "Nothing’s going in here." With a big sigh, she called for another Tech and they began to work on the problem, which included but was not limited to: moving the bag higher or lower on the stand; squeezing the plastic tubing; repositioning (i.e., digging) the needle around in my vein; and looking at each other in disgust.

All of this activity had in fact resulted in blood flow of one kind---out of my vein and onto my arm, the bandages, my shirt, and the even the FLOOR. They grabbed a giant pile of gauze and paper towels and began to swap the oozier puddles, pulling the huge medical waste can directly to my table to facilitate the cleanup of my own personal hazardous-waste dump. All of this, of course, was taking place in full view of the other donors in the open room. "This isn’t exactly a welcoming sight for a person walking in to give blood," I snickered. "And good thing I’m not the needle-phobic type." The Techs did not laugh.

After I was relatively de-stained, they went right back to the matter at hand: getting a new needle and a new bag and new blood. That’s right, they did not at any time give up on this process, although it was probably reasonable to wonder how much blood was even left in me after so much of it had ended in the trash. I was a trooper and hung in there while they tried again, and there was ultimately SUCCESS! Blood flowed into the bags at top speed, and soon it was over.

As they unhooked me and cleaned me up, I said "Well, at least you got it eventually. The Blood Lady said the supply is way low in the area." The Tech laughed and replied, "Oh, well, you have AB blood and that’s really rare. It usually expires before we ever get to use yours." She realized she had misspoken when she saw me glare at her in disbelief, and quickly added "But we’ll use your platelets. Here, let me get you a t-shirt." I grabbed the token shirt and a hat she threw in as well (a ‘perk’ for being such a good sport during this torture), and out the door I went.

Back on the phone with the Blood Lady, I didn’t regale her with the full blow-by-blow of my last donation "event," but I told her enough. Probably in shock at my candor, she said "Oh, well then. I’ll try you next time." And that was that. Step up to the plate, all you As, Bs, and Os, it’s your turn now.

The Idiot at the Mailbox

On the way to work, I pulled into the Post Office drive-thru to mail a couple of letters. At this particular Post Office, there are 4 mailboxes in the drive-thru lane: 2 for stamped letters and 2 for metered letters. I normally can cruise in and out of the drive-thru and get back to the intersection before the light even changes. Not on this day, however.

A single car was ahead of me, with an idiot at the wheel.

The idiot in question pulled to a stop at the first of the 'stamped' mailboxes, naturally ignoring the sign directing motorists to pull up to the forward available box. Only after coming to a complete stop (and possibly shifting the vehicle into "park," I am guessing) did the idiot begin to roll down his manual-crank window. The cranking/opening of the window took about 10 full seconds. What car still comes with MANUAL crank windows these days?! Finally the window was fully open, but nothing else happened for a bit: I could see the idiot fumbling around in the vehicle (perhaps just now stamping the letter...or maybe he was writing the letter for all I know). 15 seconds later, a hand emerged from the idiot's window and dropped a letter (after giving it a final visual inspection of course) into the mailbox slot. The hand retracted, then paused, waiting. Keep in mind, this was not the kind of mailbox with a handled, hinged door; this was simply a SLOT where the letters drop down, nothing more. The idiot waited. I was about to scream, "What are you concerned about here? Do you think there's a chance the mail gnomes living in the box might EJECT the letter?!" when I saw the idiot slowly begin to roll up his window again. Of course he did not put the car in gear to being moving off until the window was 100% closed and he was settled back again for a full driving experience. When the idiot finally cleared out of the lane, I jammed my own letters into the box without even coming to a stop. I pulled back into the street and noted blissfully that the idiot had turned the other direction.

DISCLAIMER: From what I could see of the idiot in question, this was an average-looking man perhaps 40 years old, driving a perfectly generic relatively new vehicle. This was not a senior citizen working through the mental fogginess of old age, nor was it a 'freak' of any visible type. Sure, the idiot might have some other impairment not visible a car-length away, but I tell you: a person this neurotic about mailing a letter probably should not be issued a driver's license for motoring all around town.

My Personal Assistant

Browsing the classified section of a local artsy newspaper recently, I came across an unusual ad for a "Personal Assistant to the CEO." The size of the ad is what initially caught my eye: this local paper’s classified ads are typically of the 2- or 3-line variety, hardly any detail at all; this ad filled several columns. Following the introductory overview of the position, there were no less than 30 line items specifically detailing the responsibilities and expected taskwork for the job.

I was intrigued. The job certainly had functions related to business, like handling expense filing and phone calls, managing appointments and lunch reservations. Then there were the ‘Girl Friday" bits, like handling car maintenance and pick-up of prescriptions and dry-cleaning. Last, there were entries listing all the miscellaneous tasks that would be part of the deal.

The bulk of the remaining line items were miscellaneous tasks, from the Thank-God-I-Can-Afford-To-Pay-Someone-To-Do-All-This-Crap category. The lucky Personal Assistant must be proficient in internet navigation, to facilitate worldwide searches for "items the CEO is interested in." Naturally there would be extensive travel and event planning (of an exotic nature), so experience in that area would sure be helpful. Shopping looked like a huge part of the job, with holidays/birthdays/anniversaries on the to-do list for not only friends & family, but also business partners and random other people moving through the CEO’s busy world. Most annoying of all, the Personal Assistant would be responsible for handling Parent-Teacher issues, all school meetings, and even "coordinating child’s visitation with other parent" on a weekly basis. Yikes! What doesn’t this paid slave have on her plate?! [NOTE: Not listed on the job description, although it would be a "given," as a friend said, were tasks like 1) management of mistress(es), including condo expenses and purchase of gifts as needed; 2) coordination & facilitation of LIES to family concerning mistress(es).]

Then I noticed something more amazing: the Personal Assistant is apparently just one of a whole team of assistants on the CEO’s books. There were references to the "Executive Assistant," the "Household Staff," and the "Nanny" as well. At that point, I slipped into a 30-minute hallucination about how it must feel to be the center of an assistant-supported universe…

My Assistant could be in charge of birthday party invitations---buying gifts, wrapping them up, hauling my kids there, and sitting through the festivities at Chuck-e-Cheese. My Assistant could be in charge of procuring items I desire on a whim ("Go find me a Prius Hybrid. I want it in the driveway today!"). My Assistant would manage my appointment book, ensuring I never again forget it is School Fair Day or my sister’s birthday. It’s my Assistant’s job to find me a cook, a maid, a trainer, and a driver to ‘complete the team.’ My Assistant will handle the telemarketer calls! My Assistant will get the oil changed in my car! My Assistant will load music onto my iPod!

Right. Except I don’t have a Personal Assistant (my husband might remark here that he has been performing most of these functions for me, just without the lofty title and 401K plan). This lack of support staff is depressing. How can I be expected to handle all the tasks listed on the giant job posting? No wonder I am exhausted!

Maybe I should quit my real job and apply for the Personal Assistant position---at least then I would be handsomely compensated for dealing with the annoyances of modern life. Salary wasn’t listed on the original ad, although hopefully the CEO wouldn’t expect you to deal with his wife, his mistress, and his ex-wife for less than $80K a year…right? Now that I think about it, I don’t think I could sign up under even those payment conditions: handling school activities and car maintenance alone is grief enough to warrant at least $100K or so. Perhaps the job should have line-item "bonuses" attached to certain tasks, like $200 for each Teacher Conference or $350 per birthday party ($500 if it includes a Bounce House).

Premiums aside, Personal Assistant might be a pretty crummy job after all, even with international travel included. As the indentured servant of the Wealthy and Powerful, you are expected to do all the things (for money) that you already hate to do in your own life (for free, or I guess for love). Then there’s the added depression that would naturally come from seeing the lifestyles of the rich and famous on a daily basis, so close and yet so far!

Is there paid Mental LOA for Personal Assistants?