Blog break from illness! (I can hear the collective sighs of relief even now and I would like kudos because I am NOT blogging about illness or doctor's appointments or any of those things. Thank you.) Moving on.
Today I'm blogging about language barriers. I'm not talking about the kind you hit when you meet someone who only speaks Spanish (and high school Spanish was a LONG time ago), or someone who is deaf and uses sign language and the only sign language you know is inappropriate in any setting. I am talking about the language barriers that transpire when BOTH parties speak the SAME language and yet somewhere along the line a breakdown still occurs. In order to perform a much-needed public service, I have prepared two lessons. (In detail, of course- you can expect no less from me.)
Lesson number one: No matter how obvious the answer may seem, it never is.
It has been interesting learning my way around a new office. You kind of get used to having to figure out where the office equipment is stored, finding the fax machine and becoming apprised of the list of temperamental idiosyncrasies of the local copier. However, the things you take for granted, such as, "Where might I find the bathroom?" (and once you get there, "Where is the blasted light switch located?") become astronomically more important in no time at all. The particular incident I'm talking about occurred within my second week of orientation, wherein we were all granted a simultaneous bathroom break and naturally all of the nearby restrooms were occupied.
Saints be praised, however, because I had recalled having located another bathroom at the back of the building, and feeling rather clever with myself, I sauntered that way. Upon my arrival I soon discovered the light switch was cleverly secreted in some clandestine location. It was an enigma, a riddle, a mystery. However, my bladder wasn't particularly interested in this cloak-and-dagger espionage and adventure, so I found myself doing a jig whilst searching desperately for the switch in a room darker than the deepest of caverns far, far, far below ground. I was just about to yell, "Olly, olly, oxen free!" to see if the switch would come out of hiding, when one of my new colleagues appeared at the end of the hallway. Naturally, I pleaded for her assistance in my secret-switch-search.
Her response? "Oh, yeah. It's on the wall."
Thanks for clearing up that mystery, Nancy Drew. Now I'll just be on my way and let you get back to solving The Hidden Staircase conundrum.
On the wall. Why hadn't I thought of that? And here I'd been searching the floor, the ceiling, and even under the rug. Silly me.
With that helpful assist, I continued my scavenger hunt, and my colleague, having realized that her less-than-practical pointer in no way prodded me towards my purpose (alliteration is my best friend), took pity on me and showed me where to find the tricky switch. Which, by the way, had I been left to my own devices I would still be standing there today, stewing and stymied, 'Curses foiled again!', thwarted by a switch. Plus I'd be more than a little damp. And, also, I'd probably smell a little funny. (Okay, maybe a lot.)
It's all about those pesky little details.
Lesson number two: when it comes to language, setting is often significant.
The community choir I am a member of has begun working on a new production. We will be doing Cats. Not my first choice actually. (I'm not really a cat person and so an entire Broadway show based on the life of critters of the feline persuasion is not really my cup of tea.) However, I love my choir, I love the members of my choir, and for that reason I will invest myself wholeheartedly in this endeavor.
Having said that, my daughter, who succeeded in obtaining the role she greatly coveted, is wholly, entirely, and absolutely committed. Being an esthetician, she's also very excited about the numerous make-up opportunities. She and a family friend (whom I shall call The Mad Scientist) have spent hours in deep discussion regarding the various and sundry wig-making options available to them. (I have found myself with my chin on my chest and a line of drool forming a chain between the corner of my mouth and the tabletop while they discuss things like 'brushed wool' and 'synthetic vs. non-synthetic,' ad nauseam. Whenever the word 'dye' enters the conversation, that's pretty much what I want to do.) Now, all of this might be boring, but it does make sense when the conversations take place inside my home. However, change the setting and this is what you get:
*** Setting- local church after Sunday services.
People are exiting and stopping to chat with one another on their way out.
The Mad Scientist lurks among them. ***
Mad Scientist: Yeah, so you want to know what my next project is?
Church Lady: You mean your next art project?
MS: Yeah! I'm making wigs for Cats! (His excitement is genuine- albeit confusing to his audience.)
CL: I'm sorry, did you say 'wigs for cats?' (See what I did there? This becomes important.)
MS: Yeah! I'm so excited! I've done wigs in the past, but these will be different.
CL: Wigs for cats?
MS: (Goes into a long rant of the various ways he intends to construct said wigs for said Cats.)
CL: Wigs for CATS? (With an expression of extreme perplexity - she is confounded, discombobulated, befuddled and confused- this conversation has gone to the dogs! Sorry, couldn't resist.)
MS: Yeeeeaaaah… (He is starting to realize that there is some kind of cat-astrophe- ba-dum-cha!- but he just hasn't quite caught on to what it is.)
CL: I'm sorry- why is it that cats need wigs?
MS: (Suddenly realizing that the Church Lady thinks there must be some kind of Locks for Love devoted to cats who have suffered from premature balding, or lost their hair to chemotherapy treatments or radiological testing, begins to chuckle.) Not 'wigs for cats'- wigs for 'Cats!' (Whereupon he performs a Broadway shuffle.)
So you see, not unlike real estate, it's all about location, location, location!
Summing up: The devil's in the details and the cat's on a hot tin roof.
It made sense in my head.
