Monday, January 9, 2012

Help Wanted: Translator Needed

"What's that, Jan? You just keep saying, "Elmo, Elmo, Elmo," over and over again."
Morning Readers,

     I took ample time, over the weekend, to really think through what I'm typing today. Normally, I'd just let it all spill out like when I open packages of gummy bears, with my teeth, but a frightening fact, which begs my closest attention, was brought to light, several days ago. Unfortunately, my Translator is broken. Located somewhere between the left temporal lobe and the patience gland, the Translator makes it possible for every mother to switch from "baby speak" to "adult speak", with relative ease. I can't emphasize enough how terrifying it is to know mine's on the fritz....

     Last Thursday, I received a call from a good friend, checking on whether my hermit status had been upgraded to "Gold Level" yet. After she confirmed I wasn't wearing sack cloth, the conversation switched to politics. "So, any thoughts on the election?", she asked.

     I nodded at the phone. "Bert and Ernie."

     "Excuse me? Which party are they on?"

     Frustrated, I shook my head. "Sesame Street."

     "Is that some sort of independent group?"

     Desperately, I sifted through my word jumble. "Can't tell you how to get there."

     "Me either," she sighed. "Call me when you get things figured out."

     I hung up the phone and looked at Butch and Sundance. Butch shrugged his shoulders. "Elmo?"

     I inclined my head. "Elmo."

     Unfortunately, that was only the beginning to a very long day. As good old Robbie Frost put it, we had miles to go, before we slept, and most of those miles were covered in brambly brain function. My thought process, completely unable to interact with grown-ups, kept me stuck in neutral. I knew what I wanted to say, but when I tried to articulate that to the delivery guy, I knew I was in deep.

     "Sign on the line, and I'll be on my way." He smiled and handed me a clipboard.

     "In your truck?"

     "Uh huh."

     I grabbed the pen. "I know what sound the truck makes." Tears welled in my eyes because what I'd meant to say was, "Sign by the X?", but, instead, I scribbled my name, shouted, "Vrooooom," in the poor man's face, and dragged my box into the house.

     From inside, I heard a faint voice ask, "Are you saying you want to ride in the truck? I turned twenty-three, last Wednesday."

     I stuck my head out the door and gave him a dirty look. "Elmo."

     The heights of embarrassment hadn't quite been reached, until I received a call from the parish secretary. "Mrs. Kellerman, I'm calling to confirm all your personal information for the new directory."

     I proceeded to sing my name, address, social security number, and number of sins that week to the tune of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.

     She sighed. "Mrs. Kellerman?"


     "You're the fifth mom I've called today. Was that, "I was born in July"...or..."up so high"? If your Translator's broken, I'll just default to January, like I usually do."

     So, my only answer to this problem is to hire a translator. While you were reading, I worked on a blurb to put out on the internets:

Help Wanted

     Looking for Translator to help with child-to-adult language translations for mother of two. Must be patient, not as good-looking, and comfortable around people who wear pajamas from breakfast until dinner. Must be fluent in all children's programming and it's applicable translation to politics, religion, and monetary transactions. Preferable candidates will not mind having toast thrown at their heads, and words spelled out in the palms of their hands. No pay. Not allowed to sue. Someone who likes to read Harry Potter, out loud, is a plus. Bring pretzels or cookies to interview.

How was everyone's weekend?

Until next Time, Readers!