blind insight

Close encounters of the mumbled kind.

On the bus yesterday morning, I ran into a woman I've known for years. Our social circles overlap in several places, as do those of most young, politically active lawyers in this town. We've attended many of the same parties, gatherings, political/community events, and legal functions over the years, but we've never become close. I like her fine - she's smart, nice, and a good Democrat.

Unfortunately, I can't understand a word she says. I don't see her enough to remember this, so when I spotted her on the bus I was happy to take the adjacent empty seat and begin chatting. But within a sentence or two, the memories of difficult and frustrating conversations past came flooding back,* and I began counting the blocks before one of us would exit.

To survive the conversation, I shifted my deaf-chick survival skills into high gear and forged ahead. I asked open-ended questions designed to elicit predictable but lengthy responses. I smiled and nodded and followed her facial expressions to try to use the appropriate phatic responses. I inquired about the well-being of a mutual friend from whom I'm long-estranged, knowing this would lead to an extended update. Basically, I tried to keep her talking and to avoid opportunities for her to ask me broad questions.

I think it worked. She took most of my leads and ran with them, and there were only a few moments during the ride in which I misread her cues or had to ask her to repeat something aimed at obtaining a response from me. Still, I was completely drained by the time she got off the bus, and I had to make a second Starbucks run to regather my forces and survive the morning.

The good part about this encounter, though, was that I finally figured out why this woman is so difficult to understand. She has terrible teeth. Apparently trying to conceal them, a la Renee Zellweger, she drops her chin and barely moves her mouth when she talks. I've never sat quite so close to her before, and so never noticed the dental issues. I feel rather more sympathetic towards her now, and more inclined to forgive her mumblings.

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* Yes, she knows I'm hard of hearing. Yes, I've asked her in the past to speak more clearly, to stand so I can read her lips, or to repeat herself. And yes, the first time I asked her to repeat herself yesterday, I said something to the effect of "sorry, it's really hard for me to hear with all the bus noise." Alas, to no avail.

From the marble quarry to the salt mines.

A quiet has descended over Blogland for the past week or so, presumably because writers across the country are sitting on patios in deck chairs, hands folded peacefully over barbecue-sated bellies while Old Glory waves above their sunburned heads. My own Weekend of Independence was spent in the semi-wilds of Marble, Colorado (yep, they've got marble there, and a really pretty river and lots of trees and not much else). Much of it was also, alas, spent on the 50-mile-long parking lot also known as Interstate 70, together with the legions of other Americans exercising their Inalienable Freedom To Take The Kids And The Dog And Head To The Mountains.

I'd hoped to carve out some time and brain space today to set to print some of the many thoughts rumbling around in my very tired head. But my collection of humongulous new cases requires my almost-undivided attention, so any real blogging will have to wait just a wee bit longer. In the interim, there's plenty to read elsewhere about the Kerry/Edwards ticket (two thumbs up and a hearty YAY from me!).

And most important of all, it's TOUR DE FRANCE TIME!