The Stuff of Life

People are really the stuff of life.

I remember when I was in fourth grade and a local author visited our class to talk about her books that we had recently read, A Carp in the Bathtub and Thank You Jackie Robinson. I think her name was Barbara Cohen. Anyway, the part of her talk that really stuck with 9 year old me was her answer as to why she became an author. She said she just had an inclination to write. While other kids were doodling when they were bored, she would write. How odd, 9 year old me thought. Sounds like a lot more work than doodling; but then the more I thought about it, I recalled that doodling was hard work for me anyway too; for I just wasn't into it. I never knew what to draw. So maybe it would be fun to wrootle. I was no prodigy, however, and it was not like my writing career took off there (or even now for that matter... maybe by age 39…); but now, whether from that inspiration, a deficit in doodling talent, or some other inspiration, I wrootle stories and character sketches in my head when the goings on about me fail to hold my interest.

Last week I was at a conference of supposedly like-minded, similarly mission-oriented people. Having been in these situations many times before, I am always delightfully aghast at the variety of people, their quirks, habits, and ways of expressing themselves. I just can't help but wrootle about them.

First, there is the head moderator of the conference, a Danny Devito clone, alike in looks as well as mannerisms, leading me to hypothesize that if said demeanor is inexorably wedded to such a physique.

Then there is a young boy – not sure if his momma knows he’s here - who isn’t really paying attention. His sole focus is on how much Coke or Sunkist he can drink (he’s toted in his own 2L bottle) and on coloring. Yes, coloring. The silhouette of the mountains depicted on the lodge stationary is just too alluring that he has to outline it, color it in, then replicate it over the landscape of the rest of the pad of paper. The speakers at this conference could be delivering the key to achieving world peace in our time (and maybe they are!!!), but no, this boy remains transfixed on his coloring. Seriously, it is all I can do to prevent myself from leaning over and saying in a Church Lady voice, “do we need to get you a coloring book, son?”

In stark contrast to Peter Pan is the Blahblah man at the end of my row. Oh, you know him. He prefaces his tiresome questions with pretentious exhibitions of his scholarship. Like: “given what Soandso had to say about blazieblah in light of Hoochiedamma’s theory about serious beans, do you think that one could draw the conclusion about the relative light year process of velveeta on rye with just a hint of cayenne, but only if Doofindagger’s himerschlammer were taken into account, right?” Whatever Dude!

Ah, back to someone more amusing. Day 3, a pair of women came in and chose two seats right in front of me. The one was super skinny and fussed a lot with her (unreal) bleach blonde curled hair. I dubbed her Goldilocks. The other had the grace of a circus elephant – and that is exactly what we thought had entered the room when her enormous butt brushed every upstanding water bottle on our table and set them all awobble. Since her friend was Goldilocks, I felt it only fitting to assume that she was a Bear.

Within earshot behind me, I was lucky enough to hear the Tic. An older gentleman who was nice enough, but spoke like everything he was about to say was funny--- but that he had to hold back. His defining characteristic, however, was his (nervous?) tic, a soft oinky-snorty noise that sounded like thick nails on a chalkboard, scratching down a couple of inches at a time, then abruptly stopping. How his nasal passages had the ability to produce such a noise is anybody’s guess.

The last truly notable character was one of the presenters whose voice, or at least manner of speaking, was exactly like Dr. Evil's. He would strangely stress certain syllables and then… he would pause… for effect, but the phrases that would follow the pauses… had little apparent significance. For example, he would say, “Afghani… STAHN” and talk about certain efforts “that were… [wait for it] …unsuccessful.” Seriously, does he know how funny this sounds?! Probably not. No, probably not. “Throw me a frickin bone here! I’m the boss, need the info!” Cracked me up!

Over the course of the week, I actually befriended or at least beassociated (that's what you'd call it if you made an associate, but not quite a friend, right?) most of these people. Did doing so make me feel guilty for my caricature of them, for this wrootling? No, not really; although it does make me smirk a little more than usual when talking to them. They are all very nice people... all ingredients in the stuff of life.