What we have hee-ah is a fail-yah to communicate".
This is one of my favorite movie lines from, ‘Cool Hand Luke’.
Recently, I read an article saying faulty communication is the biggest stumbling block in relationships, and in business. Another article said there is such a thing as too much communication. Can they both be right?
I decided to do a little research on the Art of Communication and found that there is a lot more involved than just imparting information.

Take these examples of actual headlines for instance:

Tiger Woods plays with own balls, Nike says.
Caskets Found as Workers Demolish Mausoleum
Poison Control Center Reminds Everyone Not to Take Poison
Federal Agents Raid Gun Shop, Find Weapons
One-Armed Man Applauds Kindness of Strangers

Now, we all know what the reporter meant, but when you look at it in print, well…
The same thing happens when people speak too quickly. It’s called a slip of the tongue. Suppose your boss wants to introduce you to an important new client. You’ve been warned that Mr. Rose has an extremely large nose and you must not stare or refer to it in any way. What’s the first thing out of your mouth when you meet him? Uh-huh. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Nose.”

Then there is the non-verbal, demonstrative type of communication which is often amusing. This is mostly performed by mimes or those who believe that showing is better than telling. Of course, when someone can insert a fist (preferably their own) in their mouth, that’s all anyone attending the party will remember about them.

Communication requires a wide range of skills such as, listening, observing, speaking, questioning, analyzing, and evaluating. In fact, it is only through communication that collaboration and cooperation occur. The United States has a whole department set up for the purpose of imparting and regulating the communication sent out via radio, tv, wire, satellite and cable. If it’s important enough for the government to get involved, it must be pretty darned important. Not to mention the vast array of classes offered to improve your writing and communication skills using PowerPoint, spread sheet applications and shadow puppets. Cornel University engages in the fundamental study and application of communication science. Wow.

Miscommunication opens up what is known as the triangle of conflict…Fear (What if?), assumptions believed as truth, (ass-u-me), what to do? (duh)
I recently experienced the triangle of conflict when performing the simple task of ordering a farewell cake for a dear friend.

I neglected to read the following words on the order form: Print EXACTLY what you would like on the top of the cake. And although she mispelled underneath, obviously, based on my communication, the baker was just doing her job.

About Face

Ever have one of those days when everything looks just the way you like? Your face powder doesn’t settle into last year’s worry lines, your eye shadow blends seamlessly from lid to brow and your lipstick stays glossy all through mealtime? Well, yesterday wasn’t one of those days for me.

Let’s start out by asking, why do they call it make-up anyway? Isn’t that something you do after a particularly destructive occurrence? Is that what we’re starting out with? A negative event? I do battle my tendencies for self-criticism, which often border on torture, but I don’t need anyone else chiming in.

I woke up with bags under my eyes big enough to handle a ten-day cruise. After splashing cold water on my face and gently dabbing it dry with a towel made of long-staple, Egyptian cotton, I noticed that not only had the bags not reduced in size, but my crows feet had turned into a wrinkle fest. I quickly seized my natural, anti-aging, soothing, soft, firming, daily moisturizer, promising to banish eye bags; I pumped a large glob into my palm. After working it into the combat zone, I noticed that the wrinkles had truly vanished but now it looked like I had a copious water balloon beneath each eye. Damn, why did I stop doing my yogic eye exercises? I began to squint and release and did ten sets of ten. I ended by squeezing my eyes tightly shut and counting to forty, but before I could open my eyes, my boyfriend walked in. I heard a deep belly laugh that is usually reserved for the Jackass movies. I’ll allow him to make-up for this later.

The loose powder I applied clung to the, way-too-much moisturizer, and I was left looking like Mr. Magoo gone geisha. I had to keep moving. I applied my sunbaked brown eye shadow, using the applicator like a mason’s trowel. My lids ended up looking like painted cement. I ignored it. I only had twenty minutes before I had to leave. I quickly opened my cheekers blush compact and the brush slipped out and fell into the sink. Know what happens when you apply blush with a wet brush? Raggedy Ann! I was on a roll. Now I applied my midnight-black, waterproof, lengthening, volumizing, maximizing, mascara. I had just finished the last touch when without warning, I sneezed. Now I looked like Jan Crouch without a bible.

I was stymied. No pun intended. It only took five minutes to remove the mascara, wash my face, and pull my hair back into a ponytail. Days like these are why God made designer sunglasses.

Don't Contaminate the Crash Site

Have you ever had a computer crash? Well, let me tell you, from my own experience it isn’t pretty. I must say though, I now know more about what not to do than what to do in a computer emergency. I know I won’t perform CPU on my CPU (central processing unit)… ever again. Yelling at a computer will give you a whole new category in feelings of powerlessness. Watching as data slips away can be a frightening encounter but hitting the keyboard will do nothing more than tip over your bowl of corn chowder. By the way, it is impossible to blow corn chowder out of a computer keyboard. It was at that exact moment that the tower began to grind and squeal. It must have been the sound of the head whatchamacallit ramming into the spinning platter that stores stuff. After my tenth attempt at rebooting, I must have caused more damage. At least, that is what Franklin, my computer doctor said. My visit went something like this:
Franklin: Can you describe what was happening when your computer broke down?
Me: I had just finished talking on the phone to my friend, Rita about her overactive bladder. She says her bladder muscles contract inappropriately if you can believe that. Her doctor wants to put her on an antidepressant to paralyze the muscles but the side effects are scary. Blurred vision, dizziness, dry mouth, fatigue, nausea, insomnia…I think I’d rather pee my pants.
Franklin: I mean, what was your computer doing when it stopped operating?
Me: Oh, well I went to look up the website for the bladder foundation. I remember reading that you could remedy an ailing bladder with pelvic floor exercises. I think she should also consider a holistic approach and start taking Butterbur supplements. I laughed.That reminds me of Barliman Butterbur, you know, the owner of Inn of the Prancing Pony in Lord of the Rings?
Franklin: Then what did you do?
Me: When?
Franklin: When you searched the website.
Me: Oh yeah. Everything froze…even my mouse.
Franklin: And then?
Me: After turning the damn thing off, I rattled off cuss words until I completely ran out. Finally, I said a prayer and then anointed it.
Franklin: With what?
Me: Well, I didn’t think oil would be good for it and I didn’t have any holy water so I spit on it.
Franklin: So, you committed violence against your computer. Me: Oh, for God’s sake. Are you going to turn me in? Can’t you help me find the little black box that explains why the crash happened?
Franklin: This isn’t a plane crash.
Me: Okay, what about checking with the Sacred Hall of Computer Records or a scanning device of some kind?
Franklin: There is no sacred hall, there are no special tricks to research what led up to the crash unless I can look at it, and the only records for your computer would be inside it.
Me: So, it’s like a really big brain with information stored in different areas?
Franklin: Baby Brain.
Me: Excuse me?
Franklin: I’m assuming you are using a desktop PC.
Me: Well, it’s sitting on my desk, yes.
Franklin: Baby Brain.
I felt my chest tighten and my lower lip began to quiver.
Me: I feel like I’m locked in a big dark box and the directions for getting out are written on the outside. What I need is for you to read them to me, loud and clear in language that a five-year-old child could understand.
Franklin: My five-year-old daughter would have diagnosed the problem and had the computer up and running by now.
It took me a few moments to compose myself.
Me: Alright, Franklin, I’m going to draw a chalk line around this disaster. You just get over here and charge me your $100 an hour. But you better install an airbag because I’m never going to go through another crash like this again.

Inertial Informercial

I have a terrible habit of falling asleep in front of my television, spooning the remote. I suppose there are worse habits, and I wish it stopped there, but it doesn't. I usually come-to, around 3 am, when the cable station is showing one of those paid informercials. That's where all the trouble begins. Well, actually it began about thirty years ago when I woke up to Joe Karbo talking about becoming a millionaire, The Lazy Man's Way. The idea stuck in my brain like a day-old Cheerio to a porcelain cereal bowl. Far from the tiresome advice of staying focused and hungry. It is so much more appetizing to be well-fed and lazy. Earn money while you sleep...lose weight while you sleep...subliminal tapes that teach you the secret of positive thinking that only a few know. I love it. Count me in!
Last night, I woke up to, Shapely Secrets. It's a seven-minute motionless exercise program. My eyes snapped open like they were spring-loaded. There were women of all shapes and sizes giving testimonials about how this program sculpts their bodies in only 7 minutes a day, in a perfectly motionless way. My mind screamed, I can do that! It's five times more effective than a 40 minute work-out. Yes! You lose fat, never muscle. Yes! Imagine being a whole size smaller in just fourteen days. Yes! You just stand still and don't move. Yes! Yes! Yes! I felt like Meg Ryan in, When Harry Met Sally.
Now, mind you, I have ordered exercise equipment, videos and dieting books, all promising the same results, and if I added them all up, I would estimate I have lost somewhere in the neighborhood of three-thousand dollars. Suddenly, the voice of reason, at least I think that's what it was because I'm not very familiar with that voice, told me not to go back into that neighborhood. Not without back-up. For once, I listened, and I resisted the urge to pick up the phone and order this time. I was so excited, I felt like finding a 12-step group to report my success. Do they even have IA? Informercials Anonymous?
Of course, my excitement was short-lived. I just signed up for a, Laughter Yoga class. It teaches you to destress your body by laughing, without truly laughing. Ha! You're actually able to produce that thin film of tears which are squeezed from the lachrymal sacs during the act of laughter...or getting your taxes prepared. No strain, no pain.
I guess I'm just hooked on finding the easier, softer ways.

MALICE IN WONDERLAND

I wonder if there are statistics on how much time people spend wondering. Admittedly, we’ve really cut down wondering time what with cell phones, e-mail, infrared night vision cameras, miniature magnetic-mount motion-activated weatherproof GPS devices, fish-eye peep holes, caller ID and audio monitoring kits . We really don’t have to make Aunt Gert wonder where we are when we can just call or send an e-mail with a photo attachment of our recent visit to Woo La La Chinese Cafe.
I heard somewhere that genetics loads the gun, and environment pulls the trigger. Well, let me tell you, with all of the negative things I was told while growing up, my mental firearm is far more dangerous than any M16 assault rifle and should never be given too much time to wonder. Still, mild wondering is something I do enjoy; at least until it becomes unstable and someone gets hurt. It starts something like this.
I wonder where he is? He isn’t answering his cell phone. I’ll bet he forgot to charge it again, or maybe it’s off. Hmmm.
Maybe he e-mailed me. I log on and scroll through the offers to whiten my teeth by 7 shades and pills that will correct my erectile dysfunction. I look briefly at an approval for government funding. But then, who isn’t being funded these days? Still another one catches my eye. This one is for pomegranate juice that promises to cleanse 15 lbs of undigested food from my intestines. I’d love to lose 15 pounds. I wonder if that detox foot patch really extracts deadly toxins from your system.
I check my cell phone. No voice messages or texts. I look at the clock again and wonder if it’s right. I call for the time. Maybe he thinks I’m still at work. I access my work voice mail and the only message is from my boss wondering why I left early.
What a fool I am to believe he would follow through. As if I’m the only girl in town. I’ll bet he collected several numbers at that party we were at last week-end. After all, an attractive man like that doesn’t need to be accountable to one girl and believe you me, that darn redhead went for him like a duck on a junebug. I anxiously picked up the phone to check the dial tone. I call my girlfriend, Cindy, “don’t ask me to explain, just call me right back.” I hung up. Seconds later, my phone rang. “Hello? Yes, I was just wondering if my phone was working.”
He spent a long time talking to that tart, Pam at the party too. I could picture him at her place right at this very moment, sitting with her on the couch and talking about how I squeezed in between them on the leather sectional sofa. I swear, I thought the other end would lift up with all of us huddled together like that. I’ll bet they can scarcely contain their laughter. I scroll through my cell numbers and select Pam. She answers. “Hi Pam, I was thinking of having some people over on Saturday. Are you available? Yeah, it is short notice. That’s too bad. Okay, well how about tonight? Are you doing anything tonight…with anyone? I mean I was wondering if you are with anyone. No? Okay, thanks.”
I suddenly remembered my locker-mate at the gym. Marcia was one of those addicted to working out, and purging every last calorie of her uncooked plant food. He mentioned how good Marcia looked when he met me at the gym earlier this week. I wonder if he’s there with her right now. I call the gym and ask them to page him. He’s not there.
I went to my closet and dug out my poster of Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction and put it on the wall next to the front door, yes, it’s a well-placed reminder for him, if he ever comes back. There are sooooo many whacko’s out there. One glance at this picture is equivalent to at least ten sessions of couple’s therapy.
Maybe he was trying to call when I was checking to see if the phone was working or when I called Pam, or the gym. I wonder if I missed the call waiting beep.
This wondering is getting absurd! Who does he think he is anyway? Making me wonder like this! Now I’ve wondered out too far and made myself miserable.
I don’t care if he ever calls again! I’m just going to go about my normal evening routine. I fixed myself a sandwich and ate in front of the TV. I washed my hair and put on some densifying treatment for fine and limp hair then coiled some plastic wrap around my head. I was just getting interested in my TIVO recording of Dexter when my doorbell rang.
I looked through my fish-eye peephole to see him standing there with a bouquet of flowers in his hand. He had a bottle of wine too. I wondered what crappy thing he had done that he thought a handful of daisies and a bottle of Two-Buck-Chuck would make up for. I yanked the door open wide so he could see the anger on my face. He jerked back when he saw me and the poster of Glenn Close. He glanced at his watch and frowned.
“Am I early? I thought you invited me for dinner at seven.”

I'm Driving Me Crazy

I’ve always prided myself on being an honest person, for the most part. I mean, there are those little white lies you tell, “sorry I’m late, I forgot about the time change,” or, “my, that dress makes you look ten pounds lighter.” I like to think of it as being thrifty with the truth. Whatever.
Last year, I was notified that I would need to report to the DMV, to renew my driver’s license. I was a little perturbed by this because they had been renewing it through the mail for twelve years. I was perfectly content with keeping that particular photo, no matter how old I had become.
So, after waiting over an hour in a long line, listening to sighs and complaints, I reached the clerk at the counter. She looked at my application and asked, “Is all of your information the same?”
I was about to say yes, but some unseen force commanded me to say, “No.”
She looked up. “What has changed?”
I hadn’t changed my weight from the time I applied for my very first driver’s license, at age sixteen. My license claimed I was a lithe, one hundred and fifteen pounds. I figured if I ever had an accident, they would be looking all over for me, underneath the fat woman.
"My weight."
She blinked, and stared at me for a long moment. “What weight should I put down for you?”
“145.” I lied again! I had actually topped my single birth maternity weight, and was pushing for twins.
If the DMV were smart, they would have a scale with a billboard-size display. You would be fined for every pound exceeded on your driver’s license. Not to mention, everyone in the building could see what you weigh. It sure would take care of the state’s financial deficit. And obesity would be a thing of the past.
Of course, I had to pose for a new photo, damn it. I’ve always wondered why they don’t offer finger-size peanut butter sandwiches before they take the shot. This way, when you’re sucking in your cheeks and using your tongue to scrape the peanut butter off the roof of your mouth, they could get an even more attractive photo than they already do.
Know what’s ironic? My doctor finally convinced me to lose weight by threatening me with cholesterol medication. So, now I’m down to one hundred and twenty pounds. That’s only five pounds away from the original weight on my license. Just goes to show, you should let sleeping dogs lie.

Touring the Brain of an ADD writer

I’d like to walk you through uncontrolled and dangerous territory. No need to fasten your seatbelts, or keep your arms and legs confined to a specific area before the tour comes to a complete halt. Just sit back, in the comfort of your own thoughts, and know that you are safe, secure and protected.

Directly in front of you is a cranium that contains a bizarre collection of, linear vs holistic, logical vs intuitive, and reality-based vs fantasy-oriented processes, that are overly ripe for picking. On the left, you will find the region that functions as a splitter, it’s logical, sees cause and effect, and responds to verbal instructions. On the right, is a lumper. It sees the big picture. This region prefers open-ended questions, is fluid and spontaneous, fancies illusive and uncertain information, and would rather have a hot poker shoved into its soft gray flesh than to follow any type of instruction.

Notice the lush vastness on the right, as opposed to the miniscule, desolate, terrain on the left. This harsh difference is most commonly found in the brain of a fiction writer. Of course, there are unique occasions, where small as it is, the left region will rise up in ambush-fashion, and arrange what the right region considers a brilliant idea into logical, and sequential order. Crap, reality intrudes.

Please proceed to the collection of ideas located in the right hemisphere. Notice how random they are, how they flit from one tack to another.
Let’s observe a few:
Never store nuclear waste in a shoe box. Even if you're not arrested, it will stink up your clothes.

When driving away negative energies, make them buckle up in the back seat while you chant, "I want to be judged for my unseen intentions." Your problems will soon disappear.

Never whack a family member in the head with a 5-iron. It will definitely throw your game off.

Why do they make magnifying mirrors? Aren’t we scary enough without exaggerating facial blemishes?

It’s best not to dwell in this region too long or operate heavy machinery for at least one hour after your visit. An overextended stay may produce unwanted side effects such as, rawness of throat, nausea, fever, giddiness, headache, severe stomach cramps and sharp pains in the neck.

Let’s move on to the left region, the master planner and scheduler.

Don’t let the coffin lid hit you in the face on the way down.

Okay, that’s enough out of the right side. Pay no attention, if you don’t encourage it, chances are, in seconds it will forget you were ever here.

As I said, the left side is responsible for logical, concrete processing. Let’s have a look at the approach it uses for writing:

Everyone dies.
No one knew that better. He had seen first-hand the unyielding power of the reaper’s will. It wasn’t the reaper who tugged at him now, however. It was the deadly toxin that was rapidly being absorbed into his digestive tract.
The cold wind flattened his pant legs against his shins. An icy ache rankled his teeth. He jerked the edges of his coat tightly around his middle. His heart battered a rabbit-quick rhythm against his chest. Pain ripped up through his abdomen and brought him to a standstill.
With panic stricken eyes, he looked around for help. It was ridiculous to think anyone would be on the street at this hour. Nausea overwhelmed him.
He pressed his hand over his mouth. He couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t feel anything. His fingers were numb. He retched twice and then compelled himself to keep moving, feeling only a great sense of revulsion and wrongness.
Trees loomed, posing black and claw-like as he passed beneath. Swaying in the gale, they seemed to mock him as he reached out to them for support. He thought he heard them rustling their leaves, whispering, “Poor tiny man. Foolish little man.”

Always keep your pockets free of any flavor pudding.

Uh-oh, the right side has become bored. It would be useless to continue once these types of intrusions begin. Please exit in an orderly fashion, and return soon, as ideas are updated regularly. Thank you, and we look forward to seeing you again. Oh, and don’t forget to tip your waiter on the way out.

Excerpt from, 'Initials For Murder', by Venita Louise, available at, The Authors Lounge.