Julia Pandl

This was the last sentence of a consent form that I signed the other day…

“I am aware that the practice of medicine and diagnostic imaging is not an exact science and I acknowledge that no guarantees have been made to me concerning the results of the procedure.” (I read: If we F this up, you’re SOL).

Wouldn’t it be great if every job that required “customer” service had its own consent form?

Here’s how the one at the DMV would read:

“I am aware the practice of issuing all things vehicle related is not an exact science. I acknowledge that my entire morning will be shot, standing in line. I understand that I am not allowed to ask what the hell is taking so long, because that would be insensitive to the “workers” who are busy painting their ridiculously long fingernails, or simply staring at the walls. No matter how bad it gets, I will not comment on the smell. And I know my picture is going to look like shit, because the camera was specifically designed (during the Hoover administration) to make everyone (including Mother Theresa) look like an escaped convict.”

Tech Support:

“I am aware the practice of offering technical support, whether it be for phone, internet, e-mail or cable TV access, is not an exact science (even though it kinda is). I agree to believe that my technician’s given name really is “Steve,” if he agrees to believe that I look exactly like Julia Roberts. Despite the fact that I’ve already tried it ten times, I will not complain when Steve asks me to shut down and restart my computer. And when “Steve” finally determines that my issue will require a tech visit, I acknowledge that no guarantees can be made regarding the words “between one and five.”   

Oh, how I wish we had one of these back when I was a caterer…

“I am aware that the practice of catering is not an exact science. Food does get dropped and spilled. Electricity goes out, ice melts in the heat, pets have hair, glassware breaks—especially the really expensive stuff, and some guests can be major assholes. They are my friends, after all, not the friends of my caterer. I acknowledge that my caterer can make no guarantees regarding the sobriety of our musicians, the condition of the bouncy-house, or the behavior of the ponies.  And, contrary to what I might believe, my caterer has absolutely no control over the weather. For assistance on this front, I will need to petition the Infant of Prague, Mother Nature and/or God Himself.”

Hope you have enjoyed reading.

The practice of blog writing is not an exact science.

What I did on my summer vacation: 

1. Went to Omaha, AKA—The Big “O.” Appeared on The Morning Blend, and did a reading at Anthony’s Steakhouse. Learned that people really like book readings when there are drinks involved. Thanks to Nikki, Shannon and the Lunch Bunch. What a blast.
2. Got a puppy (see inset). Named her Stella—as in Artois. Walk her what seems like twenty times a day. As smart as she is, she still barks at Weber grills, garbage bags, and dirt piles. I’m teaching her to heel, but not very well. I like the way her paws sound in the grass. Considering writing a book about her so I can claim her as a business expense.
3. Did reading at Milwaukee Country Club. Thanks to Patty and Mike. Learned that no matter how fancy the setting, folks still laugh out loud when you talk about boogers and chafing. Who knew?
4. Had a “book” booth at Ben Fest in Chicago. Relearned that I don’t do arts and crafts for kids very well. Sorry about the permanent marker folks.
5. Flew to Boston, and did a reading at Anthem Kitchen and Bar. Thanks to Betsy, Peggy and all that attended.  Walked on the freedom trail, and learned that an oyster shooter absolutely must be chased by a beer. Ach!
6. Went to Wausau, and did a reading at The Wright Place on 6^th—cozy, adorable, and great food. If you ever find yourself in Wausau (at Rib Mountain maybe), do check it out. Patty Kay, you’re the best.
7. Did a reading at Books & Company in Oconomowoc—a wonderful little Indie outside of Milwaukee. Great group. Lynn even made Miss Willie’s Banana Cream and Custard pies.
8. Book clubs, book clubs, book clubs. Thanks to everyone for inviting me. Keep ‘em coming!
9. Drove down to Kenosha for a reading at House of Gerhard.  Thank you Kathy, Gary, Angie and Dick for providing a wonderful cap to a summer chock full of book events. Excellent food and lovely group. Tons of fun.

Just read that there is a frost advisory for Northern Wisconsin tonight. I guess summer really is over. Time to pull out my jeans and see if they still fit…

I read something the other day that claimed, “Forty is the new twenty.” On really, really good days—on days when there is a little less clicking and popping when we get out of bed—maybe.

When I was in my twenties, a bunch of us rented a condo in Vail for spring break. It was a ski-in-ski-out with a balcony that looked right at a chair lift. Since there were about twenty of us piled into two rooms, and it was the tail end of the season, by Vail standards, it was cheap. In the morning I woke up next to empty beer cans, dirty ashtrays and empty pizza boxes, slapped on my ski boots, and tore up the slopes like…well…like you do when you’re in your twenties, skiing four days straight, stopping only to pee. I came home with an impressive tan, and a beautifully fit windburn.

Last year I turned forty, and decided to take yet another ski trip, this time with some family, out to Breckenridge. The condo was nicer, more expensive, less crowded, no ashtrays, and beer bottles—not cans. I had my own bathroom and a hot tub outside my bedroom door. After the first day of skiing, my boots felt like concrete blocks, and despite my preemptive Advil strike; I could not walk down the stairs. After the second day, I couldn’t walk up them. I took to buying “half” day lift tickets and told my family to meet me on the patio for an après ski beer. “I’ll buy,” I said. I came home with a hangover, a rash, and what I believe may have been a torn meniscus.

Next week marks the beginning of Spring Break 2011, and there’s no snow in the forecast, at least not in mine. I’m leaving my skis in the closet, and heading down to San Antonio to crash the sabbatical of a priest friend. While crashing a sabbatical sounds like a ton of fun, it does not, in my opinion, seem like “new twenty” behavior. It does, however, seem decidedly forty. Thank the Baby Jesus. The hotel has four stars and a mini bar. Evidently, there’s a river walk, and of course, there’s the Alamo. There will be sitting and sunscreen, and conversations that start with, “Where are we eating next?” If all goes according to plan, I will kick the “new twenty” to the curb with a few extra pounds, and a pair of awesome cowboy boots, which I’ve always wanted but could never afford. And I will come home as Wisconsin white as I am today.

Memoir of the Sunday Brunch is now available on Amazon Create Space. For those of you who are Amazon members, the traditional Amazon site will be up within five to seven business days. Kindle version to follow in four to six weeks. YAHOO!! What a ride, and, if you’ll excuse the Carpenter’s reference, it’s only just begun.

Here’s a little story from the adventures of promoting a book using, among other things, social media. While putting the final touches on www.juliapandl.com, I ran into a snag that required a trip to the Apple store, and an appointment at the Genius Bar. Genius Bar—Genius name. The mere fact that I am allowed to belly up to such a place does something wonderful for my self-esteem. You should try it sometime.

A few days earlier my friend, Gerry, had brought over a phone that she picked up at a garage sale (just for kicks). It’s a yellow, rotary phone circa 1972, perhaps, ‘73; it’s hard to say. For those of you who remember, it’s the phone that sat, and stayed, on the end table next to the couch, near the ashtray and the TV Guide. It’s an old Western Electric number—a throwback to the days before the dawn of caller ID. The phone we used to clamor over each other for, and answer with anxious anticipation, without knowing who was on the other end. It even has a wad of gum stuck to the bottom.

In a post-Packer’s-Winning-The-Super-Bowl Sunday afternoon daze, I was starved for a little entertainment, so I decided to bring the yellow phone to the Apple store with me, and walk around with it as if its technology was only slightly less advanced than say…the iPhone 3.

I don’t always think things through. That’s the problem. There’s the idea, which makes me smile, then, with a little luck, there are the eventual laughs, but somewhere in the middle things tend to get fuzzy. It seems technology—forward and backward—can cause quite a stir. Naturally, because it was a Sunday afternoon, the store was packed with customers. Maybe it was me, pretending to talk on the phone that caused all the strange looks, I can’t say for sure, but I will tell you this—that yellow phone made those customers uneasy in much the same way the VCR made my parents uneasy back in the ‘80’s. Look at that lady? Why does she have that? What is that? Is she actually talking on that thing? I don’t understand. Someone should call 911? It’s itchy there in the middle. My skin tingled and I started to feel like I had crossed the line—the one between laughter and lunacy—like I had walked into the Apple store, wearing nothing but that yellow phone and a MacBook.

If you’re already naked, really, what’s the sense in covering up? So I bellied up the Genius Bar, slammed the yellow phone down, looked the “tender” in the eye and said, “I’m waiting for a very important call. And when we’re done with the website stuff, I’d like to talk about a possible upgrade.”

He pointed to the phone, looked at his co-worker and said, “Hey, Dude, she wants to get a new phone. Can you transfer her information from that phone to the new one?”  Bless his heart.