Dorrier Underwood

I expect the interruption. I need the interruption. I talk until it comes.  If it doesn’t, I will talk past my point, way past, until the listener is distracted and nervous about interrupting me. And still I talk, thinking it’s THEIR responsibility to speak up and drop that whole polite façade and be direct with me. I don’t take straight talk as offensive, and you would know why if you spent a few hours with my mother.  If you spent time with Mom and me, you would see how unerringly direct she is with me. Put that down! (Not, “please don’t mess with that.”) Douglas, come here and help me with this. (Not, “do you have a minute?”) I know better than to think that that style really works, but I still don't really get it when people complain that I interrupted. I usually think, duh, how else does anyone get to talk? I think of conversations like a game, running through a field, avoiding rocks and stumps, figuring things out along the way, racing to get up a

When someone asked Carl Reiner whether he considered himself a writer or a comedian, he said, “When I write, I’m a writer; when I tell jokes, I’m a comedian; and when I cut the grass, I’m a lawn mower.” Tonight I was a lawn mower. Yes, after two years and one month, I have unpacked and assembled my Fiskars lawn mower. And all without a number 11 wrench (who has a numbered wrench lying around the house anyway?). My grass had not been cut for two weeks (in the back, not yet this season). I was so pleased with myself for identifying points A through L, negotiating hexagonal bolts and a couple of cotter pins, all while not damaging myself with the sharp-as-a-razer blades, that I went out in the dark and cut the grass. The street light helped—or not, since I was cutting in my own shadow.  I suspect I did a not very good job, and tomorrow I’ll have to check the setting of the blades to make sure they are aligned, clean up any mess I made, and tackle the back yard. That’s what tomorrows are f