It all started with Professor Philip Zimbardo of Stanford University. I was half-heartedly listening to an excerpt from his lecture on “The Secret Powers of Time.”

“Another kind of time-orientation is,” (said Professor Zimbardo), “your sense of duration. How much time has expired while you’re sitting in a dentist’s office before they start drilling? How much time has expired when you’ve been waiting in line? How much time has expired when you’re having fun? . . . So, time duration is totally a function of whether you’re bored, whether you’re excited, or not.”

I rubbed my nose and tried to look intelligent.

Connie nudged her sharpest elbone in my side and whispered, “Did you get that?”

“No. Get what?”

“Time,” she said excitedly. “It’s relative.”

“So . . . ?”

“So, you know that stupid old slow computer that you want to upgrade but you don’t think you can?”

Now I was interested. “Yeah. What about it?”

“Do you know why it’s so slow?”

“Because it’s old?”

“No, it’s slow because you’re impatient.”

I gave her a sharp look, but she had already turned back and was listening to more of the lecture.

The longer I thought about it, the more I realized she was right. My perception of time hinges entirely on my attitude. Deep stuff, this.

Being careful not to let Connie see what I was doing, I grabbed a 3×5 index card and wrote:

“Why is your computer so slow? Because you’re impatient.”

I put this card facedown on my desk. There’s no point in letting Connie know she’s quotable. Her head’s already big enough.

The card sat on my desk for about a week. Every time I started jiggling my foot or tapping my mouse or heaving sighs at my computer, the blank white back of that card would catch my eye and I’d remember . . . the computer isn’t slow; I’m being impatient.

It did wonders for my attitude.

Last night I picked up the card from my desk to retire it to my file box. It had done its duty and I wanted a clean desk for in the morning.

I turned the card over to read Connie’s pithy sentiment one last time.

.
What I saw were some cryptic notes for editing a video. During the week, while shuffling papers, I had switched the cards on my desk—and hadn’t even noticed.

It just goes to show you how powerful visual aids can be.

Or something.

I love it when a grown-up squats down to get at eye-level with a toddler — and the baby squats too.

Click to continue…

A running joke I have is my non-existent, highly imaginary thesis. It’s funny because the chances of my actually writing a formal thesis are right up there with my going over Niagra Falls in a barrel.

Click to continue…

I had the perfect view of a 2-year-old at a restaurant this weekend. Nobody eats like a 2-year-old boy, and it’s a treat to watch somebody enjoy something so thoroughly.

As dinner progressed, the baby raised his little hand, caught the attention of a passing waiter, and said, “More bread!”

Later, his mother handed him a lemon wedge to keep him quiet and busy. He took a few pulls at the lemon and did the only thing a respectable baby could do.

He chucked it under his highchair and wiped his tongue with his napkin.

I did it. My first recording session is over and I have the red face to prove it. Oh, the pressure of perfectionism!

Now it’s time to edit my 60 gazzilion takes into one smooth easy listening experience. So I’m procrastinating on the other side of the fence—I’m now afraid to listen to my speaking voice.

Guess how many times I said “Hi, I’m Sarah Kanz” today.

I tried to make my voice sound like my Mom’s (I like her voice best of all). Now that it’s over, I think it would have been less intimidating to use a Southern accent or something else totally unlike my real voice.

My imitation of my adopted grandfather always goes over well.

I’m supposed to be recording myself.

Sarah. Talking. Out Loud. It’s not as simple as it sounds.

I managed to avoid the microphone yesterday, and I suppose I’m writing now to avoid it today. Or else to compel me to do it.

One or the other.

I’m cracking myself up, because I’m thinking the exact same thing I said on an audio tape when I was 3 years old.

Actual Transcript—1979

Mommy: Are you going to say something else?
Sarah: Yeah! In there.
Mom: What are you going to talk about?
Sarah: I wanna—no, I’m…I’m just going to listen to me and talk l—
Mom: Well, first you have to talk and then listen.

. . . <tape stopped and restarted>

Mom: What are you going to do now, Sarah?
Sarah: I wanna listen.
Mom: Aren’t we going to sing another song first?