What Are Ya? Deef?

Mmm. Take a deep breath.

You smell that?

That’s Friday, redolent with good old-fashioned week-endy goodness.

Friday! And, as is my wont, I am using the songs played on my Friday-morning commute as a means of predicting my – and, if you’re not careful, your – weekend’s activities.

So! Ladies and gentlemen, following a tradition hundreds and hundreds of minutes old, I bring to you the iPod Weekend Predictor.

The Hazards of Love by The Decemberists
Love Dog by TV on the Radio *
My Old School by Steely Dan
One Man Guy by Rufus Wainwright
Train in Vain (Stand by Me) by The Clash
Heroes by David Bowie
Earth Intruders by Bjork
Hollywood Swinging by Kool & The Gang
Fire of Ada by Tin Hat Trio
Uprising by Muse

Hmm. Anyone you meet this weekend you should probably leave right where you met them.

Oh. And if you find yourself in the kitchen? I’ve got a hankerin’ for a cherry pie.

So do we have time for a quick story?

At one time, I was a court reporter, one of those intense-looking women pounding out, phonetically, everything said in the courtroom.

That’s the key: phonetically.

And I was good. But there came a day when I came across a line in a transcript that I was working on that stumped me.

The deponent said she had been coming back from an appointment, that she had just gotten – and here I wrote “P S D S”.

P.S.D.S.

Oh, crap.

PSDS?

PSDS.

PSDS. I rolled that son of a gun around in my mouth for a good hour. I checked the Physicians Desk Reference. I called the library. I called my friends. "You ever had P.S.D.S.? You know anyone who has?"

I had to have this word; and eventually I did what is, for court reporters, a last resort.

I called the deponent.

“Hello?”

“Hi. This is Pearl. Your court reporter?”

There was a pause.

“Hello?”

"Sorry. Who is this?"

“This is Pearl. I was your court reporter yesterday afternoon?”

Another pause. Apparently she wasn’t expecting me.

“Ma’am, I just have one question about your testimony. You mentioned that you had had an appointment on the day in question for PSDS. Do I have that right?”

“Oh,” she said, warming. “Yes. Yes, that’s right.”

“So, um,” I said, fishing, “Does that hurt, PSDS?”

“Oh, no, not really,” she said. “Just a quick pop. The earrings just get shot right in. It heals in no time.”

PSDS?

Pee-essed Eee-yahs!

Pierced ears!



Did I mention the woman had been raised near Boston?