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There are a couple of conventions in architectural drawings that I respect in their unintended comedy. They live quietly in the abbreviations legends of most construction document sets and are lightly sprinkled through pages of elevations and floor plans. “Typ.” for Typical. Meaning: I am telling you it is happening here, and it will recur wherever these conditions lend themselves exactly again. “(N) Integral Color Cement Plaster, Typ.” OK. For the rest of the drawing set, in those areas with that particular poché, you can expect a lovely, integral color cement plaster. It is now a treaty between the viewer and the architect. Expect that condition; you were previously let into the inner circle of information with the magical, all encompassing Typ.
Of course, Life can’t always work as neatly as a construction document set. You can’t just trust the things left unsaid. “I went to Whole Foods for some vegetable broth, stopped by the post office, etc.” If the etc. means a side detour to that sketchy corner of San Pablo Avenue for some meth, we have a problem. It reminds me of the old Yada, Yada, Yada gag from Seinfeld. And it is about trust. You can’t just throw out “…I am bringing Tom, Dick, and Harry, et al.” and then show up at your cousin’s NYE party with Howard Stern and Kim Davis in tow. Eww. It doesn’t work like that. That et al cannot be an atom bomb that no one was expecting.
Our shortcuts can be dangerous. Acronyms and abbreviations take a Life of their own until their sources are pulverized. What happened to SCUBA? It takes me so long nowadays, to try to think back to what it actually stood for. I know – and get all excited each time – that I have the B. and the A. down. Breathing Apparatus! And I can breathe again. But wait, what the hell are the S.C.U. again? Doh. And what do URL and LAN and HTML stand for again? We rely on them everyday. Soon, important things become head-scratchers. So be careful what you put into your abbreviations legend, relegating an actual word or concept to the ever-increasing sea of Cliff-Note-like, easy, short, and non-descript descriptors.
And so we come to U.O.N. – Unless Otherwise Noted. God, I love this one. It is perfectly logical to use in an architectural drawing set, but some days I also think it is a masterful cop-out. Please assume this condition in other places, unless I let you know otherwise. I would secretly make fun of U.O.N. whenever it would come up in drawings. What if you tried something similar at home: “I won’t hit you while you sleep with an uncooked head of broccoli, U.O.N.” It made me think that waiting for the noted to happen would be a nerve-wracking wait.
I was doing my expanded U.O.N. shtick for my husband and it sort of became a running joke. So one day a few summers ago, during a very earnest Jimmy-apologetic afternoon, I told him, “Just assume you are in trouble, U.O.N.” We laughed so hard. Here was a full homage to the built in concept that men are always trying to make amends to women for some old, you-are-in-the-doghouse behavior. Like women are always settling debt on a collective patience for millennia of toilet seats having been left up, or unbreakable professional glass ceilings, or for multi-houred labors endured throughout history.
As women, do we let out a trickle of animosity to make up for years of oppression? I call this The Paper Towel Syndrome – or I should say, The Absorbent Paper Towel Syndrome. You know those stupid commercials? The ones where someone would make a huge mess in the kitchen, and the all-knowing, cool, and quick-reacting mom character would sigh, roll her eyes, while still smiling (a smile, because advertisers where aiming for funny and relatable not for creepy awkward), and soak up the cranberry juice spill with a stroke of the pristine white paper towel? The mess makers now are mostly children, but for ages they would be clumsy, fully helpless looking men. I guess it was an even societal diss. If we were reduced to homemakers, the men would be the pathetic bulls in the China shops. We make men pay, by mocking them, in ways that are stealth and imperceptible.
And society perpetuates the man reconciling to the woman scenario. It must be good for the economy…because aside from apologies and days of fumbling, there are the diamonds and roses that are expected to be sold and bought. We oscillate in a constant state of being thoroughly grateful for Life as we know it, having laughter and companionship and the steady placement of a man’s touch on our lower back as we walk through a door, and of feeling like we are doing them a favor.
I am hopeful that as the oppression recedes and men and women heal back from ages of inequity, sad stereotypes will give way to balance. There is a fragile dance that women and men are involved in, sometimes a stiffly-structured Waltz and sometimes a violent Tango.
But I have been there on the hospital gurney, the blinding ocean of white acoustic ceiling tiles pressing above my view, punctuated by large fluorescent lights that would command a visceral eye-squinting. Out of the whiteout, his hands reach for my face. Firmly. He holds my cheeks and jaw line with his warm, steady palms. He says my name, and tells me to look at him, look at him – until out of the confusion, I finally hear. In the turmoil of all the clinical beeepings and voices directing medical urgencies, our eyes connect, and he holds my gaze until his peaceful blue eyes force the frightening frenzy to dissipate.
It is not the first time that he has grounded me and brought me back to safety. There were accidents on mountain bikes with little, scary falling-off-bridges events, and strange moments after general anesthesias and tonsillectomies, in those confused twilights that feel like coming back from dying.
So we can renounce the farce and be duly grateful when we find someone that can call our soul back to our body, when we are at a loss. I may joke about the many U.O.N.s, but….
He is not in trouble at all.
A little dedication...for always
I Wish You Heaven - by Prince
http://videos.sapo.pt/JieVkPNfvYfj1Fa6JeLW
Of course, Life can’t always work as neatly as a construction document set. You can’t just trust the things left unsaid. “I went to Whole Foods for some vegetable broth, stopped by the post office, etc.” If the etc. means a side detour to that sketchy corner of San Pablo Avenue for some meth, we have a problem. It reminds me of the old Yada, Yada, Yada gag from Seinfeld. And it is about trust. You can’t just throw out “…I am bringing Tom, Dick, and Harry, et al.” and then show up at your cousin’s NYE party with Howard Stern and Kim Davis in tow. Eww. It doesn’t work like that. That et al cannot be an atom bomb that no one was expecting.
Our shortcuts can be dangerous. Acronyms and abbreviations take a Life of their own until their sources are pulverized. What happened to SCUBA? It takes me so long nowadays, to try to think back to what it actually stood for. I know – and get all excited each time – that I have the B. and the A. down. Breathing Apparatus! And I can breathe again. But wait, what the hell are the S.C.U. again? Doh. And what do URL and LAN and HTML stand for again? We rely on them everyday. Soon, important things become head-scratchers. So be careful what you put into your abbreviations legend, relegating an actual word or concept to the ever-increasing sea of Cliff-Note-like, easy, short, and non-descript descriptors.
And so we come to U.O.N. – Unless Otherwise Noted. God, I love this one. It is perfectly logical to use in an architectural drawing set, but some days I also think it is a masterful cop-out. Please assume this condition in other places, unless I let you know otherwise. I would secretly make fun of U.O.N. whenever it would come up in drawings. What if you tried something similar at home: “I won’t hit you while you sleep with an uncooked head of broccoli, U.O.N.” It made me think that waiting for the noted to happen would be a nerve-wracking wait.
I was doing my expanded U.O.N. shtick for my husband and it sort of became a running joke. So one day a few summers ago, during a very earnest Jimmy-apologetic afternoon, I told him, “Just assume you are in trouble, U.O.N.” We laughed so hard. Here was a full homage to the built in concept that men are always trying to make amends to women for some old, you-are-in-the-doghouse behavior. Like women are always settling debt on a collective patience for millennia of toilet seats having been left up, or unbreakable professional glass ceilings, or for multi-houred labors endured throughout history.
As women, do we let out a trickle of animosity to make up for years of oppression? I call this The Paper Towel Syndrome – or I should say, The Absorbent Paper Towel Syndrome. You know those stupid commercials? The ones where someone would make a huge mess in the kitchen, and the all-knowing, cool, and quick-reacting mom character would sigh, roll her eyes, while still smiling (a smile, because advertisers where aiming for funny and relatable not for creepy awkward), and soak up the cranberry juice spill with a stroke of the pristine white paper towel? The mess makers now are mostly children, but for ages they would be clumsy, fully helpless looking men. I guess it was an even societal diss. If we were reduced to homemakers, the men would be the pathetic bulls in the China shops. We make men pay, by mocking them, in ways that are stealth and imperceptible.
And society perpetuates the man reconciling to the woman scenario. It must be good for the economy…because aside from apologies and days of fumbling, there are the diamonds and roses that are expected to be sold and bought. We oscillate in a constant state of being thoroughly grateful for Life as we know it, having laughter and companionship and the steady placement of a man’s touch on our lower back as we walk through a door, and of feeling like we are doing them a favor.
I am hopeful that as the oppression recedes and men and women heal back from ages of inequity, sad stereotypes will give way to balance. There is a fragile dance that women and men are involved in, sometimes a stiffly-structured Waltz and sometimes a violent Tango.
But I have been there on the hospital gurney, the blinding ocean of white acoustic ceiling tiles pressing above my view, punctuated by large fluorescent lights that would command a visceral eye-squinting. Out of the whiteout, his hands reach for my face. Firmly. He holds my cheeks and jaw line with his warm, steady palms. He says my name, and tells me to look at him, look at him – until out of the confusion, I finally hear. In the turmoil of all the clinical beeepings and voices directing medical urgencies, our eyes connect, and he holds my gaze until his peaceful blue eyes force the frightening frenzy to dissipate.
It is not the first time that he has grounded me and brought me back to safety. There were accidents on mountain bikes with little, scary falling-off-bridges events, and strange moments after general anesthesias and tonsillectomies, in those confused twilights that feel like coming back from dying.
So we can renounce the farce and be duly grateful when we find someone that can call our soul back to our body, when we are at a loss. I may joke about the many U.O.N.s, but….
He is not in trouble at all.
A little dedication...for always
I Wish You Heaven - by Prince
http://videos.sapo.pt/JieVkPNfvYfj1Fa6JeLW