Was She Kinda Lonely?

My mind tends to drift when I write at home, distracted by the small occurrences that characterize a household. I rise often from the word processor to either undertake a chore or to simply wander through the house like the captain of a ship pacing the bridge.

As a result, the thought popping around in my brain at the moment of distraction is often gone forever by the time I return to my work, drifting endlessly through a cosmic sea of lost ideas.

Recently, for instance, I wrote about the growing number of ethnic groups in Los Angeles and the occasional difficulty in determining exactly what someone is saying.

I began the column with an anecdote involving a female bank teller with an accent so thick that when she asked me a question, it sounded like “Wazashee canaloni?”

Unfortunately, I have no ear for accents and had only a vague notion of what the lady was asking.

That is not to imply, however, I am anti-accent. I love the ethnic blend that has come to increasingly characterize L.A. and cannot abide the fools who agitate to make English our official language.

Those who demand an official language generally can’t articulate it anyhow, so what’s the point?

When I wrote the column I mentioned wazashee canaloni at the outset but, alas, I was writing at home that day and, distracted by the yowling of our cat accidentally locked in a closet, failed to say what I felt wazashee canaloni meant.

This precipitated a barrage of letters I was perfectly willing to ignore until an editor stopped me in the hall one day and said suspiciously, “Exactly what does ‘wazashee canaloni’ mean?”--the feeling being that I had slipped something dirty past him.

So I decided I’d better have another go at the subject and not let my mind wander this time, the devil take the cat in the closet.

The first step I take to ensure concentration when I write at home is to draw the drapes in my workroom. Well, actually, I draw the sheet. There is a sheet across my window because I haven’t decided what kind of drapes I want. I have been eight years thinking about it.

I draw the sheet so I will not be distracted by a wondrous view of the Santa Monica Mountains and by the blackbirds that often make lazy circles over the oak trees.

And now that the sheet is drawn, it’s work time.

Those who wrote in about wazashee canaloni not only questioned the meaning of the phrase but added ideas of their own.

The most intriguing possibility was offered by John Degatina who wondered if wazashee canaloni could mean, “Was she kinda lonely?”

Perhaps, he reasoned, the teller was referring to herself in the third person to indicate that if I were available, she was kinda lonely. Sorry, but I’m taken.

Another writer, this one anonymous, suggested that wazashee canaloni was an African pasta and the bank was distributing free recipes.

A third, Niquie Hutchison, sympathized with my confusion over the phrase and wrote that she is often momentarily confused by use of the word hode , such as “Can you hode?” or “Please hode.”

On the other hand, Betty Lello tells about the time she ordered lunch at McDonald’s and the order-taker said, “Teat here?”

The question baffled her.

“What?” she asked.

“Teat here,” the man repeated, “or to take out?”

A grocery clerk named Suzanne said a man came in one day and asked for “ex.” Suzanne thought he was referring to something he was too shy to say.

“Whisper it to me,” the clerk suggested.

He shrugged and whispered “ex” in her ear, then added, “One dozen. Large.”

Back to wazashee canaloni. I returned to the bank, but the teller who had uttered the phrase was on vacation. I am therefore left to my own devices to speculate what she meant by wazashee canaloni.

I think she was asking if the sheet in my window was the color of pasta. Was a sheet canaloni? Everyone on the block knows I have a sheet in the window, and someone must have told her. In fact, it is kind of pasta-tinted.

That’s my explanation of wazashee canaloni, as unlikely as it might be. It’s all I have. Maybe John Degatina was right and she was referring to herself in the third person, trying to tell me she was kinda lonely.

I say hang in there, Miss Lonely Heart. Hode on and everything will be fine.

(Excuse me. The cat wants in.)