Have you ever
had a conversation with someone who spends the entire time formulating a
reaction to what you are saying but doesn’t actually hear what you are saying?
Do you tell
someone something, and then you hear that person tell someone else the same
thing, only to hear it told completely wrong?
Are you a
writer who gets letters to the editor about columns you’ve written, and they
supposedly quote you or put words in your mouth you never said?
If you
answered yes, you are I.
The other
day, one of my four bosses – the joys of contract work is the blurring of the
chain of command – asked to see me, and he said, “Well, do I have hell to pay?”
“What?”
“You said, if
I you weren’t offered this position, there would be hell to pay.”
Let me be
clear. I have NEVER said “hell to pay” in my entire five-plus decades on this
planet. I have said some pretty nasty things and made some pretty idle threats
using language that would make a crack whore blush, but I have NEVER said “hell
to pay.”
He even said
he had a witness. Well, the witness proved him wrong.
By the way,
the position was eliminated when the alcoholic abandoned it, so there wouldn’t
be a way to offer it. Therefore, there was no hell to pay, imagined or not.
This is my
life.
When one is
loud and opinionated – Who? Me? – one spends a lifetime being misquoted.
A few years
ago, I was in a meeting with a hotel representative planning a conference with
someone from my organization who is known to be pretty shady. I said, “For
every 50 nights we reserve, there should be a comp room; therefore, we should
have three comp rooms since we have reserved 160 nights.”
Before the
hotel rep could say anything, Mr. Shady yelled, “We aren’t giving rooms to the
entire board!”
I thought,
where in my sentence did I say “board”? There he was getting ready to react to
something that wasn’t said, but reacted anyway. Well, one shouldn’t do that
with me because my next comment was, “When did I say board? Did anyone in this
room hear me say board? Now, you need to shut up because you have been given a
free room, meals and drinks for five years without informing anyone in the
organization, which is essentially stealing from us as that was our room, food
and drinks. It says so right here in this contract in black and white that they
have provided you these things.”
Some people
forget I actually can read. They also forget I actually listen … when I want
to.
Growing up,
family members would ask me to recall conversations. What always amazed me was
what they didn’t remember. My mother was famous for selective memory. My father
on the other hand had no listening skills. He would hear a sentence on the news
and go off without any context.
Reporter: “A
man riding a bicycle was hit by a truck during last night’s thunderstorm.”
Dad: “There
go the Russians, screwing with our weather again.”
OK, he was
one aluminum hat short of a trip to St. Elizabeth’s.
Recently, I
wrote a column about the mid-1970s, mid-size, rebadged Plymouth Fury for Hemmings Classic Car. In the article, I
mentioned how I remembered watching The
Tonight Show with Johnny Carson and Jay Leno and Clint Eastwood were guests
on the show. Jay Leno mentioned that Clint Eastwood drove used Plymouth Fury
police cars.
A few days
after publication, I received a letter forwarded by my editor. The author said
in an angry and condescending tone intended to get me in trouble that I “specifically
mentioned Dirty Harry driving Plymouth Fury police cars,” and I was wrong. He
then went on to set me straight (good luck with that) and listed all the cars
Dirty Harry drove, none of which were Plymouth Furys.
Well, I kind
of freaked out at first because I am a huge Clint Eastwood fan, and I have seen
all his movies, and I know Dirty Harry never drove Plymouth Furys, but had I
accidentally said that and it was overlooked by the fact checkers? I did an
electronic search of the publication and the words “dirty” and “harry” never
appeared.
You now have
proof I don’t write for a porn magazine. Think about it.
I was
furious. My editor said this was normal, so I laughed about how I was sitting
at home getting angry in a room with Rose Marie while eating egg whites and
Brussels sprouts (I am always on some weird diet).
However, I
decided to write this illiterate car nut and let him know I never mentioned
Dirty Harry in a letter that thanked him for supporting our publication and reading
my column. He responded that he equates Clint Eastwood with Dirty Harry and
that was the excuse for the mix-up. Never once did he apologize or admit he was
a moron.
My favorites
are doctors. I have been to too many doctors who don’t hear a word you say.
They just think you are crazy or they are waiting for a break to look up what
they think you said on the internet. Recently, I had to change primary care
physicians after going to one who would look up symptoms on Google images; he
didn’t even use WebMD, which always leads every symptom to cancer.
I especially
appreciate the doctors who act as if they don’t have time to listen and just
want to see the next patient, so their day will end soon. I had one who
seriously heard nothing I said, and when I asked for a prescription for
estrogen just to see if he was listening, he gave me one. I was an emotional
wreck with tender nipples for months, but the hot flashes did subside.
When I went
to my current doctor for the first time, he listened to every word I said,
which almost gave me cardiac arrest. And, he heard me when I told him that,
too.
My faith in
actually finding people with listening skills was restored.
The saddest
part is when you put information in front of people, and they choose not to
read it. I edit and write a car club newsletter. Recently, I included an
article about an upcoming event – The 25th Annual Orphan Car Tour. I
included it in two issues of the newsletter, meaning it appeared for two
months.
Ask me how
many emails I got from people in the club, who have access to the newsletter
and get emails announcing events that essentially said, “Hey, did you hear
about this Orphan Car Tour? You should write something about it for the
newsletter.”
I especially
enjoyed the post on Facebook, where a member wrote, “The car club should
promote this Orphan Car Tour.” He then included a link to last year’s tour!
A board
member wrote, “I wish I still had my Corvair, or I would go.” I about spit up.
Instead, I
responded, “That is last year’s tour. This year’s tour has been written up in
the newsletter for two months now. A Corvair is not an orphan. Why in the hell
do I bother?”
When I posted
pictures of the tour on Facebook, which by the way, no one from the car club
attended, one comment was, “Oh. Was that today?”
Maybe
someday, I will find somebody who can read.
