Cringeworthy

The gossip queens (and kings) of this world crouch outside closed doors, ears pressed to the wood (or to the bottom of the paper cup they are using as a hearing aid), holding their breath while they attempt, with varying degrees of success, to hear words intended for other ears.

I’d like to believe that most of us are above this behavior.

But none of us can claim that when particularly juicy words happen to hit our ears, we don’t pause and swivel our sound saucers – just so – to find out where the story heads.

Ad-free entertainment.

As a child, a good friend of mine lived on a hill with a driveway that happened to be situated just perfectly to receive phone interference from one specific but unidentified neighbor. Sometimes when we gabbed endlessly on our cordless landline telephones (as 10 year old girls are wont to do), we would suddenly gain a third voice on the line, passionately regaling the highly dramatic unfolding of her life. We would sit rapt for a few minutes – my friend pausing mid-stride in whatever location had caught the signal – to catch up on her latest exploits and continue the maturation of our virgin ears.

When I visited, we would look suspiciously at all the neighbors in her cul de sac, wondering which of them might be this mystery woman. We never did learn.

Rookie mistake: forgetting about the microphones.

I used to work in a law office. I, along with my boss and the associate attorney, went to trial shortly before I left the firm. The opposing attorney we were up against was a very successful lawyer. He was also an old, mean and creepy man. In other words, he was a walking attorney stereotype. We won, but they appealed and, after I left, my coworker had to continue poring over documents from trial to prepare for the next phase of the case.

(I suppose it’s also relevant to note that I have red hair. Though there’s no way of saying that without ruining the punchline.)

One April 3 I received an email from my old coworker. I was sure it was a belated April Fool’s joke, but was afterward assured otherwise. Said email is reproduced below – only names have been changed to protect the (not so) innocent:

I just came across the following whispered conversation from trial:

Old Man: Do you think [opposing counsel] brought that redhead to the courtroom just to distract me?

Old Man’s Second Chair: He doesn’t know—else she would be wearing a nurse’s outfit.

Old Man: Even without the nurse’s outfit, I can manage to superimpose her on [inaudible]. The worst mistake in my entire life was that I confessed to my current wife my fetish over redheads. It goes way past infatuation. Total fetish.

I still revel in the thought of the judge reviewing transcripts from trial and coming across this gem… Priceless.

Everyone enjoys the occasional audible tablescrap – meant for someone else but accidentally slipped to us thanks to carelessness, indiscretion or uncooperative technology. Nonetheless, under normal circumstances, it is the hallmark of a well-adjusted adult to not worry too terribly much what others think of their overheard conversation.

Still…

Tables turn: the parent is embarrassed by the child.

One day I went shopping with my mother. I was fairly new to reading at the time, and I viewed it as a magical power that allowed me to know things about the world to which I had previously been blind. It was my mission to soak up as much knowledge as possible which, at my height, was limited to knowledge placed around four feet high and lower.

Mom!

What?

::Pointing to a box of garbage bags with a “cinch” feature::

I thought that said CHINK!!!!

::Mom is silent::

Hahahahahah! I thought it said CHINK! Isn’t that funny!

Shhhhh.

But it says cinch. I thought it said CHINK though! That’s so weird. CHINK. Funny sounding word, right?

Be quiet.

What’s wrong? I though it said CHINK! Isn’t that silly?

I’m sure this went on for some time before she was forced to yank me to the side and explain very quietly in my ear that “chink” was a derogatory term – a fact of which I had been blissfully unaware until this time – and that perhaps it would be best if I did not yell it, at the top of my lungs, repeatedly. Gotta learn sometime.

Don’t land yourself on The List.

One far too early, still-dark, blizzarding morning last winter I found myself waiting in an airport for a flight with my boss. We chit-chatted quietly – everyone around us still wiping sleep from unfocused eyes and clutching coffee cups like lifelines. The bland conversation turned to phones ringing, and I ended a sentence a little too loudly with

Ya, but she was totally BLOWING UP.

I took a moment to let this particular mixture of locale and word choice sink fully into my brain – to adequately congratulate myself on the amazing yogi flexibility that allowed me to place both of my feet into my mouth simultaneously.

Then a deep breath, and some more too-loud words, this time intentionally -

…you know, SHE RECEIVED A LOT OF PHONE CALLS ON HER PHONE SO SHE WAS BLOWING UP WITH POPULARITY ON HER PHONE WITH THE RINGING AND THINGS.

Whew. Narrowly dodged that bullet. I mean…NARROWLY AVOIDED A SITUATION THAT COULD HAVE BEEN BAD because I might have ended up on a do-not-fly list by accident for saying the wrong thing. NOT A REAL BULLET. A WORD BULLET. WAIT. NO BULLETS. JUST… UM…YA. nevermind.