18. It's Just Me Now, Mum: Read the Room
His voice permeated the dining room and reverberated all the way to the reception desk down the hall.
“My friend, the end is near, and so I face the final curtain. . . “ Frank Sinatra’s “My Way” had always been a favorite of my dad’s.
A few of the geriatric residents continued eating, their ears no longer able to detect the noise. Others raised their heads, spoons mid-air above their bowls of soup, and glared in our direction.
It was the first time the hubs and I had joined my dad at his assisted living residence for dinner. As soon as the soup arrived, he abruptly pushed back his chair, stood upright and began belting out the song at full volume. (In this case, it appeared his “way” was to infringe on the peaceful mealtime of other seniors).
Oblivious to the glowering looks, Dad continued to bellow at full volume. Turns out, for a guy in his late 90s, he had an extraordinarily healthy pair of lungs. (I once read that singing can improve lung capacity–not to mention other benefits like lowering stress or helping you cope with emotional stress. Part of the reason, I’m certain, my dad lived until almost 99).
“What does he think he’s doing?” someone muttered at the back of the room.
“Hey! Be quiet, we’re trying to eat here!”
“You know, I’ve heard worse voices. . . “.
Next up was “Those Were the Days, My Friend.” This time, he started clapping as he serenaded the crowd, encouraging audience participation.
By now, most people had returned to their chicken noodle soup, chatting with their table mates and slurping loudly in an effort to drown him out.
Lung capacity finally exhausted, my father sat back down, cheeks flushed with pride.
“You see how I entertain everyone?” he said. “They beg me to perform every night!”
With the (slightly mangled) lyrics of “Those Were the Days” still in my head, I couldn’t help but wonder: Did this display happen every night? How could he not realize the only person enjoying the show was, well, him?
To be fair, my dad could spin an excellent yarn and be quite the entertainer. The tale of Mrs. Katsaros (a customer at his butcher shop), who returned five pounds of stew beef because her cat licked it, often had people rolling in their chairs.
Or the one about Johnny, the teenaged punk hired to help at the shop on weekends, who surreptitiously cracked open the back door so his cronies could abscond with a few slices of deli meats–well, we clutched our ribs with hilarity hearing about it.
He even managed to turn the story of Joe, the homeless man who parked himself near the dairy case all day to escape the cold (while simultaneously scaring away customers) into an amusing anecdote.
The problem, however, was that he related those stories to anyone and everyone–even when they’d heard them before (sometimes, multiple times).
I have vivid memories of our extended family around the holiday table, my father holding court as he regaled the crowd with his exploits at the butcher shop.
To my mother’s credit, she never said a word when he repeated the same stories over and over (though the eye rolls from the rest of the group made their exasperation clear). Besides, as the lucky recipient of Mrs. Katsaros’ rejected meat, how could she complain? (I have to trust she washed it thoroughly before cooking it for us. Because otherwise, ewww).
But even back then, my father appeared oblivious to the prevailing mood in the room.
I mean, didn’t it occur to him that Aunty M and Uncle S had heard “The Tale of the Mouse in the Store Freezer” one (or fourteen) too many times? That maybe they’d prefer to get back to their coffee and apple cake?
How did he not sense that spewing endless anecdotes about female customers flirting with him (however innocently) might make his wife a tad uncomfortable?
And maybe–just a guess, here–it wasn’t appropriate to declare that his youngest daughter was the “best girl” of the three–when the other two were sitting right there alongside her?
As it turns out, the audience itself was irrelevant. The fact of having an audience at all is what mattered. And the more captive–say, a bunch of superannuated residents in an assisted living home, unable to jump up and leave the room on their own–the better.
If there’s one thing I learned from my dad, it’s this: It’s probably not a bad idea to assess the prevailing mood in the crowd and adjust accordingly before speaking. And also, singing regularly is beneficial to your lungs.
Stand-up comedians know this fact all too well; really good university professors know it; and we hope and pray that our government leaders know it (recent events notwithstanding).
Some people are born with natural spidey senses that tell them it’s time to shut up already, or that it might be prudent to remove themselves from a situation and hightail it out of there. Or, on the other side of the spectrum, when it’s appropriate to abandon all reserve and dance like a banshee in the middle of the back yard BBQ.
Now that our sweet Chaser is gone, the hubs and I agree that Zoey–despite previous behavior to the contrary–is actually quite skilled at adapting to her particular audience (aka the humans).
Previously, when there were two dogs in the house, Zoey, much like my dad, continually sought out the spotlight, no matter the situation.
If the hubs or I attempted to surreptitiously pat Chaser as she slept in the bedroom, even before our fingers touched fur, Zoey magically appeared, squishing her muzzle into our palm.
At feeding time, Zoey’s chorus of barks, yips, howls and groans filled the space until we placed her own bowl on the floor.
Getting ready for a walk? There’s Zoey, shoving her way to the front of the pack. Time for work? Zoey pops up at your side, plopping her head on your thigh. Bathroom break? Well, guess who shows up, staring at you as if to say, “How long you gonna be in here? I haven’t had attention for almost 45 seconds!!”
In fact, we’d gotten so used to “all Zoey, all the time” that, once Chaser left us, it was a bit of a shock to realize Zoey was no longer constantly prodding my side or slinking under the table while we ate.
“Have you noticed that Zoey is much. . . calmer lately?” I asked the hubs the other night. It felt weird to be eating dinner in peace.
He thought for a minute. “Now that you mention it, yes, she really is!” He scooped up a forkful of pasta. “Not as loud or insistent as usual.”
“I know, right?! So much less ‘in-your-face!’” I glanced over to where she lay in silence, obediently beyond the tiles of the kitchen. I couldn’t help but blurt, “Good girl, out of the kitchen!”
Indeed, she seemed to be quite a “good girl” more and more these days.
Then it hit me. “Do you think it has something to do with Chaser? I mean, when there were two of them, it was like a competition for our attention. What if now that she’s the only dog, she knows all our attention is on her. . . so she doesn’t have to insist on it any more?”
“Makes sense,” he agreed.
Zoey remains (mostly) calm before her walks now.
In other words, Zoey assessed her audience and adjusted her behavior accordingly. She realized that drawing attention to herself by any means is no longer necessary. She read the room.
Going forward this week, I pledge to stop and reflect–even if just for a few seconds–before I speak.
Am I responding to the needs of the other person in this conversation? Is that remark really called for? Is that tone appropriate?
One thing I know for sure is I won’t be belting out my favorite ditty any time soon, regardless of the audience. Something I definitely didn’t inherit from Dad is a decent singing voice.
Here’s to more aware, more sensitive and more empathic interactions this week.
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Follow up to last week’s challenge: Get some extra sleep. Did you give it a try?
How was your week? Did you manage to head to the bedroom for sleep at least 20 minutes earlier than your typical bedtime? Are you feeling refreshed, clear-headed, full of energy and verve that you didn’t have before? Are you more productive at work? More tolerant with the kids? More. . . rested?
Okay, so my week didn’t go quite as planned. Monday was great; I started my (rather long) bedtime routine about 30 minutes earlier than usual, ready to hop into the sack with time to spare.
Tuesday offered up an unanticipated surprise when Zoey woke the HH (and, by extension, me) three times to go outside in the middle of the night. Had she eaten something at daycare that upset her tummy (they did call us once to warn that she’d indulged in another dog’s poo. . .)? Was she afflicted with a mysterious doggie stomach virus? Was she simply mentally reviewing her day over and over and couldn’t get her mind to calm down (no, wait, that one was me)?
No idea. Needless to say, by Wednesday morning, I was a semi-comatose wreck.
The remainder of the week was hit-or-miss. We managed to hit the sack early on Wednesday and Thursday (ah sweet bliss!), but Friday brought another late night because of work deadlines. Overall, I’d say I had about 50% success with this particular week’s challenge.
The good news is that Zoey slept as much as she needed to every single night, just as we might suspect. Even after waking in the middle of the night, she simply increased her daytime naps accordingly to compensate. My sleep role model, for sure.
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Now, over to you. Let me know your thoughts, or answer one of the following questions. I love to hear from you!!
There’s always at least one speaker who doesn’t assess the audience and address them appropriately. Have you ever seen someone totally miss the mark (a professor, conference speaker, etc)? How bad was it?
How do you deal with people who monopolize the conversation (assuming it’s not you, of course)?
What’s the longest you’ve ever slept? (I think I must win, since I slept for 24 hours/day straight for eight days with Covid. But let’s assume “the longest you’ve slept” when you’re not sick).
Have you ever lost a pet when there are other pets still in the house? Did you notice a reaction from those left behind?
As always, thank you for reading. If you enjoy Be the Dog, please consider recommending it to someone else–or becoming a paid subscriber to support me and my writing. I’d be eternally grateful either way!