People sometimes say you really see the mess around your
house when you look at it through other people’s eyes. Like, if you’re having
company and you’re cleaning up. You look around as if for the first time and see cobwebs
dangling from almost everything, outnumbered only by the collection of stink
bugs lying on their backs with legs up like they’ve been there a while. And the
dirty fingerprints around the drawer pulls in the kitchen that give the
appearance you came straight in from working in the garden without washing your
hands before you made dinner. How had you missed those?
Well, I've come to realize the same “through others' eyes”
test applies to our behavior as well as to our housekeeping standards.
On Friday I wanted to work in the garden (fully intending to
wash my hands before starting dinner later). I normally keep my
dirty overalls and muddy tennis shoes in the basement, but they weren’t there when I looked. My husband had cleaned up the basement recently so right away I was
suspicious he’d done something with my gardening clothes. I called up the
stairs to him. “Cecil, what did you do with my overalls and tennis shoes?” I could have started off by
asking if he knew where they were but I went right to what had he done with
them.
He came with some trepidation into the basement to help me look, but the clothes
simply were not there. Finally Cecil admitted he “might have” thrown them
away. I got agitated because these would not be the first of my things Cecil
had taken it upon himself to discard. He was getting agitated because this
would not be the first time I had gotten after him for such conduct.
So we started
revving each other up. Cecil was giving me a good taste of passive aggression. I
would have to admit to a certain escalating bitchiness on my part, laced nicely
with sarcasm and snide remarks such as “I hope that filthy jacket you wear
everyday doesn’t have itself an accident.” Suffice it to say neither of us was
at our best in the exchange.
Then the phone rang in his pocket. For reasons that don’t
matter here, it was my cell phone that Cecil had been carrying around. Instead
of answering it he kept snotting off at me which, of course, infuriated me
because I imagined he was causing me to miss a call of some urgency. Maybe God
was trying to reach me to tell me where my muddy tennis shoes were.
“Will you please
answer my phone?” I snapped. By the time he got the darn thing out of his
pocket the caller had hung up. I dialed the number back and was greeted by a
911 operator.
“Is everything all right?” the woman wanted to know without
even saying hello. “Yes it is,” I assured her.
“We received a 911 call from
this number.”
I paused, trying to understand, and then realized Cecil must have
made a pocket call down in the basement. The woman continued. “It sounded like
you were looking for something.” She stopped short of asking if I’d found my
shoes. OMG, I thought, she heard the whole friggin’ conversation. I cringed as
I thought back to the less than attractive tone I’d lent my voice for emphasis.
The various jabs at Cecil that had felt good at the time seemed mean when I considered
them as they must have sounded to the operator. “So, there’s no emergency?” she confirmed. She probably
wanted to ask “Did you find your damn shoes, lady?”
“No there’s no emergency.” I
hoped I sounded convincing so she didn’t decide to send a patrol car to make
sure one of us hadn’t taken a screw driver to the other. Naturally I was a tad
hesitant to give her my name and address when she requested them but figured it
would seem suspicious if I refused. So now she had a bitchy woman and a name to
put with it. Great.
After I hung up I remembered that 911 calls are recorded. So
somewhere in the call center my less than sweet display is now of record. I
pictured the operator shaking her head and calling me a nag and playing the
recording for her co-workers. Then I imagined the call somehow
making its way to YouTube and wondered if 911 calls have privacy restrictions.
Forget that I thought as I flashed on the countless calls I’ve seen replayed
on television, the words scrolling along at the bottom of the screen to make
sure everyone gets them. Next I’m thinking Stephen Colbert or Jon Stewart or
someone’s gonna get a hold of my tirade and have some fun with me.
Or maybe the operator will just go home and tell her husband
who will repeat the story to his friend who happens to be a radio announcer or
a columnist at the paper. The possibilities become endless; it’s only the
permutations that vary. The one thing they would all have in common would be me
crabbing at my husband when I thought no one else was listening.
Since the pocket call incident I have been more aware of the
tone of my voice. I’ve caught myself slipping into accusation when simple
inquiry would do. I’ve heard myself snap or quip or chide when I didn’t need
to. I hadn’t stopped to consider how I sound from time to time when I indulge myself
in the comfort of my primary relationship…the one people so often take for
granted. As a divorce attorney you’d think it might have occurred to me before
this, but I had not taken the time to sit up and notice myself.
That awareness
came only after I learned someone else had overheard me. I’d felt justified and
rightfully put out during the conversation, but when I listened through the
operator’s ears I didn’t like what I heard.
So, my new rule—one I might recommend to others—is choose
your words and your attitude carefully. Not because a 911 operator might be
listening, but because no one likes a bitch, not even the bitch herself.
