Deaf Like Me

My selective hearing has given me a bad reputation for being hard of hearing. "Dad's deaf!" frequently are the words I hear after I ask My Lovely Wife or any of our three children to repeat themselves.

The reality is I do hear them. I simply don't begin paying attention until right about the time whoever is speaking has delivered the final word of his or her statement or question. It isn't that I don't care what they're saying. I do. Really, I do. It's just that, because what they're saying somehow doesn't relate to my current task at hand, it takes a few seconds for my brain to switch from whatever it was focused on to listening mode.

There are times, however, when I legitimately am unable to discern the alleged enunciations of my loved ones. I suggest these moments are, for the most part -- and resulting from no fault of my own -- not my fault. Fortunately,  the unintelligible mutterings of my family fall into several convenient categories.

Mumbling Gingers

We have a Mumbling Ginger, which I suspect is the worst sort of mumbler imaginable. Our Ginger (aka, the German) is so softly spoken he might as well be whispering into a hurricane when attempting to communicate with other human beings. This is how most conversations with the Mumbling Ginger begin:

   Him: "Mumble, mumble, mumble."
   Me: "What did you say?"
   Him: "Mumble, mumble, mumble."

It doesn't matter how many times we repeat this opening exercise, the next time the German has something to say it will escape his mouth even more quietly than the last.

The House Crosser

My Lovely Wife specializes in House Crossing. The House Crosser is any individual who begins speaking at normal conversational volume while near you and then, without warning or request for you to follow, leaves your presence and walks all the way across to the other side of the house while continuing to speak at the same volume.

House Crossers might pass any number of noise-making devices along the way -- flushing toilets, running dishwashers, barking dogs, blaring radios, washing machines in spin cycle -- it won't affect the volume at which they are speaking or the degree to which they are annoyed once they realize you are still in the bathroom brushing your teeth and haven't heard a word they've said.

The Verbositizer
The Italian, fittingly enough, has the gift of gab. He's also the kind of kid you sometimes shush when he's making noise only for the sake of making noise, which drives the volume of conversation around him higher and higher until you realize you're yelling to be heard over him.

The Italian doesn't speak, he expounds. The fact he comes by it naturally -- his Mother and I are both card-carrying expounders -- does nothing to ameliorate the effects of being bombarded by a non-stop flood of exposition on his topic of choice. Turning a deaf ear has less to do with not hearing and more to do with self-preservation. Like "Moby Dick" or "War and Peace," the Italian is brimming with tangential details that might seem important but which do not really serve the purpose of the story. If only he came with CliffsNotes.

The Speed Demon

As if it weren't enough that Our Daughter sometimes speaks so quickly her words meld together into stream-of-consciousness babble, she also tends to rise in pitch to squeak level when she does it. It's like listening to a drunk mouse that's been sucking helium.

There is no defense against this attempted form of communication short of immediate mockery, scorn and/or ridicule, followed by a request that she repeat what she said in English and at a tone preferably below that of a dog whistle.

The Non-Transitioner

This one isn't so much a hearing issue as it is a "what the heck are you talking about" issue. When speaking with My Lovely Wife, no matter how long we've been together, I am almost never prepared for the abrupt mental rupture that occurs mid-discussion.

She could be taking the conversation in an entirely new direction, or harkening back to a topic from the previous hour, day or week. Doesn't matter. In her mind, the transition is seamless. I, on the other hand, feel like a thick-brained dullard struggling to figure out how I missed the bit where we went from talking about the German's math homework to a strongly worded condemnation of mayonnaise.

The You've Got to be Kidding Me

This final one is a catch-all for any situation in which any reasonable human being would excuse any non-hearing impaired human being for asking for an unreasonably quiet utterance to be repeated. For instance, when sitting in the middle of the Museum of Natural History Cafe in Washington, DC, on a Saturday surrounded by a thousand bustling tourists all talking loudly in a variety of languages, scraping cafeteria chairs across linoleum, moving tables and yelling at their children to eat more because they just spent their lives' savings on plastic pizza and cold chicken tenders. But, should I say "What did you say?" what do I hear in response? That's right -- Dad's deaf.



2016 Mark Feggeler

The Non-Washer

Seven years ago, we splurged on a front loader washing machine. Now, two machines and countless service calls later, we are ditching the failings of the new-fangled for the tried-and-true of the traditional top loader.

Why? Well, let's begin with the basics.

Call us old-fashioned, but when we wash our clothes in a washing machine we expect them to exit the machine in a state of cleanliness. What we do not desire, yet have come to expect, is a proclivity for our fancy front loader to spread greasy, muck-like streaks on our clothes and linens.

I've never before owned or used a washing machine that made clothes dirtier than when they were tossed in. The worst part is we've grown accustomed to it. When items emerge from the front loader streak-free, it's like we've been given the gift of not having to treat and handwash everything all over again. In short, our front loader has us brainwashed, which is about the only effective kind of washing it has accomplished in seven years.

In addition to the random appearance of new stains, there also is the smell. Did you know the front loader washing machine has such a recognized reputation for pungency that there is a range products designed specifically for the purpose of removing the rotten egg odor from the machines? Nine times out of ten when the machine is running, I'm reminded of the time my parents took us to experience the sulfur pits at Yellowstone Park. And, while the front loader might regularly smell worse than the ass end of a pig farm, at least our laundry room is very close to our dining room, so we can all enjoy the foul aroma should we choose to run a load of laundry while we're eating.

Which brings up the point of proximity to noise. Our laundry room being where it is, we realized when we built the house we might experience a slight inconvenience when it came to noise. Perhaps the background hum of the spin cycle, or the gentle spritzing of water during the rinse cycle, might be discernible at times, but we were okay with the tradeoff if it meant having our laundry room on the main floor. Besides, we had purchased the ultra-quiet, super-silent, whisper mode 3000 model. How annoying could it be?

For the first few seconds of operation, the front loader makes little sound. Once it starts pumping water, the circus begins with a rythmic ear-piercing squeal that rises in pitch and volume to such a degree you have to wonder how many dogs within half a mile of your house are praying for it to stop. Then the drum spins like a rock tumbler -- the German got one for Christmas, so we're qualified to make the comparison -- stopping at intervals to let in more screaming howls of water. The show ends twenty minutes later with the front loader kicking into a spin cycle that rattles the china cabinet and shakes dust from the rafters more effectively than a freight train running through the middle of your house.

And if all that isn't enough, the front loader leaks. I can look beyond the smell, the noise, and the fact it requires more frequent and more expensive maintenance than my car, but it seems pretty fundamental and important that a washing machine be able to hold its water. So, this past Saturday when the front loader chose to piddle all over the laundry room floor, we decided we'd had enough. Our new top loader will arrive Friday.

My apologies to all the repairmen who will be out of work as a result of our decision.



© 2012 Mark Feggeler

Life In a Yahtzee Cup

Ka-chik. Ka-chick. Ka-chik.
Chik-a-chik-a-chik-a-chik-a-chik!
Ka-chik.

When you're in the final stretch of a 9-hour drive from North Carolina to Florida, you've either achieved a Road Warrior level of zen, or every last possible petty annoyance is blossoming into a full-on assault on your weary psyche.

Ka-chik. Ka-chick. Ka-chik.

The German is a lovely boy, in many ways the sweetest-natured of our three sweet-natured children. One time, when he and his brother were very young, the Italian was crying because he had not behaved well enough to earn a stamp on the back of his hand from their gymnastics instructor. Did the German gloat and flaunt his stamp? No. He discreetly licked his finger and tried to wipe off his stamp, so his brother wouldn't feel bad. You can't pick'em any sweeter than that.

Chik-a-chik-a-chik-a-chik-a-chik!

All the way along the tedious drive, an hour to reach Interstate 95 followed by 488 miles straight down the eastern seaboard of North America, our children behaved better than one could hope for. They watched movies, listened to their iPods, played games, conversed, stared out the windows. Not until the very end did the Italian begin to come unglued, but then weren't we all? We all wanted to stretch our legs and vent some pent up energy. Yes, the children have been wonderful.

Ka-chik. Ka-chick.

That noise? It's nothing. Tell yourself it's nothing. If you ignore it, it will drown in the hum of tires barreling down the road and wind rushing over the van. The German really is a lovely boy.

Ka-chik.

Such a lovely boy...

Ka-chik. Ka-chik.

After eight hours in the van with another hour ahead of him, he deserves an innocent distraction. He doesn't even realize he's doing it. Look at him. He's staring at whichever movie is playing on the tiny screen that pops out of the ceiling, listening intently to the dialogue through the headphones that seal him off from the rest of the world. It doesn't seem to be bothering anyone else, so don't let it bother you.

Ka-chik. Chik-a-chik-a-chik-a-chik-a-chik-a-chik-a-chik-a-chik!

Oh, please make it stop! If he doesn't stop rattling that plastic container of Menthos gum, I'm going to lose the few remaining drops of reason keeping me focused on the pending joy of the family vacation we have planned for the next few days.

Why doesn't he eat the gum? Then there wouldn't be any demonic little pellets to rattle like dried beans in maraca! Why would anyone turn chewing gum, innocently soft chewing gum, noiseless and unoffensive chewing gum, into candy-coated castanet innards? Who could have pioneered such an evil scheme against the senses?

Ka-chik. Ka-chick. Ka-chik.
Chik-a-chik-a-chik-a-chik-a-chik!
Ka-chik.

Damn you, Chiclets!



© 2011 Mark Feggeler