It’s Not that I’m Not Listening, It’s That Women’s Voices Just Sound Like “Squawk Squawk Squawk!”
I hear you one-hundo-P when you say “You’re not listening, Greg.” Granted, those are the only words I can understand.
Louise, you and my other female coworkers — “the girls,” as I like to call you — say I’m not listening to you in meetings, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. I am listening! It’s just that your voices have a frequency akin to a flock of cockatoos.
I am definitely making an effort, though. I hear you one-hundo-P when you say “You’re not listening, Greg.” Granted, those are the only words I can understand. And I don’t hear it as an actual sentence — it’s more like the Charlie-Brown-adult “mwah mwah” voice. But I get the meaning because I’ve learned to interpret those particular sounds as “another woman is mad at me.”
But my ears are pricked up like a spy satellite scanning for communication coming from the office women. Honestly, all I hear is a monitor flatlining. Is that you?
I know I forgot about the process documents you made so I wouldn’t Slack you fifty daily questions about things I could look up myself. But when you explained them to me, all I heard was Nirvana’s “Smells like Teen Spirit.” Which is normally my favorite song! But this version was a cover by a sapphic 90s girl band, so I just played Call of Duty on my phone and waited for it to stop.
I’m still trying to hear you, though. Once at lunch, I did! I remember that moment exactly, because you said something about The Godfather and I was psyched to show off my Brando impression. But it turned out you weren’t talking about that movie, you were discussing a reference to it in Barbie. Then everything turned black and all I heard was the sweet, soft birdsong of the Wall Street opening bell. Did you know that’s my morning alarm?
Actually, I was wrong. I heard you one time! When you chose the Egyptian barbecue place for lunch.
Then I helpfully said we should make a reservation (and by “we,” I meant “you”). But when you responded, I was sucked into a vortex of torment where women alternately asked me the difference between a dress and a skirt and the name of the last Taylor Swift album, only to be spit out the other side where I awoke in a ditch covered in my own fluids.
Conor was there, too; all he heard was “Bechdel Test.”
So I thought I’d do it myself, but then I realized I didn’t know how. Why can’t you do it, even though you’re a program director and it’s not your responsibility?
Look, I get that working in the department is complicated, and I’m on your side. Like when Andrew talked over you in the budget meeting even though all you were saying was “Gurgle gurgle bloop,” followed by a long dial up internet tone?
He was being such a dick! And I showed you my support by promptly Slacking you in private and never saying a thing to him directly.
And I assume that made you feel seen! Because honestly, when you replied, I couldn’t interpret the letters or form them into words. All I saw were emojis of a yawning face, a flamenco dancer, two cats, a Greek temple, and an octopus. I took that to mean you were tired, but dressed up to take your pets on vacation to Greece.
Anyhow, I totally hear your frustration! How about this as a solution: you know that new intern, Kevin? Why not tell him what you need me to know and he’ll relay it?
Because Kevin I can hear. Clear as a fucking bell.
Erica Lies is a comedy writer who would tell you where to read more of her work, but the only sound emanating from her being is that of a 747 Boeing jet inbound for Charles DeGaulle International Airport.
