Tuesday, September 2, 2008

Just Tell Me

I have a fairly eclectic taste in music, so there's no telling what CD I last left playing in the car. When I got in this morning, it appears I was in a "nothing loud" mood on Friday as I'd headed into the long weekend. So as I rolled down the driveway this morning on my way to work, Michael Buble began to croon, "Call me irresponsible. Call me unreliable. Throw in undependable too."

Yeah, I wish. Amongst my family and friends, the only part of that song they hear in relation to little ol' me is "Call me".

I am way too dependable for my own good.

There is a good side and a bad side to being the level headed person people turn to for help. The down side is when no one has time to listen to me. Some days that's annoying. Contrary to popular belief, I am only human. Most of the time I just shake it off. I do have a patient husband and my best friend from college who do take time to listen. I try not to take advantage of it.

I suppose the good side should seem obvious but at moments it feels like a curse. Need a shoulder to cry on? Had a bad day and want to tell someone what a $*#! your boss is? Need to rant about high gas prices and low pay? Can't finish your political discussion without drawing in someone on the opposite side? Call me.

Oh, I don't actually offer. They find me. Maybe I should learn to hum "Hide me".

For the most part, I don't mind. Too many people today are more familiar with talking than listening. I've always been a listener. Not an eavesdropper mind you. But I pay attention to people. Once they notice, they talk more. For someone who writes, this translates into a plethora of stories to be entertained...and often moved.

My seniors often share the best tales. I tease them that they're not called "The Greatest Generation" without reason. One of the groups which meets at the Center consists of British ladies who married American service men. I've heard about the horrors of WWII... from both sides of the pond. I've also heard about it from "the enemy", a lovely Japanese woman I once worked with. She'd gotten a job on the American base because she could make more money for her family. Unfortunately for her culturally, she fell in love with a G.I. and wanted to marry him. Her father chased her around the kitchen with a butcher knife, intent on killing her, then himself, for the shame she was bringing on the family by marrying "the enemy". Her brother stepped in, took the knife and told her to run. She didn't speak to her father for 40 years.

They have so many stories, my folks. Alex and his little brother were Russian orphans, sent to the States to live with family. But they were split up, with the baby sent to live with the "poor" uncle while Alex lived with the "rich" one. Unable to stand having more than his brother, Alex went to live with the poor uncle. Then there's Herbie, from Louisiana, who rode the Streetcar named Desire to work. Leona once told me about seeing "some skinny, not very attractive guy singing at a local dance. I couldn't believe he went on to become famous!" The skinny guy was Frank Sinatra.

You can't make up stuff like that.

Maybe my CD player felt sorry for me this morning and wanted to ease me into my work week, which no doubt will be filled with lots of things for me to do for others. As I rolled into my parking spot at work, a guitar began to strum gently as Andre Bocelli laughed softly, then whispered, "Besame". I smiled, sitting in the car long enough to listen to the whole song. As I walked to the door with a spring in my step, I suddenly realized what he'd been singing.

Kiss me.

Again with the commands. At least this demand for attention was a pleasant one.



3 comments:

Dave King said...

There's a whole bucketful of interesting bits there. I was totally absorbed by the whole post, so will not pick out any particular aspects. It did throw a very strong and interesting light upon your good self, though - with the accent on the adjective. Fine post.

hope said...

Thank you kind sir. Not as literate as your postings but I aim to amuse.

My joke is that since I don't get to travel, my Guardian Angel brings stuff and dumps it on my doorstep. I'm just not sure if he does it to amuse me or him. :)

Rachel Fox said...

Speaking of poems using song lyrics (as we were) I can hear this turning into a poem if you felt like it (starting off nice, getting really...pissed off...is that too British...and then ending up philosphical...). 'Call me so dependable...call me always-lendable...call me one big listening ear...' You could sing it...like a theme tune!
I love rewritten songs.
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