The Noise that taught me to swear.

Some of my readers may not believe me to be the virtuous young woman I was at the age of 25 when the big F-bomb came out of my mouth for the first time, but I assure you, I did not embellish this tale. 

The year is 1987 and I am living in Kansas City and working at Meierhoff’s, a neighborhood restaurant.  I worked breakfast and lunch.  When I arrived THAT morning, I didn’t realize anything had changed. 

Oh, but it had.  And it was not a good change.

The owner, Bob, had installed a chime on the front door. Every time the door opened, it would sound in the back of the house- at the block, the primary artery of the place.  You know, where cooks are screaming to drop this, pick up that, 86 the other thing; dishes banging, silver dropping. Add this ear-piercing chime to all the other busy restaurant sounds and put it on constant repeat.  

I was not the smart ass you have grown to know and love today.  But on that day, by the time lunch hour slowed down, I had reached my maximum tolerance level. My head was pounding as loudly as the chime and when it went off for the 1,789th time, I dropped to my knees, hands on my ears and screamed, TURN OFF THAT FUCKING CHIME !!!!!!!!

So, the morning that F word came out of my mouth was honest to God, the first time it had ever come out of my mouth.  My nervous system had turned in its resignation, and I was about to follow it right out the front door. 

Needless to say, my little outburst got Bob’s attention—  the chime was removed and a lecture delivered on being aware of the door.  Yes Bob. 

Hearing too much and yet too little is my nemesis. I’ve had someone get mad at me for ignoring them in a noisy place, because “I know you could hear me, I was standing right in front of you.”  Sorry, no, there are times when all I can hear is the background noise and nothing makes sense.

I wear hearing aids now, but back in 2011 when I picked up an extra job at Starbucks, it was quite possibly the worst place in the world for someone with my hearing to be.  We had a large Korean population in the area. Learning to discern coffee lingo orders, spoken softly in an accent while standing under a speaker blasting music was a nightmare.   I wasn’t a slow learner; I was a hard-of-hearing, overstimulated barista trying to overcome a trifecta of obstacles to write on a cup.  I could work the register or make the drinks­— but write down orders yelled from 3’ away, I couldn’t do it.

Even with hearing aids, just last night, I was completely stumped when a neighbor called to tell me they opened a Dutch Bros down the street. For starters, I’d not seen a Dutch Bros in Georgia and I had always called it Dutch Brothers.  I heard her excitedly say she got a lemonade from utchrows and I was just lost. What the hell is utchrows?  It wasn’t until the 3rd or 4th repetition when she added The Coffee Place that I finally connected the dots and asked, ‘Dutch Brothers?’  She knew I loved coffee and was just sharing the good news, but the words could not get past my ears to make sense in my brain.  Obviously, I needed a caffeine boost and immediately went out to try this new place. 

After last night’s struggle, Dutch Bros is now permanently lodged in my brain.

Who knew, 39 years after Bob's chime taught me to swear, background noise can still reduce perfectly good English to utchrows. 

At least I’m now fluent in cursing.  I blame Bob. shhh