Keen, Terrible Ears

Something that I learned about Hal and The Beast growing up is that they have excellent hearing.
Something else that I learned about Hal and The Beast growing up is that they have horrible hearing.

Now for all of you "logical" people out there, this appears to be a contradictory statement. The two statements are mutually exclusive, you say? Such a thing as the realm of logical possibility, however, has never been able to contain the my parents' powers of absurdity.

Their cochlear ability was a function of the subject matter. If what The Beast was listening to involved a new idea, learning how to do something, or anything I wanted her to hear, her eardrum went slack and the microscopic hairs of her inner ear curled up and refused to be bothered until Labor Day. At this point, everything I said became clicks and pops. My mother's face would contort into an expression that screamed, "What the heck is wrong with you? For the last time: I DON'T SPEAK SWAHILI!!"

Similarly, Hal's hearing would give out during the main body of any joke or story, and until it returned halfway through the punchline, he would become distracted and floss his teeth with the nearest available envelope or sheet of paper, while quite believably pretending he could still hear. The amazing thing about Hal's lapses in hearing was their corresponding lapses in memory. Upon regaining his hearing during the punchline, he would forget that any time had passed since the introduction of the story or joke in question, and would then proceed to ask questions easily answered by listening to the previous 40 or so sentences. When answering these questions and reminding him that the information had been stated seconds earlier, one would receive the impression that the hearing problem was returning to some degree, indicated by a distinct deer-in-the-headlights expression.

The paradox is in their moments of hyper-sensitive, almost prescient hearing. If in frustration at their failing ears or after an argument Ben or I would mutter something under our breath, at the other end of the house, in the basement, beneath the level of our own hearing, with our head wrapped in a towel, while we stood inside an anechoic chamber, we would immediately have a shrieking, frothing parent standing at our side, breathing heavily and inquiring as to exactly what it was we had just called them.


Don't believe me? Just last week, I was tyring to explain to The Beast (via phone, from Utah) how to send an email. After giving up after several minutes of her saying nothing but, "Huh?" I hung up and grumbled something about my frustration. 0.736 seconds later, I received an email from my mother in all caps, reading, "I AM NOT!!!!!!!!!!"