Rob Boyd, Master Communicator 

Communication: something not to be missed. That’s right.  It’s a game for all ages, and participating in the great game is like any other great game: it’s easy to learn; difficult to master. It’s a game best when played by competitive teams, but teams usually implode on terms of duplicity.  Play alone, and people stare.

Communication: it’s not a game for the meek.

It is however a required game for the married, but marriage is not a requirement to play.  You can just address an anonymous crowd if you like.

“Ich bin ein Berliner.”

That was JFK telling the People of Germany that he understood them, because he was a jelly donut.

If you’ve read my blog before, you know I’m as big on communication as I am on jelly donuts. I eat my words as much as I eat the tasty pastries.  The Pirate Queen says that we’re all big on talking, but not so big on listening.  At least I think that’s what she said; I was busy reading my blog.

What’?  I’m Rob.  I’m a multitasker.  I can communicate with my eyes closed.  Please ignore the bruises on my shin.  Thank you. I can listen, talk, read and blog all at the same time. I am the Michael Jordan of the communication world.

At least that’s what I told myself until this last week.  Last week I tried to keep up communication with an old friend, and fouled out. We’ve known each other since our retail days and we still communicate through cross country smoke signals.  It had been a few months and I needed to catch her up on my life.  She’s boring, and needs Rob excitement. I care too much to let her wallow.

“Hi!  How’s it going?”

“We’re doing okay. I just—“

“Yeah, guess what’s going on with me?”

She did guess. She likes to play my games. After 15 minutes, I finally break down and tell her tales of Exes, pixies and pirates. She listens intently. This was great communication.  It’s why I keep her around. She “oohs,” and “Ahhs” in all the right places.

So when I’m done talking about me I give her two minutes to summarize up her family. She starts by telling me how hard things are. She says that things are tough, and I take my cue: She’s gonna be a bit of a downer for the rest of this call.

“We had a hard time. Our neighbor.  He’s not next-door--he lives about a mile off, but he is one of the closer houses out here…”

While she’s raining on the joy parade I’ve created,  I open up my work email.  It appears there’s some other raining going on.  Velcro cat boss is decided that sarcasm is a management tool best served like a jelly donut.  His email is crusty and full of the sweet words that are meant to give me a heart attack.  It’s so thick that I can’t quite get his meaning, but I can tell he’s not happy.  His communication techniques could use some help. Maybe someday I’ll bless him.

I finish his email, and notice that there’s silence on the phone.  My friend has stopped communicating.  Hmmm.  I’m expected to say something but I don’t know what to say.  Searching my Terminator list of replies I opt for the following:

“Yeah, these times are tough for all of us…”

There’s more silence to let me know I’ve chosen the wrong reply. 

“Well we all go through it some times.” Yeah, I apparently can’t get enough.  I can actually feel the silence burning through the phone like black acid.  Still, this is something I’m familiar with.  I know my reply here:  “I’m sorry.” And I choose, “That really does suck” to top it off, because I am a master communicator.

Now she’s less than eager to talk with me. I’ve apparently jumped the track. Her next comment clues me in on how bad.  “We’re going to his funeral this Thursday.”

“Oh.”  Yeah, it seems that “These times are tough for all of us, “ is not the perfect line for, “My neighbor committed suicide.”

Once again, this is my kind of communication.  I know what to do from here. I’m an underdog, and this is my territory.  “uhm, hey, I’ve got to get back to work.  It’s been good talking to you…” 

Her brief good-bye doesn’t seem to show the same sentiment. I can’t blame her. I’ve just committed verbal suicide and then rubbed it in her face.  Yeah, I’m a great friend and an excellent communicator.

So once we’re off the phone I pull the only communication rabbit left in my hat: I send her an email that explains what happened and how sorry I am. Not only for her her loss, but for my stupidity.  It’s worded quite well; I am a trained professional. 

Yes, I’m more than a professional. I too am a jelly donut.