BoomerGirl.com

Four hours is a loooong time to spend walking around in a continuous loop in front of a studio gate. The other day, someone I was picketing with wore a pedometer to calculate just how far we were schlepping, even though we were covering a seemingly short distance of concrete. Turns out, all those steps added up to a whopping eight miles.

This would explain why my toes look like supersized cheese puffs when I remove my shoes.

I’m happy to spend my time picketing for a good cause. Yet as the days crawl by and my daily routine gets trashed, I’m discovering that the standard rules of etiquette get a bit fuzzy on the picket line. When you first walk up, you might get a nod or a smile or even a hello from your fellow strikers, who then return to “private” conversations which aren’t private at all because they’re held out in the open for everyone to hear.

Emily Post might say that eavesdropping is rude, but in this case, it’s impossible to avoid. You’ve got people gabbing loudly over the din of honking cars, overanalyzing the pros and cons of their lives, their marriages, their careers, and it’s happening on all sides of you. And sometimes, it’s juicy stuff.

The trick is to listen in without being too obvious. Sadly, I haven’t mastered this particular ploy. I don’t do subtle. I can’t keep a straight face. I lose every staring match. This would explain why I flunked out of Spy School.

Just check out the following exchange I overheard between three comedy writers as they dissected the shaky marital status of one of them:

Comedy writer #1: “So the other morning, she’s making pancakes for breakfast, and I’m standing nearby, and she looks over at me, and she says, ‘Stop hovering!’ And I say, ‘I’m not hovering!’ And she says, ‘Stop hovering while I’m making the freakin’ pancakes!’”

Comedy writer #2 “Dude! You’re messing with the system!”

Comedy writer # 1: “What system?”

Comedy writer #3: “Oh come on, you don’t know about the system?”

Comedy writer #1: “If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking.”

Comedy writer #2: “The wives, they’ve all got a system for the way they want things done. They’re running the show.”

“Comedy writer #3: “We might be show runners at work, but they’re show runners at home. You gotta respect that or you’re doomed.”

Comedy writer #2: “They can’t stand to have us home during the day. They don’t want us around. It drives them insane. Either you get that, dude, or you don’t. This strike’s a marriage-killer.”

Comedy writer #3: “And let’s face it, man, your marriage wasn’t doing so hot before the strike.”

Comedy writer # 1: “So next time she’s making pancakes?”

Comedy writer #2: “You’re outside. You’re gone. You’re in another town.”

Comedy writer #1: “But then I don’t get any pancakes.”

Comedy writer #3: “You wanna save your marriage or not?”

Now, listening to this male take on matrimony, something I’d never be privy to under normal circumstances, I had a few options. I could have pretended to be on the cell phone. I could have stared into space. I could have fiddled with my iPod if I’d remembered to bring it. I could have minded my own business, but what fun is that?

Yes, I had options, but I chose to ignore them all. Instead of behaving myself and respecting their privacy, I laughed hysterically throughout their exchange. Not only did I laugh, I snorted. Not once, but twice. There was no denying that I was eavesdropping, and enjoying myself immensely. And you know what? They didn’t care. I think they liked having an appreciative audience. What comedy writer doesn’t crave laughs? Dead ones, mainly.

So maybe what I’m learning, during these early heady days of the strike, is that the rules of etiquette don’t really apply. Go ahead, listen in, don’t listen in. Interrupt conversations, cut in front of people, hog the last donut, grab someone else’s sign or parking spot, fabricate your credits, say you won an Academy Award. You might be pushing your luck. But we’re all too wrapped up in the strike to notice. For this brief moment in time, all the writers in Hollywood are in the same boat. We’re all equally unemployed, and that’s all that matters.