I have a lot of conversations with myself. Some of them are in different voices. If I’m feeling particularly emphatic about something I tend to speak in an English accent that I imagine sounds a lot like Emma Thompson in a Jane Austen movie. If I’m fighting with myself, it becomes southern. Sometimes it’s Scarlett O’Hara southern, other (drunk) times it comes out more like Larry The Cable Guy.
I have conversations with other people in my head. People I haven’t seen in a hundred years, people I just met, people I encountered while walking down the aisle in Target, people in line at Panda Express. The latter conversation is usually very judgmental even though I eat there now and then. I mean, who doesn’t need a good plate of salt?
Do other people do this stuff? Am I abnormal? Is it crazy to have something random remind one of the short girl who sat in front of you in Sophomore Lit and have a dialogue in your head about what you’d say to her if you somehow ran into her? I mean I’m over what a bitch she was and how shabbily she treated me and after all, her punishment was going through life shaped like an olive on toothpicks and being branded a slut from grade six. But I don’t care. I’ve forgiven the whore.
I digress.
I had a whole conversation with myself yesterday regarding the state of the union address.
Me: It’s the last one for President Obama and I do appreciate what a good man he is and what a good job he’s done in the face of incredible opposition and under the microscope of a right wing bunch of crazies. I should watch.
Myself: How many have you watched since he’s been in office?
Me: Well – none – but –
Myself: “But” nothing. I think we can proudly say we’ve never willingly watched a state of the union address in. our. life. Let’s keep it that way.
Me: I guess I can read about it tomorrow.
Myself: As usual.
Me: In “The Skimm.”
Myself: Duh.
I had a mental conversation with the guy who waited on my mother and me at The Good Egg this morning at breakfast. We were seated in a booth by the front door where it was loud and the light was glaring. This made it difficult for Mom both to see and hear, due to advancing cataracts (“They have to ripen, Lorie Ann, before I can have them removed.” “God, Mom, that is a disgusting term. ‘Ripen?’ It makes them sound like food. Who thinks this shit up?”). The hearing difficulty is because she doesn’t yet have hearing aids (“Mom, when are you going to break down and get a hearing aid so you can participate in our entire conversation?” “Yes, the car broke down, Lorie Ann. I had it towed and it’s fixed now. Why do we have to keep having this same conversation? I could have driven if you didn’t want to!”).
Our waiter who was humming some stupid melody as if he was the happy to be there, kept kind of floating by us before finally flitting over and taking our order. Not that I mind if people hum and are happy, but it was contrived and he wasn’t like super nice, so I knew his heart wasn’t in it. But I would never say anything to him such as shut the hell up will you? I haven’t had my coffee yet and trust me when I say you’re taking your life into your hands. Even though it crossed my mind to the point that it was written in neon on the mental billboard behind my eyelids. You don’t say stuff like that to someone who has control over your food from kitchen to table. You don’t piss them off.
Unless you’re my mother.
And to be fair, she wasn’t trying to piss him off. She just couldn’t hear well over the people waiting either to be seated or pay their bill and the glare from the outside light bothered her eyes.
“Let’s move,” she said.
“Let’s wait till the waiter comes back and check with him,” I countered. “I’m sure it’s fine, I just want him to know where to take the food. It’ll just be a minute.”
Mom saw another waiter walk by and because she never does what I say anymore than my children do, she decided we had to go NOW.
“Miss,” she said.
The waiter looked over.
“We’re moving to that booth.”
The waiter nodded.
So we did – just as our waiter came out with our food. He looked very annoyed so I mouthed an apology just to keep his drool off my omelette. He set our food down with a tight little smile, and made a show of bringing us all new silverware and water glasses and water. The rest of the meal went off without a hitch, except for the concert, so between bites of food and conversation with Mom, I was talking to musical boy in my head.
Me: Stop singing.
Waiter: Lalalalala
Me: Jesus! Stop singing! It’s not a tune. It’s not even an unconscious ditty one hums when one is doing odd choresathomeinprivate! It’s annoying as hell and you sound stupid.
Waiter: Dumdedumdum (no lie)
Me: <Sigh>
The woman who took our payment when we left called my mother sweetheart and I gave her a half-hour lecture in my head. It’s apparent to me and all who just witnessed you referring to a woman older than yourself as “sweetheart,” that you do not have much self-confidence. When in a business setting or any setting for that matter, where one is not referring to a small child one knows well, it is wildly inappropriate to call another by a pet name. You are lucky singing boy poured enough coffee down my throat. Otherwise I’d have to punch you in the forehead. Honey……… was only the beginning.
Is it just me? Am I the only one who does this? It’s not always when I’m irritated. Sometimes I’m simply cleaning or driving and things will pop in my head and they need to be discussed. If I’m alone, what choice do I have? Even now, as I sit here with a stomach ache brought on by eating pizza and ice cream for supper, I feel compelled to talk about it.
Me: Why am I so stupid?
Myself: You love pizza. And ice cream.
Me: I know, but this happens every time!
Myself: Because you are sensitive to gluten and lactose intolerant.
Me: Shut up, okay?
Myself: Fine but you know I’m right.
Me: That doesn’t stop my stomach from hurting.
Myself: Tums?
Me: Yes please.
Myself: I hope you’ve learned your lesson this time.
Me: Eff off, whore.
Myself: Woah! Hey, it’s not like I’m the mean girl in high school English.
Me: No you’re not. She’d have eaten all the pizza and ice cream so there wasn’t any left for me.
Myself: Bitch.
Me: Right?
Funemployment – Week Two…….. I really need a job……..
itsallinadaysinsanity 