talking to much
As I made my way through the grocers on Friday, it appeared that I had broken out in the words, “Talk to me.” At first it seemed kind of random, and then it became kind of creepy. I am uncertain why people I don’t know like to begin conversations with me. Some of the conversations are to my face and some have been to the back of my head, and while I was leaning over to check the beef selections, there was even one to my butt. Each time, to make sure I was not being rude, disrespectful to my elders, I responded with the same question, “Are you talking to me?”
Evidently, the older gentlemen picking sweet potatoes, was conversing with me. It seemed to be a burden on his mind that “people need to get right, because the end is coming near.” I looked to my left, then right, and even over my shoulder. “I’m sorry, are you talking to me?” He was, and the price of sweet potatoes triggered some mental flash in him that the end of the world is coming because both sweet and white potatoes prices were on the rise. After he left, I went over to make sure that one of the sweet potatoes didn’t have an image of the Virgin Mary in it. No, it was just random.
Milling my way through the fresh produce and down the canned goods aisles, Grandma Mazur decided to stop me so I could help her find a can of red salmon. However, the conversation first started with how all the stores carried the pink and not the red. Not meaning to frown, I asked, “are you talking to me?” She was angry and frustrated and just wanted some red salmon. I pointed to the red can and even went as far to hand it to her. They were the only red cans of salmon, ergo, red salmon, so calm down lady.
It just got stranger from there. I was asked did I know how to make weenie stew. I have never heard of such but figured it required beef franks instead of the normal hot dogs. Another lady wanted tomato paste in the tube; do they even make that? I was polite and told her to try Publix or fresh market since that was a specialty item. If she shopped in this store often, she could ask the manager to order it for her. “That’s what they did in the Tobacco Road store, they ordered me some polenta,” she smiled and continued, with unbridled excitement, “it came in real quick like too!” Yes, it was uncomfortable to me too. Even more uncomfortable was me bending over the beef bin and hearing, “yeah, that looks real tasty.”
I turned to find a diminutive version of my grandfather eyeing the rump roast. Or was he eyeing my rump? I refused to ask if he was talking to me because the mental implication was just too creepy and gross to fathom. I am not certain what it is about me that prompts spontaneous conversation, but it happens to me all the time. I must have a friendly face or a Doppelganger that needs to learn to shut the bleep up. It is even funnier to me that although I am polite and answer, most people would leave me be, if the only knew what I was just thinking.
In an instant messaging status updating world, our days are filled with the overflow of information on our personal lives. Depending on the number of friends and followers, one can be constantly bombarded with information of other’s existence. Those social vampires that you have avoided personal contact with are now filtered through your phone and they still find a way to suck the life out of you with their problems. We certainly have the ability on Facebook to “hide” their ramblings, but how do you adjust the streaming feed in real life? Or has it progressed to a level of a constant need for attention that has removed our ability to know when we are sharing too much information? As the Queen of Tweetdeck updates, allow me to explain.
As I was undergoing another round of nap therapy, the thick accented patient next to me was asking the therapist a question that she could not decipher. He looked to me for help so I translated his words. This opened the door for Therapy Lady to unload her sadness unto my mat. First she explained that husband number two was also Puerto Rican and she should have understood his thick accent. My eyebrows arched in disbelief, one, because the gentleman next to me was German, and two, who asked her. Evidently misreading my arched brows as “tell me more,” she then proceeded to inform me that her first husband, a high school sweetheart, was Bipolar, and when he hit child number two with a backhand, she knew she had to leave him.
Arched eyebrows now furrowed, inspired her to continue this tale and let me know that husband number two was in jail. I tilted my head looking for the hidden camera while waiting for someone to jump out and tell me that I was being “Punked.” Ashton did not answer my prayer because Therapy Lady continued this depressing diatribe by informing me that husband number two molested her 13-year-old. Eyebrows are again arched. She then says, “yeah, and he was quickly escalating towards something more serious.” Furrowed brows again, this time with my hands up, inspired her to add “yeah, I’m single now, and don’t want to be alone, but I can’t trust anyone else….”
Was that a tear I saw trickle down her cheek? I am now frowning, more serious than three years of him diddling your daughter, who thought there was nothing wrong with step daddy’s behavior because you didn’t think it was necessary to explain good touching and bad touching? Was it more serious than you using your daughter’s molestation as a sympathy pump and now it is all about you because it wasn’t your fault? More serious than me wanting to take the ice bag off my knee and knock some sense into your empty head? How could it possibly be more serious than the contempt I feel for you right now?
Our heavy accented friend read my face correctly for he cleared his throat, which now drew the attention of Ms. Munchausen By-Proxy –Therapy-Lady and reminded her that she was actually at work. My lips, now pursed, and sister girl is evolving in my eyes, which are slowly widening as I raise myself to a sitting position. She must have taken the visual cues for what they actually were this time because she took the hell off.
Don’t ask, because I don’t know what I was going to say or going to do, I just knew I had experienced enough “oversharing” for an afternoon. But here is the sad part, I did not report her. We are in a recession and she is a single mom. However, if she should choose to be so dumb and share with me once more, I will offer her this advice. Your friends are there to share your burdens in life, not complete strangers. Your friends will also get tired of listening to you go on about poor me. Take your misery off of your Facebook status and stop taking the phone into the bathroom with you; the person on the other line does not want to hear you pee and I don’t want to pee and hear you. I am not investing in Botox so stop trying to read my expressions as I care and you should unburden yourself on me. Last but not least, shut the bleep up! Be miserable by yourself and stop subjecting those around you to your pity party. If this isn’t enough information, then I will plainly state that some stuff, you should keep between you, your God and a good psychologist.