Thursday, June 20, 2013

I Hear What I'm Saying

“YaYa, why you talk you self all time?” Zoe’s four-year old forehead attempted to form wrinkles as she pondered one of the great curiosities of her young life—adult insanity.

“What makes you think I’m by myself?” I said, distracting her with a bright, shiny lollipop. 

Talking to myself is a way of life for me, providing a multitude of benefits and advantages. I cannot help it if society is still suspicious of the diversity that constitutes “talking to one’s own self” in a manner resembling Sally Fields playing Sybil.

Society is a stuck up girl wearing chipped nail polish.

I talk to myself because I’m the best listener I know, and I’m smart enough to understand what I’m saying.

Sometimes when I’m talking to those people who come and eat my poorly prepared hamburger meat on the weekends, I can’t even finish a sentence. I’m not even near the verb in the sentence before they’re jumping all over what I’m saying with both feet and throwing their opinions around like people planning a revolution while standing next to a guillotine. It finally got so nutty I had to institute the Zern family conch shell policy.

It’s simple. If you’re holding the conch shell, you can talk. It’s a kind of “Lord of the Flies” deal. If you’re holding the conch shell everybody else has to zip it and listen. My husband brought the Queen Conch shell back from a diving trip to the Bahamas when he was a teenager, and it was still legal to rape the oceans. That’s how old we are, so talking to myself is probably not as big or weird of a deal as one might think. 
Sometimes I give speeches and then give myself a standing ovation. It’s very gratifying.

Sometimes I practice what I would say on David Letterman should I ever go on David Letterman, but don’t tell anybody.

A couple of times I’ve been able to say to myself what I wished I’d said that time, if I’d had a minute to think about what I was saying before I actually said it. You know what I’m saying?

Once, I told the IRS off, but I don’t want to talk about it.

Finally, I got tired of telling myself clever anecdotes, which are short accounts of some interesting or humorous incident, and started to write them down, making me an anecdotist and not some crazy lady who wanders around her house wearing a raggedy jeans vest, rubber barn shoes, and mumbling to herself.

Linda (Vests Have Handy Pockets) Zern

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