So, this is how my day started on May 12, 2016.

I had been sick on Tuesday with some strange ailment, which on the only positive note, killed my appetite, so this morning, feeling a bit better, I decided I would cook an egg, toast and one small slice of Canadian bacon — no points in Weight Watchers.

I cracked my egg into a bowl to cook in the microwave, slid my toast into the toaster and was then distracted by our bitch dog (interpret this any way you want to), who was going crazy barking in the back yard.

By the time I got back in the house, my egg had exploded in the microwave. For some strange reason I had set it for one minute, which I knew was way too much time. Oh, now I remember why— I was going to watch it carefully through the glass and turn it off at the perfect moment, but then, as you may recall, the dog started barking.

I went to the sink to rinse out a rag to wipe down the microwave, which was wishful thinking anyway because everything was STUCK on the walls inside and it would take something much stronger that a rag to clean it. I turned on the water, whereupon (I’ve been wanting to use this word.) it hit squarely on the handle of a pan that should have been washed last night by one of my thoughtful and caring family members. It splashed onto my face and torso, drenching me with water.

Then I realized my toast was done, burned to perfection (please note sarcasm), but I set it on a plate, re-did the egg, then realized the toast was cold, so butter would not melt on it.

Nothing was coordinated; nothing hot at the same time. Somewhere in the middle of all that, I had made coffee, but it was cold, too.

My week actually started on the Saturday before I was sick. We had a visitor from out of state — an old friend of my daughter’s. She was staying with us. What I didn’t know and what my daughter hadn’t remembered was that she was a Talker. Make that a capital “T.”

This means she was a person who talked non-stop with no intermissions. If she was interrupted from some outside noise or comment, she started over again. We learned to not try. She presented ALL the details of every story — dates and times, plus behaviors of the people involved or her opinion of the people involved.

As a woman, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but NO WONDER HER HUSBAND LEFT HER! Okay, so he was a dick. But, seriously, we were all exhausted by her. Whenever she and my daughter would leave for an excursion, I passed out on the sofa with the television droning on in the foreground, unable to function in a useful way for hours.

What’s wrong with these people?

I think she was partially responsible for my lousy day on Tuesday, and yes, I know we’re not supposed to blame other people for what’s wrong with us, but what about Typhoid Mary?

I must say that I really like this young woman. She’s pretty and smart, but SHE TALKS TOO MUCH.

I started thinking about all the people over my lifetime who were Talkers and suddenly realized why I’m drawn to quiet people.

When we lived in San Jose, I had two neighbors who were Talkers — one across the street and one next-door. I always checked to see if they were outside before I walked out my door.  Once you were roped in, there was no escape.

Those two, however, weren’t as bad as the woman who lived across the street from me in Arizona. She, I actually hid from — inside my house. I’d notice her crossing the street towards our house, so I’d quickly lock everything and drop beneath the window sill.

I tolerate a lot, but this one was karazy. Why did I lock the doors? Because she would walk straight in. My younger daughter told me I don’t have to tolerate people who are Talkers. She assured me that she would not put up with it.

I do admit that I finally had to confront the woman in Arizona. I told her I couldn’t live like that — hiding from my neighbors; that I needed my private, alone time She started to cry and told me she was sorry. Now, of course, I really felt shitty, but she also said she admired me so much because I was “so together,” and how did I do that.

ME? TOGETHER? I struggle like everybody else to seem in control; to be self-confident, but I have fears like everyone else. I lie awake many nights, uselessly worrying when I know, deep down, everything is going to be okay.

I believe I understand that these people really want to be heard and they aren’t — by the most important people in their lives, or perhaps past lives.

I would like to be that person who gives people the benefit of the doubt, to try and understand where they’re coming from, but as a human being I am not always patient.

I am not “together.”

I’m pretty sure, based on past history, that I put out a special pheromone that draws these people to me — those who talk incessantly, and especially those who talk incessantly but don’t speak english.

On the other hand, maybe I should be grateful; maybe this is a gift and not a curse? My jury is still out.
The End