Being caught in the act of lone conversation is mortifying, especially when the question comes, "Who are you talking to?" and the answer follows, "Myself." Even worse, sadistic people remain silent and enjoy the expanded soliloquy, you turn and realize you've been providing great amusement with your one-man dementia show.
Me Thinking About What To Say To Myself
The most shameful episodes are the times when things go wrong and you give yourself a profanity-laced critique employing theatrics worthy of Shakespeare. Example: "Stupid f'*#ing (female dog), you can't hold onto a @*&+ thing! (This usually said after dropping an egg at your feet and watching the slime head under the refrigerator at the speed of light, reaching hairball land just ahead of your paper towel.) Hopefully no one hears. I usually keep the TV on loud when I'm cooking.
Punishment For Cussing Is Time In The Bag
I remember Mother being lost in a daze of problems, tuning me out, and discussing things with herself. I always swore I would never do that, much in the same way I would never get wrinkles, a pot belly, blue veins, or wear anything larger than size 10. Although I have broken these promises, I could work on improving.
The truth is sometimes you just need to talk when there is no one available. Perhaps the next time I'm caught, I'll answer, "Would you mind not interrupting, I'm talking to God." Of course that won't work when I'm "Cussing and Cooking," as I'm calling my new uncensored cookbook of white-trash cuisine, featuring Husband's favorite "Bacon-Double-Cheese Meatloaf Before You Die," which guarantees a coronary occlusion. As he says, "You only go around once."