Talking

Today I am grateful for talking.  I’m a talker, Himself not so much.  I like to talk.  I work through things by talking, he works through them internally.  I make him crazy, he makes me crazy, but we’ve learned how to live with crazy.

 

When we take a road-trip he doesn’t want the radio on because it annoys him since he only catches about two thirds of whatever they are singing and doesn’t care at all what’s in the lost one third.  I can put a CD on and he’ll tolerate it for a while, especially if it’s a book on tape, but sometimes they make me drowsy.  That’s okay if I’m sitting in a chair at home, but driving a car, not so much.  Yeah, I know.  We’re complicated.

 

The thing I like to do the most on road trips is talk.  If we get a book on tape that has short anecdotes of a controversial nature, that’s the best because they offer the most possibility for discussion.  We don’t always agree and since he’s smarter than me, I usually learn something.

 

But they only last so long and our road trips are usually much longer, so when he goes silent, I say, “Pick a topic” to discuss amongst ourselves.  We have discussed a lot of trees.  We have a friend who feels as he does and she tells him to say, “Look at that tree!” and that will open the dam for me to prattle on for thirty minutes and he’ll have that peaceful time to not talk.  With friends like that. . .

 

We’ve talked about why someone would want a house up that high where roads are treacherous in winter, about what they were thinking when they added yet another “texture” to that place and wondered what people are doing in their houses when we pass.  FYI-ALL of them are having sex.  All of them!  Without a doubt.  If I drive past your house, you better close your blinds.

 

If we are home together, we might cross paths a few times during the day, but there is not usually a lot of conversation.  He can be sitting three feet away from me for hours with absolutely nothing to say.  Nothing.  Somehow at home that’s more okay than when we are locked in a car.  I like quiet time, too.  Stop it!  I do!  Sometimes.

 

I record almost everything I watch and despise channel switching.  I can only read one book at a time, too, but he can watch and keep up with six shows at once.  Drives me nuts, so I put my earbuds in and watch Netflix on my computer.

 

Those earbuds must work on his vocal cords like a red flag works on a Spanish bull’s eyeballs.  I can be on the computer for hours without them and he says nothing.  Nothing.  But as soon as I put the earbuds in, signaling I am going to watch a program on Netflix, he turns into Mr. Chatterbox.

 

“Blrusmb sldiaw dkglbld,” he says.  I pull out an earbud.

 

“What?” I ask, waiting for him to make his point before shoving the earbud back in and continuing my show.

 

“What do you mean, what?” he says.  “I was talking to the TV.”

 

“Well how am I suppose to know that when you’re mumbling over there?” I say, sticking that bud back in.  Wait for it.  Ten seconds, tops.

 

“Ohlslfu I skwoei wto tosheo bsldkgs,” I hear.  And pull the earbud out again.

 

“Did you say something else?” I ask, patient wife that I am?  “Are you talking to me?  Why are you talking NOW when you know I have my earbuds in and I’m watching a program?”

 

“You said you wish I’d talk more, so I’m talking,” he says.  I put the earbud back in, start the program again and wait for it.  Five seconds this time, but I’m quick and anticipate another garbled comment.

 

I yank that thing out just in time to hear him muttering, “She wants me to talk and when I try to talk, she complains!”  Grrrrr!

 

Are you living with a non-talker?  Does it drive you nuts that most of your sentences land on the floor like a sack of flour?  Do you wish you could talk about nonsensical stuff?  Yes?  Then my advice to you is stick in some earbuds.  Works every time.