Talking to Myself

My husband and Younger share their own language. They have entire conversations that only they understand.

I ignore them mostly.

But one can’t always.

So, every now and then, I hear Younger in another room say, using a growling voice and quoting John Pinette, “Get out of the line, get out of the line.” And from a different room, I hear my husband laugh.

It’s rather like Pavlov’s dogs.

And, then, when they really want to annoy me, they talk in Monty Python.

“This parrot is dead,” my husband will declare. “This parrot has ceased to be.”

And, like the dogs salivating at the ringing of a bell, Younger giggles his way through the house.

But I think the moment I knew all was lost was the day I was standing in the laundry room with my husband in the back yard beyond one wall and Younger preparing to take a shower in his bathroom behind another wall. Minding my own business, loading clothes into the washing machine, I heard my husband perform his imitation of an owl call in the hopes of earning a response from the turkeys that sometimes reside in our woods.

“Who-cooks-for-you, who-cooks-for-all,” he hooted.

And — I kid you not — from the bathroom I heard the response, “Gobble, gobble, gobble.”

And I would just turn to Elder for conversation, but I guess, somehow, “How was your day?” gets translated to “Tell me everything you know or did or thought about doing or what anyone else might know or did or might think about doing and did any of it involve a girl” whenever I try to start a dialogue with him. So, I get a “It was fine, Mom, why do you always have to ask so many questions?”

So, that is why I talk to myself.

But that’s okay.

I find myself to be a particularly brilliant conversationalist.

As long as I don’t start an argument.

Or quote Monty Python.


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