The serial talker takes no prisoners.

woman_screaming-lg-12593297I walked in the club and sat down beside it before I knew what I was in for.  John walked up and said.  “Boy, are you in for it.  She never shuts up.”  During a single dinner beside this woman I can tell you more about her life than you or anyone else would ever want to know.  Ever.

Ask.  Ask me anything.

Her daughter?   According to this woman, her daughter may be the only woman in existence who ever had a wedding.  I now know more about the daughter’s wedding than I know about my own daughter’s.  The wedding was good for a 20 minute monologue.

Sing?  Yes, her daughter sings.  In fact, she is flying home this weekend from New York to sing in a wedding in Fort Worth.  Mind you, I never asked for one detail about anything.  She loquaciously provided an endless amount of trivia.

Europe?  Yes, in fact, ( I know you will be equally impressed with this information.) she lived in Europe.  Paris.  She proceeded to tell me about the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre.  Florence.  The Uffizi and 18 karat gold jewelry.   At the start of the European soliloquy, I tried to insert that I had been there.  After all I could save her a few thousand syllables, but she wasn’t interested in economy.  I might as well have tried to speak into a Northern.  She blew right past my remark.  Determined to give me information whether I needed it or not, she droned on.

When the menus arrived, she started to read it to me.  Lady, I’ve been reading since the age of five. The waitress interrupted with the evening specials, saving me from a four page menu reading with side commentary.

“Ï never miss my yoga.  Well, I did quit it once.  I told my husband it was the biggest mistake of my life.”

Really?  I can think of another. 

Then she tried to demonstrate her favorite pose.  She stuck one leg straight out behind and tried to balance her weight on her arms.  Quite difficult to reconstruct while sitting at the table.   Hold that pose one minute.  I’d like to capture that image with my phone. I could show this to my friends around the world.

I did recall a funny memory about my daughter making her husband go to a yoga class when she was pregnant with Child One.  After the first class he refused another session.  Said the only thing he got out of yoga was a lot of gas.  He could do that just as easily in the bathroom.  He didn’t need yoga for that.  So, blah blah, did you get rid of all that gas or is this how you now rid yourself of it?

We went through her diet, how her husband prepares their vegetables and the size of beef they eat.  The size of pork.  The size of chicken.  The size of fish.  Could you demonstrate that in yoga?

I tried desperately to get John’s attention to save me.  But he was in ecstasy over the shrimp and bacon stacked on mac and cheese he was consuming.  I often looked out the club window and longingly considered taking up golf again. But I doubted that I could get on the course at 8 P.M.  Anyway it didn’t work because every time she felt I might escape, she lightly tapped me on the wrist to bring my attention back around.

Finally I schemed a way to get back at her.  I had ordered crab in a greasy creole sauce over grits topped with a lavish amount of cheddar cheese.  Hoping she’d be awake all night with indigestion, I decided I’d force her to eat a bite if I had to choke it down her.

“Oh, no, no, no.  I wouldn’t think of eating a bite of it.”

“Oh, yes, yes, yes.  You must.  I couldn’t leave here thinking that you had missed a bite of my delicious food.”  I shoveled a load onto a fork and forced it to her lips.  At least she’ll shut up for a minute.

Maybe longer.  I haven’t seen her again, but then maybe she has someone else trapped at a table.

After all, monologueing is her poison.  Strangers are her prisoners.

Note: I have exaggerated a little bit with this blog, but just enough to keep my interest. The monologue about her daughter’s wedding was actually just 15 minutes, not 20.

 

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  • Pam

    Been there! Am always on guard that I may be unwittingly trapped.

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