Suzanne Belcourt's Marshmallow Girl
March 5th, 2007
Talk About Me
I don’t get it. Try as I might I always end up at the end of a conversation with the tables turned. The tables turned as I have somehow managed to have a conversation end up about me. I am no Paris Hilton. At least I try hard not to read anything about her, and in reality think that the media is just a bit crazy to care so much about her considering she can only pose for the cameras and that is her single talent. But somehow—without the fame, money and connections—I manage to be just like her. In the only sense that I seem to want everyone I talk to, well, to talk about me.
Cases in point:
My sister-in-law sometimes calls me on business, as she is one of my editors, and when she’s telling me anything about herself I can never seem to concentrate on what she is saying. I am always on to the next sentence in my head as she is speaking and almost always cut her off with something like, “So anyway, this guy at the pet store was so rude to me today…”
Or when my sister had her two cats die. I care. I really do care, as I have three cats myself—which brings me to the point: When she tells me the horrible news all I can say is, “Yeah, I don’t know what I would do if anything happened to one of my cats.”
Or when my poor mom has to listen to me day in and day out, chatter about, well, me. (We talk every day on the phone.) I could say she is like my best friend, but I think she is more just the most patient person in the world for listening to my nonsense half the time. (I really think that she would rather that I have a psychiatrist to talk to, but that is strictly between you and me.)
Or when my friend from Toronto came for a visit (she got a drive down with my brother and sister-in-law) and the only thing I remember about the visit is how I told her that Johnny Cash’s autobiography really signaled a change in me.
So yes, I am a bit self-centered. But who wouldn’t be if everyday all you had to live with you were your thoughts. I talk to my cats—yes, I understand that they don’t speak English—but they only meow back, and in their language it’s to tell me that they want to be fed. This much I do know.
But back to this Paris Hilton thing: I just read an article about how this English bloke—who is actually the famous actor Steve Coogan (yes, I had to Google him too)—pulled a Marlon Brando “Hey Stell-Lahhh!” impersonation on poor Paris. Apparently he became too friendly with one of Paris’ friends at a nightclub and when she rejected his advances he followed them back to Paris’ house. He yelled at the door to open so he could come in. Now I have to question this story, because what I forgot to mention is that Steve Coogan is a comic British actor. I really think that he was just doing this because he knew how funny it would seem in the papers the next day. If he did it at all. But this article isn’t about Paris Hilton, or Steve Coogan. It’s about me.
+++++++++
As I’m Leaving
It all started innocently enough: I went to the local grocery store to buy some groceries. When I was at the checkout the young lady who puts customers’ bags in the backs of their cars came up to the cashier and me.
“Did your mom tell you?” she asked me. (She knows my mom well as we are always going to this particular grocery store to purchase our weekly lists.)
“Um, no.”
“I told her that I couldn’t believe that she has a daughter as old as you.” I really thought she was going to tell me that my mom had won a week’s worth of groceries.
“Oh,” is all I could come up with. She went on.
“In fact, I told her that I thought you were her mother.”
The cashier interjected with a comment that she thought this young lady was being a little harsh.
“It’s OK,” I told the cashier, “I get this all the time. Everyone thinks that we’re sisters.”
I left with my groceries as the young lady walked away from the both of us, “Take care now,” she said.
Now I really don’t know what to say. Do I insult her back? And how does one with a slow response time go about this? I can think of a million things I could have said as I am walking back to my apartment, groceries in hand, like:
“You’re a little slow in the brain, so I’ll let this one slide. Oh, sorry. People who are a little slow in the brain don’t deserve to be insulted.” But then again, she could throw the same line back to me;
“No wonder all you have in your life is a couple of birds. They are probably the only living things that like you.” (She has a few budgies in her apartment that she told me about.) But again, she could throw this back in my face about my three cats;
Or
“That’s very brazen of you. Oh, I’m sorry, you probably don’t know what that word means.” (I had to look it up when I got home.)
So I really don’t know how to retort when someone has just insulted me. I wish I were more like Steve Martin’s character in Roxanne. (I even have the big nose.) But then again, Mr. Martin had a few days to come up with and write in the script, some really great lines. This, however, is still quicker than me.
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