Talk talk

I find myself more and more talking to inanimate objects that are incapable of understanding what I am saying and answering back.

No, I don’t mean my children. I mean other things in life that have me questioning my sanity.

For example, I’ve gotten really bad about talking to the TV, especially during sporting events. This past Georgia football season, I had quite a few one-sided conversations with Bulldogs’ quarterback Joe Cox. Most of what I said cannot be repeated in mixed company nor near my preacher.

Talking to the TV can cause some confusion around the house. I’ll yell, “What the hell are you thinking?”, and my wife will yell back from the kitchen, “I’m unloading the dishwasher, is that a problem?” I have to explain that I was not talking to her, I was talking to Matt Ryan. So then I’ll say, hey, while you’re up, can you bring me something to drink? At which point she yells, “What the hell are you thinking?”

I also like to talk to golf balls. I’ll yell “Stop!” or “Go!” or “Don’t go in the woods, you stupid Q@#$@!#$^@#$!” Of course, the golf ball doesn’t listen and does what it wants anyway, but I guess it makes me feel better to say something. It’s a lot like writing a letter to your Congressman.

I talk to other drivers in traffic. It’s probably a good thing they can’t hear me, especially if they have a gun in the car, because I’m rarely complimenting their driving skills or saying top-o-the-morn-to-ya. If I ever get cut off by a lip-reader with a loaded gun and an itchy trigger finger, I’m probably in trouble.

I talk to my computer screen at work, saying stuff like “Yeah, right,” especially when I open an e-mail from somebody asking me to do something unreasonable, like extra work.

I have a lot of one-sided conversations with my dog. She is a pretty good listener, though I suspect she’s hoping that no matter what I’m saying, at some point I’ll get to “Come on, Lucky, time to eat.”

I talk to myself a good bit, too. I think a lot of us do that. But with me, it’s never positive in a Stuart Smalley kind of way. I don’t say, “Wow, Mark, you really look good today,” or “Hey, that was a good decision, buddy.” No, it’s usually “Wow, could you be a bigger idiot?” or “If you get any fatter, they’re going to be taking you out of the house with a crane as Oprah watches with empathy.”

This is probably pretty normal behavior, and I guess I should only be worried if the TV and the computer or the golf ball start talking back to me. Lucky doesn’t talk back, she just licks my toes. The children talk back, but it’s often unrelated to what I’ve said to them. And no, I don’t answer when I’m talking to myself. What the hell are you thinking?