In the last ten to fifteen years, I've been confronted numberless times with my inability to determine when to stop talking. This disease, verbal emisis, is little known but can easily be desbribed as the brain's lack of a control mechnism telling the mouth when to give up conversation...that it's time to move on, in other words. This disease is more like the opposite of verbal constipation than the presence of tourette's syndrome (although I have been known to break out in a fit of uncontrolled venom-spitting rage-spewing ca-ca stenched potty mouth at times.) This means that a short talk with someone doesn't nesessarily mean the same to me as it may mean to you.
About 15 years ago, just before Megan turned 5, we had reached the end of the road with our mini-van (a Toyota Previa) and, although we liked the van, we decided to move up a bit in size and style so I decided to go looking for a replacement. As is happens, our other car was a Lexus sedan and we'd had a great deal of luck with it. It was a nice ride, stylish and attractive on the road, and comfortable to ride in. And better yet, Lexus had a new SUV that it was offering. So, setting myself into car-buying predator mode, I set out to do battle against the dealership monsters with my secret weapon in tow - Megan.
Now Megan takes a bit after her mother - she's a celtic beauty with brains, and a spirit that says second place is just a better vantage point from which to look at a winner's ass. As such, she's a valuable tool to be used in the negotiating game. Witness the tail-end of this conversation in which I had obviously been struck by a case of verbal emesis.
{interminable conversation precedes}
Salesman: I like the black one too but notice how the white one just seems to pop off the page at you?
Jerry: I do. I do! I might like the black one, though...what do you have available?
Salesman: (Recognizing easy pickings) The good news is that we can have this beauty on the floor for you to look at in less than two weeks!
Jerry: (Disappointed) Okay, then, okay we'll take the white one...when can you bring it around for me to see? oh, and, uh, to test drive! (knowing a man always takes a test spin before committing)
Salesman: Hmmmm....that one is on the same shipment as the other. So it'll be about two weeks and then there's the prep work...
At this point Megan starts fidgeting. She's been seated here for more than 30 minutes and has seen no progress. She's been taking out notes and scribbling on them for the past five minutes, but now the scribbling gets frantic.
Jerry: (Sensing a defeat of some sort) Okay. We'll just go with the gray one then. When can I test drive that little baby?
Salesman: (suddenly coming to the realization that he's being confronted by a moron who needs his medication - and fast) Uhhh...two weeks...just like the others.
At this, Megan, having seen the pathetic desparation in her father's eyes, and unwilling to spend any more time on this nonsense violently rips a note from her pad and hands it to me with a scowl.
"No Cars. End of talk!" it says. And she promptly scoots her butt off the chair in the showroom stall of the car salesman, grabs my hand, and leads me away stunned. We didn't buy a Lexus that day, in fact we didn't buy any car that day. I realized that I was being led by the master of them all and I just wanted to bask in her glory. We still have that note somewhere in the house, stored as a family treaure against a time when no living person will know it's meaning. But I'm suspecting that my little celtic beauty will leave her mark on the world in other ways as long as we all remember when talk ends and action begins.
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