And how do you feel about that?

I don't know what it is, exactly, but people like to tell me things. Perhaps I should have continued my psychology degree in a therapeutic manner, and I could actually be getting paid for listening? You know I have been searching for some paying work. Maybe next time someone starts talking to me, I should gently put one hand up and say, "I'm sorry. That's going to be $50 an hour, please." Really, that's a steal over a regular therapist, am I right? It's a shame I'm completely unqualified.

So things like this happen all of the time, but today's example was at Hobby Lobby. (Cousin Eddie is snickering to herself right now because she swears I go to Hobby Lobby almost daily. This assumption is completely false, it's just that when I DO go, somehow it's often share worthy. I digress.) I walk up to the fabric cutting counter, which I'm sure has some official name among those in the fabric know, and notice that the fabric cutting lady is sniffly and clearly has been crying. Have overwhelming urge to cheer her up.

Instead of responding to my light, breezy humor, she begins to unload on me while cutting my fabric. Her five year old's baby daddy fell off the house last night and crushed his heel bone and might never walk again. [Unrolls my fabric] Her five year old son knocked out both of his front teeth in a bizarre sporting accident involving a pole and he ain't eat since Tuesday except some apple juice. [Measures my half yard.]  Her 27 year old son done broke his arm last week and is getting him a cast tomorrow, and so she has to watch his kids, her grandkids, who she mentions are (interesting!) the same age as her son. [Neatly snips my fabric into shape.] She really wants a blueberry milkshake from Chick Fil A, and asks me if I think her son could drink one.

??????

This example isn't an uncommon event in my life. I suspect that somewhere on my forehead in a language I can't see is tattoed "Tell me more." Or the like. Now, don't get me wrong. I love talking to people, particularly people I know and care about, but the stranger thing can be overwhelming sometimes, particularly when you factor in my awkwardness. And sarcasm not always caught by people who don't know me.

And now? Look at me. It sticks with me all day. Here I am, lying in bed at night thinking about that woman's baby daddy and his heel.

Sometimes, though, talking to strangers has its perks. Like today at Publix when the guy who walked my groceries to my car saw my carseats and said I looked way too young to have kids. (Swoon!) Or when I chatted up the Wachovia lady on the phone this afternoon about where she lives and how she likes her job, and she removed $70 in fees that were totally my mistake. Or my friendly convo with the manager at the CVS about couponing and she offered to put me on a preferred list where I could pre-order my sales purchases and they would never even hit the shelves! No more rain checks! Holla!

Good with the bad, I guess. But people do tell me a lot of weird stuff. I must give off some sharing vibe. Somebody tell me what's tattoed on my forehead. Sucker? Speak to me? Sing it, sistah!? Odd.