Riffing

I have this annoying habit, one I didn’t know what to call before, although I knew it needed a name, a slogan, a tagline. Something catchy and inspiring.

 

Finally, a few months ago a friend called it “Going Geico™,” and nothing could more perfectly sum it up.

 

So what I do is I “dub” over what someone else is saying, as in I offer a running commentary, sort of like a sportscaster. We call it “Going Geico™” because I’m like those Geico commercials where the common, everyday plebe is describing their car insurance mishap as a celebrity sits next to them, re-translating the commoner’s depiction into something else.

 

An example is when my friend sneezed during dinner. She explained that the pepper made her do it. I felt this required more explanation, so I jumped in and offered, “Pepper. When it’s finely milled as this one was, a person can breathe the pepper dust in, resulting in a sneeze much like it did for Kristine here.”

 

Annoying, see.

 

So I found myself Going Geico™ all over the place at the party/concert last night. I theorized on age spots, travel websites, Eckhart Tolle, t-shirt decals, classical music, the strawberry growing season, afros and maracas. Especially irritatingly, because if I have a glass of wine, I tend to adopt this college professor tone and drone on and on and on about crap nobody cares about. Then, I go sit on the stairs by myself, when in a moment of clarity I realize I need to not converse with people, because they hate me.

 

Anyway, the singer/songwriter we heard last night is a remarkable and talented guy named Chris Trapper. And I love his lyrics and think he’s smart and insightful and a great performer. After the concert, he stayed for a little while and I made a supreme effort to keep sitting on the stairs, alone, because if I gave into my baser instincts, I’d corner him and Go Geico™ on a variety of subjects he could just search Wikipedia for. Plus, as an adjunct to this annoying habit, I babble about stuff which makes no sense, while my husband sits with a pained smile on his ever-suffering face.

 

And I almost made it.

 

But then, I had to pipe up about my boobs and beach softball and viral marketing and Berkeley and I can’t even finish this post because I’m pretty sure I also talked about how you make babies and I’d just like to go sit on the stairs alone now.