Thanks lady..I REALLY Want To Hear About Your Medical Problems!

Here Iam…at the local lunch counter, looking forward to my plate of franks and beans, This lady next to me then launches into a discourse about her recent medical problems…a sampling to follow (warning-gross!):
-“Flo, I went into the hospital-I had fluid build-up. They took 3 quarts of fluid out of me! And the doctor told me that if I waited two more days, I’d be dead!”
=“The hospital had the catheter inserter wrong…I nearly died!”
-“And my blood pressure went wild!”
Ok Lady, I’m TRYING to eat my lunch! I DON’T need a long , disgusting dissertation on your medical problems! Do you think that my dining experience benefits from your recent hospitalization?
I finished my lunch, paid the check and left.
Shouldn’t gross discussions about medical care be banned in restaurants? I’d rather inhale some second hand smoke, than have to listen to this cow’s medical problems! :eek:

I feel your pain. I got that from a co-worker at a temp place once. This lady who had the desk next to mine went on… and on… and on… about her frickin… I don’t even want to go into it out of sympathy for anyone who might read it. Suffice to say, it was an osteopathic problem, and it was the kind that makes listeners squirm with sympathy pains upon hearing a description.

She just wouldn’t shut up. All day long when she was supposed to be working, any conversation with her would get steered around to her frickin’ health problem. So I stopped talking to her. But then other co-workers would stop by and hang out and they would talk… and talk… and talk… Loud and close enough that I just couldn’t avoid hearing it. It was enough to make me limp all the way home.

Cripes, ralph, just scarf down your franks and beans, raise up, and emit a loud, mellifluous fart.

That’s an entirely appropriate response to TMI-laden medical disclosures in restaurants.

My recent comparable experience (sans farting) was in a nice seafood restaurant, where two medical salesmen-type drones in the adjoining booth were going on and on about the colonoscopy course they had just taken, complete with color commentary about the various landmarks, how to flush away obscuring stool, polyps waving in the breeze etc.

I had to counter by launching into a discussion of the pus pockets in my latest autopsy.

Hey fellas, not staying for dessert? :smiley:

Several years ago Miss Manners published a letter from a writer incensed that she had to listen to Spanish at the shopping mall!, of all places.

Miss Manners, sweet woman that she is, gently replied that eavesdroppers deserve what they get.

One time at the Fraternal Order of Eagles back home in Missouri, the female bartender told me and my mother all about her bladder infection. Apparently her urine had strings of mucus-like material in it.

She doesn’t work there anymore, but I don’t think that had anything to do with it.

If my lunch companion and I choose to talk about items of interest to us, which may include health concerns, and our digestion is undisturbed by the conversation, then you can just suck it up. Or not listen in. Your choice.


There’s a big difference between eavesdropping and being forced to listen to a disgusting conversation that’s right at the table next to you. I don’t want to hear about anything that’s oozing out of you, any bodily fluids that are stinky, green, or gooey, and I really don’t want to hear what’s going on with any of your body parts. mischievous, why don’t you just save that for when you’re in a place where other people aren’t going to be forced to listen to you? Do you think everyone else should have to carry earplugs everywhere they go so they don’t have to listen to you? Especially when they’re trying to eat lunch!

And then there was the day when a woman I barely knew decided to tell me all the intimate details about The Day Her Uterus Fell Out. :eek:

What, did she drop it? Like you drop a pencil?

click-clickity “Whoops, I dropped my Uterus! Now I’ve gone and gotten it all dirty!” :stuck_out_tongue:

If that’s the case, quit being a selfish shit and speak in a tone that isn’t obvious to everyone else. Or get a seat somewhere that isn’t next to a person. Or, :eek: , don’t fucking talk about it in a restaurant.

Eavesdropping is overused. It is not the same as hearing an audible conversation. Hearing is one of the 5 basic senses and having that ability, your brain is wired to hear it. If you don’t have the common courtesy to attempt to keep strangers from hearing your medical problems in an eatery, this post will fall on deaf ears. (heh)

I bet you’re the type that would bitch about me smoking while this conversation happened because I was disturbing your lunch.
And ralph, WTF buddy? Maybe I need lessons in supressing my urge to stand up for myself, but why the hell didn’t you say anything? If the two hens didn’t have any problem with discussing that topic, surely there should be no embarrassment in letting them know you heard it all and leaving with a snarky comment about the affliction.

Oh my goodness, I agree with duffer. If people want to talk at a volume and in a tone that the whole restaurant can hear, nobody’s eavesdropping.

It didn’t hit the floor, but it did drop. Not all the way out, but partly out. Well, that’s probably more than you want to know. Waaay more than I needed to know. It was a long time ago, the memory’s almost gone. La la la, I’m in my happy place. No falling uteruses (uteri?) here!

You know that if you cut up the franks and arrange them to make a swastika you have a plate of Beans An’ Frank.

Ripped off from National Lampoon in the 70s**

Was she lifting something heavy? I worked with a woman who was convinced, absolutely, utterly certain that if a woman tried to lift something heavy her uterus would fall out.

Or, I think it was supposed to be her uterus. “Bren_Cameron,” she’d say. “Don’t you lift that table. Your poochie will fall out!” When I gave her a big “Huh?” the first time, she said, indignantly, “You know! Your poochie!” And gestured vaguely towards her pelvic area.

It still makes me laugh to this day.

You need to work on your selective input processing skills.

I work in a building attached to a hospital, where the cafeteria is located. Not only do I have to listen to discussions of every gross thing in the universe, I have to walk by pickled body parts, and cadivers to get there.

Selective input processing skills are your friend.

(PS I feel your pain, BTW)

Look, I’m all for not telling your gory details to unsuspecting strangers. No one should offer a TMI story to someone who doesn’t want to hear it. And everyone should keep their voices at a reasonable level for their environment - broadcasting is really fucking rude regardless of topic.

That said, if I’m having a conversation with my friends, why the hell should I give a flying fuck what anyone else thinks about the topic of our conversation? Why does your twee icky-wicky reaction trump my choice of topics in a conversation that doesn’t even involve you?

I mean seriously - a conversation at the next table about Britney Spears will ruin my digestion. Is this anyone’s problem other than my own? Should I tell people not to talk about prissy little shits who wear too much pink when in public places?

If the offenders are talking at an unreasonable volume, complain about that. If people are having quiet, nearby conversation about your personal hot button - whether it be medical crap, the Middle East, or Hello Kitty - maybe you should move to a new table. It’s a crowded world, and I’m not going to avoid any potential bothersome issue any time I happen to be sitting near someone else.

Well, smoking would disturb me more than medical details. Learn to recognise that your personal hangups are not universal laws. However, unless we were in a posted no-smoking section, I don’t think I have any right to bitch at anyone else about my personal discomfort.


Your poochie?! :eek: :smiley:

Yeah, because women will fall apart if they lift anything heavier than a sheet of paper, right?

No, I don’t think she was lifting anything heavy. She was just walking around, and it just sort of fell. And she was at a conference, so she had to walk around like that all day. Are you sorry you asked now? :smiley:

See, I’m the unfortunate person who has no trouble discussing various incredibly gross topics, because it never occurs to me that someone might not appreciate hearing about it while they eat. I think it’s fascinating. I just don’t get why others don’t think it’s fascinating.

Of course, I come from a family where my mom can tell stories about being an OR nurse during a caesarian section over spaghetti with meat sauce, and the rest of us only ask for more details.

This for me is the key. It does not say “From the next booth over. . .” Most of the counters I’ve eaten at have seats as close together as the seats around the family table on a hoilday. ralph124c shouldn’t be expected to make any special effort not to hear what’s being said.

I am of the “we never speak of such things out loud” persuasion and almost fainted when a customer I had never met before explained that she hadn’t come to get her order earlier because she’d been taken to the hospital for rectal bleeding. Egads!

Yep. My poochie. I’m giggling now, just thinking about it.

That’s basically the idea. I found it interesting that the penalty for a woman who tried to be physically strong and independent was to lose her (arguably) most “feminine” trait–the ability to carry a baby. But it’s hard to have a serious thought like that when a grown woman is talking about my poochie.

This was a woman who wasn’t stupid by any stretch of the imagination, but who had some interesting issues. She wouldn’t allow any of her three husbands to be in the room when she delivered her babies, because she wouldn’t have any makeup on and her hair would be a mess and they wouldn’t want her after that. (She warned me against letting Mr. Cameron be present, on those grounds.) “And besides,” she said, “I didn’t want [husband number three] to have his face in my poochie.” Yep, poochie is a multi-purpose word that can refer either to the uterus, or female genitals.

But my favorite–and completely unrelated to poochies–was the time she mused aloud about chicken drumettes. You know, they’re the part of the wing that looks like a little drumstick. “I wonder how they get chickens with legs so small,” she said one day. “They must use chickens that have amnesia. No, I mean polio!”

She ruled the dining room with an iron hand, but sometimes I just couldn’t help but laugh at her.

No, actually, it seems kind of funny. But then, I’m sick that way. :smiley:

I usually just remark to my companions on what an obnoxiously oblivious asshole the person next to me is. I would never say that to an unsuspecting stranger. Too rude. But if they happen to overhear…