Speak up or shut up!

If there’s one thing I hate in this world, it’s being talked over.
Like when I answer the phone at work with my standard greeting, in which I offer a salutation (”Good morning!” or “Good afternoon!”), then state the name of the business, and then my name…But before I get through our business name, the caller starts talking.
Usually, when a person has no use for my greeting, they also have no use for pleasantries, or me. While I speak, they just go ahead and say the person's name they're calling for, more of a demand than a request.
And because I hate this so much, I usually just finish my greeting and then wait like I hadn’t heard them, offering them the chance to say it again, only this time, when it’s their turn.
But this experience isn’t limited to the phone. There are people out there who just really don’t care to let you finish what you’re saying, finding it imperative to speak right this second, whether you’re finished with your thought or not. Maybe I’m too full of pride, or maybe I’m just a bitch, but I feel it my duty to continue speaking until they give up, and listen like they’re supposed to. I do it for them, the least they can do is offer me the same.
Today, a woman of roughly four and a half feet in height came into my office, just moments after my boss and coworker had, curiously, left together for lunch. She yanked open the door and waddled in, and asked immediately if my boss was available.
She’d been in before, and met with my boss before, so I suppose she assumed he’d just be here waiting for her. “I’m sorry,” I said regretfully, “he’s out to lu-”
“I drove up from New York. He’s not here?”
“Did you have an appoint-”
“No,” she cut me off, her tone incredulous. Why on earth would she need an appointment? “But I did tell him I’d be here sometime today.”
“Well, he just left for lun-”
It was at this point that she began to talk over me again, explaining to me that she’d driven here from New York just to see him, what he was supposed to go over with her, what she brought with her, how long she planned to be in town…
But I only heard bits and pieces, because, as she spoke, I was busy giving her a detailed account of the fact that he had gone to lunch, where he went, and how long I suspected he might be gone. Our voices met somewhere in the middle of my office and just bounced off each other, neither of us getting our points across, but both of us just talking. I grasped for subject matter, determined to talk as long, if not longer, than she did. Because, hey, cut me off once, fine. Twice, now I’m pissed. A third time? Now I don’t have to listen to you, either.
I think this comes from growing up with my father who is infamous in my family for talking, and talking and talking. Especially when arguing, he talks so much and so consistently, you can’t get a word in edgewise. It’s annoying and troublesome, and we other three members of the family have become well-versed in pinpointing exactly how long it’ll be before he’s forced to take a breath, or a pause to collect his thoughts, and jumping in at exactly that second. But never one to have the floor stolen from him, my father will jump right back into his speech, completely without regard to his counterpart and whether or not she or he is currently speaking. As a child, it was intimidating and made me clam up. Because, Dad’s talking. And his voice is so loud and strong. Better shut up. But, as I grew, it just became irritating and anger-inducing. And because my father and I are almost exactly alike, except for the mustache, I started doing the exact same thing to him.
So, often, when my father and I are “debating,” the room fills with both of our voices trying to out-speak the other. Only, if you turned down the volume on my voice, there’s no doubt that my father would still be speaking about the subject at hand, offering arguments and proof and historical references. If you turned down his voice, however, you’d hear me talking about absolutely nothing. Nothing. Ninety-nine percent of the time, when this verbal clash takes place, I run out of things to say one sentence into the match. So I start either repeating what I’ve said over and over, with different intonations and inflections to make it seem that I have something to say, or just drawing whatever I can from the preceding conversation and repeating it, just to fill the space. Because, hey Old Man, how come you can speak over me? Why can’t I talk?
Today, as the little ol’ lady and I went to Thunderdome with our voices, I tried to tell myself to just relent. That it’s not important to make sure I’m not talked over, that if she cuts me off to just drop it and move on. Kill ‘em with kindness.
But then I was all “Nah, fuck that.” And I started talking about what my boss could be eating for lunch instead.