I Should Not Have Said That... I Really Should NOT Have Said That

My ability to say the wrong thing at the wrong time has rarely been equaled. My wife would add “every time” to the cliche.  She might have a valid point.

It's more of a disease, I think. I've tried out-patient services, isolation, superglue and even involuntary slap-therapy. Sure they all work for a short time, but nothing seems to be a permanent cure.

I never try to hurt anyone's feelings on purpose. It just seems to work out that way. One damage control method I've used in the past that showed some hope was what I call the “Drunken Duck”. When I say something over-the-top stupid, it's usually apparent instantly. As soon as the awkwardness hits, I'll slur a couple words to make it seem as if I've had too much to drink and then quack like a duck and walk away with a partial stagger. The situation works like this: “Hi Stacey, I haven't seen you in a long time... Me? I'm good. Looks like you are doing pretty good too. How far along are you?” (Stacey informs me she isn't pregnant) “Oh, well the bartledoo banana basin brackmire... QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK” See? I get away almost clean. It wasn't always that way though.

I've been at a few wedding receptions, where as the best man I was expected to make a toast. I hate weddings. By the time I get dressed, stand there for the ceremony, then eat poorly prepared greasy chicken, corn from a can and instant potatoes with not nearly enough gravy, it's time to say something odd. Apparently, the bride's family isn't interested in hearing about how I dated her first and passed her off to the groom. Nor, are they excited to hear all about how the groom and I “totally tore it up” at the week long bachelor party.

I love telling the story about the mess in the delivery room when we had our 4^th baby. My wife oddly enough, does not. Come to think of it, nobody that I told that story to liked it much. Must be a matter of perspective I guess. It probably isn't so much the subject matter as the descriptive details in which I find joy repeating.

In church I've been known to sigh very loudly when I didn't agree with what I was hearing or if the sermon was running a little long and the Viking’s game was dangerously close to starting. One time I thought I was whispering to myself, but I must have vocalized, “Would you JUST get to the point already?” loud enough to receive a “Holy Elbow of Justice” from my right. The bruise cleared up in a week or so. I usually pick up my “A game” of uncomfortable conversations around my church family. I assume it's because I try to be as careful as possible not to say something offensive or something that can be judged as off-the-mark. That is basically like wearing snowshoes in a mine field. The harder I try not to goof up, the more I do. What you call awkward silence, I call stunning them with brilliance.

As an adult I was told by my elementary and middle school principals that I was lucky to survive. It wasn't the other kids that were the danger, it was the teachers that wanted me dead. Back then there really wasn't any diagnosis or medication for ADD, ADHD or what I call being an energetic child. The doctor told my mother to make me drink two cups of coffee in the morning before going to school. I guess the idea was the caffeine would have an opposite effect on someone that was already two speeds ahead of the norm and perhaps calm me down enough to allow me to concentrate. The research supporting that therapy may have been a little faulty.  So every morning from about third grade on, I sat there and drank two large cups of heavily sugared dark coffee, sprinted the few blocks to school, bolted into the classroom and the fun ensued. When a nine year old is sitting in his chair bouncing up and down at 8:00 am on a Monday morning, the teacher can't be very optimistic about what will come out of his mouth.

Hey, it's not my fault the world isn’t keeping up with me.