Monday, April 23, 2012

The problem with being me

(No. This is not a veiled self-compliment, like "The problem with being me is that I get way too much unwanted attention from hot single men." This is an actual problem. As you will see.)

The problem with being me is that I have absolutely no filter between my brain and my mouth.

For example, one time I remarked to a fellow kindergarten mom that it was far too windy a day for me to be walking to school wearing thong underwear and a skirt. It’s not that I had to change the world with my remark, it’s that I thought it and simultaneously said it. It’s involuntary and usually mortifying.

Now, in that case, that mom ended up having an equally strange sense of humor, and we became good friends. In general, I try to surround myself with people who think my quirkiness is funny. One, I have to apologize less. Two, otherwise I’d be alone in a dark room, cackling to myself. Surrounded by cats. (I don’t know why, but when I picture myself eventually succumbing to mental illness and losing my marbles, I’m always surrounded by feral cats. Lots of them.)

I think writing helps, because I can get my husband to be my filter. I will often email him draft posts saying, "Do I offend anyone’s religion, race, gender, mental capacity, appearance, personal hygiene, location of a port wine birthmark or penchant for dead animals?" And, I’m proud to say, I’m mature enough to hit "delete" if the answer is yes.

Okay, so. This weekend, I walked by a neighbor’s house. The neighbor is a good friend and, thankfully, thinks I’m funny. Her husband does not think I’m funny. I wish I had remembered that.

Their yard is fenced. His dog was outside the fence, eating grass. He was inside the fence, lying on his back in the middle of the front yard. That’s all I had to go on.

I said, "Hi. You okay?"

He said, "Yeah, just playing with my dog."

And I said (and I cringe to repeat it), "No, your dog is over there. You’re actually just playing with yourself."

Ha ha?

He stared at me.

Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit.

I hurried on by.

Later, I told his wife what I said. She told me she thinks it was a funny joke. She also told me her husband thinks I’m strange.

Note to self: restrict inappropriate comments to this blog, where someone can choose not to read them, or to people who know you’re inappropriate and expect you to be offensive.

Other note to self: avoid that guy for a while.

Final note to self: walk by their house acting very normal at every given opportunity while ignoring him, so maybe he’ll think he made the whole thing up.

As I said, it's the problem with being me.


  1. Oh. My. God. Why are you MY neighbor?! Scratch that actually. It's a good thing you aren't my neighbor. We'd never get anything done and the cat situation would be scary.

  2. I’m like that.. say things to people that goes right over their heads. Screw ‘em it’s still funny. When the anesthesiologist was about to give me an epidural so I could deliver Bobby comfortably (as if), I asked him if he was a good prick. After all, I wanted him to get it right the first time, I was scared.

  3. Oh how I wish you WERE my neighbor. I love and appreciate a dry sense of humor and wish I had one. I am just glad I can come to your blog and have a much needed laugh each week. You rock.