I am not a good person. Seriously, I’m not. You all can blow smoke up my butt, but I know the truth. I’m inappropriate girl. I wouldn’t be surprised in the least if one of these days, four of my closest friends and a stranger sit me down and start to tell me all the ways that my inappropriateness has affected their lives. The intervention would end with the intervention specialist asking me if I would commit to inpatient treatment and then me saying something like, “That’s right, bitches! Boo-yah!” or something totally, well, inappropriate.
I am aware that everyone once in a while says things that they regret or feel bad about. Every once in a while. Then there is me. Today at “muffin mornings” at my son’s preschool, for some reason, I decided to announce to the room that someone else’s husband was “bow-chicka-bow-bow!” Now, to be totally fair, I was talking about the entire family since they are all (kids and wife included) beautiful and I followed it up by making sure that the room knew I also felt this way about my husband—who will be editing this, so, basically, I’m divorced now. Anyway, you see? And the real kicker? The guy I was talking about is okay, but I was totally kidding. I said it for laughs, which I got, because I am hilarious. But there was no need! I could have just told my monkey joke and had the room in stitches! But I chose instead to, well, become inappropriate girl.
I still remember things I said 25 years ago. It’s like an illness! I’m the girl that would say to someone whose loved one has had heart surgery or a heart ailment, “I’m serious as a heart attack!” which is something I have never said before. Ever. You see? Or how about the time that I told two people I had just met that I loved them. I recovered quickly, but still, there was that long moment of silence in between. Just this week, while in a toy store—that is, a store that sells toys, for children—after I found out that the owner opened it when she was 22, I declared (a bit loudly) that at 22 I am pretty sure all I was doing was bong hits. Who wants to count the ways that this is inappropriate?
When I tried wedding dresses, I tried on one that was had an open, scoop back, down to my, um, crack, and I actually told the woman helping me that it made me want to have sex with myself. For reals. Or how about the time I was at Buffalo Exchange and some girls were trying on dresses and I told one of them that she looked hot. Oh! And this chestnut: when I mentioned to a friend that I wanted to lose a little weight but “not too much because I like a little POW in my pooper.” What is up with THAT?
One reason I left the moms’ Meetup group I was in for years is that my edit button literally ceased to exist while I was in the group. I am pretty sure all of the wonderful mothers I have met think I am just a tiny bit insane. I walked into a play date once asking where the keg was. And today, upon hearing that a friend is pregnant with her third child, instead of saying, “congratulations!” I actually asked her if she was crazy. And I infamously started the post on the message board titled, “What Kind Of Crack Was I Smoking? (when I decided to have two kids)”.
I’m going to reread this post and want to shoot myself in the head.
Speaking of heads! I was watching Nightline the other night and they were talking about a new study that shows how people with violent and murderous tendencies have something called neuro-behavorial syndrome. They were showing an image of a “normal” brain next to an image of a “murderous” brain and there was an awful lot of pretty color missing in the “murderous” brain. I wonder . . . maybe I’m brain damaged? Maybe I have neuro-inappropriate syndrome? Should I be studied?
Years ago I was showing a friend my engagement ring and she asked where John got it. It was his Grandma’s engagement ring, a family heirloom. She died years and years ago; I never met her, and I love this ring. It means so much to me that he chose to ask for it (he has three brothers, I’m not sure how I got so lucky as to get it!) and yet, in response to my friend’s question, I answered, “he pried it out of his grandmother’s cold, dead hand.” Right. Now we get down to it. I felt like vomiting the second I said it! I feel like vomiting now! But I said it! Out loud! And then I felt so guilty that I told my fiancé (now, luckily, my husband). He could tell I was shocked at my own awfulness and claimed he didn’t care, but still—I feel terrible that, of all the things to say, I chose that.
So, I’ve decided that I’m going to hell, which is probably for the best. I’m pretty sure they won’t care if I am inappropriate there. Unless of course, there is inpatient treatment for the inability to keep one’s freaking mouth shut. Knowing me? I’d probably tell the leader of the group to suck it.