My Stupid Mouth

A big problem seems to have been surfacing lately. Actually, its been with me my whole life, only now I recognize it. There seem to be times in which I know I'm about to say something stupid, but cannot do anything about it. In the old days I'd just let whatever fly and take the embarrassment (which was embarrassing), but now I can feel my mental filter break and just do not speak. I think it runs in the family. 

Take my father, for instance. Hi, Dad. Anyway, my father likes to play a joke with people by calling felines "pussies." Of course, we all remember the famous tale when my dad and stepmother were at a party in Atlanta and my dad asked the good-natured hostess of the party where she put her cats for the evening. She said she put them away upstairs, to which he replied something to the tune of, "My, you've got a lot of pussy up there." Yeah, I know, pretty witty and he got a good laugh (and a sneer from Jeanette). Needless to say he rehashes the joke in various venues wherever cats are involved but doesn't seem to understand that a joke that works for a giggly 40 year-old lady doesn't when presented to, say, a 93 year-old great grandmother. His filter was broken and he apparently paid the price.

I'd say my filter totally breaks once a month and can sense it when things I say come out awkwardly and the person I'm talking to looks nervous and gives me pitty laughter. It's like watching a basketball game in which a player keeps taking fall-away threes despite being guarded by two people. This is to say, I can become the Devan George of social interaction. At this point I've learned to affix myself next to a chatty person and shut up. This is my way of sitting my ass (or, in this case, mouth) on the proverbial bench. 

As my father (how ironic, right?) likes to tell me: "It is better to be thought a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt." So true. So so true.