Putting a foot in it.


Communicating properly is not given to everyone. Subject-verb-complement. The premise, the conclusion. Moreover, we must sprinkle everything with tact and diplomacy. Subject-verb-compliment. To understand what can and cannot be said. I don’t have this ability. At all.

The fronts of my shins have notches due to under the table blows to silence me. To be socially awkward, the queen of the slip ups and have borderline Tourette syndrome, often puts me in deep trouble. In return, it gives for interesting anecdotes…

Long ago, I was dating this handsome bourgeois young man. I was nervous to meet his parents for the first time. His dad, Mr. Paré, greeted us at the door. He was an unattractive, bald man with a huge nose. When my boyfriend’s gorgeous mom joined us, I did my boo-boo number one and said: “Ho! Now, I can see where your son gets his looks! ”

Mr. Paré, a little embarrassed, stammered that, indeed, surprisingly, his wife didn’t mind marrying a big nosed, balding man.  Wanting to undo my blunder, I made mistake number two, winking at the couple: “Well, you know what they say about bald men with big noses!” Mr. Paré blushed. Ms. Paré did not understand. And even though my boyfriend elbowed me in the ribs, I clarified, and by doing so, made my final faux pas:  “Well, usually they have… you know…  a big penis …”

Mr. Paré shivered. Ms. Paré went:  “But he doesn’t …” and stopped herself mid sentence. Then, everything went horribly silent. My lover stared at me in total disbelief. Did I just open the conversation with speaking about his father’s penis?


Yes, I did.

I once received a hideous sweater as a gift. Not so ugly that it could pass for hipster-ugly, no, just natural God awful ugly. I wanted to pretend that “Thaaaaanks! I’m so happy! I just love it!” but I heard myself articulate with a big smile: “Thaaaaanks! I’m so sorry! I just loathe it!”

At a party, I pointed my finger at my kind of male in the corner of the room, whispering to an unknown suicide blond before me how I would like to spread that guy on a Ritz cracker and eat him up for lunch. Only to discover that, of course, of course, the bleached chick gazing at me with murderous eyes was his fiancée.

Or, how about that time I yelled «Shut up!!!! ” while pushing violently, Elaine style, the shoulders of a child who was announcing that he got accepted into a good school. With his parents glaring at me like I’d just made them smell my fart in my cupped hands.

So, yeah…  I put my worst foot forward, shoot myself in it, dip it in shit, and then put it in my mouth. As a bonus, I get one up the ass for not knowing when to pipe down.  Why is my defense mechanism in front of strangers to use inappropriate humor? I hope to generate a joyous emotion but all I harvest is enough discomfort to bottle and sell it. Obviously, I have a social calibration deficiency.

In order to learn the art of yaking, I searched the “what not to do” on the Web. It seems that to remain correct in a talkfest one must avoid politics, health, money, religion, gossip and work. It’s crucial not be rude, to mock or to chat about anything somber…

* Crickets *…

In this case, I have nothing to say. Might as well kiss my clumsiness farewell by biting my tongue before any of my nonsense drips from my lips and makes a drool doily on the tablecloth. I don’t have to joke at all costs. I could just shut my mouth and abstain from hurting anyone’s feeling. And if an unfortunate sentence escapes the vice of my front teeth, I’ll just apologize to my interlocutor. Profusely.

All this to say that I’m really sorry and I feel dumb, Mr. Paré, for talking about your penis all those years ago. I mean, though it’s true that usually balding and big nose means “big penis”, obviously, it’s wrong to say stuff like that out loud … Especially in your case … since… well… you know…

So, all my apologies, Mr. Paré. For your penis and everything … Really, I mean it. If it makes you feel better, your son has an average one. So there’s that.

I mean… not huge, but, it was… filling.

I mean…


I’m so sorry.


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