how i still haven't
learned to keep my
smart mouth shut!
By Becky Lyn Rickman, Managing Editor
Will I ever learn that everyone else doesn't have the same sense of humor as I do?
So that cute little picture up there . . . the one of the sweet and innocent little girl from the 50's . . . the one you are sure is on the phone with her granny and telling her sweet things? Yea. Wrong!
That's me. And though I don't know what I was talking about at the time, I can guarantee you, it was neither sweet nor innocent. You see, the sad truth is that I was born with an extra bone in my right foot and no filter whatsoever.
It's not that I'm vulgar or profane. I just love to say things unexpected and off the cuff to get a reaction.
Like, "Did you know I was all-state at basketball in high school?"
Yea, me neither.
My lovely nieces, Kayleigh and Whitney, call me the VL—Village Liar. They're onto me.
But, mostly, I like to have fun by watching people's reactions.
I was in a meeting once where they were talking about the problem with several people gossiping. I added to the conversation, "You know who's really guilty of that?"
It took a minute, but then they got it.
Or, like the time I got a new calling at church. They asked me to serve on the homemaking committee. I was new in the area and so they didn't yet know about my arsenal. When I met with the board for the first time, they told me they would like to concentrate on family history classes. I thought about it for a moment, then interrupted the kind and loving conversation with this:
"I know! Why don't we hold seances once a month? We could talk directly to the dead and get the information straight from the horses' mouths?"
That poor president and her counselors. I really felt sorry for them. They went three shades of pale and stuttered something nonsensical until I put the out of their misery.
Then, another time, when I wanted to be released from a long-running calling working with the girls 12-18 and the Bishop didn't want to let me go, I threatened to encourage the girls to wear 2-piece bathing suits and do a lot of making out with boys . . . I was still not released and, doggone, could not carry through with my threat for fear of incurring the wrath of God.
Then there was the time I was dating and engaged to a lovely gentleman in Canada. I lived in New York at the time and would drive up sometimes on weekends to see him. It was all very wonderful and innocent, but I would get a little bored waiting to cross the border into Canada and then back into the U.S. So, once when they asked me if I had anything to declare, I made the serious mistake of believing customs officers had a sense of humor. I casually told them, "Nothing but the whiskey, cocaine, and prostitutes in the back."
I chuckled. Alone. Quite alone. One of those nervous chuckles where you wait uncomfortably for the other party to chime in. It never happened. But, what did happen was my car got "tagged" and pulled over. I didn't know you could remove seats that quickly . . . or at all? And, oh, how I wish I had packed my bags a little less messily. And did you know they could empty your purse on the ground and then make you pick up everything and put it back in? Also, who knew there were all those nooks and crannies in a car. Oh, and the fun part? When they finish, they walk away, leaving you to reassemble the wreckage. And . . . they never even bought me dinner, smiled, or thanked me for the good time.
But wait! It doesn't end there. Every single trip after that, I got to endure the same violation of my personal space. Without so much as a "thank you, ma'am!"
I once had a co-worker explain it like this. "Girl, I would hate to live in your head!"
Of course, she said that after I told her that her son, who had recently shaved his head, looked like a walking *phallus*. OK, that was a little vulgar. But it's probably the worst thing I've said. Or, maybe not.
I mean, who does that? Just throws things out there like that? I sometimes ask myself, "Who within the bounds of propriety just says what they're thinking?"
And then, I remember. I tried to visit propriety once. They wouldn't let me in because I got smart with their customs agents.
But I do blurt out kindnesses, also! I'm not exclusively rude! There was this one time when I told someone they were . . . wait . . . I said this nice thing once . . . I'm sure I did. It was, oh, wait, I remember now, it was when . . .
That's me. And though I don't know what I was talking about at the time, I can guarantee you, it was neither sweet nor innocent. You see, the sad truth is that I was born with an extra bone in my right foot and no filter whatsoever.
It's not that I'm vulgar or profane. I just love to say things unexpected and off the cuff to get a reaction.
Like, "Did you know I was all-state at basketball in high school?"
Yea, me neither.
My lovely nieces, Kayleigh and Whitney, call me the VL—Village Liar. They're onto me.
But, mostly, I like to have fun by watching people's reactions.
I was in a meeting once where they were talking about the problem with several people gossiping. I added to the conversation, "You know who's really guilty of that?"
It took a minute, but then they got it.
Or, like the time I got a new calling at church. They asked me to serve on the homemaking committee. I was new in the area and so they didn't yet know about my arsenal. When I met with the board for the first time, they told me they would like to concentrate on family history classes. I thought about it for a moment, then interrupted the kind and loving conversation with this:
"I know! Why don't we hold seances once a month? We could talk directly to the dead and get the information straight from the horses' mouths?"
That poor president and her counselors. I really felt sorry for them. They went three shades of pale and stuttered something nonsensical until I put the out of their misery.
Then, another time, when I wanted to be released from a long-running calling working with the girls 12-18 and the Bishop didn't want to let me go, I threatened to encourage the girls to wear 2-piece bathing suits and do a lot of making out with boys . . . I was still not released and, doggone, could not carry through with my threat for fear of incurring the wrath of God.
Then there was the time I was dating and engaged to a lovely gentleman in Canada. I lived in New York at the time and would drive up sometimes on weekends to see him. It was all very wonderful and innocent, but I would get a little bored waiting to cross the border into Canada and then back into the U.S. So, once when they asked me if I had anything to declare, I made the serious mistake of believing customs officers had a sense of humor. I casually told them, "Nothing but the whiskey, cocaine, and prostitutes in the back."
I chuckled. Alone. Quite alone. One of those nervous chuckles where you wait uncomfortably for the other party to chime in. It never happened. But, what did happen was my car got "tagged" and pulled over. I didn't know you could remove seats that quickly . . . or at all? And, oh, how I wish I had packed my bags a little less messily. And did you know they could empty your purse on the ground and then make you pick up everything and put it back in? Also, who knew there were all those nooks and crannies in a car. Oh, and the fun part? When they finish, they walk away, leaving you to reassemble the wreckage. And . . . they never even bought me dinner, smiled, or thanked me for the good time.
But wait! It doesn't end there. Every single trip after that, I got to endure the same violation of my personal space. Without so much as a "thank you, ma'am!"
I once had a co-worker explain it like this. "Girl, I would hate to live in your head!"
Of course, she said that after I told her that her son, who had recently shaved his head, looked like a walking *phallus*. OK, that was a little vulgar. But it's probably the worst thing I've said. Or, maybe not.
I mean, who does that? Just throws things out there like that? I sometimes ask myself, "Who within the bounds of propriety just says what they're thinking?"
And then, I remember. I tried to visit propriety once. They wouldn't let me in because I got smart with their customs agents.
But I do blurt out kindnesses, also! I'm not exclusively rude! There was this one time when I told someone they were . . . wait . . . I said this nice thing once . . . I'm sure I did. It was, oh, wait, I remember now, it was when . . .
Like Becky Lyn Rickman's story? Here's more by her:
MilitaReality—a brat's perspective
Being There
Cacti and Geraniums
Some mysterious goosebumps or "What is that on the wall?"
Finding my metal in wood
Some of my favorite herbal recipes are . . .
I love my cat, but . . .
I love all creatures, but . . .
You might be addicted to Harry Potter if . . .
My shot at the big time
A cautionary tale
Why I do it
How I chill
How to clean up an egg and other helpful hints
Most embarrassing moments—automotive edition
The thing about getting older is . . .
MilitaReality—a brat's perspective
Being There
Cacti and Geraniums
Some mysterious goosebumps or "What is that on the wall?"
Finding my metal in wood
Some of my favorite herbal recipes are . . .
I love my cat, but . . .
I love all creatures, but . . .
You might be addicted to Harry Potter if . . .
My shot at the big time
A cautionary tale
Why I do it
How I chill
How to clean up an egg and other helpful hints
Most embarrassing moments—automotive edition
The thing about getting older is . . .
Copyright © 2015 by Rent's Due Publications
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, click a button on any page to send email with details of the request.