I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: My life would be so much simpler if I could learn to filter what comes out of my mouth. Being a victim of verbal diarrhea really sucks.

Here are some recent work-related examples:

Me (upon learning that my boss was placing an order for flowers for his wife, just because): Awww, that’s sweet of you.

My Boss: Well, thank you, but I’m very lucky to have K as my wife. Sometimes I take her for granted, and I try to take time out of my day remind myself of the reasons why I am so lucky to have her.

What I SHOULD have said: “K is a beautiful, kind, wonderful woman who is an incredible cook and the two of you are blessed to be married to each other.

Verbal Diarrhea Becky: “Are you kidding me? The way that woman cooks, she could be pockmarked and oozing puss, talking in grunts and slithering along the ground while pulling herself forward with her one good arm, and she still would have been a catch!

My Boss: Silent, creeped-out stare.

And then there was last Tuesday, when one of my coworkers wore a gorgeous, white dress that showed off her toned surfing muscles and beautiful tan (keep in mind I work for a Christian company.)

What I SHOULD have said: “Greetings, my coworker. That dress is very beautiful and you look very elegant. I applaud your taste in clothing.”

Verbal Diarrhea Becky: Giiiiiirrrl, look at those legs! If you’re ever wondering what dress you should wear to go out trolling for men, that’s the one! I married AND I don’t swing that way, and even I am wishing I could ask you out for a drink.

Coworker: Ummm. Well. I don’t really “troll for men”…. But. Uh. Thanks?

Verbal Diarrhea Becky: Oh, I didn’t really mean “troll for men”. I mean, I didn’t mean to imply that you look trashy or desperate…. You don’t! You look really pretty! Trolling makes it sound like I’m implying you’re some kind of street walker. I totally wasn’t. I mean, I know that’s not you. A hooker. I mean, I know you’re not like that… I mean, I didn’t mean to say “troll” or “hooker” at all. I don’t even know why I brought it up. I was just saying you’ve got great legs… but now that I think about it, that’s kind of weird, since we don’t even know each other that well. So, uh, yeah. Um. I guess I just meant to say you had a nice dress.

Coworker: Silent, creeped-out stare.

Ah, yes. Verbal Diarrhea. It’s not that I intend to be creepy or inappropriate… it’s just that it makes so much more sense in my head. There’s usually a lot of thought that gets put into each comment. The problem is, I edit most of the pre-thought, so the person who is left staring at me in creeped-out confusion doesn’t really understand where I’m coming from.

Here’s a good example:

This morning I met with my boss. As an executive assistant in a fast-paced environment, I get paid good money to juggle a lot of balls at the same. Some days it’s a lot of fun, some days it’s a little overwhelming, but one thing is that it’s never slow and I never have any downtime. This morning was definitely one of the overwhelming times. After typing out seventeen (yes, I said SEVENTEEN!) pages of emails and letters between 7:30 and noon, I walked in to our daily meeting feeling a little stressed. When my boss handed me a stack of additional work about 10 miles high, and then handed me two dictation devices chock-full of uber-important emails that needed to get out immediately, it was all I could not to cry.

I mean, I only had two hands.

But wouldn’t it be cool if I had more than two hands? I could get so much more accomplished.

On the other hand, I’d need additional arms to put the hands on, otherwise they wouldn’t be all that helpful.

Come to think of it, having extra arms would probably be frustrating, since I could never buy clothes at the store. I’d have to make my own shirts, with their own extra armholes, and that would just defeat the time-saving purpose of having additional arms in the first place.

And you know, it’d probably kind of weird/gross looking. I doubt the Bean fantasizes about coming home a stressed-out wife, waving strange tentacle-arms in every direction, going on and on about needing to go to the fabric store to buy more cloth for her arm-holes….

On the other hand, what if I could make the arms appear and disappear at will, like Stitch off of Lilo and Stitch?

Eww… what if I had to look like that in order to make it happen? No… no. The Bean’s an understanding guy, but I don’t think he would really appreciate me morphing into a squat, bug-eyed blue thing just to get stuff done. That’s not sexy at all.

OOOoh! What if I were like Inspector Gadget?

He was pretty normal-looking. He had a really cool hat, too. I could make my extra arms come out of my awesome hat, and then just retract them at will, and it would be…

My Boss: “Becky, did you get all that? It’s important that these emails get out before three.”

Verbal Diarrhea Becky: “Go, go, Gadget hands!”

Boss: Blank stare.

Verbal Diarrhea Becky: “Gadget hands! Like Inspector Gadget? You know, from Nickelodeon?”

Boss: Blank stare.

Verbal Diarrhea Becky: “He had all those hands that came out of his cool hat…. Don’t you remember the theme song? Doo-doo-doo-doo-DOOT, Inspector GADget… Dooo-doo-doo-doo-doot-DOOOO-dooo…”

Boss: Blank stare. Raised eyebrow.

Awkward silence.

Verbal Diarrhea Becky: “Uh, yes sir. I’ll get right on these.”

SIGH.

It always makes so much more sense in my head.

I bought a new pair of pants. They fit comfortably, were on sale, and look nice.

There’s only one problem—I keep forgetting to cut off the electronic tag the store left on them.

It doesn’t bother me when I’m wearing them, and the only time I remember it’s even there is when I walk through the sensors on the way in or out of a store and set off the shoplifting alarm.

You’d think after the second or third time I’d remember.

Heck, you’d think after the first or second MONTH I’d remember.

Sadly, no.

Every time I set off the alarm, I vow that TODAY! will be the day I finally rid those pants of that stupid shoplifting tag. I mean, it says “REMOVE BEFORE WASHING OR WEARING” on it in huge letters. You’d think I’d be able to remember that.

Again… sadly, no.

Aarenex? This one’s for you.

Last Friday I decided to man up and make my way over to the library to pay off my library fines. I had a long drive ahead of me, and there’s nothing better than listening to a book on tape to make a long drive seem short.

For the record, I *highly* recommend TH1RTEEN R3ASONS WHY . It’s a little raw and it’s definitely not a happy book, but it’s a beautiful, extremely well-written story. To top it off, the actors they chose for the audiobook were some of the best I’ve ever heard. Heck, it was so good that on the way home I missed my offramp off the freeway by, oh… six or seven cities.

Anyways, back to the library.

After making my selection from the audiobooks I made my way to the front counter to settle up and check out the items. The librarian was a courteous, somewhat reserved blue-haired lady and my attempts at small talk and self-deprecating humor fell completely flat. It quickly became obvious that she did not find overdue library books to be a laughing matter. At all.

At ALL.

We fell into an uneasy silence, and as she handed me my books she gave me a pointed look. “These are due on the TWENTY-SEVENTH.”

I nodded, blushing and properly chastised. And as I do whenever I’m feeling uncomfortable, I began babbling.

“Twenty-seventh. Yup! Definitely gonna have them back before then. I mean, it’d just be embarrassing to have to pay more fines. Nope. Not gonna happen!” I continued to edge my way to the exit. “ Twenty-seventh. Gotcha. I’ll write it on my calendar. Not gonna be late! Nope! Twenty-sev…”

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

I felt my face grow instantly beet-red as I set off the sensors with my STUPID pants tag, once again.

The librarian arched an eyebrow at me.

“It’s the, uh, tag. I’ve got, uh, a tag. I’m not stealing anything. Uh, why would anyone… I mean, that’s just silly. I mean, it’s just clothes… uh…. the tag’s fault…” I trailed off, desperately.

What is it about setting off those stupid sensors that makes me feel like I really DO have something to hide? I know perfectly well I’ve never shoplifted a day in my life, yet every time one of those shoplifting sensors goes off I feel like I’ve crammed an armload of merchandise down the front of my pants and have been caught trying to make a break for it.

I decided to try to explain my red face and stuttering one last time to the librarian.

What I intended on saying was, “Pardon me, Miss Librarian, but I have neglected to cut the tag off of this relatively new pair of pants. This tag, designed to be removed upon returning home has accidentally tripped your sensors. I am not attempting to hide anything from you, despite my blush and apparently guilty countenance. If you would like, I could return to the counter to prove my innocence. Thank you for your patience with my bumbling. I appreciate your courteous service, and I thoroughly respect you.”

Instead, I turned around, looked the blue-haired librarian straight in the eye, and loudly wailed, “I feel like I have something in my pants!”

The librarian stared at me in disdain, prim eyebrows hiking up slightly.

Horrified, I tried again.

“I mean, I feel like I have something DOWN my pants. I don’t. My pants are empty.” Oh, geez. C’mon, Becky. You can do this.

The library was silent. All eyes were on me— the babbling, red-faced woman. I had one last chance to set the record straight.

“I don’t have anything in my pants, but it feels like I do! But there isn’t. I’m not stealing. It’s a tag!” I finished, loudly.

I gave up. I turned around, strode through the sensors again (BEEP!BEEP!BEEP!BEEP!) and practically ran to my car.

Stupid library. Stupid librarian. I’m going to have to sneak back under the cover of darkness to return those audio books. They’ve probably got a restraining order against me now.