I really need to learn how to monitor what comes out of my mouth.

In most people, it seems like the pathway between their brain and their mouth is a small, narrow tube with several filters and checkpoints along the way.

I was not born with a small, narrow tube.

I was not born with filters or checkpoints.

I have a gigantic, 8-lane highway with no speed limit. Thoughts zoom past each other at hundreds of miles per hour, all jostling and crowding each other in an attempt to come out of my mouth first.

I am known for many things.

Tact and delicacy are not among them.

The other day I was having dinner with a couple of friends.

Actually, since I might as well be honest, I called up my friends and basically begged them to invite me to dinner. Even though they already had dinner plans with several couples I’ve never met, they still invited me over.

How dumb of them. They ought to know better by now.

I managed to keep my foot out of my mouth for most of the evening. I made bland, polite conversation with people, and laughed in all the right places.

That is, until dinner.

As the table conversation ebbed and flowed, eventually the topic turned to the pets. After a few funny stories, the conversation took a more depressing turn. Apparently, one of the couples at the table have a beloved pet rabbit. Apparently, this rabbit is one o fthose house-trained bunnies that runs around and has the use of the entire house and does his business in a litter box. And apparently, their pet bunny is the rabbit version of Houdini.

Unfortunately, no matter how they tried to keep him in the house, Mr. Nibbles kept escaping. The couple would leave for work and every day,without fail, they come home to find their beloved pet rabbit grazing in their front yard. After a couple of weeks of sleuthing, they finally found the bunny’s escape route.

High-fiving each other, they plugged the hole up tightly, and all was well.

That is, until about a week later, when they came home to find the bunny, YET AGAIN, laying on their lawn. Unfortunately, Mr. Nibbles wasn’t doing so well. They’re not sure what happened (car? Cat? Jump from a high window?), but somehow the Mr. Nibbles had become partially paralyzed. Although he seemed to be in no discomfort, Mr. Nibbles’ back end no longer works. He drags himself around the house with his little bunny paws, back end trailing uselessly behind him.

At this point in the story, everyone grew very somber. How sad. Poor Mr. Nibbles.

Except for me.

“If he’s paralyzed, how is he using the bathroom?” I asked in a chipper, your-poor-paralyzed-bunny-doesn’t-bother-me tone of voice. “How is he able to make it into the litter box if he can only drag himself by his front legs?”

Mr. Owner answered sadly, “He can’t make it. Poor Mr. Nibbles tries, but he can’t make it over the edge. It’s sad. We have to bathe him daily now.”

The entire table made sad noises, murmuring sympathy. Poor, poor, poor Mr. Nibbles. Poor Mr. Nibbles owners.

Except for me.

“So he’s got no bladder control? He’s just going whenever he feels like it, all over your house now? You guys aren’t keeping him in a cage? Rabbit pee is really hard to get out.” I shook my head somberly, taking a big bite of food. Poor, poor Mr. Carpet.

Mr. Owner’s mouth tightened slightly. “He can’t help himself. He’s paralyzed. We have to carry him to food and water, or he’d die.” He heaved a big sigh, and pushed his food away. Obviously Mr. Nibbles’ predicament was ruining his appetite. He reached over and grabbed his wife’s hand in a show of support. “We did some research, and we’re thinking of building him a little cart.”

From around the table, there was a general murmuring of positive support.

“We think it’s really going to help. We’ve done the research, and all we would need to do is build a tiny little sling for his back end. With the wheels, Mr. Nibbles could pull himself around the house, just like the old days.” He and his wife shared a quavering smile.

The murmuring around the table grew in volume. Oh, yes. Yes. What a wonderful idea. How heartwarming. You know, someone had even seen a documentary about a poor, paralyzed Chihuahua who had lived many, happy years with a wheelchair sling of his very own. How sweet. How caring. What a lovely idea. What a lucky rabbit, Mr. Nibbles was.

And somewhere, in the middle of all that positive affirmation, my brain vomited out another random thought. Obediently, my mouth began to flap.

“You know, if you did that, you could probably find him a home on Craigslist. I’m sure there are plenty of people out there who would want a paralyzed rabbit with a cart. It’s got that whole tug-at-the-heartstrings aspect to it. Just take some cute photos of him wheeling himself around and you’d have tons of people calling. Heck, you could even sell him for a decent chunk of money, recoup the cart costs and get yourselves a healthy rabbit.”

From around the table there was a stunned silence, which gave me a disastrous few seconds to think up the real clincher:

“Heh. Just make sure you don’t sell him to any homes that have cats. Heh-heh. Meals on Wheels. Heh. Heh.”

I looked up from the steak I’d been cutting to find myself on the receiving end of 8 identical stares of disgust.

Oh. Hmmm. Maybe I should have kept that last part to myself?

Stupid brain. Stupid mouth. Stupid lack of tact. This is why I don’t leave the house anymore. I can’t be trusted in polite society.

I enter the room, leading with my hips. I don’t really walk across the office to my chair— I stalk. I prowl. I glide, with each movement promising a slow, torturous pleasure. Hot. Sensuous. I can feel the temperature in the chilly office rising by the second.

When I take my place in the chair across from his desk, I do so carefully, leaning back with an artful abandon and crossing my legs a la Sharon Stone in front of me. I throw my arms wide across the back of the seat, fingers toying playfully with the fabric.

“So,” I say, raising one hand to run my fingers through my hair, tousling it until it falls in sexy, messy waves around my shoulders. I glance at him from beneath my lashes, eyebrows raised. I give a sultry little laugh. “I bet you can’t guess what The Bean and I were doing two months ago.”

Yeah.

So.

Does anyone else have any better suggestions for breaking the news of my pregnancy to my boss?

I asked my stupid brain for ideas and that’s the only scenario it seems to come up with. I think it wants to torture me, because it knows how embarrassed I am about bringing up the subject. Seriously, how does one do this? There’s no polite way to lead into a conversation like that. “Oh, you want me to order you an extra box of pencils? Heh—- speaking of pencils…..”

Help me out guys. I’m drawing a complete blank here. I mean, it wouldn’t be so bad… except that no matter how I look at it, I am pretty much announcing to my conservative, Christian boss that The Bean and I were engaging in loud, sweaty hanky–panky last April. How the heck do I go about doing that?

Do I tell him face to face? Do I go into his office, go over to his side of the desk and elbow him in his side, saying, “I’m going to need some time off in January, if you know what I mean. Nudge, nudge. Wink, Wink.”

What if I take the chicken way out and leave a note? How the heck do I word it?

What if his wife finds that? I’m thinking it wouldn’t go over too well.

The whole idea of blurting out my pregnancy suddenly seems beyond embarrassing. You’d think I’d be better at it since this is my second time in the land of the knocked-up. The problem is, last time I was so embarrassed to bring it up to anyone that… well… I didn’t.

Nope.

I told one or two people whoI knew loved to gossip, and I let them do all the dirty work.

Of course, that little method didn’t work so well for me in the end, know that I think about it.

Do you know what the definition of awkward is? Having your own father call you three weeks before you are due and asking you if the rumors of your pregnancy and new husband are true.

Awwww–kwwwwaaaaard.

Yeah.

I am the queen of procrastination. Just try and beat that.

Wait. On second thought, don’t try to beat it. Use your creative tendencies to try and help me come up with professional ways of breaking the news of this pregnancy. I obviously need all the help I can get.