I used to attribute mouth farts to alcohol. I even kept a diary next to the phone to track them- jot down phone conversations so the next morning I could count the faux pas. I figured once I stopped drinking, I’d stop saying stupid things.
No such luck. The problem now is, I remember the enthusiastic mistakes with complete clarity.
I could’ve looked around my family and just given up hope for social charm and well-being. There’s my dad slapping the trunk of the older couple’s caddy when they didn’t let him cross in front of him. . . my mom wandering blindly up the hotel hall in her nightshirt so she can get the number off my future step cousins-in-law’s hotel room so she can complain to the front desk about too much noise. . . both sober.
So my friend gave birth to a little boy, and he was breech. Took a while to come up with a name. The official email read, “Ian ___ Fernandez, born January 24, 2004, 4:54 a.m., 3 lbs, 3 oz, 15 inches, 30 weeks gestation (Geronimo, feet first and screaming).”
Completely excited to be a part of this new guy’s life, I promptly announce to friends that Ian Geronimo has been born.
Even when questioned about the middle name, I stand firm.
Firm, and, wrong.
And sort of stupid.
You can see why “My Stupid Mouth” is part of my life soundtrack:
Oh I’m never speaking up again
Starting now
One more thing
Why is it my fault?
So maybe I try too hard
But it’s all because of this desire
I just wanna be liked
I just wanna be funny
Looks like the jokes on me
So call me captain backfire
-John Mayer