Another F&*$ing Post

I have a confession.  I have a potty mouth.  It may be slightly worse than that - I can have a mouth like a sailor. Big Susan would be horrified, my mother would fake being shocked (that woman could stretch the word “shit” out into three syllables) and my father would be proud. Go figure.

I am very professional at work and do not use profanity. At least not openly.  I will admit to muting the phone to stifle my laughter when a colleague muttered, “This is fucking useless,” during a conference call. I called him afterwards to let him know just how much I appreciated it.

They say profanity is the sign of ignorance and I beg to differ. My damn friends and I are simply brilliant. I don’t drop the curse bombs around all of them but those that know me well, well – this post won’t shock them.  My Big Susan, T aka Neiman, rarely if ever cusses. But when she does, it’s usually the f-bomb and I always applaud and completely lose track of whatever point she was making because she had a potty mouth.  My other Big Susan, the Geek, has been known to cuss – but talks so nicely most of the time you scarcely notice it. Now, the other Big Susan, L aka Brenda Starr doesn’t cuss. She’s so good about it that it’s kinda sickening. I commend her but she had great role models. I can’t imagine her parents, aka the Cleavers, ever uttering any word that the Pope would not approve of.  I think I’ve dropped the f-bomb in front of Mrs. Cleaver but she hasn’t held it against me (or is too polite to say so.)

 

I’m reasonably cautious about cursing around mini-me.  My word of choice around her is “crap” and she has used it once or twice. At least she uses it correctly.  This past week, mini-me was lucky enough to be part of a television promo featuring area camps – and the barn where she rides was included. She got to participate (as young girl brushing pony). While I was yakking with Legs, mini-me and Pistol (daughter of Legs) were pretending to be interviewee and interviewer. This is when I hear mini-me say, “ucking, pooping,” and get whiplash saying, “What did you say?”  Mini-me repeatedly refuses to tell me (she says she know she will get in trouble) so I can only assume, she has dropped the f-bomb.  Play date cancelled and a tearful mini-me trails behind me when we walk home from the bus stop.  Fast forward 20 minutes and I learn the first letter that I didn’t hear was a “b” – as in bucking.  Bucking and pooping. She thought I would be mad at her for saying “pooping.”  WTF? She rides horses multiple times a week. My car sometimes smells like horseshit.  Pooping is simply part of our lexicon.  Where did this child come from? I take this as a sign that I have properly instilled “do as I say and not as I do.”  Legs found this whole thing hilarious.  She wouldn’t be laughing so fucking hard if it were Pistol dropping the possible f-bomb.

My friend Lips has two boys who could not be more different. You have Jobs, as in Steve Jobs in the body of a 4^th grader and Steve-O as in well, jackass.  These are two of the funniest and sweetest boys ever but Steve-O loves the words “nuts.” As in, “Ohhh, he hit my nuts,” or “Careful, don’t hit my nuts” and “Gotta be careful, that could hurt my nuts.”  It’s as if his nuts are so large they can’t be missed or avoided. He’s in third grade.  Often, Lips rolls her eyes (‘cause really, she’s been known to drop an f-bomb or three – especially if we have drinks.) Sometimes I shoot him a look.  But, since Legs and I have little girls (Legs is also mom to sweet Rider, a fourth grade boy who can often be the big brother of the group), this was creating possible lessons in anatomy and slang that we weren’t ready to face. So, we’ve tried to clean up our (fine, my act. And Steve-O’s) act and have language rules. No nuts. No crotch. No body parts or potty talk.  I swear you can see these kids literally biting their tongues.

Now my dear friends Belle and Handy rarely – if ever – cuss. And, if they did – they have such sweet southern accents you’d swear they were complimenting you.  Same with my sister-in-law Beach. Honey drips from her mouth when she says “shit.”  My sister’s don’t really cuss – Dad’s Favorite may not know what all the dirty words mean and Mini-Mom tries to hold back – though trust me, girlfriend has it in her. Thank goodness for my brother – we’ll call him Patron. He knows how to drop the f-bomb.  Trust me…..rewind a few years and we’re at my brother’s house, Beach and I are cleaning up and mini-me has been trying to get the tiny baby into its tiny highchair with her new dollhouse. The room is quiet and I hear my recently turned four-year old say, “I hate this fucking baby.”  Thanks Patron. Job well done.

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You know, I choose my friends carefully. It’s like choosing the right cuss word – choose wisely and choose well and keep it to a select few. Too many and someone gets hurt. Not a good fit and tempers may flare. But just the right one – it works every time.