I’m told when I was little, one of the first phrases I uttered was “Goddamn dog.” This is due largely in part to the fact that my grandma used to throw it around on the regular when their geriatric poodle would jump on the back of the couch.
She still denies that she influenced an impressionable toddler to wander around the house mumbling profanities at a senile poodle, but from what I can recall, there was never an episode on Sesame Street in which Big Bird was bleeped out.
I share this little tidbit because I’m going to continue to talk about cursing. While I figure most of my readers are used to me, there might be one or two that are new and accidentally ended up here by searching “squirrels wearing Polish babushkas.”
In that case, this is your warning.
Although I don’t remember the dog incidents, I do remember the first time I ever stuck up my middle finger. I think I was around six or seven, and oddly enough, I was by myself and sitting on the toilet in our laundry room. (Why I remember this detail but spent 10 mins. looking for the keys I left in my back door last week is beyond me.)
I remember that I heard it was bad to do, but had no idea what it meant. The first time I did it it felt foreign and strange, like eating with a fork in your opposite hand. But I couldn’t figure out why one finger meant so much and soon got bored with the idea.
Fast forward about 10-15 years.
Again, I’m sorry if this offends you, but it’s one post. You’ll survive.
While I grew taller, both my boobs and my internal filter failed to mature and develop. A good student, athletic and innocent for the most part, the fact that I had the mouth of a drunken sailor was my dirty little secret until I actually opened up my mouth and let it fly.
I haven’t outgrown this shit yet.
This comes as a surprise to a lot of people, especially seeing as I keep this blog rather family-friendly (if your friends and family are dysfunctional, which most of mine are.)
I don’t ever curse for the shock value or to try and work up street cred I would inevitably lose the second someone witnessed me walking around with a forgotten Velcro roller in my hair. Sometimes I’ll put it in a cuss word because it’s part of the situation, but otherwise I don’t think profanity really adds to my posts.
But in person, email or texts with “appropriate” parties, it’s a different (often R-rated) story.
I figure I don’t smoke. I very seldom drink. I try to limit my use of voodoo dolls to less than an hour a day. If choosing to express myself in a colorful way is the worst thing that I do, then dammit, so be it. Except I’m pretty sure it’s not the worst thing that I do.
Shit.
What I mean is that choosing to express myself in a colorful way (in appropriate situations) doesn’t really hurt anyone else, and although I’ve accidentally let it slip within the confines of questionable company more than once, I’m generally very respectful of my use of salty language.
And to people who say profanity is just something people with low intelligence use as a crutch, I call bullshit. I feel I have a pretty good handle on how to use the English language and I know when to add in the filter, but sometimes nothing but a good ol’ “shit on a shingle” will do.
So while I’ll continue to watch my language here on the blog, just know that if you ever hang out with me or send me an email that opens up the door for an inappropriate comment, I’ll take that shit and run with it.
I’ll blame my grandma—or perhaps on that damn dog.
Like the blog? Buy the book.
