Having a Wii has brought out the worst in me.
I'm a swearing swearer.
Well, in a totally non-swearing way. I say "fudge" a lot. And I don't mean that I say the actual "f dash dash dash" word, and this is just my inoffensive means of proclaiming myself a potty mouth. I mean I literally yell, "Fudge!"
Yep. Bad ass all the way.
Being lame is nothing new to me. When all my friends in high school were cursing up a storm, reveling in their cooler than cool, devil-may-care teenage rebelliousness, my vocal chords would actually seize around the words I knew were forbidden. And they'd come out sorta like...
Yep, that's right. I couldn't even say the word "damn" without blowing it. Never mind the word "blowing". It sounded kinda like "blomm..."
Blame it on my parents and their moral fortitude (read STRICT parenting). If they heard you say so much as "crap", you were grounded for a week. And God forbid they heard you taking the Lord's name in vain.
You'd be meeting Him soon.
The habit of non-swearing is deeply ingrained in me. Though I've gotten past the worst of the debilitating bouts of stuttering that accompany most of the tamer expletives, me and the f-word still have a somewhat contentious relationship. We have our differences, but we're working on it.
Case in point: for those of you who don't know me well, I have a 21-year-old stepson, Shawn.
(Pause for exclamations of "No way! You look so young! How old is your husband anyhow?!")
Yes way. I'm thirty. My husband is a young forty-two. And, yes, I'm well aware that I'm closer in age to his son than to him. Good thing for my husband that I've known since kindergarten, when Mark, a fifth grader from down the street, planted a big ol' wet one on me that younger guys do absolutely nothing for me. It was older men from then on out.
Anyhow, Shawn used to live with us when he was in high school, and he seemed to have none of the hang-ups about swearing that I did. He and his dad both have the mouths of sailors. When one day Ron was talking to him from another room, Shawn hadn't heard what Ron said, and asked me to repeat it.
So, I did.
And Shawn's sailorfied mouth fell to the floor.
"You just said fuck!"
I looked at him, pondering the words I'd repeated, and sure enough, he was right. I'd said it. Me, who could write the word until my hand turned blue, but who could never, ever so much as whisper it aloud. I said it plain as day.
"You're right, I did say fuck. Ha! I just did it again!"
Both Ron and Shawn beamed with pride at my monumental accomplishment, but inside I was on the verge of panic.
What if Mom finds out?!