Bad Words: 140 Alternative Ways to Cuss Politely

I was raised by parents who didn't believe in saying dirty-words.  I think I heard my dad say "damn" once or twice in my entire life, but he usually emphasized his point with "shoot," "Dang-it," or "Darn-it!"  When he was mad, he was "ticked" or "chapped" and when he hammered his thumb with one of his tools (which was often) he would shout, "son-of-a-biscuit-eater!" We didn't use Jesus or God's name in vain, we said "jeez" and "gosh." And if we had 'acceptable' family cuss words they were, "crap" and "ca-ca."  In fact, I hadn't realized potty-talk was so controversial until I was an adult and one of the parents of a child I was sitting requested I not use it in front of their kid (never-mind that she and her husband practiced prolific profanity on a daily basis). 

I suppose curse words are culturally and morally relative and vary in potency from person to person. For instance, I was never allowed to say the alternate word for urine. And as much as I hear my Christian friends use the "p" word in their daily vocabulary, I still cant bring myself to say it.  I was taught that it takes more intellect to be creative and not use profanity, that even mentally-challenged people know how to cuss. But since I've grown-up, I've realized some situations necessitate the power that swear-words evoke--when used sparingly and in the right context, of course. I think my parents understood this need as well and perhaps that is why they allowed us to use curse-word euphemisms.  

The Incidental Family Menu Board

I'm no domesticated engineering genius but I sure am proud of my little creation...

Unfortunately, I am a Stay At Home Employed Mom, which means I have to split my attentions betwixt Real Estate matters and homemaker duties. I used to be pretty dang awesome at the wifey-mom stuff before I started bringing home some of the bacon. Now I'm scrambling just to stay mediocre at it. So, this chart became a necessity. 

Before you slather me in all your gooey praise for my lucky stroke of brilliance, allow me to take it down a notch or five and admit this calender was actually birthed out of my detest for the question "what's for dinner?"  You may as well shave my fingertips through a cheese grater than blurt those whiny, presumptuous words in my ears. I hate them almost as much as the phrase "I'm bored." Deciding what to make for dinner requires planning and motivation. Neither of which I give any forethought until one of my starving kids deliriously begs "what's for dinner?"  By then it's usually around 7PM and the S.A.H.M. in me feels a slight hunger-pang of empathy for the child so I answer, "food!"  And out of guilt, I'm finally forced to think about it. Ugh.

Kaden's "Angel" Day

Sunrise: Septemper 12, 2003

Sunset: January 4, 2004

It's been eight years ago today since my baby boy died. Whenever this day comes, I feel like I should say something...to commemorate him...preserve his memory...continue his legacy. But the reality is, I don't know what to say. No words are worthy-enough.  So some years I don't say anything. Honestly, I don't know what good it will do or why it even has to 'do' any 'good'.   I don't want to be melodramatic, I don't want pity, I shrivel at that kind of attention. Fact is, I celebrate Kaden every year on his Birthday. (He is 8yrs, 3mo and 3wks old now, btw.) That is always a happy day for me. 

There is nothing to celebrate today. After all, this day is not really not about Kaden. It's a glaring stamp in time that more represents me, my family, and what we're missing.  A child we'll never get to love on, make memories with, or watch grow into a man. I struggle with this day because it shouldn't be about me. This is his anniversary, it's Kaden's 'Angel Day'.  In my mind, this day is monumental. So, if  I'm going to 'go there' and mention my son, I expect the world to stand down and take notice of him.  If  I say anything, I only want my words to give more purpose to his short little life...but then again, it's not my job to define it. Kaden already has purpose, it doesn't matter whether you or I will ever understand what that is, exactly.

21st Century's Ordinary Wife's Guide

My Personal Revisions to the Original "Good Wife's Guide"
 

I did not particularly care for this 1955 version of how to be a good wife. I thought it needed some updating so I've swept off the cob-webs and condensed the finer points of this Article's 19 guidelines down to just 11 rules. My changes correlate alphabetically below the originals. Follow at your own risk, I'm not in a very good mood today...

1)  Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready on time for his return. This is a way of letting him know that you have be thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they get home and the prospect of a good meal is part of the warm welcome needed.

-OR-

A) Text him that you've had a very hard day at work and/or being domestic and the prospect of him picking up some Taco Bell on his way home would really be awesome.  This way he will know you have been thinking of him and are concerned that you both get fed. 

2)  Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so you'll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh-looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people.

-OR-

B)  Put your sweats and T-shirt on, wash your face and throw your hair up in a bun when you get home from work. This way maybe he won’t get the idea to attempt any funny-business while you're trying to relax. You're weary from working and/or watching his kids all day, but he has needs so perhaps an exchange can be negotiated? Suggest retiring to the boudoir early for a little procreation ‘trade’ should he be inclined to give you a foot rub or, if he is really ‘in the mood’, have him clean your bathroom. After all, that's the kind of thing that actually turns a wife on.

Somewhere Between Miss and Ma'am

My knee-jerk response rebuttal to Lynda's, "45 Is NOT the New 25"

I found a new blogger I'm in lurve with. My other bloggie friend, Christina, turned me on to Lynda, and she is a hoot. We share some core beliefs on snarcasm, self abasement and child education.  I think we would make good friends if we were not three-thousand miles apart.  Lynda has a moderate following of 80 or 4,000 readers, so that makes her pretty popular in blog-land. She probably is so busy writing her next post right now to notice my little crumb of the blog pie. I don't expect she has time to read what I think and I'm counting on that based on what I'm about to say (hiding safely in my little inconspicuous corner of her territory).  For I am a chicken and in no way seasoned enough to challenge this woman personally.

From what I've read and far as I can tell, Lynda and I probably don't disagree on much, except this one teensy thing. In September she posted a manifesto on acting like a forty-something and I was intrigued to read her summation on what will be expected of me during an age that will surely be the dregs of my mid-life crisis. You see, Forty is rapidly hunting me down like a ravenous beast and fast as I'm being chased by its imminent approach, running in my flip- flops (or Toms depending on the weather), I will go down thumping the forty year old monster like a scared little bunny rabbit donned in lip gloss, slightly impeded by my tight trendy jeans and sparkly low cut T-shirt. This is where Linda and I part ways.  While she solemnly intends to abide by her self imposed rules for women over forty and though her vehement suggestions are all good and well for her, I could not miss the stern mother-tone in her pitch that implied the whole lot of us girls over forty ought to better follow suit. Now, I happen to agree with a few of her proposals so to save time I will just give you the bullet points to which I cowardly raise the gauntlet.

Being Misunderstood

     It's easy to make assumptions about people. I am a master profiler myself (hold on while I snicker smugly and flick the lint off my shoulder). I learn a lot about folks just by the way they carry themselves, and I ask questions. If you didn't already know, I'm a Realtor from nine to five, it's my job to read people and get 'in their business'. I like to think of myself as more of a noticer than nosy. It's always been easy for me to pick up on subtle nuances in tone, inflections, body language and mood patterns.  Mostly because I have radar ears and x-ray vision and I can smell a secret smothered in peanut-butter and buried in dog poo. It's a gift, really. I'm always searching for what's missing from the puzzle, taking notes on what you're not doing, listening for what I didn't hear you say, generally looking for what's out of character. It's how I bust my kids every. time.


But for someone who possesses such keen sensory superpowers as I, it's taken me twenty-plus years to realize that sometimes my E.S.P. aint so popular with others.  Folks pretty much don't want to be figured out, psychoanalized or dissected. It makes them kind of, "uncomfortable".  I've noticed most people don't show a lot of gratitude when I'm pulling the rug out from under them either. Calling someone out is no way to get brownie points, I have discovered.

Viva la Mexi-No No

I recently returned from my first vacay out of the country. The hubs and I flew to Cancun with some friends. I took some notes and here's what I ended up with.


Upon exiting the plane, I instantly felt the tropics in my hair as every fiber of it frizzed in the warm salty breeze. We had arrived to the promised-land.  I was expecting the pungent fragrance of a palm tree and pina colada nirvana, so as I drew the humid air in through my nostrils I was totally unprepared for the assault on my olfactories. Cancun smelt like a basement.  Since this was our friend's fifth trip to Mexico, I asked them about the musty odor wafting through the airport and they replied something like "ahhh, that's the sweet scent of Paradise, you'll grow to love it!"  Cancun didn't look much like paradise from behind the windshield wipers sloshing through torrential downpour so our friends were eager to divert our attention towards it's more positive attributes and show us the heart of downtown, roads less traveled by most tourists.  A few miles beyond the hotel zone we saw why they were less-traveled.

Learning The Hard Way

This post wont come as any breaking news to those who know me up close.  And for those who don't, well just wipe the drool off your mouth because I'm not about to disclose anything scandalous either.  However, I broach today's topic with a little trepidation.  Regret. Talking about regret means I have to admit stuff. Although my past is not weaved with the seduction of Reality-TV fodder (well, maybe a little), neither is it a chaste and innocuous tale I'll be sharing with my kids anytime never. Whether the details of it are unsavory or mundane, some of it just plain embarrasses me. Indeed, there is a price I've paid for every choice, good and bad, and lord knows there's not enough room on my blog to illuminate all of the glorious details but I'll give you a peek inside my past--of what not to do-- because I have a point here, I'm sure.

A LITTLE HISTORY

I spent my entire educational career obsessed with something totally unrelated to academia. Pulling a 'C' average was just a means to maintain my social life, 'cause Monday through Friday it was my personal mission to snag me a boyfriend! This private manifesto began in kindergarten with a boy named Chris (who would never let me lay my nap-mat next to him), and was galvanized by Joey in 2nd grade (who I always chased and kicked in the nuts because I thought it was "flirting"), and eventually scrawled over 300 tear-stained pages of my high school diary. Unfortunately (or fortunately) boys didn't like me until I was about fifteen years old. I was a lanky, underdeveloped, freckle faced, red-head with braces.  I knew the odds were stacked against me, so I had to compensate. 

In middle school I probably wasted the bulk of my paper-route money on aqua-net and wet-n-wild cosmetics in attempts to make myself beautimus for all those boys who had no interest in me. Freshman year, I spent all four-hundred dollars of my baby-sitting cash on a brand-name wardrobe that was sure to catch their eye. To my horror, I found out labels didn't have the same boyfriend currency in high school as they did in 8th grade. I was sixteen years old before I finally went steady with someone longer than a week and, as irony had it, he attended our rival school.

Confessions & Whatnot

I've been going through a sort of bloggers-block lately. I don't have any poignant thoughts to share but I do not want to lose my audience, so I'm hoping this post will placate you until I ponder something a little more enriching 


Remember when the "25 Random Things About Me" was circulating on Facebook in 2009? Well, I revisited my old list and noticed  this and that has changed some. So in typical narcissistic fashion, I decided an update was in order.

I like this picture.

1. I struggle with the classic dichotomy of appetite vs. vanity. My sister, Sarah, suggested I call the disorder "Burgers & Bicycles" or "Donuts & Diet Coke."  She is an excellent writer and I wish she'd start a blog. Truth is, I'm just a self-loathing glutton with a gym membership.
   
   
2. I pronounce the word "bag," like "beg", and "lackadaisical," like " laxidasical" and "topography," like "top-oh-graffy." Sometimes I just make up my own words...I don't like people bringing this to my attention, it makes me feel bad about myself.
   
   
3. I continue to maintain a big bag (not beg) of candy stashed in my closet. I also keep a refrigerator in my closet.
   
   
4. I wear fake tanner. It's part of my ever growing makeup/preserve my youth routine--spray face and decollete, blow dry, moisturize. I plan to introduce formaldehyde to my skin care repertoire soon. Staying young is all about balance.
   
   
5. I take humongous bites of food as if someone's going to steal my food and then I swallow really fast, sometimes it gets stuck in my chest and I get the hiccups.
   
   
6. I had my eyebrows tattooed on.

10 Things That Happened While I Was On Holiday...

I have finally stolen a few moments to mind-dump from a very momentous vacation of firsts.  Destination: Kona, Hawaii at the Bff's place. During my ten days away from the mainland I experienced some things and learned a couple things. All of which I shall unload forthwith on you...

1.  Experience:  This was my first solo trip away from home for more than 4 days, a chance to clear my head, break away from the monotony of daily hum-drum, spend quality time with the bff,  focus on my goals...

     Lesson:  Ten days is too long to be away from my family. I missed the chaos that is my house... Jamey's theatrical hysterics, Audrey's incessant prattling, Jared's jokes and Jeff pining after me (yes, he pines).

2.  Experience: Audrey, the last child to exit my womb, lost her first tooth while I was gone and I wasn't there to yank it out. This first loss of tooth also commences her gangly-kid stage. I might not be taking very many pics of her for the next year or so...

     Lesson: I felt like a deadbeat tooth-fairy. She got $5.00 and Dada gloated in all the glorious credit. I am sad she will have her grown-up teeth soon and my baby wont be a baby anymore.

3.  Experience:  I swam with manta ray sharks at night in the dark black sea.  Perhaps these giant monsters wouldn't have been so intimidating had I not been floating prostrate atop the ocean waves peering down into the abyss while the behemoths charged at us like UFOs with their mouths gaping open, looking all ravenous and able to swallow a baby elephant if they so desired.

     Lesson: The scary mantas were actually quite amazing and docile. Despite my attractive plankton-colored skin and terrified screams, they did not eat me. For this I am grateful.