It’s always a defining moment when you hear one of your parents drop the F bomb. Well, not always I suppose, but in my family it’s kind of been that way because up until recently I’ve never heard either one of my parents say the F word, but twice now in close succession I have heard it uttered by both my mother and father in separate incidences.
My father, especially, always lectured me on the pitfalls of using profanity.
“It makes people sound unintelligent.” he would say.
“There are far more imaginative words you could use. Educated people don’t need to swear because they have a much wider vocabulary.”
I listened to my father, growing up, and made sure I never swore in front of him, because I wanted him to think I was intelligent.
No…seriously, I did and do agree with him.
I don’t swear much, and if I do it’s infrequent and with good reason.
A few months ago, while trying to hammer out (with a huge block hammer) a piece of wood tightly wedged between two brick walls, the hammer bounced off and nearly hit me smack in the middle of the forehead.
So shocked was I at nearly giving myself brain damage that I said. “Oh my goodness, now that was frightening!”
Do you believe me?
I didn’t think so.
Of course I said the F word (for some reason I can’t bring myself to type it?) but I WAS alone – no children, or fathers present, but I think under the circumstances, such a close call with almost giving myself a frontal lobe crushectomy, that it was justifiable.
I spend a considerable amount of time working with tools actually. I’m the power tool queen in this household. (Role reversal- hubby is better off in the kitchen.) Jig saws, and drills, hammers, nails, sanders and super sanders designed to take great hunks of skin off with a single slip, are all in my domain.
I’m sorry, but maybe it’s a sign that I’m less intelligent than most (Dad!) but when I accidentally hammer my finger I don’t have TIME to search through my wider than average pool of vocabulary to come up with a really imaginative word to express my immediate physiological disharmony.
Saying #$@% , really loudly and angrily is like a psychological band-aid.
It makes it feel better , somehow.
It is satisfying to vent that kind of vulgarity on the forces of the universe that have allowed such a slip of the hand to occur. Nothing at all to do with my own ineptitude.
Most of the time it is only in these extreme and sudden pain events that I will use the F word, but occasionally in explosive uncontrolled rage I will use it, which doesn’t happen often, rarely in fact and I think I used up all my F bombs one night many years ago when a very unpleasant neighbour with really vicious dogs, allowed his starving, neglected and abused beasts out ( long story- dealing with this unsavoury neighbour) and they came into my yard and attacked a little stray dog which had I had been feeding.
I have never been so furious…that’s not even the right word to describe what I felt when I saw them trying to rip apart this poor animal – one attacking the dogs head, and the other its hind quarters, in an attack that was calculated and viciously brutal.
I turned into a wild animal myself, and on the verge of biting THEM, I somehow, in my unbelievable screaming, growling display of rage, managed to scare them off. Truly, they looked VERY afraid.
The screams from that poor little defenseless dog affected me so much that I went marching up the street in my hot pink nightgown screaming at the top of my lungs, every cuss word, particularly the F word, I have ever learned, to stand in front of his yard like a total madwoman, while he cowered inside, like the ultimate gutless wonder he was.
Crazy of me really, because I knew he owned a gun, and he was a drunk and an asshole.
Put the three together and it’s a dangerous mix.
We adopted the poor little stray dog after that, paid a huge vet bill to put him back together.
He always had trouble with a stiff neck due to the muscle injury he sustained, but he was a lovely little dog.
The neighbour was a bit more wary of me after that incident.
So anyway,I’m really a very nice person, and I hardly ever swear. (I swear.) but the other morning at my parents house my father expressed his concern about a blog post (or posts?) I had written previously where I used the word “shit”.
“You could find better , other – more descriptive words. ” he said disapprovingly.
“But I like the word shit. ” I argued.
“I say shit a lot…It’s me. Bloody and shit. My two favourite swear words.”
And I smiled as I listened to his well meaning disapproval-I know he’s right. I should really find a better substitute for shit. Faeces isn’t nearly as satisfying though nor can you yell “Bowel motion!” with any degree of seriousness. I should try something like that though next time hubby is irritating me. “Hey! You’re really giving me the diarrhea’s today!” Or “I had such a bowel motion of a week!” (The possibilities are quite exciting really. I may even write a song about it.)
I smiled because that very morning, as my father stood in the kitchen with his back turned, cooking bacon and eggs, and didn’t notice me crawl out of bed in a wretched mess, and collapse on the sofa bed behind the kitchen ledge…. I heard the thing he said when he accidentally broke an egg yolk.
“Oh deary me, what an unfortunate shame it is that I have now completely ruined the perfection of that glorious egg yolk, and will now have to serve a substandardly cooked fried egg to my guests, which will taint my excellent reputation of being such a marvelous cook.”
No, my very intelligent Dad, with a wonderfully extended vocabulary (he even reads the dictionary on a daily basis to find new words to use) in a way that slipped from his tongue like well accustomed butter….. said –
“Oh F#$% !”
It’s ok Dad, and you DID say it, and I don’t think you are unintelligent, just a fastidious (but marvelous) cook.
(But next time try to be more descriptive.)