A master's thesis on the use of profanity as a literary device

My girl Christine wrote a guest post for me a few weeks ago when I was drowning but our lines got crossed and I didn't get it till now. Thank you C, you had me cracking up over this. Read on and you'll see what I mean.

I am a cusser.

My personal foray into the land of the profane, began at a very early age when I turned to my best friend's mother and asked: "Will you stop being a twat?". Now mind you, at the age of 7 I had no idea what twat meant, nor was I really prepared to find out. OH but DID I EVER. With diagrams. Twat quickly fell out of my vocabulary.

My mother, bless her cute little soul, comes from the direct opposite camp of verbal expression than I. The harshest words you will generally hear come out of my mother's mouth are "hell" and "damn". They are usually structured into a sentence something like "Christine, that mouth of yours is going to damn you to hell!". She is enormously sensitive to bad words, and she may be just a little adverse to, oh, I don't know....taking Jesus' name in vain. Once, when my mother came to visit I had to work, so my fiance took her sight seeing. Somewhere in the midst of driving someone cut him off. Knowing her meltdown ability at strong language, he exclaimed "Jesus Christ!".

My mother, sensing her chance to save him from the lightning bolt that was surely about to slice the car in two, jumped in "Is Lord, praise him!!" without missing a beat. Needless to say, my blue streak does NOT come from her.I am the only living person that has ever made my mother so angry that she spelled out a curse word. In my completely tame (ie totally out of fucking control) teen years I shook my mother to her core. In a fit of rage, rarely seen in the females of the species my mother's fists balled up and she spat "S.H.I.T and I mean SHIT!!". This singular expression lives long in the annals of our family history. One year that was all I left as a greeting on her answering machine for her birthday.

My particular favorites are varied depending upon the occasion, and I reject that cursing is a sign of an inferior intellect. I mean, anyone who can weave together such lowbrow expressions into something solid, descriptive, and artistic? Well that's just amazing as shit. A well placed "Asshole!" along with the brandishing of the traffic finger? Better. Than. Booze. Calling someone a douche? Classic teenage name calling, taken to a transcendant level. Slipping a "fuck" in, under the radar? Come on, people, that is the stuff of legend!

Like when someone once said I was a pain in the ass to deal with and I smiled, and replied "That's a shame, you're a pleasure. Fuckyouvery much and have a wonderful day!" Does communication GET any better than that? Does it?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yPlfDIcjrVI

"And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom."-Anais Nin

re-leif required

The last but in no way the least of my guest posters is Katie from Motherbumper. I met Katie for the first time at BlogHer, but prior to that everyone and their mother (heh, get it, Mother) kept asking me if I knew her and when I met her I understood why immediately. She automatically felt like home. And for what it's worth, I think she's got great hair.

Yo, it's Motherbumper here and I have no idea why I would start my guest post with a "yo" considering I'm about as in touch with my street-side as I am with my inner-nucleur physicist, but it felt like a good way to kick it to the K-side over here. K being katie as in motherbumper. Anyhow....
Before I left for San Francisco in July to attend the non-stop hug&plug fest that was occasionally littered with mud&fug but still wouldn't miss it for the world party called BlogHer, I decided to get my hair done.

Not just washed, cut, and blow-dried, I wanted something different. Something I could work with. My Wednesday Addams-style stringy locks just weren't cutting it.

Isn't it strange how thin, stringy, limp locks never look good except if you're a model who looks like an addict that weighs 70lbs soaking wet, is six feet tall, and has the help of some man who charges hundreds of dollars per hour and can purposefully made your hair look that way?
Blah hair women of the world who are of average height and like to wear their hair long need to unite - we need to have an uprising - or at least find a manageable up-do or make turbans acceptable even if you don't own a yacht and smoke cigarettes with a long-ass filter. *deep breath*

ANYHOW - I gots mah hair cut and decided to get bangs.

SHE BANGS! SHE BANGS! OH... she doesn't know the words. See how much I loved my bangs? I look delirious and mildly deranged. Usually I'm just dour with a side of disgust.

Anyhow, the new style totally had to include bangs because they hide a multitude of sins and crevices in my forehead. And now that I'm close to 40, I've succumbed to the media monster and want to hide the sins and crevices. And buy a Ford.

After making the bang-plunge, I was pleased. Sure, it meant whipping out my straightening iron every morning, but only for a two-minute job - even my super-lazy ass could deal with that kind of upkeep.

But then something happened in the past six weeks.
My hair had the nerve to grow.
And let me tell you, I now LOVE/HATE my hair.

Why?

Love because it still hides the sins of years past that might include sun, lack of sunscreen, perhaps some smoking, and maybe not wearing sunglasses when standing directly in aforementioned sun without aforementioned sunscreen. Did I mention smoking?

Hate because these bangs have suddenly taken on a life of their own. To wit: I woke up the other morning looking like Sonny Crockett... or maybe it was Ricardo Tubbs - never could keep those f**kers straight - but I was mad. No wait - it wasn't Crockett or Tubbs... more like a Leif Garrett feather-backed (or is that feathered-back?) quality that makes me weep.

Why do I weep? I weep because it does it on it's own. I fix it before leaving the house in the afternoon morning but then I catch a glimpse in a reflective surface while out and about AND THERE IT IS. Crockett & Tubbs meets Leif Garrett on a small Irish chick in the year 2008.

NOT PRETTY.

So I did what any of you cheap bastards like me would do - I bought scissors. Yes, when other [a.k.a. normal] people would have gone for another trim, I choose to splash out $4 on sharp pointy scissors figuring how hard could it be to cut bangs?

Stop laughing.
SERIOUSLY - STOP LAUGHING - I thought the blogosphere was all about support for your fellow sistah-friend - why are you all still laughing? Bang cutting seems relatively simple, no?

OK - it's only fair that you laugh because I'd be laughing at a fool like me.
So yes, I tried cutting it myself and now it feathers even worse.

I took the photo above this morning and as you can see, my transformation into a seventies teen heart throb is complete. I guess now I'll just sit and wait for the meth years. F*%K.
Send help because Jose Eber keeps ignoring my calls.

I'd like to thank Jen for contributing to why I need bangs and for giving me this space to rant on such a superficial topic - you know, because she's so damn superficial, just like me.

So Ohio goes

More than thrilled to welcome Amy to my crib for the day. One of the things I love most about her is her wide open heart - she's unafraid to tell it like it is on her blog and by doing so allows others the freedom to speak their mind too.

We are die-hard liberals.

Sure. we're Catholic, and practicing, at that. We attend Mass every Saturday evening, and The Poo puts our weekly contribution to the upkeep of the church in the usher's basket. She thinks that's what money is for, and when she gets a few coins she tells us, "This is my money for church."

But we're Catholic Worker kind of people - good works and forgiveness and how-can-we-presume-to-know-the-will-of-God kind of people. We don't judge. We do our best to lend a hand to mankind through good works, charity and open-mindedeness.

We're voting for Obama, and the refrain in our house when we watch the McCain-Palin trainwreck is: "I can't believe we're LOSING to these guys!"

We are blue-state kind of people.

Unless it is a Saturday.

On Saturday, our house is scarlet.

And gray.

Yes, people, it is college football season again, and in the House of Chicken you route for The Ohio State University, or you go home.

You see, Mr. C is from Cleveland, that old Mistake On The Lake. I spend a portion of every holiday in that good state - you know, the one that decides who will be president.

The state where Hilary won. Remember that? No one thought she could pull it out, and yet, those quirky Ohioans, they gave her the prize.

"Quirky" doesn't begin to describe my own personal Ohioan, who hails from this Rust Belt state but has a degree on his wall that bears the name of the world's most prestigious Ivy League institution.

God, no. Not Yale.

Yale's rival.

But watch the man on a Saturday afternoon and you'd think he not only graduated a Buckeye but actually bleeds water from Lake Erie. I remember one OSU-Michigan game (a championship, maybe?) that almost ended our relationship. I, you see, did the most horrible deed - I sat in Mr. C's seat when he got up to use the bathroom.

When he returned and saw me in his spot, he lost it. I jinxed the game! They would lose! Why didn't I JUST STAY IN MY OWN SEAT?

We made it through, barely, and we both learned our lesson. Or rather, I learned mine. Stay far, far away from home on Saturdays in the fall. Go to the market, go to the mall, go to the moon ... just don't stay home.

Because as Ohio goes, so goes Mr. Chicken.

in the blink of an eye

I'm so happy to welcome Mama Tulip and her resounding voice to one plus two. It's hard to believe that I've never met or spoken to her beyond blogging and email given how much I care for her and how much her words of wisdom as a mother and as a daughter have meant to me over the past year and more. Thank you, MT for spending the day over here.

After leaving my dignity in the Tim Horton’s drive-thru on Friday morning, I was bound and determined to have a better day Saturday. With Dave busy putting the new floor in the living/dining room, I was parenting solo and wanted to do something fun with the kids. I decided to take them to a huge beachfront park in my hometown. It’s a bit of a drive, but there’s lots to do (read: it’s a good way to kill an afternoon). After feeding the kids a quick lunch, we donned hats and sunscreen, grabbed some cold bevies and got on our way.

Being Labour Day weekend, the area was packed and it was slim pickin’s as far as parking was concerned, but after a fucking thousand few spins around the block I managed to snag a spot in a prime location. Sweet!, thought I, and off we went.

We’d been at the park for about ten minutes when Oliver announced that he had to pee. This is classic Oliver – no matter what the destination the boy has to urinate upon arrival. Every. Time.
As we walked down the beach to the bathrooms we talked about what we’d do after Oliver peed; Julia wanted to take her shoes off and wade in the water, and since I could feel the sweat dripping down my back, I thought that was a FINE IDEA. Once in the bathroom, Oliver made a beeline for a stall, pushed open the door, stood in front of the toilet…
…and peed his pants.

“I peed in my pants!” he announced enthusiastically; clearly this was something he was quite proud of.

“Yeah, I see that, buddy,” I said weakly. Inside, however, I was screaming, I drove forty-five minutes only to have you piss yourself ten minutes after we get here?! WTF? And of course, I’d brought sunscreen and hats and drinks and money for ice cream, but I hadn’t brought a change of clothes for Oliver.

I called Dave as I herded the kids toward the car. “We’d been here all of ten minutes before Oliver peed his pants,” I said, bordering on whining. “What am I going to do now?”

Dave suggested I go to Value Village and get him a cheap pair of shorts there, which is exactly what I ended up doing. But instead of going back to the beach and spending half an hour looking for another parking spot, I decided (to the kids’ delight) to take them to a big park/splash pad instead. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, I bought them some snacks, they got wet and played at the park…a good time was had by all.

Until it was time to leave. I’d been standing under an apple tree watching them slide down a pole, but when I walked over to tell Julia it was time to go, Oliver was nowhere to be seen.
My eyes darted to the splash pad, but he wasn’t there. He wasn’t on the main play structure nor was he on the smaller one, and as I climbed the stairs to the middle of the main structure for a better vantage point I could feel hot tears pricking up behind my eyes. Losing Oliver is one of my biggest fears – he’s easily distracted and prone to taking off; he’s the kind of kid who could disappear even if you were looking right at him.

“Oliver!” I shouted. “OLIVER!” Below me on the spongy ground, I could hear Julia calling his name, too.

He didn’t come. I kept shouting and shouting, but he didn’t come.

I started to panic. Everything started spinning. The sounds around me – children’s laughter and squeals and mothers calling to their kids in cautionary tones – were echoing; I felt like I was falling down a well. All I could hear was the rising panic in my voice and my heart pounding inside my head. I was running now, shaking and running, circling the playground, my eyes scanning the soccer field, the tennis courts, the fence line by the street…

Oh god, I thought. Oh god oh god oh god. Where is he? WHERE IS HE? I felt sick.
And then I heard Julia shout, “There he is!”

I scanned the park again and spotted him, over by the parking lot, running toward me with a bewildered look on his face. I started off toward him, Julia beside me, and scooped him up in my arms, kissed his flushed cheek and whispered in his ear. “There you are,” I breathed. “Where were you?”

“I couldn’t find you, Mummy,” he said in a small voice. “I was lookin’ for you.”

We started toward the car, Julia holding my hand, Oliver safe in my arms. “Were you lost, buddy?” I asked. He nodded, and on the way home we talked about what to do when you’re lost.
I glanced at him in the rearview mirror many, many times on the way, my beautiful blonde-haired, fair-skinned boy, with his big eyes, wide grin and chipped front tooth. I was still shaky when we got home – hell, I was still shaky when I woke up the next morning.
A whole lot can happen in the blink of an eye.

a secret corner

I am taking part in Catherine's Betchfest, an exchange geared at allowing bloggers to have a safe place to vent outside their own space and as such I have agreed to host another woman's post on my blog. She's asked to remain anonymous, but I am sure you'll be as moved as I am by her words and I applaud her courageousness in allowing her voice to speak here. I am sure she'd appreciate your comments about her post.

I am 11 weeks postpartum. Eleven weeks out from what I’m coming to realize was a truly a difficult, difficult pregnancy.

Throughout this pregnancy we moved house and into what would become a very stressful tenant/landlord situation, our son turned two and caught a violent strain of the rotavirus, landing him in the pediatric intensive care unit for five days, then a month later had tubes put in his ear. I vomited every day and gained only nine pounds. My husband filed bankruptcy and we unplugged our phone after my anxiety attacks came like waves every time the phone rang.
And here we are. Our beautiful daughter is a treasure and I love her with every ounce of my being. But those were some horrible ten months.

And now, my husband feels entitled to remind me that I was mean, and crazy, and unhappy, and complaining all the time. Here I am struggling with what I suspect is becoming a bout with my old friend depression and my husband must hold over my head what a burden I am, emotionally and financially.

In just this last week, he went to the movies, to a ball game, to the bar with my visiting brother. Last week he was gone all weekend at a bachelor party. And then he told me that I ask for too much. All I wanted was an hour to read a book at a coffee shop, alone. But we don’t have the money. Not even for a cup of coffee.

He hasn’t been kind to me. He’s miserable in his job. He carries the load of supporting our family, which we both felt was best. But the price these days has gone up, and I’m paying with my self-esteem and self-worth. To be reminded that I don’t bring an income in, to be made to feel as though I am less deserving of personal time, to be made to feel as a second class citizen in my home… fuck that shit.

And fuck you for saying I was mean, or unsupportive, or cranky, or insulting me because I didn’t want to have sex. I was vomiting and physically disabled. Thanks for your support.

I gave everything every single day to raising our son. There was very little left over for myself or for my husband. I did the best I could.

Hello, Victoria's Secret Kitty

The first of the lovely women who've agreed to cribsit the plus two is my girl Casey. She's funnier than me but no need to rub it in. Funny is what we are going for over the next week over here so I aim to deliver. I know you'll make her feel at home.

So one plus two? This blog. Those three plus me? All out party. And speaking of party, what are you wearing? Well, more appropriately, what are you not wearing? Whoa, before we get that far. Hi, I'm Casey from moosh in indy.

Now tell me what you're wearing.You see, I have this kid. She's three and a half. Girl loves princesses. And Hello Kitty, Care Bears, Dora, My Little Ponies and pretty much anything spawned from Disney. So basically anything that smiles, involves pink and can be played with. Since I only have one child, that one child is allowed to have the chokiest of chokey toys. Those little sets with the little animals that have collars and dog bones the size of a freckle? The ones that infants swallow and the ones you're not willing to retrieve when they pass them? We've got 'em.

It started small. At 18 months we got her a little doll stroller, it just so happened we found a $3 stroller at some bargain clearance store that had princesses on it. $3. Who cares what's on it?
$3? SWEET. From that point until now is kind of a blur. I blame it on the little girl down the street. The little girl who showed the moosh her dress ups. It's been chaos of sheer pink taffeta ever since. The princesses and various other characters have not (and won't!) make it into her everyday apparel, nightgowns however are a different story.NO! That's a lie! One Hello Kitty t-shirt snuck through, but it was Hello Kitty holding a camera! And I have a camera! Hello? Cute right? Damn you H&M for killing my principle.

However, here's the issue. Walking the aisles of TJ Maxx tonight I saw a nightgown with Hello Kitty on it. I considered getting it. IT WAS IN MY SIZE.

The moosh would think I was the coolest lady on the planet if I served her cereal in a Hello Kitty nightgown. At this point I only own one pair of pajama pants with the Cheshire Cat on them, a gift from my mom. But when I wear those pants? The moosh follows me around stroking my thigh proclaiming "I LOVE your kitty pants!"A compliment is a compliment right? And she's so enthusiastic about it. She LOOOOVES my kitty pants. I have a princess camera in my purse this very moment. I wash tiny little princess panties in every load of laundry. I serve spaghetti on heart shaped princess plates. I cure owies with Hello Kitty band-aids. She sleeps on a princess pillowcase and carries a princess purse with a princess cell phone (gifts I say!) I swore it would never get to this point.

Don't give into the man! Marketing! "DON'T DO IT!" I said.

Heh.

I never even bothered to think that I would be talking myself out of a Hello Kitty nightgown in the aisles of TJ Maxx at 26 years old. Having a kid changes everything. From your dishes to your choice of themed sleepwear.

******Say what you want about me, but can I please ask your readers to vote for me in the Hot Blogger Calender? I made a video! I'm the token prude of the 2009 Hot Blogger Calendar! Modesty is Hottesty! Nothing to sign up for! Just vote! VOTE! The spirit of competition is BURNIN' IN MY (non Hello Kitty) BRITCHES!