"Someday's gonna be a busy day..."

Tuesday, 5 February 2008

Do I curse thee?

***WARNING...this blog contains language unsuitable for people who don't like to read naughty words. Although there are only 7 of them.***

I really have never been much of a curse-word person. But I'm telling you, living with farm boys is changing all of that.

My parents rarely said anything worse than "hell" or "dammit," although they did favour taking the Lord's name in vain fairly frequently. I remember being throroughly shocked the one and only time I ever heard my mother drop the F-bomb: she was tipsy, it was New Year's eve, I had about a dozen friends over and we had just run into the house after being screamed at by our neighbour for almost setting his roof on fire with misdirected firecrackers.

My mother appeared on the landing, asking if we were having fun. I screwed up my courage and told her what had happened, knowing if she heard it from someone else that my punishment would be even more dire.

Mother surveyed me and my panting gang of friends with her chin uptilted. She shrugged and swayed slightly on the staircase.

"Tell Jim," my mother said, "to f*ck off." An awed hush fell over us. Mrs. F had just said...F*CK! It was too much to believe.

My friends were usually in awe of my sophisticated, imposing mother. That particular night she was wearing two different earrings, stiletto heels and a fancy silk dress and was on her way to my Aunt Grace's for a new year's eve nightcap. Her hair was teased up into her usual blonde puff and she was wearing bright lipstick. She'd already been to one party and had just stopped in for a moment before going on to the next. But alcohol consumption didn't usually soften her attitude towards wrongdoing or misbehaviour of any kind. Yet tonight, she had not only defended our reprehensible actions with a naughty word but seemed genuinely amused by our attempt at vandalism/pyrotechnics. It was a New Year's Eve miracle.

Anyway, I didn't grow up around much cursing. As an adult, I still didn't hear too much of it, having spent most of my formative adult years with good Christian folk. Even a 6 year stint working for Bell Canada with a variety of guys who installed cable didn't give me a taste for naughty language. But after living with C and D for 6 months, my vocabulary has taken a decided turn onto Profanity Avenue.

At first, it was sub-conscious. An occasional "shitball" (thanks to D) or "piss bucket," muttered under my breath when the dog ran onto the road or I got dripped on by the leaky eavestrough over the front door. Not pretty talk, but nothing too foul either. Lately, however, the fouler stuff has been edging its way into my conscious mind, popping out on all sorts of occasions. I didn't really recognize it until I caught C laughing at me one day. He had popped by to use my computer since the one at the farm was down. I had to finish up one piece of work before I could let him have the controls; I had just about to publish the document when I got the red screen of death and Lotus Note crashed. Which caused me to unleash the floodgates on a string of profanity so gnarly it surprised even me.

This evoked muffled laughter from C, waiting patiently for his turn while lying facedown on the bed (my lavender office is also the spare-room).

"What?" I demanded, a little embarrassed but not willing to admit it.

He raised himself up on one elbow and shook his head at me. "Ohhh, Kimmy. You've been livin' here with us too long. You'd better move out before you really start losin' it."

I have to admit, this is becoming a problem. The last time I was in the city office, I read an incredibly convoluted email from someone on our project team and said "Oh, f*ck me!" - out loud. Seriously - I channelled C, as "f*ck me" is his cuss of choice. Just like I would have if I was at home with only the dog to hear me. Oopsie.

I'm not sure if my newfound love of swearing is due to the fact that I've been watching more Trailer park boys, or that C and D let fly with the nasty words fairly frequently. Or maybe it's the wretched hormones raging through my pregnant body. Maybe it's just that my own inner bad girl has finally awoken. F*ckin' A!

6 comments:

Muffy St. Bernard said...

Pottymouth!

Swearing was very common in our household, which is why I'm unimpressed by people who cuss uncreatively in order to sound hardcore. To me, "f*ck" is not a rebellious word, it's just what my dad said when he tried to fix the water heater.

I think I've smoothed my profanities down to "jeez" and "frig" and "frickin'," but I suspect I swear when I'm drinking...probably because I want to sound hardcore.

As for you, you have many years of swearing to catch up on. It's about time!

Kimber said...

Long live pottymouth!

What on earth are you doing up at freaking 6:22am???

Susan said...

Am I the only one who caught the phrase "pregnant body"?! Are congratulations in order?!

You'll want to clean up the pottymouth if you've got a little one coming down the pipe :)

Muffy St. Bernard said...

I wrote that comment at 9:00am. Very, very strange!

Kimber said...

Yes Susie Q, I'm knocked up. Pretty exciting! I haven't told a whole lot of folks yet, and since hardly anyone knows this blog exists I figured it was okay to mention it from time to time. I'm almost at the 4 month mark and things are going well this time. I'll tell the rest of the WC at our next meeting!

Muffy St. Bernard said...

Ahh, you mentioned it in such a blase way that I figured it was common knowledge.

Congratulations!