It shows a lack of intelligence and creativity. I know.
It's not classy. I know.
Only uneducated people cuss. I know.
Every time I cuss, a baby bunny dies. I know.
As a woman of faith, I'm supposed to let no unwholesome talk come out of my mouth. Ephesians 4:29. I KNOW!
*sigh*
I'm a bad person, dammit. I recognize that. I try to change. I do, really. It's just my thorn.
I don't say bad words in mixed company. I don't say them in church. I don't say them at work.
If you can control it, you shouldn't say them at all. I know! I've heard all the arguments, but sometimes they just come springing from my lips like Greg Louganis off the high dive.
When The Kid was tiny, my favorite curse word was ass. It's an incredibly versatile word. Especially when you have road rage. You can be a slow "bleep" driver. A fast "bleep" driver. A stupid "bleep" driver. A crazy "bleep" driver. Loved that word.
Even though The Kid was a sponge since the moment she was born and started talking at 3 months, I thought that SOMEHOW "those" words would be magically skipped over.
I remember sitting at a red light with my 2 year old strapped into the back of the car. Someone had cut me off, and I made reference to his similarities to a mule.
From the backseat, I heard the sweetest little voice saying sadly, "You know, momma. When you say those wowds, you huwt Jesus's heart. He's pwobably cwying wight now."
Well. Cwap.
I started trying to make up cuss words then.
Sassa Frassa Rassa.
Oh. My. La.
Shiitake mushrooms on wild rice.
Crappity-Doo Dah Ding Dang Dong.
Freaka-deaka-leaka-Shaniqua-Shontonya. (This one was one a student helped me create because her name was Shontonya, and she wanted her name immortalized.)
Mother Trucker.
Ratcheting wrenches.
These are all words I try to say when I feel a bad word clawing its way up the back of my throat. Sometimes it works; sometimes it doesn't.
Last night it worked.
Kinda.
I was *so* in the holiday spirit what with all the Bermuda shorts, flip-flops, and fans keeping us cool, I decided in the chilly 80 degree, bright sunshine-y Christmas weather that we were finally going to put up our Christmas tree.
Big Daddy was on the computer. The Kid was on the iPad. I was wrangling our "new" prelit Fake Tree, by myself. My sweet, Mother-in-Law had given us her slim tree last year after PsychoticKitty killed our other one in a crash of fur, glass, and fake pine needles.
Now last year, after our tree's murder, I was in no mood to put her tree up. In fact, I wanted to cancel Christmas all together. Too much hassle. Too much redecorating. The Cat was just gonna climb back up to the angel on the top and try to trapeze to the ceiling fan again, destroying everything in the process. I was done. Big Daddy stepped up, however, and put the new tree up for me with nary a hateful word. It was loverly.
This year, however, it was all me. It took Big Daddy all of about 10 minutes to put the tree up last year. He made it look so easy. I had no idea about putting tree part A into slot FB. (FB short for Fake Bitchass tree that was ticking me off)
What. The. Hades.
Each layer of tree branches was tied off with beautiful little ribbons. About fifty eleven million of them. You were supposed to untie them...the branches fall down magically...fluff 'em a little... turn the tree on.... You're done!
Au contraire.
Half my lights didn't work and I guarantee the makers didn't have a *&^%$# cat.
There I was, sweating like a pig, by myself, putting up a tree and the cat goes into attack mode. His pupils blew out and swallowed his face. PsychoticKitty was back. He saw STRING. My foot moved. He attacked. I danced around like a Native American at a Pow Wow and the cat jumped with each step I took, a road map of scratches and puncture wounds marking my feet.
Off PsychoticKitty went, screeching around the house, like a gecko on meth. He'd run back to the tree, jump off the tree's box, and launch himself at me, teeth bared, so that he could attack my feet again. I'd start doing the rain dance again and cussing. It was fun.
Really.
Then suddenly, he calmed, perched on the tree box, tail flicking, and plotted his path of attack up my tree. I could read it in his eyes. He wanted to kill this tree too.
Not on my watch, Cat.
Now while in the midst of all this mayhem, I was also in a mass text bonanza with my sisters griping about the tree. Misery loves company.
It went like this:
Sister #2: I feel your pain. We finally ripped off the prelit and put other lights on it.
Me: I am sweating like a fat man at a buffet. I've got my squirt bottle out just daring the cat to climb it. Didn't even put ornaments on it, because his pupils were the size of pennies and he was racing around the house like someone set his tail on fire. He'd screech up beside the tree and attack my feet. Then he jumped up and bit my belly, and hung for a second by his teeth in my shirt, dropped down and took off. If the craphead looks at the tree wrong, much less climbs it, I swear, I'm drowning him with the squirt bottle. I will chase him around the house spraying and screaming. I can see it in my head already. Make a move, mother trucker.
Lucky for him, he didn't, ya *&^%$# cat.
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