There's a shirt that says, "I love Jesus but I cuss a little."
I would so wear that. Because it's true. I do love Jesus and I do cuss at times.
It all started years ago when I was little after seeing the movie, "Grease." I didn't recognize what was technically considered a 'bad word' so I used all vocabulary with abandon.
Because I am about all things grandma right now, it stands to reason this memory would make it's way into my consciousness.
I remember I dropped something on the floor at my grandma's house and cheerfully shouted, "Come here, you little bastard!", thinking it sounded so cute and fun. I was also excited to share it with my grandma because it was the first time I had said it and I wanted to show off my ever expanding vocabulary for her.
She was always so supportive of learning new skills.
Grandma was a bit taken aback but as usual, remained calm and let me know it wasn't an appropriate word for a 5 year old to use. She then told me the meaning as if to prove her point and of course I was surprised such a fun word was in fact, degrading when used to describe people.
From there I launched into words that I thought were neat and unusual. I never thought they were considered 'bad' but it began to be a way of release. A release of anger and pent up emotion, even as an elementary school kid.
Like the time for instance in 5th grade when the boys were teasing me and I called them a bunch of 'peckerheads'
I had heard my step dad use it which should have given me pause but at 5th grade I wasn't that savvy.
After being threatened to be turned over to the principal's office, I figured I better put that one on hiatus for a while.
I didn't bring out the big guns until I was much older and then it was only occasionally. My anger and frustration at my situation in life increased and the only way I knew how to express it was to release a torrent of naughtiness when no one was around. It wasn't cool to go to therapy back then like it is now. All I can say is the cows in the pasture got an earful.
Many years later, I still struggle because at times nothing quite satisfies like a good drop of the F bomb when I smash my thumb or burn dinner, when I see a woman harassed for wearing yoga pants, or when the puppy has the 20th 'pee pee' (see, I'm trying here) accident of the day.
I also love to fit it in here and there when I'm trying to prove to people that I'm not as stuffy as my clearance rack Chico clothing suggests.
Unfortunately as my daughter has grown into an odd 13 year old, her language has taken a turn despite my encouragement to be smarter about it. In other words, I tell her not to become me and to show a little more maturity and brain cells when it comes to word choices.
Because here's the thing. My grandma was one classy, strong and independent woman. A woman I long and truly desire to emulate. She didn't need to use F bombs to prove it.
My daughter and I don't either.