Oh, *^&@#!!

So, there's something you may or may not have noticed about me:

I swear like a trucker.

It's not pleasant, I know this.  It's not ladylike to swear (HA HA HA, I'm sorry, just typing that made me laugh out loud, it's not ladylike to do a lot of the shit I do and I can honestly say that I've never once in my life had the thought, "gee, I shouldn't do that, it's not ladylike.")  And you should know that I actually am very restrained on this blog.  VERY.  My out-loud voice is way dirtier than my mom-blog voice.

They say that people who use curse words often are either too dumb or too lazy to think of other, more appropriate words.

Well, THEY can shove it up their asses.

I am plenty smart enough (unless we're talking about penguins), and I am definitely not lazy.  I just happen to sometimes (um, often) use language that perhaps is not what some people would deem appropriate.

I try to know my audience:  I don't swear in front of my parents, I don't swear at school, I don't swear when I'm around people I've just met...

Oh wait, never mind.  I do.  Sorry.  I actually do all of those things.  Just go ahead and scratch all that.

Anyway, the truth is, my potty mouth is NOT my fault.  My dad is a media dude.  He's been in the radio industry for EVER, and everyone in the biz knows that media folk know of words and phrases that you can't even imagine stringing together.  Mix that with the fact that my parents had me when they were pretty young, none of their friends or siblings had any children yet, and suffice it to say, I've been exposed to some extremely colorful language from a very early age.  Legend has it, when I was around 2 years old, my aunt was pushing me around in a shopping cart at a grocery store.  Imagine me, cute as can be, all big fat cheeks and innocent brown eyes, busting out a charming rendition - LOUDLY - of David Allen Coe's Rodeo Song.  Oh, you're not familiar with that one?  Well, let me give you a few of my personal favorite lines:

"Well, it's 40 below and I don't give a f***, got a heater in my truck and I'm off to the rodeo..."
"...piss me off...you f***ing jerk..."
"...come on you f***ing dummy, get your step right..."
"...here comes Johnny with his pecker in his hand, he's a one-ball man and he's off to the rodeo..."

Yes.  Those sure are the real words.  And I sure did know 'em all.  And my poor aunt failed to shut me up, and instead had to resort to loudly proclaiming to anyone within earshot, "SHE'S NOT MINE!!  THIS IS NOT MY KID!!"

So, yes.  I have a long, shameful past with my language.

AJ's been known to bust out, "wow, mom, it's frickin' cold outside!"  At three years old, he thought 'frickincold' was one word.

Mackenzie has gotten in shit (trouble!  I mean, trouble!) twice so far this week for saying the word shit.  She doesn't yell and scream it, or say it for shock value; she says it quietly to herself when she's on the computer and makes a mistake with her Mathletics program, or when she mis-files a Pokemon card, or when Barbie's slutty little dress keeps falling down and exposing her ridiculous boobs.  And whenever it happens, AJ has to gleefully run down to the kitchen to tell me "MOM!  MACKENZIE SAID SHIT!" just so he has the opportunity to say it too.  Then I have to remind everyone to not to say that word, that it's a grown up word and saying "shit" is just one of those things you have to wait til you're a grown-up to do, like having babies and riding motorcycles and playing poker and drinking gin and tonics.

Clearly, my language needs to clean up.  And I'm trying.  I am.  Well, I'm at least conscious of the fact that I'm doing it.  That has to count for something, right?  Maybe I should try a Swear Jar.  I remember my mom having one when my brother and I were little and she would have to put a quarter in it every time she cursed.  (Come to think of it, actually, what the hell happened to that money!?!?  MOM!??!)

Or, I could just say F*** IT.

Yeah, let's face it.  That one's most likely.