Saturday, June 25, 2011

I SWEAR!



(originally posted in 2009 to private blog)

I swear.

No, really. I. Swear.

I’m trying to quit, and sometimes I can go for long stretches of time without a single &$#!* doing a swan dive off my tongue. Seriously,  I’ve gone for hours before breaking my New Year’s Resolution never to swear again. Hours!! *SIGH*

I swear it’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever tried not to do.

If I were a book of the bible, I’d be Leviti-CUSS.

I blame my dad really. An old cowboy of a man who lived on a farm where if it looked like *POOP* and smelled like *POOP* you could call it *(POOP), if you know what I mean. Since he long ago passed on the old western DNA I still keep tucked away in a shadowy corner of my inner cowgirl’s closet, I love me a good H#&*L or D@!*N. I shouldn’t, I know, and I’m truly trying to break up that word-love, but it’s so hard!!! *WHINE*

And really, it’s unattractive. Unprofessional. Unladylike. Un grandmotherly. Unacceptable. Un-

Til, I crack my shin on the steering wheel column getting into my car. #*@$($!

Or spill milk all down my leg as I knock a gallon of the *@$&* stuff off the fridge top shelf while reaching for the yogurt. #@*$(@!

Or if I really, really, really heartily agree with some other old cowboy. H-E-Double Hockey Sticks YEAH!

So, what’s a girl to do with such an addiction? There are no 12-step meetings for swear word addicts. No verbal version of Methadone or Suboxin. I can’t staple my mouth nearly shut like one does, say, an Overeater’s Anonymous member’s stomach. (If I were a dessert, I’d be CUSS-tard.) And I have yet to find a sponsor I can call on to that end.

I need help.

Seriously.

I’ve tried washing my own mouth out with soap, but keep having pictures of Ralphie’s dramatic blindness-by-soap-poisoning flash through my brain. Plus….YUCK!!

It makes me want to swear!!

(Did I just say that out loud?)

If I were a Macy’s department, I’d be LadieSWEAR.

If I were a writing style, I’d be CURSE-ive.

If I were a general, I’d be CUSS-ter.

If I were a job, I’d be a CUSS-toadian. On m outh clean-up duty!

If I had to choose between swearing and cussing myself for swearing, I’d choose bOATH.

Really, can you see what a problem it is?

I’ve tried making myself put a quarter in a jar every time I say a naughty word, but in reality since I’m the only one involved, it ends up being like paying myself to swear so I’ll have enough change for newspapers, sodas, payphones, and car washes.

I’ve tried inserting words like Oh! Fiddlesticks! Or my mom’s favorite – RATS! But if I have my hands full of a tall icy lime coke, and a really heavy book bag over my shoulder, and a couple of bags of groceries in my other hand and the heavy book bag slips off my shoulder, jarring the much-anticipated coke from my hand and onto the ground where it ricochets up and spackles my new white capris with syrupy stains….RATS! is not going to cut it. Especially when I then have to walk in sticky shoes to the nearest source of water to hose myself down. When that happens, it’s going to take more than RATS, DRAT or even HOLY CATS!

I need an intervention. Call A&E. Hook me up.

I’m $@#@!*^ Desperate?!


(And yes all of the above curse-inducing situations noted above? They happened.

Yesterday.