I don’t swear on the blog.
This was a purposeful decision.
It had nothing to do with objecting to profanity. Because I don’t.
I’m a big fan of the stand-up of Robin Williams and Dennis Leary. These are not entertainers who would readily be featured on anything involving cartoon characters in primary colors. Some of my favorite bloggers sling obscenities like hashbrowns, and it cracks me up. I myself have quite the four-letter-and-up word vocabulary.
But I opted to not use profanity in the blog. Why? Because my kids read it. And I am not idiot enough to think they haven’t heard it all, they’re teeangers for Pete’s sake (and who is this Pete and why does he keep stalking my idioms?). But the rule is: you can swear when you know when you can. And if you think “not in front of grown-ups” is knowing when, well back to “gosh” and “darn” you go. But another thing I want is for the kids to learn the full range of expression without dying it all blue first. So I decided that my writing here would be sans le petit profane.
Which sometimes just bloody ties my hands.
But I’m going to tell a wee story, and you will see why I can’t tell it without swearing.
The patio reno continues. The replacement siding is up. It took three different hardware stores and faking a high-rise-development contract before we found the right width. This morning, Himself measured, measured, measured, cut, pounded, spackled, filled, trimmed, caulked and sealed the wood off with an anti-fungal that smelled like the unholy love child of a skunk and your local friendly toxic waste dump.
So now I’m up with priming and painting.
The replacement siding is low against the house, nearly at ground level. This is awkward to paint. So I prepped all my tools – the tray, the roller, paper towels, stir stick, sextant, fondue pot – and pulled up a rubbermaid stool and sat down.
And the stool fucking cracked.
Now, I know this plastic stool has been sitting outside for over a year, it’s dry and brittle, and whatnot. But cracked? Really? Really? You have to be fucking kidding me. (I couldn’t have that sort of build-up and only swear once.) If I was already feeling agitated for being heavier than I was a year ago, this had me just about ready to cry.
I would like to think that it’s the weight of my intellect that is causing furniture to crack underneath me, but truly it’s probably the extra fifteen pounds and the effects of sun and frost on plastic.
We now return you to to your regularly scheduled PG-13 blog.