I pride myself on being a woman. I love my curves, and the art of feminine wiles. I love doing girly things, like watching terrible reality TV (I heart you, Bret Michaels! You’ll find your stripper yet…) and drinking way too much wine with my best girlfriends. I have been known to squeal at the sight of an exceptionally adorable pair of pumps/flat/wedges, etc. (I really don’t discriminate when it comes to cute shoes. I’m an equal-opportunity squealer.) I can’t look at piperlime.com at work because it makes me squeeeee!!! out loud. (Just kidding. Okay, I’m not, but I look anyway. These should be here tomorrow.)
Ironically enough, I used to consider myself more of your liberal, non-domesticated, make-your-own-damn-sandwich, “I can hang with the boys” kinda gal. And while I can still hang with the boys, something has happened to me. A switch flipped. Biological instincts kicked in, or something. And the next thing I knew, I was wondering where I could get a garlic press and a good set of knives. Pinks of all hues started popping up in my wardrobe, when I’d been more of a blues-and-greens girl since I banned the uber-femme color a decade earlier. My shoes covered the entire floor of my closet… and the pile sat a foot high. (Don’t worry, I’ve gotten an over-the-door organizer since then… that holds about half of them.) The idea of CHILDREN (dum dum dum dummm) makes me cringe a little bit less every day.
BUT, in this sea of femininity that I’ve become, there is one thing about me that stands out as crude, unsophisticated even. Gauche, if you will. And that is my gigantic, vulgar, foul-spewing potty mouth.
After working in the food industry for nearly ten years, I just can’t help it. If you’ve ever had the pleasure of standing in a chain restaurant kitchen during the dinner rush (say, a TGIFridays that’s in a mall on Christmas Eve with a three hour wait? Hi, B! Hi, K!), then you know what I’m talking about. We might be all smiley and “would you like to start out with a delicious spinach dip today?” at your table, but the split second we’re out of your ear and/or eyeshot, the expletives start flowing. F bombs litter the air; the galley of any restaurant is a steaming pool of ‘shits,’ ‘goddamns,’ and the slightly more creative, ‘fucktard’. In a stressful moment, every other word is guaranteed to be one of the four-letter variety. I’m reminded of the classic Boondock Saints moment when Rocco realizes his friends, two crazy Irish Bostonian brothers (holla Boston! And cute Irish men), have single-handedly wiped out half of the Russian mafia presence in the city:
Rocco: Fuckin’- What the fuckin’. Fuck. Who the fuck fucked this fucking… How did you two fucking fucks… Fuck!
Connor: Well, that certainly illustrates the diversity of the word.
While I find expletives to often be extremely funny, and at times absolutely necessary, it disturbs me that I have the mouth of a sailor. I literally pepper my conversation with these offensive terms- I don’t even hear them anymore. It’s sort of okay when I’m behind the bar and I’m all “tough girl” and whatnot, but when a nice looking girl in a sundress spills her latte and says, “Oh you gotta be fucking kidding me!”…. not so attractive. I know this. But it’s a habit, like biting your nails or cracking your knuckles, and it’s realllly hard to stop, mostly because I don’t even realize I’m cursing until it’s too late.
A few nights ago when I was accidentally (if accidentally means completely on purpose, I’m so ashamed) watching Denise Richards: It’s Complicated. Apparently Ms. “I’m-a-Single-Mom!-Look-at-Me-Overcoming-Adversity- with-My-$55,000-a-Month-Divorce-Settlement” also has a bit of a potty mouth, and seeing as she has two little girls running around, she decided to try to clean up her act a little bit. Since money has no value to her, her father suggested she donate a pair of her (really expensive) shoes every time an expletive fell out of her mouth. Now, giving away $500 Manolos is a little extreme for a normie like me, but the concept is interesting. I need some sort of consequences for my swearing, or it will never stop. Unruly women like me need boundaries or I’ll just keep pushing as far as I can. Any ideas?
“I’ll catch you on the flip side…” ~Rocco
{ 6 comments }
We are kindred fucking spirits. Seriously. I will be toting a pink bag, dressed in a pencil skirt and nails perfectly did, and then I will say the “c” word.
My best friend B (a guy) often says that one of the true joys of out friendship is just when he thinks I cannot get any filthier, I do. Good luck and let me know if you figure something out.
Oooo, I love that word. I know I shouldn’t. One of the girls I used to bartend with and I were trying to bring it into style like ‘bitches’ or ‘hos.’ She’d walk in to work and I’d be all, “What up c*nt!” And she’d be all “Where my c*nts at?” and just watch the jaws drop…
One of my favorite games is, “Where is your line? And what do I have to do to cross- OH, THERE IT IS!” and then revel in the horrified expression of shock on their pretty little face.
Um… yeah… driving the bus to hell much?
Ladies, I have the same fucking problem.
Although, I guess more and more I’ve been able to use “effing,” which probably just makes me sound like even more of an asshole.
See, there it goes again. Damn, er, dang.
I’ve tried to adopt “effing” as well… it just doesn’t have the same punch, and yeah, makes me sound like kind of a douche-nozzle. What’s a girl to do…
It’s especially disturbing when you’re out in public, heatedly discussing how that bitch at Sephora was giving you this evil fucking eye and how she’s lucky you didn’t kick her ass right…
And then you notice the soccer mom giving you the exact same evil eye while ushering her three kids away from you…
Hmm. Can’t wait till we have some of our own!
The Sweet Life- oh, I know. I’m QUEEN of “Open Mouth Insert Foot” situations… especially when they involve the handicapped, small children, or the-exact-person-I’m-making-fun-of-is-behind-me, isn’t-she?
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