It’s not pretty.
I started off yesterday with totally good intentions to cut out profanity all together BUT then I took a friend to the airport and got stuck in traffic on the way back, I got stuck in traffic on the way to a 9am tech rehearsal and then I dropped countless lines, rewrote the script by doing parts of Act Two in Act One, and just about melted down on stage. And this was all before noon. The F word was the only thing that made things better.
I know it’s a temporary fix, like chocolate, but chocolate was unavailable and the F word was. And it was a good one.
I chatted with a songwriter the other day that told me she took it – the F word – out of her vocabulary a year ago because she was worried she’d say it on stage. Now, she was still peppering her conversations with other cuss words but the might F was missing. I was impressed. She was as prolific as I am with it.
I tried for a short while to say, “Shut the front door!” but the Mom was not pleased with that phrase either. Perhaps she’s not pleased because I am totally not able to say, “Shut the front door!” quietly and subtly. To get the effect I wanted, I would pseudo shout it, biting off the ends of each word. Despite my age, the Mom almost grounded me.
Husband is Scottish and they have a delightful mess of phrases and insults that I should pick up. You can call someone a Muppet or a Cabbage or, if you really want to insult him or her, a Bawbag. But those phrases don’t roll off my tongue the way the F word does. And my angry argument looses steam when I slip into a bad Scottish accent to make a point. Not to mention that Americans are not insulted when they are called a Muppet, are totally confused by being called a Cabbage and need a full definition of what a Bawbag is.
I could cut cussing out all together and become the lady the Mom raised me to be. I could adopt the southern insult and “Bless her heart” every time I want to call someone the word that rhymes with witch. Or Mom could try what the Grandmother did to me once and wash my mouth out with soap. Not that that helped much. I just made sure she wasn’t around when I swore.
I guess I could put change in a jar every time the F word slips out. But who has change these days? Well, except the Mom who carries around a purse filled with them. And charging myself for my fowl mouth takes a certain amount of trust and faith in my follow through – I’m very a good liar to myself about whether I deserve to be punished or not. I can justify every profane word.
I need a patch for cussing or hypnotism or someone one to smack me every time I swear. Come to think of it, all that would do is inspire more cussing. I suppose I’m just going to have to accept me the way I am, F word warts and all. And avoid the Mom and a bar of soap for the next two weeks...