I stumbled across an article today about a mom whose foul mouth had her toddler whipping off with some pretty intense language. She didn't think it was funny, understood it was a problem. Sadly, like me, she's not sure what to do about it.
I have a foul mouth. I'll get that out of the way here--I can make sailors cry with the utter vulgarity that leaps from my lips. No kidding, some of my favorite words would make even the most seasoned folks blink. Now, I'm not like that in public, of course--I've never sprayed a waiter or a police officer or a professor with "obscenities" (in quotation marks because I think pretty much all words, including those, have their place). I'm not going to go off and level your grandma with my dirty mouth. But at home?
Oh, at home I am a mess. It's almost compulsive, really. And interspersed are things like, "Oh, for goodness' sake" and "Holy cow, REALLY?"
We knew early on we would have to work with our boy in order to keep him from mimicking mommy and daddy. And we've done a fine job--in fact, until just today, he'd never thrown out any of the big ones (not since toddlerhood, anyway). Today was a bad, sad, and special day. I hope we don't repeat it.
Anyway, when our boy was, oh, maybe four years old, he and his Daddy were driving in Ogden, Utah. Cruising down Harrison Boulevard toward 12th Street/Canyon Road. As they approached the intersection, at speed limit, it became obvious that a truck full of teenagers was going to try to make a left turn into their path. Hubby romped on the brake and screamed, "Oh, don't you do it, you stupid f***ing sh*t!" (yes, I hate having to mask that like a child, but them's the rules). Our boy piped up from his seat in the back, "Stupid F***king SHOOT, Daddy!"
See, we'd had the feces talk with him. We hadn't had the "F-word" talk. Hubby almost died. Laughing, that is--he managed to keep the car and my beautiful family out of the path of the teens in the truck.
Cried myself so stupid today that now, three hours later, my head, eyes, and face still hurt. I sure do hate fighting with that boy. What I really hate is losing my temper to match HIS loss of temper. I needed to use the screw driver to open his bedroom door (he wouldn't let me in), and when we were done, I walked out and THREW the screwdriver, which embedded in the bathroom door. Seriously, it flew about six feet and embedded like a carnival dagger. No WAY I could have done that intentionally. If I hadn't been crying, I'd have laughed.
So, I was on a news site yesterday when I came across an interview with Jimmy Carter. I've always liked Mr. Carter, always felt he was an intelligent, caring, fair-minded man. My sister used to think the same (worshiped the guy, actually) until he spoke out against the apartheid actions of the Israeli Government. She then pegged him a racist, an anti-Semite, a fool, a crazy old man, and a sell-out. This is her reaction whenever anyone speaks out either against the Israeli Government or in favor of the Palestinians. It's immediate, she dismisses them as bigots, implies that any opinion they may have is borne of a hatred of Jews and/or Judaism, and refuses to entertain the idea that maybe, just maybe it's possible to disagree with the actions of a GOVERNMENT without hating the PEOPLE.
It's exhausting, it's so far beneath her. You can't even say you dislike an actor's performance without her jumping in with, "Well, you would--he's Jewish." Gah.
Anyway, I came across this story on CNN, commented that I like Mr. Carter, and was met with the battiest flurry of absolute crazy I think I've ever seen. After the guy got done whining about the failed hostage mission (give it up--if it had succeeded, you'd say it wasn't Carter, it was the military, if he'd refrained from the attempt, you'd have vilified him for inaction, and by attempting and failing, you condemn him for that), he started talking about how Jimmy Carter is a Nazi, an anti-Semite who so worships Hitler that he's had both Hitler and Eva Braun exhumed in order to have them re-interred in a place of honor at the Jimmy Carter Library and Museum.
I know, right? Just how much scary-crazy CAN you fit in one skull? Just when I think I've seen the limit, here comes this guy.
I broke my own heart today. See, my first guitar was a lovely, barely worn 1960 Fender Stratocaster. My mom bought it for me when I was 13. She got it from a pawn shop, and it was SO not the guitar I wanted. Amazing rectangular tweed hard case and little twin reverb Fender amp, and I was so unimpressed. I, of course, wanted a Les Paul with a Marshall amp. How else was I going to grow up to be Steve Perry (whose politics I can't stomach, but boy, I loved his playing back in the day)? Sadly, while she got me the guitar, she refused to get me lessons. I struggled, I tried, but there was no YouTube or other source of instruction, just me and some chord charts.
I tried for a while, was taught, rote, a few songs, but I never actually learned to play. I could mimic if given enough instruction. I wound up selling the guitar to a meter reader who spotted it down in the basement. For $125. Yes, I realize now the guy totally ripped me off.
How much is it worth now? Oh, gosh.
Maybe $30,000. No, that's not a typo. Thirty grand. I've found one for $58,000.
Here's what it looked like, exactly:
We won't even talk about what the amp and case would be worth. Not as much as the guitar, but together as much as we owe on the new car.
I may cry myself to death. Stupid f***ing shoot, indeed.
Not really a lot more to say. I've started on Pinterest, trying to bring in hits for my reviews over on Epinions. Hope that works.
Oh, the Girl Scout cookies came home with hubby today. I couldn't keep my grubby fingers off them. Thought I had eaten more than I had, panicked over what I thought was going to be a disastrous blood sugar spike, so I dashed downstairs and spent 40 minutes on the recumbent bike. Hey, that's something, right?
Oh, one last quick note--hubby just found a black widow in the toaster. Guess we don't have toast often enough, huh?
I have a foul mouth. I'll get that out of the way here--I can make sailors cry with the utter vulgarity that leaps from my lips. No kidding, some of my favorite words would make even the most seasoned folks blink. Now, I'm not like that in public, of course--I've never sprayed a waiter or a police officer or a professor with "obscenities" (in quotation marks because I think pretty much all words, including those, have their place). I'm not going to go off and level your grandma with my dirty mouth. But at home?
Oh, at home I am a mess. It's almost compulsive, really. And interspersed are things like, "Oh, for goodness' sake" and "Holy cow, REALLY?"
We knew early on we would have to work with our boy in order to keep him from mimicking mommy and daddy. And we've done a fine job--in fact, until just today, he'd never thrown out any of the big ones (not since toddlerhood, anyway). Today was a bad, sad, and special day. I hope we don't repeat it.
Anyway, when our boy was, oh, maybe four years old, he and his Daddy were driving in Ogden, Utah. Cruising down Harrison Boulevard toward 12th Street/Canyon Road. As they approached the intersection, at speed limit, it became obvious that a truck full of teenagers was going to try to make a left turn into their path. Hubby romped on the brake and screamed, "Oh, don't you do it, you stupid f***ing sh*t!" (yes, I hate having to mask that like a child, but them's the rules). Our boy piped up from his seat in the back, "Stupid F***king SHOOT, Daddy!"
See, we'd had the feces talk with him. We hadn't had the "F-word" talk. Hubby almost died. Laughing, that is--he managed to keep the car and my beautiful family out of the path of the teens in the truck.
Cried myself so stupid today that now, three hours later, my head, eyes, and face still hurt. I sure do hate fighting with that boy. What I really hate is losing my temper to match HIS loss of temper. I needed to use the screw driver to open his bedroom door (he wouldn't let me in), and when we were done, I walked out and THREW the screwdriver, which embedded in the bathroom door. Seriously, it flew about six feet and embedded like a carnival dagger. No WAY I could have done that intentionally. If I hadn't been crying, I'd have laughed.
So, I was on a news site yesterday when I came across an interview with Jimmy Carter. I've always liked Mr. Carter, always felt he was an intelligent, caring, fair-minded man. My sister used to think the same (worshiped the guy, actually) until he spoke out against the apartheid actions of the Israeli Government. She then pegged him a racist, an anti-Semite, a fool, a crazy old man, and a sell-out. This is her reaction whenever anyone speaks out either against the Israeli Government or in favor of the Palestinians. It's immediate, she dismisses them as bigots, implies that any opinion they may have is borne of a hatred of Jews and/or Judaism, and refuses to entertain the idea that maybe, just maybe it's possible to disagree with the actions of a GOVERNMENT without hating the PEOPLE.
It's exhausting, it's so far beneath her. You can't even say you dislike an actor's performance without her jumping in with, "Well, you would--he's Jewish." Gah.
Anyway, I came across this story on CNN, commented that I like Mr. Carter, and was met with the battiest flurry of absolute crazy I think I've ever seen. After the guy got done whining about the failed hostage mission (give it up--if it had succeeded, you'd say it wasn't Carter, it was the military, if he'd refrained from the attempt, you'd have vilified him for inaction, and by attempting and failing, you condemn him for that), he started talking about how Jimmy Carter is a Nazi, an anti-Semite who so worships Hitler that he's had both Hitler and Eva Braun exhumed in order to have them re-interred in a place of honor at the Jimmy Carter Library and Museum.
I know, right? Just how much scary-crazy CAN you fit in one skull? Just when I think I've seen the limit, here comes this guy.
I broke my own heart today. See, my first guitar was a lovely, barely worn 1960 Fender Stratocaster. My mom bought it for me when I was 13. She got it from a pawn shop, and it was SO not the guitar I wanted. Amazing rectangular tweed hard case and little twin reverb Fender amp, and I was so unimpressed. I, of course, wanted a Les Paul with a Marshall amp. How else was I going to grow up to be Steve Perry (whose politics I can't stomach, but boy, I loved his playing back in the day)? Sadly, while she got me the guitar, she refused to get me lessons. I struggled, I tried, but there was no YouTube or other source of instruction, just me and some chord charts.
I tried for a while, was taught, rote, a few songs, but I never actually learned to play. I could mimic if given enough instruction. I wound up selling the guitar to a meter reader who spotted it down in the basement. For $125. Yes, I realize now the guy totally ripped me off.
How much is it worth now? Oh, gosh.
Maybe $30,000. No, that's not a typo. Thirty grand. I've found one for $58,000.
Here's what it looked like, exactly:
We won't even talk about what the amp and case would be worth. Not as much as the guitar, but together as much as we owe on the new car.
I may cry myself to death. Stupid f***ing shoot, indeed.
Not really a lot more to say. I've started on Pinterest, trying to bring in hits for my reviews over on Epinions. Hope that works.
Oh, the Girl Scout cookies came home with hubby today. I couldn't keep my grubby fingers off them. Thought I had eaten more than I had, panicked over what I thought was going to be a disastrous blood sugar spike, so I dashed downstairs and spent 40 minutes on the recumbent bike. Hey, that's something, right?
Oh, one last quick note--hubby just found a black widow in the toaster. Guess we don't have toast often enough, huh?
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