Big For Your Britches

Those of you who may have stopped by on occasion know that I have an affinity for the "F word." It just feels good falling from my tongue and covers a multitude of emotions. I am not so naive as to think that the "F word" makes me cool or that people find it interesting. No, it is far more psychological.

Let me explain.

My father was a minister and as my sister and I were growing up on God, vengeance and mom's love of wine, we weren't even allowed to use the word fart. Dad thought it was ugly. Ugly in our house was a horrible adjective and you never wanted to be ugly because a bar of soap was often on the other end.

God, maybe this explains my ritualistic bathing and two hour long showers. Huh.

I digress.

My father found other ways to express himself, a storyteller through and through. He could weave the story of Job above your head and when he talked about the Wise Men you could see the stars twinkling in his eyes. He could also tell you about that funny thing Jimmy from down the street did or the turkey that got stuck under his car that flapped his wings so hard dad's hair was tangled like a rat's nest after they fought. As he spoke you laid on your belly, devouring his words. His stories were often peppered with Southern expressions that I wished I'd catalogued and he expressed himself in ways in which I cannot. When arguing with mom, a challenge would often be met with, "Well, if you're feeling froggy you should just leap." My sister and I turned heal at "froggy" and take cover in our room. A wine glass or car keys were sure to meet his head right around "leap."

My mom hadn't bought into the whole sober Christian thing.

People were often, "As nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs," and if they said something outrageous they were swiftly countered with, "Goodness Gracious, Sakes Alive," but never a "Bless your heart." That was for pansies.

To be fair, I kept Goodness Gracious, Sakes Alive for quite some time. It wasn't a huge hit in Las Vegas and I was confused when people would look at me like I had corn pone on my chin. I shortened it to Goodness Gracious and have since dropped the Gracious.

I still tell people that they're gettin' too big for their britches.

That will never leave me.

My first grade teacher once told me, "Can't never could cook a biscuit," and my dad loved it, reminding me whenever I was being stubborn. My daughter will hear the same and she better never sass me back.

I talked to my dad last week and when describing a house someone he knew had purchased I could just see him shaking his head as he explained, "If the termites ever decide to divide forces and stop holdin' hands that thing'll come down around 'em." He laughed as he talked, sometimes in the middle of a sentence, reliving it as if he stepped back into the conversation and I was watching him act it out.

Dad never included the "F word" in his stories, but they dripped with the emotion that I lace my dirty words with, the emotion that I attach to a singular word that I would've been spanked real good for not too long ago. I only heard my dad curse a few times and it was always regarding my mother and The Divorce That Took For Fucking Ever. He used to wince when, as an adult, I cursed around him (which was "cuss" before I moved out west). I quickly realized that the "F word" fell from my lips even faster and with more ferocity whenever he was in earshot. It was as if I had an uncontrollable tick, a desire to make his eardrums bleed. I believe it was his hatred of farts and the bar of soap that whipped my subconscious into a rebellious frenzy. The "fucks" followed the multiple piercings, the tattoos and the punk rockers with full sleeve tats and bleached mohawks. I needed him to know that I could say it, I could ink it into my skin, I could pierce my flesh because I was me, the girl he told that no one would ever love me like he did, so here I was, stained skin, putrid mouth and all.

Dad never once told me to watch my mouth, although he had plenty to say about the punk rockers. I could hear him sigh, sometimes he looked like he wanted to smack me one good, but never did he say a word about my desire to stab my upbringing with dirty words and slutty boys.

No, he knew I had to get it out and he let me.

I still curse in front of dad, but it's few and far between and they are the typical "F words" that I use to salt and pepper my sentences. It is as if I have something angsty waiting behind my tongue, something that I have to force out, throw at you, because it was kept hidden in my toes when farts were dirty and you never wanted to be ugly. They lessen as I age and I'm sure each year they'll become less a staple and more of a story that I look back upon.

One day we may laugh together at the rebellion that lasted into my thirties.

And if not?

Well, that will just be a fucking shame.