Affiliate Friday On Profanity: Where'd You Learn to Talk Like THAT?

For me, it's been pretty rare to happen upon a mommy blog, read it for the first time, and think "Wow, that is one clear, strong voice." But that's what I thought the first time I read Cristin of Tiptoeing through the Tulips. Cristin is a mom of a CDH kid, a potentially life-threatening condition that my dear friend Karen faced when her daughter was born with CDH 4 years ago, and if you want to see mama strength in action, check in on Cristin any day of the week. She does NOT beat around the bush, she never holds back, and sometimes you get more than you bargained for during your cruise around the blogosphere. To me, she is so damn refreshing and I am thrilled to have her straight-talking ways grace these pages on this Affiliate Friday.

Enjoy!



I considered the different approaches I could take to this subject; historical, linguistic, sociological, discarded them all and decided on personal.

My personal journey through the world of cursing.

When you are a child, you think that every family is just like your own. Everyone has a Dad who works too much and a Mom who stays at home. Everyone has a dog and a yard and lots of siblings and neighborhood playmates. Everyone wears hand me downs and has to share a room.

Everyone swears.

Swearing was something that all grown-ups did. They drink wine with dinner, they know how to write checks, they watch the news, and they swear.

Sh*t, A**hole, B***h, were probably the ones I heard most of. Not all the time. But when the situation seemed to call for those words, out they came. I heard the more colorful ones from older siblings and friends. I listened and learned.

Throughout my childhood, I fine tuned my potty mouth in the confines of my room, friends' houses, whispers on the school bus. Always striving to find that golden cuss combination that would elicit squeals of laughter from my friends. We especially enjoyed the F-bomb, having no clue what it actually meant, we knew that it was the mother of all swears and delighted in its use. Always careful not to slip when an adult was present.

I noticed my older siblings throwing around the milder sh*t, and a** hole when they were in high school, with no consequences from Mom and Dad. I waited patiently for this rite of passage, and around my junior year in high school, tried them out. It thrilled me to reach this milestone of being allowed out into the swearing world. Sweet freedom!

Having been very aware of the unspoken rules of profanity, I knew to keep it clean around certain company, to hold back the F-bomb until I knew a person could handle it. I grew into quite a discriminating expletive user.

After college, out in the real world with a real job, around real grown ups, I was realized that what I thought as a child had some truth to it; that most people do swear, at least a little. Adults do not have the luxury of throwing themselves on the floor like a toddler and having a nice screaming fit when something upsets them. Instead we have swears.

You are trying to find a parking space at the grocery store, you have to pee so bad it hurts, the kids are fighting, someone is crying, someone pooped their pants, you see the perfect parking space, turn on your directional just as another car swoops in and steals your spot.

What is that person? A meanie? A jerk? No. They are a G**D*** M*****F*****. Even if you mutter it quietly enough so the kids don't hear (a skill I have yet to perfect), you still feel so much better.

I've known prolific potty mouths of all ages, professions, and faiths; all kindred spirits.

My son's surgeon is obviously highly educated, well respected in his field, famous even in the world of fetal surgery, a professor at Harvard if you weren't impressed enough. We've had an easy, comfortable relationship since the day we met.

Before a major surgery, my husband and I were waiting and waiting to get the party started, wondering where his surgeon was as he was never this late. He finally came barging through the door, clearly angry, apologizing profusely about the delay; there was a mix up in reserving the surgery suite because;

"Someone doesn't know what the f*** they are doing."

I was taken aback by the F-bomb. Not offended in any way. I was flattered. That he thought enough of me, knew me well enough, trusted me enough to show this side of himself. It warmed my heart and made me love him that much more.

I understand that swearing is not for everyone, I do try to watch my mouth around the kids, especially the one that can hear.

I will confess though, that I look forward to my kids reaching the cursing milestone, to welcome them into the fold. There will come a day when Graham has his heart broken by a girl (or a guy, who knows?), he'll need to tell me what a f****** d*****bag they are, and I'll need to agree.

"F***** right they are Sweetie, f****** right."

Oil of Olay is the Secret to Beautiful Skin

Written by Lee

At least that's what my grandma would tell me. Her skin was awesome. Sure it looked kinda like it had been around for a while. Hell, she was 90 but I'll tell you, her skin was sooooo soft and really? Had minimal wrinkles.


I always told her that I hoped I looked as good as she did when I was 90. But I guess to look that good, I need to start using Oil of Olay. And I haven't. What's my problem?

Two years ago today, my grandma Anne, less than two months shy of 91, slipped away from us and headed to the next world. She was so strong, so vibrant, so happy, I guess I just assumed we would have her until at least 100.

I miss her.

When someone lives for 90 years on the planet, you just expect that the time they spent living and the impression they made in the clay of the earth would be so indelible and lasting that I could look around me and catch glimpses of my Grandma in the air.

But two years later I feel that her presence is not as available to me as I want it to be. When she first passed, I felt her. I knew she was just a reach away into the sky - her soul still lingering for all of her loved ones to feel. She didn't speak to me then - at least not her voice - but her soul spoke to mine and I knew she was still with us.

I wonder as time passes if the souls of the departed drift further to their place in the after-world making it harder to get in touch with them. I still have moments when I feel my grandmother's presence - but it's only when I am very very still. Which is rare.

So I am left with memories and stories and cookbooks to infuse my living life with her deceased one. And I want to do all that I can to feel her. The her that was living and such a precious soul in my life.

My grandma loved to bake and she gave me a Kitchen Aid mixer as my wedding gift. Whenever I bake, I think of her. I stand at my mixer watching the dough swirl remembering the cookies, cookie bars, 7-layer cookies, holiday cookies, Polish "kolaches", rum cakes, pound cakes, coffee cakes, birthday cakes and all of the smiles plastered on our faces after eating some of her yummy treats.

She was baking almost until the day she died. It was her gift.

I have some of her cookbooks now filled with notations in the pages marking what recipes she liked and the dates she baked it. From one of her cake books, I have learned that on 11-15-05 (my birthday) she made Ambrosia cupcakes and she decided they were "very good." And on 8-13-05, she baked a pineapple inside-out cake and deemed it "crumbly."

In the chaos of my life as a mama to three young kids, I must remember to find the time in between the hustle and bustle to slow down and honor my grandma's rich and storied life. And with three kids ready to bake anytime I am ready, I realize this is a perfect way to keep her soul close to us in a tangible way.

To me, she was "Grams" or "Gramma" and to my kids she was "GG Anne."

I miss you Gramma.

Now I must bake.



A recipe from GG Anne's kitchen:

GG Anne's Filled Coffee Cake

Ingredients:
2 sticks margarine or butter
4 eggs
2 t baking powder
1 1/2 cup sugar
3 cups sifted flour
I can pie filling
1 t vanilla

Frosting:
1/4 lb. butter
7-8 oz. cream cheese
2 T vanilla
3 1/2 cups of powdered sugar

Directions:
Cream margarine or sugar well. (My grandma preferred Imperial Margarine for all of her baking.) Add whole eggs one at a time. Add sifted dry ingredients, then add vanilla.
Grease 15 1/2 x 10 1/2 pan. Pour all dough but one cup. Place your favorite flavor pie filling on poured dough then spoon rest of dough on top. (Cherry Pie filling works excpetionally well with this recipe.) Bake at 350 degrees for 35-40 minutes.

Frosting: Mix above ingredients and spread generously over top of coffee cake. Or if you don't want this heavier frosing, sprinkling some powdered sugar on top instead works just as well.

Enjoy this yummy cake with those you love.

Strength.........you have it.

Written by Annie, a mom without a blog

A year ago this week on my now retired blog I wrote about a story of a family tragedy. It was hard to write and I literally felt not only like crying, which I was doing, but also very much like retching as I wrote. You see, a year ago, a cousin I'm close to lost her 37-year-old husband to a very freak accident.

My cousin, newly pregnant with her third child, left for work as a teacher and thought nothing of sending her husband off to a routine outpatient rotator cuff surgery with his father. What she didn't expect was a phone call minutes after the surgery informing her that there had been a grave accident. You see, when they began the block of drugs to numb his shoulder, the needle did not go into his muscle, it went directly into his bloodstream pretty much killing him instantly. Although for hours they kept him on bypass and attempted to revive him, he was gone.

And she was left alone. With two little girls under the age of 5 and another on the way.

This post is not about the sadness, the heartache, or the explaining you do to two little girls who do nothing short of idolizing their Dad. This is not the story of how wonderful he was, or how his funeral commanded two thousand people to attend, or how his employer (Budweiser) had a highway banner with his name on it for weeks in honor because he was THAT guy, the one who everyone loved, everyone adored, everyone wanted to be friend with and like. Yes, he was that wonderful, but this is not about him today.

This is about her. About a 37-year-old woman, who although deeply heartbroken and extremely lost, did it when I am not sure I could. I think of her in awe every day. And I wonder where she gets it.

The strength.

I think about her when she comes up with amazing ideas to include her children in his life, even after he has left us physically. How she lets her now first grader write him love notes and puts them in a balloon to send to heaven. How she gave birth without the aid of drugs so no other freak accidents would happen in her family leaving her children orphaned.

This is a story of how she runs and pounds out her grief and anger and lays it all on the pavement in a Nike streak of healing. It is also a story of hand holding and how she gently allows you in to aid her in her need for understanding and healing. It is also the story of how she is not letting anger and revenge, nor all the lawyers knocking on her door, to overrule her right to grieve.

It is a glance into a life of a woman who teaches her children to remember their father every day, so when they age they won't forget because they are so young. About how her daughter says "I feel my Daddy every day, he is all around me. He even helps me when I put on my jammies."

How she just does it. Even though full understanding is not there, and the grief is still so raw.

This is a post about women. About how women just do. They do what they need to do, even when they don't know why or don't know how. Women like her. Women who persevere and keep moving. It is about the strength women have, that she has even though she may not know it. Today I honor her.

Affiliate Friday: Swirl Girl on A Big World Resting on Little Shoulders

Swirl Girl from Swirl Girl's Pearls lives not far from me. She's basically a Los Angeleno although maybe she doesn't consider herself one. I'm not sure. I know there is only about a 30-40 minute drive that separates us and yet the only place we have connected as of yet is through our blogs. The blogosphere's cool like that. Hopefully we'll share a drink together sometime soon. For now, she is sharing a bit of her heart with us in this Affiliate Friday post. It's a different tone than her usual fare but she always speaks straight and true, in MWOB fashion, and that's why we adore her. Thanks, Swirl Girl for jumping in on this fine Friday.




In our humble town (and not only here,but around the country as of late) there was a tragedy - of epic proportion. A young father facing economic ruin in the throes of a nasty divorce and job loss killed his two young children before taking his own life. Emily Rose, my 10 year old, was asking me if that would ever happen to us. At that point, I wasn't sure if she meant the divorce part or what. So I answer. "Sure Dad and I fight sometimes...but we fight because we care. I think it's important to be open - because if you hold things in - they fester and you wind up resenting the other one."

Then she asked if I had ever contemplated suicide, and she used those very words. I told her that as many times in my life as I have been depressed or angry about anything (and there have been quite a few) I never thought there was no light at the end of the tunnel. I always knew that something would change, whether magical, mystical or spiritual , and I would be okay.

Emily Rose said there was a positive side to this tragic story - She said in her very 10 year old way, that the only good thing to come from this story was that the children don't have to suffer anymore. "Because," she said, "if the father had something genetically wrong with him - at least the cycle stopped because his children wouldn't pass it down to their children."

That my 10 year old even fathoms the concept of depression as a genetic illness scares the crap out of me. Such big words and bigger concepts . I don't think when I was 10, I worried about much - okay, maybe I did. But my worries were more along the line of hoping that nobody outed me for actually liking the chicken fricasse on the hot lunch line at school, or if that boy really 'like-liked' me. Or would I ever get boobs. At 10 years old, you should just not have to be sad for anything other than stuff like that.

It's sad that these young children were yanked from the innocence of childhood and slammed into adulthood. It is sad that some adults are saddled with sadness and depression so great that it crescendoed and culminated in that horrific act of violence. It is sad that our community has been rocked by this tragedy.

So, the next time I complain about our shrinking household economy, or that Hubby has to work late again, or that nobody listens to me when I talk around here - I, for one, will try to remember this conversation I had with my daughter. I hope I can use my words more carefully. She is listening...maybe too much.

If life could only be swirled like a wine glass to release its bouquet or decanted to let the sediment fall to bottom only to savor the best juice intended.