Etiquette 101

"What's a hobknocker?" asked my thirteen year old daughter as she returned from the restroom to our table at a local pizza joint.

"What?"

"A hobknocker."

"Not completely sure, why?"

"Well, when I was in the ladies' room, there was a lady in the next stall on her cell phone (which, by the way, ew) and when I flushed she said, 'excuse me - the hobknocker in the next stall just flushed.'"

Well, we thought this was particularly rude on several levels, but didn't think it was worth making an issue of. (Until I came home and looked up hobknocker on urban dictionary. Now I'm pissed.) A few moments later a woman who had about twenty years on me walked out of the restroom.

"It must've been her", said my daughter.

"No way", we responded, laughing. This was a sweet little old lady we were looking at. A sweet little old lady with a cell phone in her hand. A sweet little old lady with a cell phone in her hand who joined her grandson at her table. A sweet little old lady who was the only person to walk out of the ladies' room in a ten minute span of time.

Wow.

Now who's the hobknocker?

My daughter is thirteen. She's kind of heard it all. And it has been brought to my attention that David Archuletta was referred to as a hobknocker on a recent episode of iCarly. You know. The show whose target demographic is - well - REALLY young.

That's not cool.

But it's even less cool for a grandmother to use it to refer to a little girl in a bathroom stall while using a stall herself while talking on the phone.

What a world, what a hobknocking world.

Did Someone Say Fabu?

Warning - cussing, cussing, and more cussing in this post. And then I cuss. A lot. If that offends you, shoo! Come back tomorrow when I'll be more my sweet temperate self. If that doesn't offend you, read on!

Ok, I've tried to be modest, but it's true. I'm fucking fabulous. At least my blog is. How do I know? Same way I know everything I know. Someone told me. In this case, two someones, specifically MzBehavin at Positively Neurotic Me and Mimi at Living in France. They are both pretty fucking fabulous, too, if you ask me.


Man, that was a lot of gratuitous fucking cussing for one of my posts! I usually try to keep the cussing minimal, for maximum impact. (On the blog, at least. I can hear the people I know in real life snickering, because in real life maximum impact is apparently something I go for a lot. A whole fucking lot.)

Anyhoodle, if I haven't already offended your virgin ears - or - er - eyes too much, the requirements of this fu - oh, forget it - it's not even fun anymore. The requirements of this award are that I share 5 current obsessions and pass it along to five other blogs with a similar level of fabulosity. I'll share my obsessions - I've got nothing to hide - but I never like singling out anyone to pass an award on to. If you're still here after all the cussing, you're fucking fabulous. If you've left me comment love, you're fucking fabulous. If you've clicked my 'follow' button, you're fucking fabulous. Take it - it's yours. Now on to the obsessions:

1. I am obsessed with the upcoming Alice in Wonderland movie. I have devoured every little morsel that has been leaked with gusto. If you've read my profile, you know that a Tim Burton/Johnny Depp/ Helena Bonham Carter project has never ever failed me. This one looks astounding. I have a very important date in March. An important date in 3-fucking D! March is so faaaaaaar!!!!!

2. I am obsessed with aging. I think about it all the time. That is sometimes as negative as it sounds and sometimes it's downright positive, but it is never far from my mind. My fucking mind, to those of you who are fabulous.

3. I am obsessed with bags. No, not beautiful, expensive purses. I can walk by Kate Spade without a glance. Coach? You have no more power over me. Ok, I did spare a quick peak at the Henri Bendel bags in a display window recently, but it was just a quick peak. I didn't, you know, touch them or smell them or anything. I'm talking about bags. Reusable shopping bags. I've spoken about this before. I don't know why I love the darn things so much, but I do. I buy them all the time. And now that festival season is upon us, a lot of folks are giving them away for free. For FREE, ya'll!!! I have big ones and small ones and some that fold up in my purse. I have some for grocery shopping and some for clothing/other shopping. I have big insulated bags for cold/frozen food. Just call me the fucking bag lady.

4. I am obsessed with yarn! Anyone who knows me knows that I'm gonna embarrass them if they go into a yarn store with me. I don't treat yarn with the restraint I offer to fine purses. I touch EVERYthing. I smell quite a lot. I smell quite a lot of YARN, is what I'm saying. I PERSONALLY smell like a subtle blend of jasmine and sandalwood with gentle rose undertones. I don't even know what the fuck that means. It just sounded like it might be a nice way to smell. Ahem. But yarn - oh, I can't get enough of it. I would write an ode to it, if I were the sort of person who could write odes. Since I can't I'll just touch it and smell it and knit, knit, knit.

5. Lastly, I am obsessed with seventies and eighties nostalgia tours. Friday begins the week of a thousand bands. It's really just seven, but seven bands in seven days - well, technically eight days - is nothing to scoff at. But it doesn't sound as cool as the week of a thousand bands. We're kicking it off next Friday with the Prodigals. Saturday, Alice Cooper! Suck it, Mom! (That was for you, E. I hope you're reading. That's my nod to Suck it Sunday!). Wednesday, Joan Jett and the B-52's and Friday, Pat Benetar, Blondie and The Donnas. That is a whole lot of late seventies early eighties goodness. I am so fucking psyched! Watch this space.

This concludes my fucking fabulous post. I hope you have a fabulous fucking day. Tomorrow I return to my regular blog voice. Hopefully. No wonder people overuse the 'f' word so much. It is way easier than actually searching for a less base word to express one's true meaning...

The One Where There's Cussing

I visited briefly with my parents last weekend (No! That's not what the cussing is about!). They were recalling a family vacation, taken when I was quite young. I told them I had one and only one very clear memory from that trip. We were looking at airplanes - I don't know if there was an air show or a museum or what - but there were lots of small planes. Like boats, most had a name and many were elaborately painted. One plane in particular had a picture of a red-headed pin-up girl posing provocatively painted on its side. This plane was called "The Strawberry Bitch". Old enough to sound out words, but not old enough to understand this particular word combination, I asked what 'bitch' meant. My mother turned the most interesting shades of reds and purples and said something on the order of, "That's a bad word! I never want to hear you say that word again, do you understand me? Never!" Her eye was twitching and she was pretty shaken up. I like to imagine that my sister and I looked at each other and smiled. "Bitch!" one of us would say - the whole rest of the day - causing the whole reaction all over again. In fairness to us, she really should have just calmly explained to us what it meant and why it was bad. But she didn't. She just gave it - and us - power. I remember later that night, returning to our travel trailer. My sister and I made a game of hiding in all the spots we could fit into that we knew she couldn't and yelling "BITCH!" periodically. I'm not positive, but I think by the end of the night Mom may have been weeping.

Before you think my sister and I are TOO awful, please remember that we had absolutely no idea what this word meant. Honest.

Flash forward. I'm a mom with children of my own. They are clamoring for ice cream. As I am scooping it out, they are standing so close to me I can hardly breathe. The dog wants in on whatever action is taking place, so she starts jockeying for position, too. They bump me and a scoop of ice cream lands squarely on the dogs head. Before I have a chance to think, I've exclaimed, "SHIT!" The moment it's out of my mouth I'm sorry. I get on my knees - eye level with the little girls - and say, "I am so sorry. I said a bad word and I shouldn't have. I'm very sorry that I said that. Do you forgive me?" My eldest immediately offered her forgiveness and I thanked her. Off she went with her ice cream.

The youngest held back. "I forgive you, Mommy, but I don't know what bad word you said. I only heard you say shit." She had the sweetest little baby voice...

"That's the bad word."

"Shit is a bad word?"

"Yes. Please stop saying it. I'm very sorry I said it." It was starting to sound REALLY ugly by now.

"But I don't even know why shit is a bad word. Shit doesn't SOUND bad. Why is shit bad, anyway?"

She's said it five times by now, if you haven't been keeping the tally.

By this point my husband has removed himself to the next room and is doing that silent laughing thing in my direct line of vision. You know it. It's the laughing you do when you know it's completely inappropriate to laugh but you couldn't stop yourself if you tried and the harder you try to stop the worse it gets. His face was red. I'm pretty sure he was producing tears. His whole body was shaking. He wasn't gonna be any help.

Well, shit. How am I gonna get out of this one?

But get out of it I did.

Being the (ultra-classy) super-genius that I am, though, I didn't learn from my mistake. A month or two later the eldest is in kindergarten. The youngest is in pre-school, but this was one of her days off. She was playing downstairs. I was folding laundry upstairs with the door shut. There was a floor and a door between us. I took a phone call that frustrated me. Upon hanging up, I quietly muttered, "stupid, fucking stupid."

Immediately I hear, "Awwwwwwwwwww!!!!! Mommy said a baaaaaaaad word!!!!!!!"

Oh, shit.

The little pitcher had made her way upstairs while I was on the phone, big ears and all.

You know the drill. Down on my knees. Eye level. Hands on shoulders.

"I sure did, and I'm not very proud of myself. I'm sorry I said that and I'm sorry you heard it. Will you forgive me?"

She maintained eye contact and said, very sincerely, "I do forgive you, Mommy. But you know you should never say stupid."