Please. Just drop me an F-bomb already.
Last weekend, the wallpapering experts arrived to officially wrap the home-decorating saga, years in the making.
Those grossly elevated prices of wallpaper? Apparently, not my imagination. Our new pal explained how the industry had hurt consumers, as well as his small business of thirty-five years, by increasing the price of paper AND shortening the rolls.
Understandably, he was irritated. Mid-rant, the unthinkable happened. He slipped in a word for emphasis that, apparently, he normally wouldn't have used in the presence of a lady.
(Um, that would be me.)
I wasn't recording the conversation, but I'm thinking it was along the lines 'screwed'.
Our expert, clearly embarrassed, began apologizing profusely, before my husband swiftly stepped in, responding, "Oh, that's okay. She's a sailor."
But once again, Andre does speak the truth. As well, as inadvertently revealing the fastest way to my heart.
Yup. Swear. In front of me.
Naturally, there are some guidelines. I'm not hip with a casual FU, or anything else tossed off the cuff in the heat of the moment, for the sole purpose of getting a rise.
Pfft. Way too unimaginative.
Nope. I'm way more into the thinking kind of profanity. Those stream of conscious tirades where unspeakables flow from impassioned conversation, eventually getting thrown down as an overenthusiastic adverb, instead of a verb.
That. I dig.
But let's be clear. It's not the dirty words that gets me fired up; it's the animated devotion to whatever cause that inspired it in the first place. And major bonus points for the fact that the speaker is comfortable enough with me--AND themselves--to engage in this taboo-est of talk in the first place.
So go ahead. Drop me an F-bomb or two.
There's plenty of room in the boat.