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."

Thanks, honey. 

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.

I'm Writing Towards The New World

It's official. I'm going to start channeling the spirit of Christopher Columbus. 

No doubt. We are homies for sure. (Well, beyond that pesky issue of enslaving the indigenous people of Hispaniola. I'm so not hip with that.)

It's being true to his passion that I can get with.

Behold: Sailing. Otherwise known as today's metaphor for life.

Cue the Christopher Cross music. Well, if Cross had written a ballad about being attacked by French privateers on his first voyage into the Atlantic in 1476, where his ship got torched and he had to swim to shore.

Meet passion.

Without it, there'd be no confidence to throw out the crazytown idea of a shorter, safer way to India and volunteer to be the dude to find it. Passion is the difference between giving up, putting your tail between your legs and going home, when someone says, thanks, but no thanks. (Hello Portugal). 

Passion is what gives you the strength to keep knocking, until someone gives you a boat. Or three. Passion guides you in the wide, open, unpredictable water, when there's no dolphin pod whistling sounds of encouragement, no sign that says "Bahamas. Ten miles ahead" or no idea of how long it's going to take you to get to where you think you're going in the first place.

Passion keeps you on track during those days when you're tired of bobbing in the ocean, can't imagine eating another meal of salted sardines and dry ass sea biscuits and you just want to go home to your straw bed.

It's passion that steps up and takes command when there's no concrete assurance, other than the maps you've lightly sketched out and the vague feeling that you're on the right track.

That ticket to the New World?

Only one currency accepted.