The "F" Word

Whew…the final day of happy, funny.  And to you who said it couldn’t be done.  I dare you to challenge me again.

I honest to God do not know who all is reading my blog, what walks of life you come from, how you feel about religion, food, cars, well, really anything.  But this story is about THE “F” WORD.  So I am going to be honest.  If you don’t like that word, or any other cuss words, you should probably skip this one.  I will not personally use them in this story, but I don’t want you to think I am someone I am not.  I use them, probably too much.  But I use them.

I was born and raised a Catholic.  Mother took us to Church faithfully every week.  We had Catechism every Sunday after Church.  We weren’t obsessive but we were taught to mind our P’s and Q’s and not say bad words.  Funny how what I remember most about going to confession was confessing to doing just such a thing.  “Bless me Father for I have sinned.  I have said bad words, mostly to my brother and sister.  I have made my mom and dad angry…but mostly Father, I have said bad words.”  I look back now and wonder what kind of sins Father expected us to confess when we were 6 to 9 years old.

 Anyway, there was one word that we were never, ever, ever under any circumstances, ever supposed to say.  And if we did, our mouths would be washed out with soap.  I don’t remember who taught me the “F” word, but I knew that if that word ever crossed my lips I would be blowing bubbles for a week.

In general my mother hated cuss words.  And she did a good job of abstaining from using them.  My father on the other hand, used them when he got angry, which was often.  Like the one time we were watching 8mm family movies and the projector stopped working.  Words were screamed that we never knew existed, in a long slew of them no less, back, to back, to back.  We thought they would never end…and they didn’t until the projector ended up being thrown against the wall.  We expected that from Dad.  To do this day when something mechanical does not work correctly, it is called vicious names and a slew of words.

If ever those words were spoken by my mother for whatever reason, run.  And hide.  I honestly do not remember hearing them except for the one time she used the “F” word.  

Mom and I were alone for the day.  I have no idea where the other two were.  She was baking brownies and I was probably in my room strumming my guitar pretending to be The Rhinestone Cowboy.  Perhaps I was sick and the other two were at school, who knows.

All I know is there was a crash in the kitchen and a very angry mother blasting down the hallway.  The only word coming out of her mouth was the “F” word.  No other word…just a perpetual string of F, F, F, F, F.  I immediately start crying.  If I had to imagine what the end of the world would be like at this time of my life, it was this…my mother spewing the “F” word.  The world had to be ending.  I was bawling.  I followed her into her bathroom and she started screaming at me, “WHY ARE YOU CRYING????”     Afraid she was going to turn into some sort of animal with horns I say as impishly as a small child can, “why are you using that word?  Please God what happened?”

She literally screams it at me.  FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF.  Say it Tiffany, scream it!  OH HELL NO, lady, you done gone off your rocker.  SAY IT.  I AM YOUR MOTHER I TOLD YOU TO SAY IT.  I don’t understand what is happening, I feel like the walls are caving in around me.  I have nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.  I can’t breathe.  She has fire and smoke coming out of her ears.  She is still screaming it.  Now she is screaming YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW GOOD IT FEELS TO SAY IT, SAY IT! I say I can’t, she calls me a baby.  Finally I squeak one out and she starts laughing like a mad woman.  SEE?  SEE? WHAT DID IT TELL YOU, IT FEELS SOOOOOOOOOOOOOO GOOD?  SHOUT IT AT THE TOP OF YOUR LUNGS!  Between her hysterical laughing and the screaming of the “F” word, I decide this must be the Satan we have been warned about since we were little.  The one we go to Church to prevent in our lives.  He has arrived at my house, and taken over my mother’s body.  Apparently he didn’t like her brownies.

I don’t know if I will ever know what happened with the brownies.  I don’t know if she dropped them, if she burnt them, if they weren’t done, if she frosted them instead of powder sugared them…I have no clue what went desperately wrong in the kitchen that day or what force of nature overtook my mother. All I know is she told me to go back to my room…to never EVER say that word again and she walks back toward the kitchen muttering to herself… “F” you brownies. 

I go back to my little 45 player, grab my gee-tar and put Glen Campbell back on and pretend to ride my horse far, far away from the crazy lady/thing in the kitchen with the effing brownies.