The phone won’t stop ringing. First, it was a call from the dentist. Then my daughter’s doctor confirming her appointment on Monday. Then work. Then work again. I’m on deadline and trying to get the software to stop crashing every time I try to save one of my edits. The phone is ringing again, this time, it’s my daughter’s school.
“Hi, Ms. Sabet. Your daughter fell on the playground. We need you to come and get her. We think her ankle might be sprained.”
“Uh, OK … I’ll be right there.”
Hang up. Work calls again. They want more changes to an online form, a form that has been edited three times in the past week.
I tell them I have to go. In my head, there are thoughts of my kid sitting in the middle of a playground blacktop, holding her ankle, crying. Between salty and snotty sobs she mutters, ‘Where’s Mommy?’
“Shanna, we need that form. Right away. Can you do it really quick?”
What the mother fuck am I supposed to fucking do?
Hi, My name is Shanna, and I am afflicted with Lalochezia.
Lalochezia: Emotional relief gained by swearing.
Let’s face it. Life is hard. It’s messy. It’s frustrating. Take a rather ordinary life, throw in a handful of motherhood, a helping of a full-time job, a pinch of blogging, and a slathering of marriage and you have a finely baked serving of clusterfuck.
There isn’t a single day in which I have absolutely nothing to do. Not one! There is no downtime, no relaxing spa days, and no ‘me-time’. My life consists of doing a whole lot of stuff over the course of a single day. I never get enough sleep. There is always something left to do at the end of the day. If I manage to finish everything I need to do over the course of the 16-hours I’m awake, I wonder what I’m missing. Why? Because there is always another ‘thing’ that needs to be done.
Mothers and Fathers of the world, I KNOW you hear me talking.
I curse. A lot. Why? Because it fucking makes me feel better.
I write a blog dedicated to food, and in this blog I use colorful language to further emphasize my point. Why? Because I fucking can.
Admit it. You do it too. And if you don’t, you’re either lying or repressed. Don’t give me some ‘holier than thou’ act. Don’t tell me that you don’t want to let some choice words (or certain one-finger gestures) fly when someone cuts you off in traffic or sends you a snarky email. Come on. You can admit it. We’re all friends here.
Sure, I let my creativity fly more often than some. I’ve been known to use some rather odd pairings when I really want to insult. Some of my favorite verbal mash-ups include:
- Dick Nose
- JackRabbit FartFuck
- Senor Fucker
- Ball Breath
- Cunty Twaterson
I’ve been criticised, told that I’m a lady and shouldn’t use words like fuck, shit, and cunt burger.
But guess what motherfuckers, I am not listening. Why? Because I’m using these profane soundbites as a propellant for my creativity. This is my outlet. This whole writing thing that I love to do, but don’t get to do often enough … it’s mine. I do it because I love it. And fuck you if you want me to sound like anyone other than who I am. Why? Because why the fuck not?