Sunday, December 31, 2006

"You kiss your mama with that mouth?"

Why, yes. Yes I do. Who do you think taught me the filthiest words I know?

I grew up in a house where no words were forbidden. (Well, that’s not exactly true: the “n” word was absolutely banned. To this day, I can’t even read that word without flinching.) Any and all swear words were tossed about on a regular basis by both of my parents, my sister, and myself.

My parents’ philosophy made perfect sense to me then, and it still does. There’s no such thing as a “bad word.” Words are words, plain and simple. It’s how you use them that gives words power. So no one batted an eyelash when four-year-old me stubbed her toe and let fly with, “GODDAMN IT, THAT HURTS LIKE A MOTHERFUCKER!” But when four-year-old me called someone an asshole? That was serious trouble.

Those who disapprove of colorful language like to trot out the old saw that people who swear do so because they have poor vocabularies and no imagination. If you think this is true, I invite you to join my father for dinner sometime. No meal at the Mr. Crazy Senior household has ever been enjoyed without the Oxford English Dictionary being hauled out and consulted at least once. And try engaging my dad in a friendly game of Scrabble sometime: he plays for blood.

As for my mother, I have her to thank for my huge repertoire of dirty songs and poems. Here’s a little number we enjoyed belting out while hiking:

There once was a hermit named Dave
Who kept a dead whore in his cave.
When asked, “Does it stink?”
He said, “Yes, but think
Of all of the money I’ll save.”

There once was a man from Nanteen
Who invented a fucking machine.
But on the first stroke
The damn machine broke
And whipped up his balls to a cream.


There are several more verses, but you get the picture.

I wish I could have the same devil-may-care attitude about my own children swearing, but the sad truth is I’m very uptight about it. With my sewer mouth, you’d think my kids would cuss like a couple of sailors. But somehow I managed to clean up my act, and neither JJ nor The Peanut knows a single curse word. Not because I give a crap if they swear, but because I care too much about what other people think. I would be mortified if JJ’s preschool teacher had to call me in for a conference about his foul language. My mother? She wouldn’t have cared at all. On the way home, she would have explained that some people have sticks up their asses and we have to watch what we say around them or they freak out. Then she would have laughed and stopped off for ice cream.

I tell myself that once the kids are old enough to know when and where it’s okay to curse, I’ll let it all hang out. I hope this is the case. My parents may have fucked me up in other ways, but I’ll always thank them for teaching me to love all kinds of words.

Friday, December 29, 2006

The Hot Zone

The Flames of Damnation have warmed our house to the perfect temperature for incubating human pathogens. Don’t even think about coming over unless you don a full-body biohazard suit.

First we had the Virus of Doom (which I personally believe is a sneaky strain of influenza omitted from this year's vaccine cocktail). Then we had Mystery Pustules, which we originally thought was chicken pox but cleared up upon treatment with antibiotics. Then conjunctivitis, complete with green slime oozing from both eyes. And now strep throat.

Right now I’m suffering from three of the four ailments. And I’m sure at any moment Mystery Pustules will start breaking out all over my body.

If I believed in karmic retribution, I’d be scrambling to make amends to everyone I fucked over in a previous life.

Thursday, December 28, 2006

Holidays, Crazy-style

We’re equal opportunity celebrants here at the House of Crazy. Christmas, Hanukkah, Solstice, even a little Kwanzaa—it’s all good. We lit the candles in our menorah, cut down and trimmed our Christmas tree, spun the dreidel, and put out cookies and milk for Santa. And thanks to JJ’s groovy preschool, we even donned kufi hats and learned about Dr. Karenga.

And, of course, we opened presents. Lots and lots of presents. With three sets of grandparents who want nothing more than to spoil them, JJ and The Peanut get so much stuff it’s almost obscene. We’re going to have to have a little family conference about this, but meanwhile, we’re learning all about giving to kids who don’t have as much as they do.

I feel lucky to have children who really appreciate everything they get. Our Christmas morning was a five-and-a-half-hour extravanza of gift opening, bagels-and-lox eating, and lounging around in jammies. JJ and The Peanut would open a gift, then sit back and play with the toy or read the book for a while. At one point, they took a long break in JJ’s room to build an elaborate house with their new set of Legos. I loved how they savored and enjoyed each gift—not that there’s anything wrong with a frenzy of ripping open packages. I just liked that they took Christmas at their own pace.

I know the holidays make everyone a little crazy, but I hope yours brought you happiness and peace. And if not, may the New Year be filled with everything you need.

Monday, December 18, 2006

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

Conversation in the car the other day:

The Peanut: Ah pooped!

Me: Oh, you pooped? Okay, we'll change you when...

The Peanut: JJ pooped!

JJ: (Indignantly) I did not! Peanut, that's not a very respectful way to talk about people.

The Peanut: Mommy pooped!

JJ: HAAhahahahahahahahhaha! Mommy pooped! Hahahahahaha!

Chorus from the backseat: Mommy pooped! Mommy pooped!