Tag Archives: Family

Translating S!@T

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Although I don’t do much cursing myself I am an excellent translator.  For example, at my corporate job.

Big Boss might say on his way out the door, “Call that M!@#$r F!@#$%g Frank and tell him he better have the G#$ D!@* report on my desk when I get here in the morning.”

Here’s how that message gets translated by me to Frank.  “Hi, Frank.  Big Boss asked me to call and see how your wife is doing after her surgery.  He knows you’ve been overwhelmed so said it would be okay for you to have the report to him tomorrow morning.”

Or when meeting my older brother at a new location he’s likely to say “Hey, Bonehead!  How many  *!@#$$%& wrong turns did you make along the way?”

Some people might be upset, but not me because I know what he’s really saying is,  “I’m so glad to see you.  I was afraid you got lost.”

Personally though, I just can’t seem to curse.  I even have trouble writing about cursing.  I’m working on a novel and the main character has had a horrendous day.   Problem on top of problem comes her way and her life is a mess.  She’s been at the emergency room dealing with a sick relative.  She leaves the hospital late at night.  It’s been snowing all day and she has trouble finding her car.  She’s digging around in the glovebox searching for a scraper because her windshield is covered in ice.  What dialog did I write for her?  “Where’s that darn scraper?”

Fortunately, I am a member of an amazing critique group and they offered up all kinds of alternatives for darn, like “Where’s the god-damned scraper?”  And, “Where’s the mother-fucking scraper?”  Or, “Where’s the god-damned mother-fucking scraper?”

I’m not sure I’ll be able to take that big of leap onto the cursing train, but I’m willing to give it a try.  Do you think “fiddlesticks” is too strong of a word?

 

 

 

 

I’m a Triple Threat

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I am an avid rule-follower and a control freak.  Not a good combination on a normal day.  But send me to the airport to get on a plane and all my addictive triggers kick in.

I have the normal irritations with the people who carry on enormous bags.   They hold up the line of passengers as they spend several minutes trying to jam their suitcase into the overhead bin.  (Wait.  That does irritate everyone else, right?)

But I have to take it a step further.  On one leg of a recent trip, we were on a tiny commuter plane.  The man in the seat across the aisle from us had just such a bag.  He couldn’t cram it into the overhead bin so he tried to shove it under the seat in front of him.  When that didn’t work, he just left it on the floor and put his feet on top of it.

I squeezed my husband’s hand in a vice grip.  “That’s never going to work,” I whisper through gritted teeth.

“Maybe it won’t.”  He shook his hand to return the circulation.  “But it’s not your problem, right?”

He’s technically right.  The man’s bag was not my problem, but it was a problem for my angst ridden personality.

Security screening at the airport is another big trigger for me.

“What?  I have to take my shoes off?”  the woman in front of me asks.  While she unlaces her *thigh-high boots, my Rule Following Alarm starts ticking. [*slight exaggeration]

“What do you mean I can’t carry it through?” she says holding a bottle of water.  “I haven’t even opened it yet.”  My inner Control Freak begs to intervene.

The security guard announces that all jewelry must be removed and I notice that the woman sports a gold chain with a cross on it. I shove my hands in my pockets.  As we inch forward the guard makes the no-jewelry announcement again and points to her necklace.

“This?” she says, lifting the chain off her neck.  “Surely, you don’t want me to take this off.”

I break out in a cold sweat as she pauses to slowly remove her belt.  “What kind of a country do we live in?” she complains.

“A country with rules!” I want to shout.

We are within inches of the x-ray machine when the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.  Right before the woman’s security bin slides on to the conveyor belt she turns it longways.   My fingers itch to reach out and turn the bin the other way so as to keep them the shortest distance apart in order to slide through the process quicker.

This is my third and final issue (yes, family, I said FINAL.)  I’m the Idiot Savant of Organization.  I walk into a room and my brain rearranges every piece of furniture into it’s most logical position.  A trait that has caused me no end of problems.

Oh yes, I’m a Triple Threat.  A Control Freak, Rule Following, Idiot Savant of Organization.

I understand they have officially removed the term “Idiot” from Savant.  But in my case, I think it still applies.