Family McFoulmouth

I can tell when I’m supressing large-ish frustrations, because smallish ones—like paper falling out of the recycling bag when I’m trying to add some more to it—induce me to screech such obscenities as “son of a f*ckin’ bitch!” Normally, that one is reserved for smashing my hand in a door, or getting rear-ended, or some such, requiring that level of foulmouthery.

Not that I’m the only foul-mouthed bass (1) in this family. L.H. officially gave D.D. the green light to say “crap” at will. Neither of us really find it offensive, although I did catch myself saying to her, “It sounds terrible for you to say that” (an old favorite of my mom’s, although it never worked). The horror of turning into my mom! Of course, when D.D. says it “cwap”, we’re taken back to her toddlerhood, and she gets a cuddle. Me-mo-ries!

(1) Five points if you get the reference without looking at the link.

Right now D.D. is spotting a big bruise and scrape on her forehead where she was accidentally whacked with a stilt at school. She calls it her dent.

I just spotted a girl (speaking Russian, I think) wearing a high-heeled version of the pink Yeti boots mentioned here previously. My faith in the general goodness of mankind is gone. The existence of these boots is obviously part and parcel with the evil being perpetrated on our fellow human beings.

In one particularly touristy side street in town, every shop has an xmas tree outside its door. Most are tastefully decorated—white lights, red bows—but one is wonderfully tacky, with *blue* tinsel. I didn’t even know it came in colors. Around the corner, a couple more shops had trees drunkenly leaning against light poles, but no bases or decorations. I’m trying to decide if the city provides the trees (in keeping with the regulations on the upkeep of historical/touristy buildings), or if maybe there’s a business association agreement for them. See? This is how I use my brain most days, speculating on the downtown xmas tree delivery system, instead of something useful, like solving the world hunger problem.

Apparently the juice bar near the English department changed its mind about the advisability of an all-red decor—maybe it was attracting the wrong kind of clientele *wink*--because it has gone to a delightfully awful marigold and pine-green interior. In stripes. They seriously need to fire their interior decorator.

And what is with the yellow-green thing lately? D.D.’s school was repainted around the first of the school year, and the walls are egg-yolk yellow, and the doors and trim are kelly green. It’s like walking around in an Easter basket there.

L.H. and I sometimes daydream about having our own home (which will probably never happen, since we don’t stay any one place long enough, but I’m not too sad at this point). I have specifically requested that we paint it some shade of purple (2)—violet, lilac, mauve; I’m not picky. He insists it will be a Viking long-house. So a purple long-house it is.

(2) My most favorite cottage-style house in Austin’s Hyde Park was *3* shades of purple, and it was a thing of beauty. I’ve been watching a less purple (only one shade), and uglier, house from the bus, and the comparison makes me want to weep.

L.H. is the master of timing. I was rushing to put on my boots so I wouldn’t be late for the bus, and he asks, “So what do you want for xmas?”—“Uh, could we talk about this later, Honey? I kind of have class...” At least this time wasn’t so, um, gross as the last time, when I tried to kiss him and he belched. L.H. the barbarian. I’m wondering about the barn-like environment of his upbringing.

Another near-celebrity sighting:
On the bus this morning, I sat facing young Kurt Cobain, who was wearing smart-glasses and looked clean and not strung out. He really could be a double for KC.