I'm getting to the point now where I'm realizing that I don't have an "off" switch, especially when it comes to disgusting humor and practical jokes. My victims have the "off" switch for sure, but I seem to miss the cues sometimes...or most of the time. Even Anna has a stern face reserved just for me. And she's not afraid to use it.
"Mom, why do you let us say 'crap' and 'hell' and 'friggin' and stuff?" Lucian says between bites of cereal, most of which end up in his lap, half-chewed and soggy.
"I don't know, Luca. 'Cause they're fun to say and they're not swears really and you can get them out of your system." Mind you, I barely have three sips of coffee in my body.
This is the precise moment at which Anna, her hair wild from sleep, gives me a steady, cool glare and speaks, slowly, as if she is the final word on the matter.
"I think it's because you don't even know you're saying them," she says. "Dad doesn't let us say crap or the other words. He says they're inappropriate."
That's when I pull the writer card. Otherwise I'd pull the go-f*ck-yourself-you-f*cking prude card.
"Well, Anna, as a writer I need to use all the words in the English language because each word expresses a very important idea." I was proud of my thesis for it being so early in the morning.
"I friggin' hate school," Lucian sighed, brushing the cereal blobs off of his shirt.
Who can argue with that?
Even the supposed grown-ups can only take so much. Yesterday I was eating a little cup of Italian ice watching the Godfather trilogy with the Sisco kid. Of course, what normal human being can resist putting the cup on the flesh of another, especially the stomach or the neck, just for a little laugh and to watch them jump about 50 feet into the air. After about 3 attacks Sisco turned to me, his face flushed and unblinking.
"I'm gonna kick you in the d*ck if you do that again."
"No one's ever said that to me before."
"No one's ever tortured me this much before."
Duly noted. I will refrain and/or wear an athletic cup for the next joke.
This is a darkly humorous bit about life as a rural mother and freelance writer in Western Massachusetts. Little Appalachia, if you will. The title, I feel, clearly reflects how life is coming at me like an overloaded freight train, and my own ridiculous response to it. Me VERSUS all; teenage children, people who want me to work for free, conservative government, food karma, weird menfolk. You'll either laugh, shrug your shoulders, or call DSS immediately. Happy reading.
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