#$^%*^!!!!!!‏

Just about everyone that knows me knows that when I have an opinion, it is usually a strong one.  Most of the time I use profanity in expressing my opinions.  I don't think that's necessarily a flaw; words are weighted and the dirty ones are like a ton of bricks in a conversation.  That being said, I don't have to be profane.  I can, and do, have intellectual conversations where I would never need to be censored.  In some ways I think that is a hallmark of intelligence.  I have a large and diverse vocabulary, and I understand when, where and with whom I can let it fly.  I would never tell my granny to kiss my sweet ass, but I would tell my cousin that in front of her.  I would never, ever swear in front of my other grandparents because they would probably pass out if I said it near either of their good ears.

My dabbling in bad words started very, very young.  My father has a cousin that always said "Hi Carrie!  How the hell are ya?" when she would see me.  She did this from the time I could utter any words on.  (She still does to this day.)  Well, how do you think I began greeting her?  Apparently at less than 18 months old, I did just that at the top of my lungs in Kmart.  My mom was slightly appalled.  She has a cousin that taught me to call boys "dickheads," among other things.  At age two, I went to Sunday School and called a little boy that.  (I remember it.)  I got into trouble.  Ironically, now, that little boy is a pastor.  He got a calling, I just ate a lot of soap.  A LOT of soap.  

I employ my extensive vernacular especially while driving.  I am also very adept at driving, eating and gesturing at the same time.  Recently, my son was riding in the car with my mom when she called some other driver an "asshole."  Then she must have said something to the effect of "Whoops, that slipped."  My adorable, not-so-little cherub said "Don't worry, Grandma.  My mom says that all the time.  Sometimes she gives them the middle finger, too."  He's so darling.  What he doesn't realize is how well-educated he is in the English language.  When he gets to college, he will impress many of his guy friends with the colorful words and phrases I have taught him.  I know that in my predominantly male field of work, my potty-mouth had garnered me much respect.  If I am talking to a rep and they ask me about repairing the latest and greatest doo-ma-flatchie their company has out, I pull no punches.  I will not hesitate to tell the boss if I think that new product is a piece of shit and why I think so.  I have also learned that when you are repairing something, as I make a living doing, the broken junk tends to respond better when you swear at it's resistance.  Several times a week I resort to calling things names that would make my former sailor Grandpa blink.  (I do think, though, that he spoke to the things he was fixing at work the same way I do.  He just didn't let any of us hear it.)   I refer to my self-censorship as my "filter."  One of my co-workers told me "I love it when your filter is turned of.  I've never heard a girl talk like that and it's hilarious."  I don't think of this as crude or unintelligent.  I am just using those words as a way of expressing my present emotional, physical or mental state, much as a painter paints or a composer writes music.  If there were a profanity hall of fame, I would be in it.   The picture would probably be me holding a bottle of that nasty soap Mom made me eat.