I talked to my sister on the phone last night and as usual, before we hung up she rounded out our conversation with a Cute Sarah Story. These are always great and I keep telling her she's gotta write these down because I really feel weird making this space The Cute Sarah Story page. I mean I could. Easily. I'm tempted.
So of the few she unleashed, I actually liked the one with the least flash best.
The other day, my sister, my niece Sarah (age 4), and their neighbor went to walk their dogs in the woods behind my sister's house. During the walk, Sarah spotted something in nature that grabbed her attention and leaned over it to get a better look, and as she did, inquisitively if not slightly sarcastically asked,
"What the hell??"
This kills me. Maybe it's because I know her. Maybe it's because I can hear her sweet voice. Maybe it's because she used the word appropriately. Maybe it's because it shows a little sarcastic chops. I don't know.
Now as my sister prefaced this story, Sarah does not use bad words. Maybe under full distress, a heck will escape her lips but that's it because her mother has been drilling down on No Potty Mouths since the beginning of time, and it's gotten to a point where it's saccharinely sweet ridiculous (to wit: "Oh my goshious" is an accidental hybrid of "Oh my goodness gracious" and "Oh my gosh". Seriously, that's even too precious for me.).
So there my sister stands, mortified, because yep, that's her neighbor standing right there witnessing her trucker-mouthed princess Barbie.
"Uh, Sarah, what did you just say?"
"I said, uhhh... 'what the...h..eck'?"
"Nooo. What did you just say."
"I said, 'what the hell'," admitting with sheepish defeat.
"Sarah, we don't use words like that, right?"
"I know, I know. ...Sorry God."
It's awesome how she also wraps this all up with an apology to God. I guess fitting giving her word choice.
This story reminded me of another time ripe language was used at their home. Unfortunately, it involves me.
One weekend during summer before last, I went to my sister's house to hang out for a cookout. This makes Sarah a few months out from being 3 years old and me thirty-two. My contribution was to pick up a few beers and some chips.( This will come into play later.)
During the course of afternoon, I was playing with Sarah upstairs in her room. By this point, Sarah was sleeping in her new Big Girl Bed, complete with a Big Girl Head/Foot board. However, while her mattress is full-sized mattress, her Head and Footboard can accommodate up to a queen-sized one. Because of the difference in frame to mattress, this leaves a small gap of the frame exposed. Long story short, as I was quickly walking along side her bed, one of the sharp corners of the footboard caught me mid-thigh.
Caught me HARD, it did.
Now, despite being in a great deal of acute pain and despite the situation totally warranting a person to let loose a string of obscenities against the offending Motherfuckingpieceofshitdamncocksuckingwhoreslutfaceasshole-bed, I did not. For you see, there was a child in the room.
Instead, between pinched breaths I purposely though non-hysterically though deep from the diaphragm uttered, "M.F! M.F! M.F!"
My sister, upon hearing my alphabetic chants, ran upstairs to investigate. As I was telling her what had happened to me, we could see the the large bruise taking shape on my leg. My sister, understanding as ever because inanimate objects are most often the pieces of crap that have it coming, was impressed that I was able to maintain some form of verbal composure.
However, shortly thereafter we were downstairs hanging out in the kitchen and there I decided to recount a frustrating incident that had happended to me on my way over. I had stopped at at the Mom and Pop store near my sister's house and the old biddy working the register wouldn't sell me a lousy six-pack of Amstel Light because I had an out of state license (CT) (don't ask). Even though I was THIRTY-TWO YEARS OLD AND EVEN THOUGH IT WAS A VALID I.D. AND DON'T GET ME GOING ON THE STATE OF MASSACHUSETTS AND HOW THEY TREAT OUT OF STATERS. OH YAH, YOU ARE SOOOOO FUCKING SUPERIOR, YOU MASSACHUSETTS YOU.
As I was telling this story, it was me, three-footer Sarah, and big Mike standing on one side, and my sister standing directly opposite of me.
"...And I'm all, "what the fuck?' It's a valid I.D.! I'm 32!! Sorry it would scan properly on your little machine there, grampa, but it doesn't mean I'm not old enough. Just LOOK at me!" Seriously, it was just a fucking six-pack of AMSTEL LIGHT for Godsake."**
I thought my sister wold have been laughing at this point, or at least shaking her head in disbelief, so I thought it was a little strange when her eyes bugged out her head and then those same eyes shot a few darts in my direction.
Completely clueless, "Whu? Whatsamatter?"
"Uh, (nods over to Sarah standing right next to me)...hello? Kid here?"
Yeah, during my little rant the only people I remembered were in the room were the three that were over 5 feet tall. I forgot she was standing right next to me. (I'm sorry, she's short and sometimes quiet.)
So, to sum up:
In great pain, can curtail the f-bombs; when talking about being denied beer, cannot.
**I never actually said any of those things, though I do think I talk a good game in my head.