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Mais non, je ne pas cuss all that much in writing. In speaking–that’s another thing. My roommate in college did not approve of my cussing though it was tame, very tame. I truly learned to cuss when I taught at a Catholic boys school right out of college. And no, cursing is not the right word. Too prim. Anyway, nothing like being one of the few females who wasn’t a nun or obese in a school of hundreds of males to turn one into an expert on Anglo-Saxon phrases. I believe I kept my cool around the boys, but nowhere else. The administrators were every bit as annoying. Of course I cleaned up my coarseness once I had children and haven’t really gone back to serious cussing since. I certainly don’t like hearing blue streaks come out of people’s mouths when I’m in public. The other day as I was leading a tour on Brown’s Island and in no one’s way whatsoever, some runner ran close to our group and let rip with “motherfucking something” seemingly directed at us. It wasn’t even Mothers’ Day. Not nice. But every once in a while, those sorts of words are just the right thing and make me laugh out loud–always a good thing for words to do.

It seemed appropriate that just as I’m barely keeping up with my blog and certainly not doing Tumblr and being exceptionally lame on Pinterest and ignoring Google+ and tiring of Facebook and even Twitter though they sure are handy for the food tour biz, I share this little gem:

Fuck You and Your Blog Journal

Darned right!

Christmas has come and gone, but not without my family celebrating it in a degenerate way that I don’t exactly recommend: spending too much of Christmas Eve and maybe even some of Christmas, and certainly the days after watching Seasons 1 and 2 of Sons of Anarchy. My husband tricked me into watching some episodes of season 4 this fall and with the Netflix instant thingie suddenly working on our tv and our children home, it just seemed like the thing to do to use our quality family time to watch people killing and swilling. It’s hard to argue with the warmth of the family gathered round the profanity-and blood spewing television. I have to admit, I do a damned good Katey Sagal cussing impression.Makes my kids proud.

During our holiday preparations, my daughter was baking molasses cookies and simultaneously catching up on an episode she’d missed on her laptop. I came in to the kitchen to see this and couldn’t resist snapping a photo.Blood and guts and batter. Such a heartwarming scene.The cookies turned out quite well, I might add.

 

Yum

As of yet, we have not been struck by lightning or more likely if we lived in Charming, the town where the motorcycle club’s activelifestyle takes place, gunned down by a hail of bullets with all the violent and disturbing (and occasionally funny) viewing going on here during this season of peace. Katey Sagal does say “Jesus Christ” an awful lot, so maybe we’ve got the Christmas spirit, after all. And I can remember the Jesuits who taught me in college sending out a Christmas card one year with the message, “Born to die” or something durned close–ok maybe there was a reference to the resurrection there, too, but I don’t remember that. I remember being somewhat shocked by the starkness of the message–exactly their point. So Jesus would feel right at home with this gang.

I’m back!

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