Ohhhh, F**k! I said, ‘F**K!’

“Hey mom! I learned a whopper of a new word at school today! It starts with F and ends with K. I love it because it always gets everybody’s attention, no matter what they’re doing,” the little boy told his mother proudly after preschool… right before she swatted his behind and threatened to wash his mouth out with soap. As tears filled his big, brown, innocent eyes, he looked up pitifully at his mother to ask, “But why, mommy?” She knelt down on his level to wipe his tears and explained that “no matter what you hear at school, some words just aren’t meant to be repeated, darling.” The boy screwed-up his face in confusion and said, “I don’t understand, Mommy. What’s wrong with saying “firetruck”?

Come on, don’t deny it. I know what you were thinking. I can’t blame you. I mean, that’s the joke, right? Plus, I must admit, it’s my go-to word WAY too often. To clarify – this time I’m NOT talking about “firetruck”. Why do I prefer THAT four letter word in particular you ask? No, not for its shock value, especially since its jolt has certainly worn off in recent years. If anything, raised in the Bible belt, I shocked myself if I ever let it slip. Embarrassing! Back then, that is.

You see, for teenagers in the mid-1980’s, in a small town in East Tennessee, F-U-C-K was probably the most taboo curse word any of us had heard – other than the C-word, which is still pretty insulting for most (unless you're in a British comedy series apparently. Who knew??) So I guess the C-word doesn't really count where my friends and I were concerned. I don’t remember hearing – certainly not comprehending – C-U-N-T even on the dreaded school bus ride home.

Back to F-U-C-K and why it’s my favorite, explained explicitly. Pun intended: The incident, as told by my friend Suzanne King from high school, happened innocently enough, in Suzanne’s kitchen just as she finished stirring her usual wake-up-after-school beverage, Swiss Miss Instant Cocoa with Mini Marshmallows (Plus a handful of the larger minis since little Miss Cocoa’s disintegrated as soon as the hot water hit their chocolate powder.) Holding her hot cup of cocoa in one hand and reaching for the box of gingersnaps with the other, the slick, ceramic handle slipped through her grasp just enough to pitch the mug sideways, sloshing steaming hot chocolate all over her new acid-washed Levi’s jeans and the freshly mopped kitchen floor. In shock and pain, Suzanne yelled out involuntarily, "FUCK!" Almost simultaneously she heard a short gasp from behind her.

Recognizing her huge mistake immediately, Suzanne slapped her free hand over her mouth, eyes wide with disbelief, and turned painstakingly slowly on her heels to face the direction of the kitchen door. With an apologetically furrowed forehead accentuating the shame in her eyes, she looked up sheepishly, praying it was her little sister. No such luck. Her mother was standing in the doorway. One foot in the kitchen, one foot still in the hallway, grasping both sides of the door frame as if she was about to faint. (Something which had happened on more than one occasion.)

You should know that Julie King is the quintessential Southern lady, mother, and homemaker. A God-fearing, church-going, school room-mom, no-white-after-Labor-Day Junior leaguer and truly a sweetheart, not just pretending to be on the outside. A true “Leave it to Beaver” mom type. (Don’t recognize the reference? Look it up. It was before my time, too.) Suzanne would never want to disappoint her. Nobody did! But there she was, frozen in place, mid-motion, stunned by her daughter's disrespectful and trashy outburst… mouth gaping, chin on her chest, eyes wide as saucers, and eyebrows higher than an elderly former beauty queen who's drawn them back in without her glasses.

True to character, her daughter's lightning quick wit kicked in and she exclaimed, "But Mom!” Pausing briefly for emphasis before explaining calmly and matter-of-factly as if she were quoting her English Lit teacher. “Just think about it for a minute. Sunday-morning-judgment aside please, Mother. The ‘F’ word is the most expressive and emotionally satisfying curse word one can choose. Therefore the ONLY one I will EVER need! It's a noun. It's a verb… an adjective, an adverb. It can be most any part of speech when coming from the mind of a skilled wordsmith.” You guessed it, Suzanne most definitely was. Honor Roll every semester.

She continued. “It’s perfectly descriptive, can be lighthearted or extremely powerful, not to mention kind of funny.” Suzanne said questionably. Putting the ball in her mother’s court, hoping for an ace serve, she pushed it just a wee bit more, the way she always did, and asked, “don’t you think?” while raising her shoulders with an inquisitive half-shrug. Then shut-up, and simply… waited. I told you she was smart.

After an excruciatingly long time… to Suzanne (in real time, merely one and a half seconds) her mother steadied herself, then let her arms fall to her sides as her head dropped, her entire body relaxed as she stared at the floor for another painful few seconds. Suzanne chewed her nails in anxious anticipation of her impending fate. Finally Mrs King let out a long, sloooow sigh while shaking her head in defeat – although Suzanne swears her mom‘s gestures reeked of what felt like scathing contempt and disappointment about to become an hour long lecture pre-grounding for the entire summer, about ‘always being a polite Southern lady and a Christian at all times! Besides, you never know who might be listening. (Ain’t that the truth!) Just imagine; what would the ladies at Tennis Club think!? Are you going to tell your father or am I??’ Until…

Miracle of miracles, her judge, jury, and executioner lifted her eyes to meet Suzanne’s, held her gaze for another small eternity, then rolled them in a dismissing and forgiving nature – she hoped. Suzanne watched in expectant horror as her mother pulled herself upright to her full height of barely five two, stiffening her back along with her expression, and crossed her boney arms. A stance no self-respecting Southern girl wants to see, knowing what was coming next. The look. The one that could stop you in your tracks mid… well, mid-anything. Anywhere. Mrs. King lowered her chin and raised one eyebrow as her glare intensified. Burning into Suzanne‘s eyeballs… nay, her very soul. Suzanne held her breath waiting for the scolding of her life, but to her absolute disbelief,

she witnessed a slow grin begin to creep across her mother’s face. Suzanne could finally exhale as the unexpected relief washed over her and made it safe to breathe again. No doubt she had dodged one HELL of a bullet. Correction: one FUCKing GARGANTUAN bullet. A shower of machine gun fire even.

She swore (no pun intended) she even heard her mom chuckle a little under her breath as she handed her daughter the paper towels before heading back out of the kitchen. Now happily focused on the task at hand, Suzanne immediately fell to her knees, ironically murmuring, “Thank God. Thank God. Thank God.” while soaking up her quickly spreading puddle of hot chocolate, but paused even before she got to the first soggy mini marshmallow. Her usual heir of confidence restored, Suzanne called out to her mom, then waited until she stopped and turned to meet her daughter’s eyes again. After a rather lengthy, hinting at flippant, pause – admittedly spitefully long, even – Suzanne brazenly suggested to her oh-so-proper, more-than-a-little-uptight Christian mother, in the most serious, dead-pan tone she could muster while keeping a straight face. “Ya know mom, you really should try using the F-word sometime. I promise I won’t tell anyone." With split second timing, like the daughter she’d raised, her mother cupped her hand to one side of her mouth as if to share a secret on her way out the door, and replied, “The older I get, the more I don’t give a fuck.”