The F-bomb

Cee-Lo says, “Fuck You.”   Enrique Inglesias says, “Tonight I’m fucking you.”  And Pink says, “You’re Fucking Perfect.”

I say, “WTF?”

I know that the F-bomb has existed in the English language for a long time.  The Oxford English Dictionary dates “Fuck” (definition: an act of sexual intercourse) to 1663; at least that’s the first time it was recorded in print.  Actually, the first few recorded uses are fairly humorous:

1663    R. Head Hic et Ubique i. vi. 18,   I did creep in‥and there I did see putting [sic] the great fuck upon my weef.  (weef = wife)

1680    Earl of Rochester et al. Poems 37   Thus was I Rook’d of Twelve substantial Fucks.

But for as long as I’ve been alive, the word has been a cultural taboo, just like it was for Ralphie in A Christmas Story.  I don’t think I even heard the word until well into my pubescent years, and even then I didn’t know what it meant.  My children’s dictionary wasn’t very enlightening.

Lately, though, it’s been everywhere, even in FCC-heavily-regulated popular music.  Of course, Cee-lo’s song was changed to “Forget You,” and Enrique changed his lyrics to “Tonight I’m loving you,” but even that didn’t last.  On the Chicago KISS station, the offending words (and their cheesy replacements) are simply missing.  Is it effective?  Well, we can’t hear the word, but we all know what’s supposed to be there.

So what changed?  What made people feel comfortable enough to not only use the word “Fuck” in their lyrics but also made recording companies think, “No, the FCC won’t mind this”?  I don’t have an answer, but I think it’s something worth thinking and talking about.

As the mother of two very young and impressionable children, I find myself monitoring the dropping of the F-bomb in my household.  Adam’s pretty good about it unless he’s around certain people (ALEX), and luckily Juniper hasn’t latched on to that one (YET).

It’s not that the F-bomb doesn’t have its place in modern society.  It certainly does.  There’s something so satisfying about yelling it after being cut off by a yellow SUV.  Sometimes there doesn’t seem to be a better word for expressing frustration.

Personally, though?  I think it’s a cop-out.  There are more than 100,000 words in the English language, and certainly I am smart enough to come up with a string of words that more eloquently expresses my pent-up feelings.  That’s why, when my students ask if they can swear in their writing, I tell them no.  I tell them to try and think of a different way of expressing what that word signifies.  If and only if they come to me one-on-one, stuck on that word, do I allow them to use it–only if there is no other suitable word that could be used in its stead.

I’m not against the F-bomb.  I just marvel at the way its use has changed, especially recently.  I’d love to hear some comments.

On the heels of a Bears loss

I don’t really care that much about sports.  Those people who know me, know this.  When my sisters and I were young, one of my great aunts owned season tickets to the Badgers, and I never complained when my dad opted to take Rachel instead of me.  On the few occasions that I did go (enough tickets for everyone—otherwise I would have stayed home), I spent more time watching the cheerleaders than the game.  Oh, and Bucky Badger, because he was funny.  But the main point is this: I don’t find sports to be very interesting.

Maybe I should correct myself.  I don’t find popular American sports to be interesting.  If rugby suddenly became popular in the United States, I would totally watch the All-Blacks play the Wallabies on NBC.  However, I have played rugby and understand the rules and excitement from a first-hand perspective.  One would think, then, that if I had played football when I was younger that perhaps I would be more interested in it.  I can refute this theory with a short anecdote.

When my sisters and I were young, Rachel and I were signed up for summer softball.  I say we were signed up because I certainly did nothing of the sort for myself.  I must have been eight years old (or so—Rachel would remember better), and we were part of The Wave.  (What kind of a name is that for a kids’ softball team?  Even then I thought it was weird.)  We lost every game we played.  There was only one game we didn’t straight-up lose, but the other team forfeited, so it barely counts as a win.  And I even kind of liked playing, even though we were total losers in bright blue shirts.  But do I like watching baseball or softball now?  No.

I was the kind of nerd in high school who, when asked what sport I played, would reply, “Public speaking.”  Well, I *did* letter, and I *did* place third in the state (!) in my category in my senior year.  My sport was competitive, and I loved my poems and stories as dearly as any teenage boy ever loved his cleats and shoulder pads.  But do I really enjoy watching other people give speeches?  Not really, unless they are abnormally enigmatic speakers or the content is really catchy.

But I digress.

Today, the Bears lost to the Packers in what was touted as some sort of epic playoff showdown.  I am from Wisconsin, and I live in Chicago.  I know other people in my situation who were genuinely torn about who to cheer for, but most picked sides without thinking about it too hard.  So who did I cheer for?  My family.  Adam, Juniper, and Oren wore their Bears gear, and I wore my comfortable black shirt.  Adam watched the beginning of the game before going to work, and I watched it (background-style—still counts!) until Juniper woke up from her nap and insisted on watching the Lion King.  Then, I had Adam send me updates (they became progressively more depressed, then happy!, and then depressed again) while I sang along to Disney tunes and graded essays.

As soon as the game ended, my mother called me, probably to gloat.  I didn’t really care that the Bears lost or that the Packers won, though, so it was a short conversation.

I am a bit sad that the Bears lost.  I promised Adam a super bowl party if they won, so no party.  I even promised to buy a Crave Case of White Castles for the party, so maybe my bit of sadness stems from the fact that I, too, will miss out on tiny square-shaped burgers that are so not good for you but that are so good!

Or maybe I’m starting to care about football…

Or maybe it’s just the sliders.

Introductions

In the interests of not driving anybody crazy, I will do my very best to capitalize things that are most appropriately capitalized, since in my personal typings I tend to let Microsoft Word do that kind of work for me.

Oh, and hello, Internet!

My name is Sarah.  Pretty much all of my friends have blogs, and while I like to claim that I’m not a bandwagon kind of gal, I have been in both bands and wagons, and I’m jumping on the compound version of those two words.  And have I mentioned that these blog-writing friends (and their blogs) are pretty amazing?  One is devoted to craftivism and living responsibly and organically.  Another chronicles the adventures of her family and self.  Yet another has delved into the mid-sixties to listen to music, real-time-style, because of his love for the Beatles.  And anther fancies himself a renaissance man (which he totally is).

So what will this blog be?  (she asks herself.)

I don’t have a niche.  Here are the categories under which I fall:

1. Grammarian (see my non-dangling participle in the previous introductory sentence?)
2. Mother of two
3. Co-sleeping
4. Breastfeeding
5. Teacher
6. Graduate student
7. Social justice
8. Avid television watcher
9. Reader
10. Wannabe writer
11. Artist
12. Doodling
13. Procrastinating
14. Member of crazy family
15. Work commuting
16. Closeted Perez Hilton devotee
17. Bargain shopping
18. Coupon-clipping
19. Crafts
20. Former twitterer
21. Failed dieting/exercising
22. Foodie
23. Chicago
24. Traveler
25. Wannabe traveler

And the list goes on.  In the interest of not losing you, dear reader, let me cut to the cliched chase: I don’t want to bore you.  And if you are bored, stop reading.  Goodness knows that you can bore yourself; you don’t need me to do it for you!

My goal is to share whatever spews forth from my mind with only one rule: Be heart-breakingly honest.  It has become my number two rule.  (first rule: LOVE.  Yes, it’s a verb.)  I don’t cheat at card games, and I try really hard not to lie to anyone (with the exception of my students, sometimes).

My goals for this weblog (a term I just discovered today!  The word blog comes from “weblog”!  Imagine that!) are these:

A. Post at least once a week.
B. Be interesting.
C. Learn how to post pictures, which I feel will greatly enhance my bloggery.

Now that you’ve read about me, I’d love to learn about you, dear reader.  You may be one of few (perhaps one of one), but if you’ve taken the time to read this far, you deserve some recognition.  I encourage you to comment below or to email me (sarah.lovinggood@gmail.com), but only if you want to.  This could be the beginning of a beautiful, cliched friendship!

Love, Sarah.