Dear Tom Selleck . . .
You may or may not have noticed that occasionally I use the F word. And the S word. And a lot of other words that some people may find unsavory. I feel like I've gotten better about it, but chances are good I'll never stop using them altogether. Conversations just wouldn't be the same to me. Sometimes it's difficult to really get my point across without using a special word for impact.
I'm a natural at cursing. It's a fine art, a gift, a God-given talent if you will. I say that because I know some people who try their best to cuss like a sailor and only end up sounding ridiculous because they don't know just when and how to insert which special word. I, on the other hand can insert the F word into almost anything. *takes a bow*
My granny will tell you I was raised better than that. She would know because she did much of my raising. I've heard her say 'shit' many of times but when I call her on it she swears she said 'shitski'. Whatever Gran. Who's the one sporting hearing aids? Not me! One thing I've learned is never to argue with Granny because she wins every time.
My poor dad on the other hand never stood a chance of winning many battles with me. You'll have that with a Daddy's Girl. I'm not proud, just honest.
Like this one time when my mother had tossed my room looking for God knows what, because I really was a goodie two shoes. I wish when she had put that curse on me to have a child just like me someday it would have worked. Instead I got my girls. Whom I love dearly. But they're a handful and when we both have more time, I can't wait to tell you all about them.
So anyhow, during my mother's search she found all of my notes. I wonder if kids even pass notes anymore with all of the technology out there now. It used to be the thrill of my day to pass notes between and during classes, folding them into itty bitty origami like gifts and then stashing them in my room to read over and over again - sometimes by flashlight under the covers and sometimes (if it was from a boy) with my girlfriends at our slumber parties.
But one of these notes had the word 'hell' in it. *gasp* And it may have referenced me calling someone a bitch. *gasp* My mother was in hysterics, ready to call in an exorcist to get the devil right out of me.
Lucky for me she let my dad handle it because she was 'tired of always being the bad guy'. Well, if the shoe fits . . .
It was a Sunday afternoon after church and Sunday dinner when my dad said, "Get your shoes on Sis. We're going to Burger King for a Coke."
We had just eaten. I was not thirsty. This was the time we pseudo-relaxed every week. The Burger King was new in town and I had already seen it. I loved one-on-one time with my dad, but I knew what was going down. I got all teary-eyed, because that's what a good Daddy's Girl does when she's about to be punished.
My dad didn't say another word, just casually whistled* his way out to the car, all the way to the Burger King, through the line, and into a booth.
By this point, I'm pretty sure the tears had started to stream down my face. He was unaffected.
Then he spoke.
It went something like this . . .
Sis, your mom should not have gone through your room but she did and I'll have a word with her about that.
But before I could get a 'HA!' out he continued . . .
I don't want to read your notes, that's your business between you and your friends.
Again, I tried to get a 'HA!' out but he continued . . .
Oh holy fucking mother of ---
Is it true that you called someone a bitch?
What could I do? My dad was someone I never lied to. He had me right where he wanted me. So I just slowly nodded and shed a few more tears and promised to never do it again.
He then went on to say . . .
You're a lady and that's not how a lady speaks.
And that was it. The end.
He then changed the subject and we talked for what seemed hours and laughed big belly laughs and maybe even flipped one another off. (It's what we did - mostly to piss off my mom.) Then we drove home and when we pulled into the driveway he looked over at my beautiful smiling face and told me to wipe the grin off of my face and at least act like he had read me the riot act.
Deal. I fucking loved my dad. Still do.
Edie B. Kuhl
* A footnote to the whistling: My dad whistled all of the time so I suggest you brush up on your whistling skills Mr. Selleck.