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Interesting that it’s Independence Day.
Well, for the US people.
And maybe others that I am unaware of because I’m too lazy to look it up.

Anyhow.

I am aware that the fourth of July is a day when a country of people celebrates their separation from the tyrannical rule of an oppressive regime. Y’know. The British. Trust me, I’m Canadian. I know what it’s like to have to live under those Brits.

It’s sarcasm, people.
I do that, remember?

What I’d like to know is this.
Are you really Independent?

Or are you mired in seeking approval and endorsement by outside sources? Are you actually making you own choices, or are you standing by and waiting while others around you make your decisions for you? Are you trusting your instinct, or are you really just a flow-goer without a paddle?

Do you depend on others, or are you dependent on others?
Yes. There is a difference.
A very, very big one.

Think about it.

Just think about it.
Then grab a fucking paddle and start making waves for yourself.

That is all.

Yeah. This is a short post.
But I have said all I needed to say.

/itsy bitsy teeny weeny yellow polka dot bikini rant

Sometimes, you have to set off your own.

Father’s Day is in thirteen days.

A year ago, I packed my best friend, my dogs, and my parents ashes into my car; I drove into the mountains to lay my parents to rest. I have not returned to that place since. It wasn’t because I didn’t think of it. It wasn’t even because for half of the year, that place is inaccessible; there are no roads that are open.

I haven’t returned because I have not felt the need to.

I didn’t leave my parents memories there in that place.

I merely scattered what was left of their earthly bodies.

The best and most important parts of both my Mother and my Father are the parts that I carry with me every day. The parts that live in my heart, and in my mind. I didn’t need to stand in that place to remember those things.

And yet, coming up on the one year anniversary of that date, I find that I am being slowly drawn back there.

I don’t really know why. That place has drawn me to it before — long before my parents were laid to rest there. That is why I chose it. There is a peace to be found there that I have never found before or since. I don’t know how often I will return there in the future; I don’t know how strong the draw will be, should it happen again. I just know that right now, I am feeling a pull.

I also know that in thirteen days, I will stand there again.

Stronger.

More me than I have been in a long while.

The me that my parents would remember, and be proud of.

And as I breathe deep the mountains, I will know one more thing.

I will not be standing alone.

So.

This might comes as a surprise, but I swear a little bit.
By a ‘a little bit’, I actually mean ‘like a trucker’.

I come by it honestly. From years of working in the construction industry, and with – shockingly enough – truckers. This is not to say that I am incapable of carrying on a conversation without peppering it with spicy language. I am perfectly able to have a lot of conversations without a single curse word slipping past my balm’d lips.

I am not, however, generally capable of being stabby without swearing once or twice…
…a second.

Being someone like me (y’know – a potty mouth) is difficult when starting a new job somewhere in which one of the bosses does not swear. Construction industry or not, this woman doesn’t appreciate how much of a stress reliever a well placed ‘fuck me up a tree’ can be.  But we all respect her, so we zip our dirty lips.

Watching the field people – who, like me, are VERY used to cursing a blue streak – try to carry on a heated conversation whilst in the office has been a highly entertaining enterprise thus far.

It’s like working in the Office of Incomplete Sentences.

“I can’t fffff…..”
“If you don’t get that motherfuuu….”
“I fired his stupid aaaa….”
“What the fffff… Um, I mean this is the stupidest shhhh…”

And then people just walk away without ever really finishing what they have to say.

For instance, a rather burly field supervisor – who also happens to be the boss’s son – is often so flustered by his inability to swear in front of his mom that I have almost fallen over laughing at the results.

“I tried to get the fffff…lipping thing fixed, but it’s a piece of shhhh…ugar!”
“I sent the motherfff….lower in last week!”

And this is a guy who’s been around the field long enough to have hit himself in the head with a crowbar. That is not a clever way to say that he’s stupid, by the way. It’s just a fact that anyone with a high number of years working in the construction industry is bound to have hit themselves in the head with a crowbar.

Try not swearing when you do THAT.

So… I’ve been giggling behind their backs for a few weeks now.

Until today.

When I was driving home.

And someone passed me. On a hill. Against busy traffic. In a no-passing zone. Causing me to have to brake hard and gear down when he cut me off. Which caused me to get nicely stabby. And at times when I am stabby, my swearing is truly something to behold.

I opened my mouth…
and out came…

“You big stupid-head!”

You. Big. Stupid-head.

It might not have been so bad if I hadn’t been talking to someone on the phone that knows me very well, and that proceeded to kill himself laughing over what can only be called the biggest facepalm moment of my life.  I’m still frightened by my outburst, frankly.  I feel the need to make some kind of formal apology, or announcement.

*ahem*

I just want y’all to know something.

There is no fucking chance that I will ever fucking forget how to fucking swear. I will practice my fucking ass off. I will make god-damned sure that I fucking triple my off-work swearage in order to fucking ensure that my motherfucking filthy vocabulary is a well oiled fucking machine for the next fucking time some asstastic fucktaco douchebag shitdick makes me all stabby.

I shall never, ever call someone a big stupid-head again.

Unless I’m at fucking work.

Just sayin’.