When I first changed over from blogger, I renamed the site. Since I call the cat The Fucking Cat, I thought it would be fun to call the blog The Fucking Cat House. The pun amused me – because frankly, if I thought I could get paid for it, I would totally do it. (That pun amused me, too).
(I’m easily amused)
But then MoC said I should rethink the name. When I asked her why, she said she didn’t think it was appropriate. Okayyy. She had a point; I wouldn’t want some little kid to run across my page and ask his mom what it meant.
And then I started thinking about MoC’s favorite word. Which isn’t “ficklefeatherfarts.” It seemed a little odd to me that MoC would be uncomfortable posting a picture with a rude hand gesture or using that word as part of my site title.
The first time I heard MoC drop the f-bomb, I was fifteen years old and secretly saying that word, plus all the others, behind my parents’ backs. Back in the day, we only had one car and my dad worked until 9pm. He was a drug dealer pharmacist and although he didn’t work late, he was the only pharmacist on duty most nights. One night MoC and I arrived early to pick him up and overheard two boys in the parking lot talking about the guy who held up the pharmacy with a shotgun. By the time they got to “shotgun” MoC was hanging out the window … and then she yelled, “Oh, fuck!”
What? How did she know that word??
I’ve recounted a few other tales of MoC’s favorite word. Here’s another:
MoC doesn’t like to drive and so I usually end up behind the wheel. When we’re in the car, MoC says some shocking things, usually expressing her wish that other drivers would perform anatomical impossibilities on themselves. (For those of you in Kansas, that means she tells people to go fuck themselves.)
Last week we took MoC’s car to Hell St Louis. I took the bags down to her car and then ran back to get my shades out of my car – the cool blublockers that I love so much. MoC parks so close to the curb that she can’t get in on the passenger side, so she started the car and pulled out of the space. I ran over and she waved me off, but I jumped in the passenger seat and buckled myself in. She looked at me and said, “You fucker!”
“Did you just call me a fucker?”
“Yes you did! Do you kiss your dad with that mouth?”
MoC laughed and I promised that if she drove us to the restaurant, I’d take the wheel after breakfast. We weren’t even to the 5th circle of Hell St. Louis before another driver passed us and she muttered, “You fucker.”
“Are you talking to him or to me? Because now I don’t know who you’re calling a fucker.”
MoC actually looked embarrassed (although I thought the whole thing was hilarious, fucker that I am) so I let it go. For a while.
When MoC saw Wende’s post using the military alphabet code she decided that from now on, she would substitute Foxtrot for “that word”. Or Foxtrotter. Or Duckfoxtrotter. Or Foxtrothead.
That’s okay, though. I’ve always wanted a nickname.
Just call me Foxtrotter 🙂