F-Bomb Etiquette: What's Really Obscene

Patti Blagojevich (43), wife of FBI indicted Illinois Governor Rod Blagojevich, can really express herself, and she's not afraid to use profanity to do it.  "Hold up that effing Cubs bleep."  she said emphatically in the background of one of Rod's wiretapped phone calls, "Eff them."

This vulgar language used by the first lady of Illinois has set off quite a furor in the press, which has caused me to evaluate my own views on swearing. I'm no stranger to it. First of all, I live with an Irishman, and cursing is an integral part of his vocabulary.  He can get away with it because his accent makes everything sound charming and and also because Americans don't fully appreciate the nuances of his invectives. "That's complete bollocks!" may sound jolly and quaint to us, but it's actually considered very rude back in Cork, along the line of our "bull-bleep."

Also, I live with a 15 year-old boy. I'm sure Nick and his friends swear cheerfully at each other all the time, but rarely in front of me. I'm not too concerned with the adolescent potty talk, but I constantly remind the boys to be discreet. "Guys, while 'sucks' and 'pissed' are not technically curse words, it is disrespectful to use them in the presence of adults."  Yes, Mrs. Killeen.

I think the heart of the issue comes down to respect and knowing your audience. Therefore, when I am all alone in the car and some jerk cuts me off, I feel no shame in calling the guy a stupid dumb-a**. Using the term makes me feel better and doesn't offend anyone.

But what about the F-word? I admit, I do use  the "ing" version on occasion, mostly to add emphasis or humor to a story I'm telling socially.  It makes me feel a bit naughty too, a feeling that's harder to come by in my forties. But perhaps using the big bleep detracts, rather than adds to my conversation.  As the saying goes, "Profanity is the weapon of the witless."

At least I'm selective in my use of F-word variations. For me, the F-you, the F-er and the foul Mother F-er forms are absolutely taboo. Based on the FBI tape,  the Blagojeviches (especially Rod) have no such scruples. They used the word in all it's flagrant forms. But honestly, the language isn't what shocks me.

What shocks me is the Governor of my state seems to have been auctioning off Barack Obama's Senate seat to line his own pockets. Now that's obscene.

Moms ♥ Cubs Games

Last Thursday, three of my girlfriends and I snuck off to an afternoon Cubs game. We rearranged carpools and called in favors for after school play dates for our kids. Feeling as giddy as teenagers cutting class, we stuffed cash and lipstick into our back pockets, shoved baseball caps on our heads, and caught the “EL” into the city. Once on the train, packed with like-minded Cubs fans, we grinned at each other. We’d successfully made our escape.

The weather was gray and chilly, but it was warm and toasty within the friendly confines of Wrigley Field ‘cause the Cubs were up and the Padres never got on the board. Winning Cubs fans are happy Cubs fans and Lisa, Suzanne, Cheryl and I were no exception. Especially after we’d chugged down a couple of the big Bud Lights we bought from the beer vendor.

We weren’t up to speed on the nuances of the game but the guys sitting behind us – Desmond, Tom and Tommy - were happy to educate us. “ This may be the last time you’ll ever see Greg Maddux pitch at Wrigley Field,” Desmond informed us, as Tom passed around his nachos. They were nice. Everyone around us was nice - and almost entirely male. We four gals found ourselves getting a lot more attention than we were used to on an average weekday afternoon.

And it wasn’t because we were looking all that hot. We sported sweatshirts and fleece, sneakers and scarves. One of us (okay, it was me) wore long underwear. But who cared? It was two-thirty in the afternoon and the Cubbies were ahead and the good will and camaraderie flowed through the stands along with the Budweiser. When we stood to sing “Take Me out to the Ball Game” during the seventh inning stretch, I knew there was no better place in the world for a forty-something suburban mom to be.

The beer buzz wore off on the train ride home, when we had to switch seats to avoid being barfed on by a drunken high school girl who really was playing hooky. We shook our heads with maternal concern. As the train lurched north, reality began to seep in. There was dinner to make and homework to supervise and bedtimes to enforce.

But still, we’d had our afternoon in the (figurative) sun. And now, a week later, what Lisa, Suzanne, Cheryl and I want to know is this – anyone got Cubs tickets?