Cotillion Mouth

I feel like it’s my responsibility as a parent to ensure that my children are well-read and have an extensive vocabulary. I owe it to the people with whom they eventually end up on dates. I don’t want to be responsible for them boring the shit out of someone some day. I’ve dated plenty of boringass lunkheads, from whom I could not wait to part company. I refuse to add to the pool of douchebags.

I’ve also made them both endure cotillion classes in order to be able to function in a formal social setting. Call me old fashioned, but I still believe it’s important to know which fork is which. I dated plenty of guys who didn’t know a bread plate from a fucking frisbee. And I always found a lack of table manners to be a turn off. Hell, if a guy was ever able to use those tong thingies to extract escargot gracefully, he totally got laid.

The fun thing about me is, stick around, there will always be a contradiction. Or maybe not. Perhaps swearing like a sailor in front of my kids qualifies as vocabulary training? The one thing I’ve taught them is there is a time and a place for everything. I mean, we might not always cut loose with a fabulous cheek-clapping fart. But, say, at home, when standing between your brother’s face and the TV, it’s not only acceptable, but encouraged. I believe Eddie Murphy called it “The Fart Game.” And we are tough competitors in our house.

But as far as the swearing thing, have you ever been around that guy who doesn’t know how to swear? He comes out with, “Fuck shit goddammit…,” in some telling, English-is-my-fifth-language accent. All the seasoned potty mouths make eye contact and silently agree that he’s a swear-virgin. How awkward is that? I want to be sure that my kids are good at everything they do. Including swearing.

It pains me, what a good mom I am.

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