I know I have a reputation as a woman in command of le mot juste for any occasion. And that’s because most of you know my words by my writing, when I’ve had a moment to gather my thoughts and file down the rough edges. Or you have seen me in Public Entertainment Mode, when I am conscious of my output and aiming for maximum amusement.
But when the stinky brown stuff hits the ventilation system, my go-to is one syllable, four letters, and scatological. It is obscenity, not profanity.
A near miss in traffic? Oh shit!
Grabbing a hot handle without a cloth?
Every time I’ve learned somebody important to me had died, did I utter some words of profound and beautiful grief? Unfortunately, I did not. News of my mother’s death was met with a keening “ohhh shiiiiiiiiiiiiiit.” News of my father’s death, a horrified whisper of “oh shit.” Finding my husband dead on the floor of his workshop? A panicked “oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.”
Many years ago, Joseph was around two years old and I was taking his paternal grandmother to the emergency room after she’d had a fall. On our way to the hospital, a smartass in a BMW cut us off in traffic. I gasped, “oh, shit” and moments later the little parrot in the back seat chirped “oh thit!”
“Buddy, that’s a really strong word we only use in emergencies, okay? You don’t just say ‘oh shit ‘ at any time you want. Emergencies only, got it?!’
“okay oh thit emergencies!!”
We roll up to the ER drop-off and I cheerfully announce to my mother-in-law, “all right Nancy, we’re here at the Emergency Room now.”
From the backseat, a helpful little voice piped up:
“EMERGENCY?! Oh thit!”