I don’t swear that much. I drop the occasional second-offence word, but the big-timers aren’t my style. If using “shut,” and “crud,” make due, “frick,” and “D-bag” should work just as well. And for the most part, they do.

When a swear word does come out, whether in the heat of the moment or I am not paying attention, I usually catch it. Since I work at a summer camp and an elementary school, it’s easier to just not swear at all, though.

The place where swearing does come out is at my house. My whole family curses like sailors. To themselves, to each other; there isn’t one conversation that takes place between us that’s PG-13 or lower. It’s nothing bad, unless you’re not into hearing your mom drop the f-bomb regularly.

As I was raking the leaves over Thanksgiving break, I found myself swearing. Mostly just in my head, but a few times some words slipped out as I bent down to grab a handful of wet leaves.

I just hate coming home to chores. And to be honest, sometimes “frick this,” and “that witch,” doesn’t cut it. To hear the words penetrate my lips as I slip and fall into something I can only hope is mud, sometimes there isn’t anything that compares. But don’t worry, I made sure there were no kids around.