My mother, the sailor

Since my father plays such a prominent role on this site, I decided to give Mom a little time for this latest Living Out Loud project. When my mother was a teenager (in the mid-50s as it were), she spent a bit of time on the phone. Being the mid-50s, they only had one phone that sat on a phone table (remember those?) in the hall with a chair next to it. My uncle is five years older than her and was still living at home at the time (or was at least around an awful lot even if he had his own place). As my mother chatted away, Jack walked by and being the older brother casually put his finger on the receiver to hang up the phone as he passed.

Those of you who have met my mother know her to be the most patient person on the planet and not someone prone to outbursts or rage. But something in her snapped that day and she picked up the ashtray from the phone table (one of those dark green lead crystal numbers from days of yore) and winged it at his head. As it narrowly missed his skull and took a chunk out of the door molding, she called him a "fucking asshole."

At that moment my grandfather (who spent many years in the Navy) bellowed her name from the living room. He called her in and in his most serious tone said, "Jesus! I don't know where in the hell you get your goddamn language from!"

My mother just looked at him blankly and then walked off to enjoy the irony herself.

As I have married a man who apparently took a class in the Army on how to fit the most curse words into casual conversation, we ourselves have used the "I don't know where in the hell you get your goddamn language from" line on many occasions.