Now Back to Intelligent-Classy-Well-Educated Ladies...

Now back to Intelligent-classy-well-educated-women-who-say-Fck-a-lot

I joined a Facebook group called "Intelligent, classy, well-educated women who say "F*ck" a lot." Fuckin' A right, I say! F-U-C-K. Go on, now. Say it. It's been a particular favorite of mine, for, well I just can't count the years. You know those Proustian surveys? The one Vanity Fair magazine uses at the end of each issue? The one James Lipton loves to use, hoping someone will say "fuck" as he smirks and asks "Now beautiful, talented Oscar winner Meryl Streep, what's your favorite curse word?" on Bravo's Inside the Actor's Studio?

I've always thought that, when asked, I would jauntily answer "fuck." It feels good coming out of my mouth. Powerful. Strong. Deliberate. Empowering. "I'm in control here, baby."

When I got pregnant and was interviewing my then-current Ob-Gyn to see whether she would be a good partner in weathering the coming storm, one of the first questions I asked her was "Do you mind if I scream FUCK lot at the birth of my child?" She said she minded. Seriously. In fact she told me that she could understand screams at giving birth, but to try to keep the unpleasantries to a minimum. Huh?? I quickly found another Ob-Gyn to deliver my precious cargo. He got the job when he told me he couldn't care if I fucked Jesus Christ on the cross. His job was to deliver a healthy infant to a happy Mom. Fuck or no fuck. He didn't give a flying fuck what came out of my mouth in the process.

I once had a meltdown in front of the building manager of my previous Coop. His last name was Sanchez. He told me my "boyfriend" at the time could not have a parking space, unless he became my "Mr." I told him he had moved in and we were scheduled to become "Mr. and Mrs." in six months, which was the truth. "Well until then, no parking spot." "But there are, like, 200 spots with no cars in them!" This was Miami Beach where most of the owners were "Snowbirds" and were still away. "It's the rule, Miss." "Fuck you Mr. Sanchez!" I screamed. "Fuck you and the fucking rules. You are a fucking moron Mr. Sanchez. Do you hear me??? A fucking moron, idiota, boba!! Fuck you!" Needless to say he closed the door on me. My fiance, a quiet, gentle, European man who had never heard a woman scream that way, became very flustered. He was not yet acquainted with the cleansing benefits of yelling the f-word. We now call that kind of ballistic outrage "pulling a Sanchez."

If you're on Facebook, I encourage you to join us. And if you don't, well…fuck you.

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