What Valentine’s Day Means To Me

{Editor’s note: Valentine’s day – a day filled with roses, gooey chocolate and long, passionate kisses.

Or not.

As in my case, once again, Sexy Hubby and I are apart on Valentine’s Day. I guess sloppy puppy kisses will be a close second!

Wishing love to all today.}


This is a simple story about a boy and a girl.

And as this blog has proven time and time again, by the grace of its name, you can trust this story is indeed, authentic.

Circa 1991

A girl, who had lived the previous five years away from her home-town, her friends, and her family, suddenly found herself plopped back into the nest. Full from a life of travel, and the vast experience of visiting exotic spots all over the globe, the girl was relieved to be home. Yet, her soul remained an empty chasm, unfulfilled.

The girl was in her mid-twenties – an age most poets claim a perfect mix of mild maturity and youth – and grappling with choices made, and those not made. She had already completed one “career,” yet wasn’t sure where the next one would take her.

Living in a small town certainly had its advantages, and the girl ran into an old friend of a friend one night, to discover her friend – a boy – had also recently moved back to their hometown.

This sparked great interest in the girl. The boy was a dear friend from high school, and with whom she kept in contact over the immediate years while he was away in the Army and she was living outside New York City. Yet, recently they had lost touch.

The boy’s friend told the boy about the encounter with the girl.

The boy was thrilled to know the girl was back home and began a frantic search through his numerous, yet dated, address books looking for the girl’s phone number. It was the same old number he had called years before, as the girl was, once again, living with her parents.

This boy was many things – dependable, reliable, staid, trustworthy – but one thing he was not – a believer in fate. Yet, after searching to no avail for the girl’s phone number, imagine his shock to have the lost phone number revealed to him in a dream that very night.

After work that day, he phoned the number that had surfaced in the recesses of his subconscious, and found himself speaking with the girl’s mother – who was delighted to hear from the boy, and told the boy where he could find the girl.

Not much later, that same afternoon, while studying at the local Library, the girl who was deep in study, received a tap on the shoulder. She looked up from her book, dazed, to find herself staring directly into the eyes of an old friend. Her friend. The boy she met as a Freshman in high school, nearly nine years ago.

She was so excited to see the boy, but since the Library is not a place to chat, they decided to go out for a drink and  catch up on the years they had lost. They chose an old favorite hang out, and after an hour or more of back and forth, rekindling their friendship, they said goodbye with every hope to remain in contact.

Several weeks went by with no phone call from the boy.

The girl decided to check on the boy, so she called his house. He was out. She left a message. He never called back.

So the girl called again. And again. And again. And again.

After the fifth phone call, the boy finally returned the girl’s call, claiming to be busy, apologized, and made a “dinner date” with the girl. She accepted, even though she was slightly miffed at his lack of response.

When the boy arrived to pick up the girl, he already had a special spot selected for dinner – a place outside Sugarloaf Ridge State Park, called The Golden Bear.

The Golden Bear was a quaint, low-key restaurant in the heart of Kenwood, one of Sonoma County’s prime wine growing regions. The boy and girl were placed at an outside table on the patio near the trickling Sonoma creek.

It was a lovely evening, and the boy and the girl found themselves lost in easy banter, local wine, fresh food, and enjoying the present company.

Up until this time, the girl viewed the boy as a friend. Someone she trusted. Someone who made her feel safe. Someone she could rely upon. That fine day, on the stone patio, in the shade of the wise, old Oak trees, next to the creek, it hit her.

The people around her faded.

The only thing in focus was the boy, who sat directly in front of her.

She was hit. In that moment, she felt as though Cupid’s arrow had struck her heart. She felt a warm, tingling sensation running through her entire body. Her head felt light.

How could she have not seen the boy – really SEEN him – before now?

He was funny. He was kind. He was handsome. And he made her feel like she was the only girl in the world.

In that moment – that one defining moment – as if the stars aligned just for her – the girl knew this boy was more than just any boy.

He was special.

And in that moment, she realized. The boy was more than a friend.

Perhaps all the feelings had saved themselves up for a single, cosmic blast. Perhaps it was the wine. Perhaps it was the romantic, creek-side table in famed wine country.

Perhaps it was fate.

Whatever it was, it was real. And in that moment, an authentic spark of love was created.

The boy and the girl never looked back.

February 14, 2011

On a bright Valentine’s morning in Montana, nearly 20 years later, the girl fondly recalls the night that became her “First-Last Date” with the boy.

The boy who is now her husband {or as he originally deemed himself, Sexy Hubby.}

Without question, she’ll tell you, that spark – what she defines as “the love-hit from Cupid’s arrow” – continues to light the corners of her heart.

The infinite spark that transformed a friend into the ultimate love of her life.

AAL Logo 1

Separate but Equal

Marriage and togetherness is a wonderful combination. Sharing every waking moment with the one you love. Every moment in each other’s company is akin to falling deeper into the abyss of oneness. Life (and love) just doesn’t get any better. Right?

Not necessarily…

Perhaps newly married peeps cannot fathom separate anything. Yet, as a happily married person for going on two decades, I can affirmatively say, separate on occasion is what makes all the togetherness remotely tolerable.

Case in point – separate but equal vacations.

Next week, Sexy Hubby will be out searching the whiles of Montana with like-minded individuals who would spend their last dollar to attain trophy antlers.

His idea of a perfect (separate but equal) vacation:


And while he is there, sleeping in a wall tent, riding a quad all over the wilderness in search of the mighty elk, not showering and peeing in the woods (a place I never want to be. Ever.)

I’ll be here, with a few of my life-long besties…



…and lounging poolside with a drink in hand…

I am positive I don’t need further proof to support the hypothesis that separate but equal vacations are indeed the KEY to a successful and life-long marriage.

I am living proof.

Loving Remix

Editor’s Note: Happy summer gentle readers! I have not forgotten you or these blog pages, but when the weather beckons, who am I to decline??

Anyway, this post was written last June after my nephew married his charming bride. Weddings always stir emotional feelings of love and admiration, leaving me starry-eyed and swooning over my groom of 18.5 years. Recently, I’ve been bursting with love and appreciation for my spouse, now more so than ever, which strikes me as weird and wonderful all the same. Clearly, I loved my spouse on my wedding day, yet, it feels a million times stronger today – and who am I to question why we love love so much? 

A funny thing happened after attending a recent wedding and witnessing the pure love and adoration between the young bride and groom – it reawakened my own love with my groom of nearly 18 years.

I preface by saying, my marriage is already solid and comfortable and happy, but it never ceases to amaze me the fierce love that stirs after witnessing a new couple in their life-long pledge to one another.

Which begs the question, “Why do we love love?”

Why do we love a good love story?

Why do we cry at weddings?

Why does our chest feel warm tugs when witnessing the pledge of love?

Because love breathes at the core of who we are when we display true and authentic emotions, unafraid of disclosing our deepest desires.

Because we realize the journey is greatly enriched when shared. When each new step is not taken alone, but rather in tandem with our life-partner.

Because we recognize life is indeed an adventure and the road is paved with days of richer and poorer and sickness and health and good times and hard times.

Because we are meant to take this journey with a partner.

What begins with a ceremony, and all the pomp and circumstance of cutting cakes and first dances, slowly grows into something more. Something deeper. Something I never expected.

Over the years, day by day, love grows. From the birth of children, first steps, the tooth fairy and Santa Clause to the tragic loss of parents, best friends, houses on the mountain, and health concerns, high blood pressure, failing eyesight and snoring. {Oh, Lord the snoring.}

Yet, with each of these life events, with each breath, you become closer to your spouse. You begin to wonder what you would ever do without them. Their essence becomes interwoven with your own, and you get to the point where a single look speaks more loudly than words.

Upon waking Sunday morning – the morning after the Wyoming Wedding – with my messy bed-head and puffy eyes, I gazed at Sexy Hubby, his messy bed-head lying upon a pillow next to me. I felt happy.

Happy that I still feel the passion, the desire, and the deep and unbinding love that keeps me warm on cold Montana nights {of which, there are plenty!}


At the beginning, it looks like this…


And, if you’re lucky, fast forward 18 years, and it looks something like this…

And if I had to do it all over again, indeed I’d say “I do.”


Marital Bliss and Electronics

Thankfully, I can “authentically” say, after 18.5 years of wedded bliss, fights rarely ensue in my house.

Except when electronics don’t work.

While I was away on my last business trip, Sexy Hubby “surprised” me with a large screen (which is really awesome) and a gadget (he’s a gadget guy) that switches from my work laptop to my personal laptop in virtual seconds. Along with enough cords that I could lasso the moon and back a couple hundred times – what more could a girl ask for?

This fine day, all I wanted was for my printer to work from my personal computer.

That’s it.


When I press “print,” said printer would oblige by spitting out deemed item.

I’m fairly savvy to how things work (on a very simplistic, kindergarten level) and can usually trouble shoot my way through any mayhem that arises on a day-to-day basis. Except today.

Whatever item I attempted to print ended up in a queue – and not responding.

I went to my “control panel” and walked through all the trouble-shooting steps.


I went online and “Googled” a few options.


Finally, after the frustration was building to a palpable level, I stormed into the living room, hands clenched at my sides, and said to Sexy Hubby, “I’m VERY frustrated. The printer is NOT working. Whatever you did is NOT working. Can you please fix it?”

He gets up, slowly walks to the office, saying, “I’ll fix it honey.” Quietly and nonchalantly.

I was pacing around the kitchen determined NOT to go into the office after him to look over his shoulder and second guess all his attempted fixes.

(Note: I may seem like a patient person, but I am not. At all.)

After a short time, he calls me over, and says, “I have to ask, is the printer plugged into your computer?”

(Does he think I’m a total moron?) 

I point sharply to the side of my laptop and say firmly, “These are the cords you banded together for my computer. I plugged these in every time.”

I walk out of the room, as Sexy Hubby crawls under the desk to dig around at the hay stack of cords piled on the floor.

Not 30 seconds later, he comes out, red-faced and breathing hard, “Next time you yell at me that your printer isn’t working, make sure the $%*&!_@ thing is plugged into your computer.”

(I didn’t yell? Did I yell?)

Me sheepishly, “Oh. Thanks, honey.”

(Note: Among the mass of woven cords on the floor, there is one, that is clearly labeled “PRINTER.” Who knew?)

If we still had a dog, I’d be sleeping in his house tonight…

End of a Holiday Era

Editor’s Note: Last year, I made this decision, yet I was concerned if I would regret it. Guess what? Not a regret to be found, only freedom. And sweet liberation. Only 7 shopping days left, Gentle Readers…

Over the years, most especially during the holiday season, I’ve done more than my fair share to support Uncle Sam and the United States Postal Service.

Yet, I’m taking a stand.

And I ain’t gonna do it no more.

When did I decide?


Why did I decide?

Because I’m a digital girl living in a digital world, and I would much rather spend my days playing Liberace on a keyboard.

As a writer, I love a good pen, but find the need to use one less and less. In fact, one Christmas Sexy Hubby bought me some super fancy pen that cost the equivalent of a 7-course meal. Must have been around the time I bought him a $200 hammer – the thing used to hit nails. {Should have hit myself in the head for all the sense that made.}

Regardless, I just don’t write anymore, at least the old fashioned way, via pen and paper. In fact, the only humans on the planet with whom I continue to MAIL items are my parents. And that is about to come to a halt, once I show them how to operate electronic mail. Then, I’m going to declare myself paper free!!!

I already pay all my bills online. I receive all of my statements via email. The only paper that arrives in my mail box are local circulars. And a few old-fashioned magazines (which after reading, I properly recycle!) I do love a magazine. Wonder how much longer they will be around??

Over the past holiday weekend, as I belabored decorating the Christmas tree in the back of my mind was this shrill, nagging voice, “You’ve got to get your Christmas cards signed, addressed, and ready to mail. Pronto!”

I hate that nagging voice.

I would have opted to shovel every driveway on our street rather than sit down and scribble out names and addresses. It was killing me.

In today’s social media world, it is rare to go more than a 12 hours without seeing a new photo or update on my favorite social media outlets. We interact on a regular basis. We have no need to clog the land fills with more paper.

And I know one person (he who shall not to be named) that will be extra-relieved to not suffer through another holiday photo shoot. Especially after the year I demanded we go shoe-less.

We lived in California.

There was no snow on the ground.

Yet, by the way my family reacted, you’d a thought I wanted them to walk a mile over red-hot coals.

They have no appreciation for holiday photo staging. {I let them be in the photo anyway.}

For those lucky few who receive a hard-copy holiday greeting in your mailbox this December, I am relieved to say, it will be our last.

Don’t worry, for all the fodder you can stand – all year long – just log on here.

I hope to be around awhile. Blogging this and blogging that.

One last look at the holiday cards from our past…

{As you can tell, this card theme with hand-made bows carried over two years in a row!}

Side Note:

Sexy Hubby: What’s the blog about? (His normal question.)

Me: Say Goodbye My Baby

Sexy Hubby: I don’t know what that means?

Me: I’ve had an epiphany.

Sexy Hubby: What this time?

Me: I have decided this is the last year we are sending Christmas Cards.

Sexy Hubby: What?

Me: Yep, I’m over it.

Sexy Hubby: I don’t know if I agree with that.

Me: Great. Feel free to do it yourself.

Sexy Hubby: Forget that.

— The End —


From Christmas Past

Editor’s Note: This is one of my favorite posts from last winter. Maybe because I love Florida. Or maybe because I love being warm.  Or maybe, I just need a change of scenery. Enjoy, gentle readers. 

A few summers ago while vacationing in Florida, Sexy Hubby wanted to take a side trip.

A side trip to his past – his Christmas past.

Once upon a time, there was a family who lived in Cincinnati. To escape the cold and brutal Ohio winters, each Christmas, the father and the mother would fill the station wagon with four sons, two daughters, a cooler of  food, and all the fishing poles and tackle boxes they could carry, and head south. Of course, there was a boat in tow.

This family traveled as far south as the road would take them.

Where the road ends. At the Gulf of Mexico.

At a place called Chokoloskee Island…

Chokoloskee Island is where Sexy Hubby spent the Christmases of his past, until he was 10 years old.

Instead of sledding, they spent time fishing. Instead of a fir tree, Santa left presents under a palm.  Instead of snow boots, their feet went bare.

The last Christmas he remembers spending in Florida was 1972.

These first photos were taken in the winter of 1968. I know that because my mother-in-law was wise enough to document the back of every single photograph. {I secretly love that Sexy Hubby was called “Joey.” Some photos said, “Little Joey.”}

Florida Orange Grove 1968
Chokoloskee Island Winter 1968

Fast forward to the summer of 2010…

Florida sky

Sexy Hubby at Chokoloskee Island - 30+ years later
Dock at Chokoloskee Island

Pole Dancing Pelicans

One thing that Sexy Hubby repeated over and over again during this visit, “Everything looks so small.”

Isn’t it strange how our childhood memories of a place are as large as we imagine them to be?

I’m thinking we should re-establish the long-held family tradition of spending Christmas at the beach in Florida.

To escape the cold and brutal winters of southwest Montana.

Wonder if we can start this winter?

Honoring American Veterans

On May 13, 1938, the 11th of November in each year was deemed a legal holiday—a day to be dedicated to the cause of world peace and to be thereafter celebrated and known as “Armistice Day.”

Armistice Day was primarily a day set aside to honor veterans of World War I, but in 1954, after World War II had required the greatest mobilization of soldiers, sailors, Marines and airmen in the Nation’s history; after American forces had fought aggression in Korea, the 83rd Congress, at the urging of the veterans service organizations, amended the Act of 1938 by striking out the word “Armistice” and inserting in its place the word “Veterans.”

On June 1, 1954, November 11th became a day to honor American veterans of all wars.

Today, An Authentic Life is proud to honor all Veterans, with a special nod to those soldiers closest to my heart – my father in law, may he rest in peace, and of course, my own Sexy Soldier.

Veterans, it’s because of you, we are able to have blogs, travel the world, and march to the beat of our own drummer.

From the bottom of my American heart, I say “Thank You.”

My father in law, James Albert Walters, proudly served in World War II and was stationed in the South Pacific.

Never did you meet a more patriotic man.

He was one of the hardest working men of his generation and had little tolerance for disobedience.

He was stoic and staid, and said very little, unless it was required.

I admired him.

When Sexy Hubby went into the service, he chose the Army instead of the Marines (he can’t do the boat thing!)

Before he was my Sexy Hubby, he was my Sexy Soldier.

Seems only fitting, that when our son was a baby, he saluted his Veteran daddy.

Our littlest patriot on 4th of July 1996, already a proud supporter of Old Glory.

He plans to follow in his grandfather and father’s foot-steps, and hopes to serve in the United States Army one day. When I told him I was preparing a blog to honor Veterans, I asked him, “Why do you want to serve?”

He said simply, “Because soldiers are bad-ass.”

I couldn’t argue.

Nor did I comment on the fact he just said “ass” with no repercussions.

To all of the American Veterans and soldiers currently serving in our military,

we salute you today, and everyday.

THANK YOU for your service.

Tribute Video to Soldiers

American Soldier, Toby Keith

The Long And Winding Road…

…that leads to today.

Today, Sexy Hubby and I honor a man whom we lost 11 years ago.

Our Best Man.

A man who was with us from the very beginning of our story.

A man that made us laugh, and easily brought a smile to our face.

If you knew this man, you’d loved him.

It was hard not to.

Seems odd that as our story continues to unfold, he is no longer an active part of it.

The hardest part of the statement, “Time heals all wounds” is the part they forget to tell you, “Time begins to erase memories.” That’s the part hardest to accept. As our lives have continued to move forward without him, it becomes harder to visualize him as an active part of our everyday lives.

Yet, we continue to think about him.

And the thought of him (as I craft this post) welcomes tears to my eyes – eleven years later.

I will never forget the most profound thing Sexy Hubby said as we were going through the total and complete devastation of losing someone so close to us. Someone we loved.

He said, “I would rather have had him and lost him, than to never have had him at all.”

Now, eleven years later, the once stabbing pain of loss has subsided into a mellow, lingering sadness. A man who was an integral part of our everyday lives now exists only in the depths of our memory – and our hearts.

He was a part of us. The best part.


In Loving Memory of Dominic Julio Ercolini

March 15, 1964 – November 4, 2000

I Go Back – lyrics by Kenny Chesney

Jack and Diane painted a picture of my life and my dreams

Suddenly this crazy world made more sense to me

Well, I heard it today and I couldn’t help but sing along

‘Cause every time I hear that song

An’ I go back to a two toned short bed Chevy

Drivin’ my first love out to the levy

Livin’ life with no sense of time

An’ I go back to the feel of a fifty yard line

A blanket, a girl, some raspberry wine

Wishin’ time would stop right in its tracks

Every time I hear that song

I go back, I go back

I used to rock all night long to, “Keep On Rockin’ Me Baby”

Frat parties, college bars, just tryin’ to impress the ladies

Well, I heard it today and I couldn’t help but sing along

‘Cause every time I hear that song

An’ I go back to the smell of an old gym floor

The taste of salt on the Carolina shore

After graduation and drinkin’ goodbye to friends

And I go back to watchin’ summer fade to fall

Growin’ up too fast and I do recall

Wishin’ time would stop right in its tracks

Every time I hear that song

I go back, I go back

We all have a song that somehow stamped our lives

Takes us to another place and time

So I go back to a pew, preacher, and a choir

Singin’ ’bout God, brimstone, and fire

And the smell of Sunday chicken after church

And I go back to the loss of  a real good friend

And the (thirty-six) summers I shared with him

Now “Only The Good Die Young” stops me in my tracks

Every time I hear that song

I go back, I go back

To the feel of a fifty yard line

A blanket, a girl, some raspberry wine

I go back

To watchin’ summer fade to fall

Growin’ up too fast and I do recall

I go back, I go back

Re-Cycled Hunting Post “Out the Laundry Room Window”

(Editor’s Note: It’s hunting season here in the great state of Montana, and this is the most epic hunting story I’ve ever heard! Also, knowing some of my gentle readers – mainly my California peeps – have expressed concern over photos of dead animals, be warned, this blog post contains photos of dead animals. Those with weak stomachs or ill feelings toward hunters, I suggest you think twice before reading this post.)

October 2009:  The Month of the Miracle.

Not a miracle in the biblical, medical or paranormal sense, but the “crazy-ass-luck”  type, that can only be described as, well, a miracle.

This is a hunting story, and one that I know, without question, will never be repeated.

At least not by Sexy Hubby.

As The Story Goes…

Formerly, we lived in a log cabin atop a north-facing mountain, four miles at the very end of a gravel, pitted road.

From this location we regularly witnessed deer, elk, moose, and bear strolling by. Wildlife lurked out every window.


Elk on the septic field

And the wildlife was not only located on the outside of our log cabin home.

One night my (then) 15- year old son and Sexy Hubby decided to shoot a few bats – that were inside the house. I was assured by my hunters that shooting inside the house was “safe,” it was only a BB gun (?).

Before the bat pillaging began, I went to my bedroom and shut the door, but prior to leaving the room, I warned Sexy Hubby sternly, “Don’t get any bat blood on the leather sofa.”

This may be the only time I was thankful my mother didn’t live nearby.

I digress.

Hunting in Montana is akin to a religious experience. People come from every corner of the globe to this part of the country in the off-chance they can kill something of major proportions. As a matter of fact, we have a group of fire fighter friends that have made the pilgrimage several years in a row – quite literally via the “luck of the draw.”

Archery season comes before rifle season, and it’s quite the achievement to kill an elk with a bow. Apparently the technique is much more strenuous, and in order to get off a decent shot, you must be close to your prey, which requires great stealth-like ability.

{Quite honestly, I know way more about elk hunting than I ever dreamed possible. Or ever wanted to know. Or ever needed to know.}

About this time two years ago, Sexy Hubby had a job working from home. Every morning, while the boy and I would grudgingly drive forty minutes into town, Sexy Hubby got to stay home, drinking coffee, cozy in the cabin, “working.”


It was early October, yet we already had snow on the ground, and the fog had settled in over the mountain that morning. It was dark, damp and wet.

We had some house guests staying with us at the time, and while said house guest was on a conference call, he came up to Sexy Hubby, tapped him on the shoulder, motioning to the window, and mouthed the words every hunter longs to hear – “ELK outside.”

(Queue the sound of singing angels and harps…)

Faster than a speeding bullet, Sexy Hubby scouted out the dining room windows, careful to not spook his prey, then maneuvered his way to the laundry room, a.k.a, the mud room. This was the only window without a screen. He very carefully and quietly opened the window.

With the window open, Sexy Hubby was able to observe the elk herd that was on our septic field. Initially, no herd bull (master of his domain) was in sight, then up from the bottom of the hill he appeared – a lovely 6 x 6 bull.

Sexy Hubby, in his bare feet and Nike sweatpants grabbed his bow, set the animal in his site, and released the arrow.


The arrow went right underneath the bull’s belly. He (the bull) startled a bit, unsure of what just happened, but didn’t run off.

Sexy Hubby, still hunched over the washing machine, drew back a second bow, and let ‘er rip.

A direct hit!

The struck animal ran down below the house. Out of sight.

Time for the search and rescue team – Sexy Hubby got dressed in his finest camouflage gear and set out behind the house to search for the wounded elk. Luckily, the animal was just beyond the house, down the hill a short distance. After a few photos, he decided to haul out the elk the “easy way” and went to get the tractor.

For the rest of the story, I’ll show you what happened…

I told Sexy Hubby, “Dude, it is not getting any easier than that.” (Yes, I call him dude. I call everyone dude. Blame my friend Michelle. We only ever call each other dude.)

He had the nerve to say, “It was anti-climatic.”

I told him not to look a gift elk in the mouth.

Especially one you can shoot from the laundry room window!


The Power of Words

{Editor’s Note: In preparation for a long, holiday weekend, and the fact my creativity is “used up” today, I am recycling a post from last year. It’s one of my favorites. Enjoy!}

My Relaxed Mode

As a writer, it goes without saying, I adore words.

Without them, I’d be a blank canvas. A breathless poem. And endless sea of white space.

Words can be powerful and strong, or they can be weak, boring, even dull. They can describe happiness beyond our wildest imagination, or sadness that rocks us to the core.

As parents, we are elated when our children utter their first word. Perhaps even a single syllable, after which, we begin  searching for the best pre-school our area offers, for our child must be a genius!

When our children string more than three words together to form a rudimentary sentence – we are proud beyond belief. We feel universally connected to them as human beings via our ability to communicate.

And it’s all because of words.

I believe our view of the world can also be encapsulated by the choice of words we use daily. Whether we view obstacles as “challenges” or “defeats” speaks highly to our outlook.

One might poetically describe winter in Montana like living in a “winter wonderland”, but I often say, “This weather sucks,” which is an indication of how I {sometimes} view my environment. Harshly and negative.

As part of a married set, I also believe it’s very important how we choose to speak to our other half. One thing I am proud to say, Sexy Hubby and I hold each other to a higher standard in regards to words we use during an unpleasant moment. {Of which, there have been a few unpleasant moments during the past 18 years, yet, we never reduce ourselves to name calling. It’s of no use and is completely counter productive.}

As a lover of the written word, there are also words that rub me the wrong way.

In particular, one pair of words I have never liked is “shut-up.” Those two little words can really pack a painful punch. They are perfectly fine, cute  little words when used separately, but when placed together, they are negative and down-right hurtful.

In the past, when I have heard couples say “shut up” to each other,  I wince. And I don’t mean “SHUT. UP.” which translates to “you have got to be kidding me.” In that context, those words are funny and silly.

In my authentically ruled world, the term shut-up would be forever banned from use.

Another word that has often gotten me into trouble is stupid. When my nephews were small, they attended a church-school and were not allowed to use that word.

At all.

This one stumped me more times than I care to admit. While chatting nonchalantly with my sister, I would exclaim emphatically, “That is SO STUPID!” Instantly, I was the receiver of the “stink eye” from three young boys, fingers accusingly pointed in my direction, “Auntie said a bad word!”

Damn! I mean, darn! Foiled again!

These are the same little darlings who went through a cursing stage not too long ago, where my sister felt it was acceptable for them to express themselves. At which point, “Auntie” put her foot down and stomped that phase out. At least in my presence.

Currently, I am dealing with a 16- year old who thinks it’s within his personal rights to use “hell” and “damn” at his leisure. Some days, I let it slide, other days, I stop the madness. Even though I am well aware of the locker room language used by teenage boys. Another right of passage, I suppose.

This may be the perfect time to mention, not proudly, but I’m a blatant curse word user. I credit my father for the habit, as he used profane language all the time. Nary an illicit word from my mother, but dad swore enough for the both of them.

Every New Year’s Day, on my “resolve to change” list is “No more cursing.” And every year, I fail.


Words I  love: Sexy Hubby. Vacation. Wine. Chocolate. Coffee. Cupcake. Superfluous. Oxymoron. And fellowship.

Words I love to hear: Wife. Friend. TOUCHDOWN RAIDERS. Mom. On sale. Low fat. And long, holiday weekend.

Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...