On being this many (redux)

NB: As I was preparing this post, I was all, "Man, it's been so damn long since that last post, and that whole no-power thing really blew, and I'm so glad to be finally getting back to posting." I put my laptop aside to go run some errands, and… CAME HOME TO NO MOTHERFUCKING POWER. AGAIN. I wish I were shitting you. So now we've officially spent more time this week without power than with it, and we've had to throw out food, and do you know what it smells like in a house that doesn't have air conditioning but does have a storm-phobic rat terrier? YES, IT SMELLS LIKE THAT. So I'm glad to be returning to posting, not just because I miss my reader(s) but also because it means I have lights and AC and access to a coffeemaker or blow drier or circular saw or whatever else I want that runs on electricity. So… moving on.

Okay, so I actually have a decent excuse for not posting for most of the week--our power was out for the better part of three days following a 15-minute thunderstorm. And it sucks, because I actually had stuff to post, or at least that I would have gotten ready to post had I not been forced into the Luddite hell of pen and paper by candlelight.

One thing that I missed out on? My own seventh blogiversary. (The seventh is supposed to be wool or copper, or possibly big metal chickens, so make your gift purchases accordingly.) Seriously, I've been doing this for seven years. If this blog were a kid, it would be in first grade. So really, it could be writing itself, albeit laboriously on that special paper with dotted lines.

Looking back over the past seven years, I see more than 900 posts--three and a half bazillion words--of stuff that's important to me, some of it societally significant, some of it even world-changing, and some of it so trivial that it's probably not even interesting to my reader(s). There's one thing about me when I get passionate, though: Sometimes, my word choice becomes… less than optimal. My dear aunt says swearing is unattractive, my grandmother said it's a sign of a weak mind, and my mother cringes when she hears verbal naughtiness (despite having a potty mouth of her own, on occasion, due to my own horrible influence), and they're all right. However, as they say, behind the mouth of a sailor lies the heart of a poet,* and I generally let such words fly in moments of passion and fervor. One can guess that they appear in important places. Thus my seven-year review follows them like something you follow to see where it's going.

Seven Years of Practically Harmless, in Words My Mother Disapproves Of

Fuck (and derived words): 60, which seems seriously light, but I did count twice. That particular bomb was dropped in the context of Christian extremists, the Baby-Sitters Club, rape, President Bush (surprisingly rarely, actually) and friends, the Iraq war (and accompanying bullshit), three Friday Random Tens, the act itself, and former Alabama State Representative Artur Davis (a lot).

Shit (and derived words): 76, in the context of Republican hysterics, domestic violence, Michelle Obama (in a good way), Jesus (also in a good way), racism, fear, Good Christian Values, sexism, Georgia football (in good and bad ways), and me.

Hell: 99, in the context of the actual place, parts of my childhood, love, reproductive rights, Thriller, goodness, advertising, feminism, teh gays, the Bush administration, war, and Transformers.

Damn (and derived words): 83, in the context of Alabama politics, sex, evangelical Christian exceptionalism, Jump Little Children, oppression, feminism, Lindsay Lohan, literal damnation, immigration reform, and media responsibility.

Things that have impassioned me over the years: Religious oppression, coming from any religion. Religion itself. The Bush administration and everything they've done to screw up the country. (Fuck up the country? No, we'll leave that one alone.) Football. Feminism. Gay rights. Movies. Discrimination. Sex. Music. Compassion. Love.

Not a bad seven years. Here's to the past seven GD years of this shizz, and here's to the next em-effing seven. And here's to the ones who made it worthwhile--thanks for sticking with me, reader(s), potty-mouth or not.


*Please start saying this so I can legitimately say that "they" say it.