An inability to curse comes home to roost
During my third attempt at fitting the Kipcap between two Chevys, Aidan, who turns 14 in May, began his campaign: “When do I get my learner’s permit? ”
My husband, Brian, rolling up his window, exhaled, “I’m not going to teach you how to drive until you learn how to curse.”
“Daddy doesn’t curse, and look how he drives.”
“Remember the broken bumper on the Queen Mary? The smashed-in door on the Griffin? The Escort that got totaled before it even got a name? It’s because your father doesn’t know how to curse.”
He’s right. I can no more operate the f-word than I can a stick shift. Not Brian, one foot on the pedal, one hand on the steering wheel, while he questions the lineage of anyone driving below 85 mph in the fast lane.