[This is not the password-protected post.
The password-protected post is here.
I apologize for the confusion.]
I don’t like vulgar language.
I’m not prissy. I’m no prig.
I’ve spent my working life on construction sites. Vulgar language is as common as dust, mud and pickup trucks. Put a woman in charge – a woman who’s proud to be a woman and leans toward the feminine – and it gets even louder and more common.
I’ve heard every vulgar word and phrase you have ever heard, and a lot more. I’ve heard them combined in ways you can’t imagine. I’ve had them used to belittle, describe or taunt me. I’m a big girl. I can deal with it. I get respect in the end.
Please pardon me if catcalling and wolf-whistling don’t give me the vapors. Yes, it’s immoral. No, it’s not rape.
I don’t even hear it any more. There’s a filter between my auditory nerves and my conscious brain.
I avoid using vulgar language. It doesn’t add anything, and a good engineer seeks economy.
Still, I would win any profanity-slinging contest.
My Love is even more fastidious than I am.
Her firm is the cleanest-mouthed organization I’ve ever been around.
She’s no prig, either.
She grew up on a cow-calf ranch. She’s castrated more bulls than you have seen, even in the movies. If she judges that a male is treating her with insufficient respect, she will describe the method for him. In detail.
Whenever she hears anything off-color, she has a Pavlovian reaction: “Do you eat with that mouth?”
The first time I heard her say that on the subway, I thought the punk would murder us, right there. Instead, he looked sheepish and apologized.
My Love is not a woman to be trifled with.