Banned

When you were little, the words you weren’t allowed to say probably veered into four letter territory, but as an adult, the words we’re not allowed to say usually focus around phrases and terms born of pop culture. We all have them, at least professionally, and frequently we develop different vocabularies for different areas of our lives. (The way you talk to your friends is not the way you talk to your boss or clients.)

That said: Spencer has a list of words I am not allowed to say. It’s not in any way parental, so much as it causes him pain to hear me say certain phrases. Things like “baby mama,” “Bootylicious,” and “dawg,” have been on the list since the dawn of our relationship but new ones are always popping up. (Imagine Liz Lemon from 30 Rock trying to say any one of these words. Got it? Did you cringe and then laugh? Yeah, that’s why.) Oddly, it’s not the words themselves that bother Spencer (to an extent); it’s how I annunciate them. None of these are words that I use on a regular basis, in fact most of them are only used when I’m mocking the local college students* or making our cats speak.**

I bring this up because, officially, there is a phrase that is now banned from Spencer’s vocabulary, (when he’s around me). That phrase? “Shit, son!” Used unironically and with fervor, I can’t think of another word or phrase that has turned my stomach this hard since the ubiquitous “brah” or “bro” trend that started ramping up five years ago. If we were 21 and hanging out on a college campus, I might let it go, but it does not serve as a mood enhancer when I’m saying something like, “I was walking across the room, tripped over the cat, and spilled an entire bowl of potato salad.” And the response is, “Shit, son!”

There are a number of responses that are appropriate to the disclosure of this kind of information. If you’re standing over the debris a string of commiserating obscenities, or a comforting “Oh my god, do you need help?” If it’s hours past the event an even toned, “How long did that take to clean up?” will do. The inappropriate response? The slightly condescending, totally unhelpful, and booming, “Shit, son!” It makes me stabby. It also makes me jump out of my skin since it cannot be delivered at a normal decibel but requires shouting with cartoonish inflection.

I’m starting to think we should keep an official list of these words, maybe keep a quarter jar on the counter for infractions.

*So many college students. It’s my dream to someday not live adjacent to a college campus, filled with 60,000 of this country’s most self centered, self involved generation yet.
**Everyone does this. If you say you don’t, I’m pretty sure next you’re going to tell me you don’t make your cats dance, and that makes you a liar.

My name is Atwood. I enjoy snuggling with my brother, stealing other people’s food, and getting attention without being touched. I do not enjoy dancing.