Why do you use foul language? My wife cringes when I use bad language (she is a linguist). It detracts from your heartfelt advice.
I bought your book on Amazon and it is right on. Do yourself a favor and cut out the potty mouth.
Thank you for your concern about my potty mouth.
I blame my upbringing. I learned to curse from my father — a United Methodist minister. He takes the Lord’s name in vain every time he drives, operates a radio, or dresses himself. And yet, they let him baptize people. Go figure.
Christ on a crutch, Goddamnsonofabitch, and Jesus H. Kee-Rist are as comfortable to me as old hymns. (I know a lot of those too.) And if you think that’s bad, you should’ve met my grandfather.
What time is it, Grandpa?
Milking time! Grab a tit!
(Or, “Time for all fools to be dead. Ain’t you feeling sick?”)
Perhaps your wife the linguist needs to get out more.
Why is my writing of interest to you anyway? Is your wife a cheater as well as a linguist? Perhaps she should look up the etymology of “hypocrite.”
Gotta love the pearl-clutchers who shag randos and then take offense at four-letter words.
I run a liberation campaign from fuckwits here, Jim. When discussing sex and power, all the satisfying words are naughty.
I don’t know how to write about infidelity without profanity. When I went through it, I found myself channeling fishwives. I assure you, I’m a pretty pleasant, granola-headed person ordinarily. But when I was chumped, I had no words to describe it that were not transgressive, because the experience was transgressive.
I curse because the subject makes me angry, JIm. I know, an angry woman is unattractive. (You should see my Medusa hair. I’m the total Gorgon package.) These days, with fuckwits assaulting our reproductive freedoms, I feel like chaining myself to federal buildings or immolating myself in front of the Alabama state house. And yet, Jim, I content myself with fuck.
I think I’m exercising incredible restraint, all things considered.
Of course, as a writer, I do worry sometimes that I’ve over-egged the pudding. How much cursing is too much cursing? Is it lazy? Am I strident? Is there a kinder way to say “I wish Jesus would descend from a cloud of angels and thug-kick your deadbeat”?
But I wonder, Jim, why you feel the need to do me a “favor” and tell me how to write? Do you read Bukowski and wish for less suicidal ideation? Expect Wagner operas to be more hummable?
I’m a chump with a potty mouth. A woman with a platform. I’m not doing market surveys on how fuck is trending. This is not an exercise in consensus — I write in my own voice. I created this place to support people and I let them say fuck too. Because when you’re deep in the shit, you need somewhere to be righteously pissed. Or sad. Or viciously snarky. I’m not censoring chump feelings. Things can get quite raw.
If Chump Lady is not the flavor of which you like your support, I invite you to create your own fuck-free environment.
And if you don’t like salty language in your self-help books, please enjoy the vast array of bland, dry, but earnestly blameshifting RIC resources available.
My book is not those books. I wrote my book to be provocative. Because I was tired of all the soppy infidelity euphemisms. Wayward. Betrayed spouse. Affair fog. I was offended at language that sanitized abuse, or worse, romanticized it. Do you have trust issues? Hey, affairs are exuberant acts of defiance! Did a cheater give you the clap? He was on a quest for aliveness! And isn’t his happiness worth more than your abnormal Pap smears?
The resources also — nicely! politely! without a single fuck! — blamed me for my part. Did I anger him? Fail to meet his needs? They assumed I would be giving this save-my-marriage shit all MY effort. Even if it took “on average” 4 to 7 years of sobbing. It’s a rollercoaster! And don’t you want to spend 7 years puking on a carnie ride for a chance at a Much Stronger Marriage?
(Where is cheater? In a fog. Grieving Schmoopie. It’s hard for cheaters. Harder really. Setbacks are to be expected! So book another therapy appointment. That will be $180.)
Oh, I ROARED with FUCK, Jim.
I dumped the cheater, built a better new life, and a few years later (fucks still fomenting), I wrote the infidelity advice book I wish existed.
It says FUCK.
As in, fuck no, it’s not the chump’s fault.
Fuck those fucking Switzerland fucks.
Fuck the Reconciliation Industrial Complex.
Yes, I want to shock you, JIm. My fucks are deliberate. I want to smack you the fuck out of your hopium haze. And I’m not nice about it. Which is rather the point — GET MAD. DO SOMETHING. PROTECT YOURSELF.
Straight talk is not a soft pillow. Strong messages are often laced with profanity. I tell people things they don’t want to hear (“You don’t control that.”) Which I would argue is a kindness compared with the send-me-$399-to-affair-proof-your-marriage bozos monetizing false hope.
George Bernard Shaw said: “All great truths begin as blasphemies.”
Don’t say fuck?
This “concern” still comes up occasionally.