Oh, F**k = Of Course!

Blue_Viaducts_2012-08-26

2013-06-03 – Kit and I got home the other day after some odious errand. When we got in the door, she asked if I would walk the dog—another odious chore. I said, “oh, f**k!” So she said she would do it. But she was mad about my response. It seems that I say this a lot, usually under my breath, but audible.

Saturday, Kit was working with her brother Tim to patch the walls of the kitchen in preparation for installing the new cabinets. We made a run to Home Depot and upon returning, she asked if I would walk the dog. By now, my knee-jerk reaction is to say, “oh, f**k,” and so I said it. But I realized immediately that it wasn’t the right thing to say, so I immediately followed it with “just kidding.” And if that wasn’t enough, I explained that “oh, f**k” really means “of course.” I grabbed the leash, secured the dog, and headed out the door.

I’m not a dog person, but I don’t really mind walking the dog on a warm and breezy day like Saturday was. I like walking through the park. Often I use the time as an opportunity to think. And so I thought about my statement to Kit that “oh, f**k” really means “of course.” I know this is weird, but I think it really does. If I didn’t intend to walk the dog (or do some other chore), I would say no, or makes some sort of excuse, or say “f**k, no!” I would never say “oh, f**k” to this type of request except to express the reluctant realization that I was going to accept the odious task. It’s not beautiful (and it is certainly ambiguous, at best), but it’s true.

Now, I mentioned that we went to Home Depot. The errand was to pick up some dry-wall. Dry-wall comes in sheets of 4’ x 8’. Getting something like that into the car is difficult. Since Kit and her brother were patching relatively small sections of wall, we didn’t need to keep it in one piece. Friday night, when we bought the first batch, a guy on the floor just volunteered to cut it for us. Saturday, no one was visible.

I went to the desk to ask for help and was referred to a young man sitting on a folding chair in a corner. He was chewing on a venti-sized coffee stirrer. “May I help you,” he said, still leaning back on his chair. I told him I needed help with some dry-wall. “What kind of help?” he asked, still not moving. “Can you come?” I asked and he stood up to follow me. “I need some dry-wall cut.”

He walked into the dry-wall area. He took a look at the dry-wall, twisted his coffee stirrer, and said, “we don’t cut dry-wall.” I told him about the guy who helped us the day before. He said it was against policy.

He didn’t say “oh, f**k,” or “f**k, no,” or anything.

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