Do you suffer from an acute, potty mouth? I did. And I don't mean it was, A cute, as in, A pretty. I mean it was, Acute, as in, Acute. Bad words just shot out of these sweet lips of mine, like confetti out of a cannon. Trust me. I tried to cure my affliction more than once. But my atrocious condition, just kept getting more atrocious. In the beginning stages, we tried a family swear jar, which consisted of Millie's nickels. That seemed to be working, until I dumped it out and gave all the coins to the kids, after that morning when the hot lava, coffee, poured between my legs and into my vagina, while I was sitting behind the steering wheel. Every bad word I knew, plus a few new ones, blasted through my pearly whites. After that failed attempt, I spent a few years saying, freaking this and freaking that. But that got OLD. It just wasn't satisfactory. And then freak and freaking morphed right back into, you know what and you know whating. Next, I was hypnotized. It didn't work. But I do still bark like a dog whenever I see an ice cream truck and cluck like a chicken when I hear a siren. And then out of the blue, last month, along came, girls' weekend. We were just out doing girl things, like, shopping and partying and partying and shopping, when we read a sign that said, BLUMENLADEN. It was hanging on a store with really cool clothes, jewelry and garden hoses. Giselle looked up the name on her cell phone, as we sat in the warm sun, drinking a cold beer, across the street from the place. After she pulled up Bin Laden, three times, and, while her name was being added to the No Fly List, Giselle let us know, that the sign meant, bloom store. Now, you know how sometimes when you are really tired and a song just goes around and around inside your empty skull and it will not leave you alone, knowing that you are too feeble to fight it off? Well, that is what happened to me on the ride home the next morning. Only, it wasn't a song. It was that word. We drove past Blumenladen. Actually, we parked in front of it, so that Louisa could exchange her shirt. After that, for the rest of the trip, my mind was all over it. "PSSST." I could tell that my persistent, over extended and exhausted self was trying to communicate with me. "Psst. Millie." No answer. "HEY! MILLIIE!" "What?" I said, annoyed to be pulled out of a trance. "Think about it. Blumenladen." "What about it?" I snarled. "Perhaps this is THE cure for that horrifying mouth of yours." So, I tried it out, internally, as I watched the brown countryside roll past. "Sven, would you please shut that blumenladen door?" Not bad. "Hunter! Shut the blum up." Yes, that could work. "Have you seen my blumen car keys?" Sounds innocent. "I'm so blumen hungry I could eat a laden." What? No. "Please God, tell me that Hunter is not in the blumen pond again." I could use that one. "Hunter, get the blum out of there!" Oh, yeah. That feels right. "And, this is why I love the blumen summer." That almost sounds nice. "Is that a blumenladen, Asian beatle?" Well, that's a lot nicer than calling them, mother fuckers. "Hey Sven, the guy from the dump is on the phone. He says your blumen dog is over there, rolling around in a pool of oil ." Could just be a new dog breed. "Hunter was stuck in the blumenladen, sun shed." Sounds like a nice place to be stuck. "Hells blumen bells, it's hotter than blum!" A good song title. "What the laden time is it anyway?" Nah. "Hey lady, ever think of using your blumenladen turn, signal?" Good one. "Holy blumen moly, you scared the ever lovin', laden, shit, right out of me." I like that one. "It's a blu-u-men day in the neighborhood." Mr. Rodgers could sing it.