The letter M.

Me: I decided my next blog post is about John “Motherfucker” Burton.

Scott: OH, COME ON! MY GRANDMA READS YOUR BLOG!

This post is dedicated to Scott’s grandma.

M is an easy letter – motherhood, monarch butterflies, makeup, monkeys jumping on the bed, mud, middle child, marriage, motherfucker.

Motherfucker. It was my first thought this morning. I hate mornings. But there it was – motherfucker – hanging like a piece of forbidden fruit. You know, I wasn’t going to go there. Like I said, I had plenty of other M words to write about today. But a quick google search changed my mind.

The letter M.

Motherfucker.

Crawl through the depths of my google search history. Do it.

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I’ll tell you where it came from – from a Burton. Burton. Hi, I’m Julie Burton. I’m married to Scott Burton. Scott is the son of his dad, a Burton. And Scott’s dad is the son of another Burton – Scott’s grandmother.

I wouldn’t dedicate this post out of disrespect to Scott’s grandmother. I mean, if you’re offended by the word motherfucker, then don’t read it. Hopefully she’s still reading because this is a family history lesson.

Gather.

Fuck is of Germanic origin. Fuck comes from the German, Dutch, and Swedish words for “to strike” or “to move back and forth.”

You need to go back to 1528 to find the first fuck written. An anonymous monk was reading a book on moral conduct. This book of conduct pissed him off in some way. He wrote, “O d fuckin Abbot” on the page as a side note. Historians don’t know if he meant “fuckin” meaning “the Abbot was having sex even though he’s a monk” sort of way or if he meant “fuckin” in the “intensifier word” sort of way. Fuckin’ Abbot.

The Abbot the anonymous monk was referring to – a man named John Burton. He was shady as fuck. Apparently he had questionable morals. It must run in the family.

My source: Huffington Post. A F*cking Short History of the F-Word. By Melissa Mohr

And there you go. A family history lesson on the name Burton. A name I married into – Julie “Motherfucker” Burton.

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Burton.

Burton.

It’s a good, strong name. You don’t have to spell it out to anyone. It’s easy to pronounce. Crossing the T with a swirl is always fun. And well, any baby with the last name Burton sounds as cute as a button.

There’s the director, Tim Burton. And the actor, Richard Burton.

And then you have this guy –

Jake Burton.

Jake Burton – founder of Burton Snowboards.

Most people know him by his snowboard brand.

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And then you have me. Julie Burton. An embarrassment to the name scattered all over Keystone, Colorado.

The expected happened – I went crazy on top of a mountain.

I did try.

I screamed at Scott. “I’m in hell” was my standard response when the ski patrol asked if I was ok. I fell. I fell again. My knees buckled. I was cold. I was hot. For once in my life, I felt all of my old bones of 33 years. Newborn babies straight from the womb sped around me. I walked down the mountain. I got a cramp in my leg. I sat in the snow and cried. I hyperventilated. I crawled to a terror-stricken woman sitting in the snow. She said she was from California and has never skied before. We rode the lift down from a green. We got laughs but hey, the lift ended at a bar. We waved back.

The ride of shame.

A Burton on the ride of shame.

That was my first and only attempt at skiing. The mountains took my breath away.

They took my breath away to an 85 percent oxygen level. I started my rapid decline to death caused by the flu made worse by altitude sickness. That’s what the doctor said after he laughed at my last name.

A Burton needs oxygen.

A Burton walking with an oxygen tank.

I spent the next two days in my hotel room, drugged up with a fever and chills. Scott said I cried and talked in my sleep. He kept medicine in me in between his ski runs and hot tub time with our friends. I don’t remember any of it.

I cried at the airport. I was asked if I had ebola. I was asked if my real name was, in fact, Burton. I was asked, “what year is it?”

I’m typing this from my death bed in Kansas. I don’t require an oxygen tank anymore.

If I make it out alive, I will start a women’s fishing apparel line named Burton.

I’m bringing this name back down to sea level.

Have you ever gotten sick on vacation? Have you ever gotten altitude sickness? Have you ever spent a vacation crying the whole time? I hope Jake Burton never reads this. Sorry, Jake. I tried.

I don’t believe in cold vacations.

Call me ignorant. Call me uneducated. Call me hard-headed. Call me what is that crazy-ass woman screaming about and who is Scott?

In four weeks, my crazy will be showing on top of a mountain.

Scott is taking me skiing in Keystone, Colorado. He will push me down a mountain and expect me to lean forward like I’m on some sort of suicide mission.

Scott’s current annoyance level with me is at a “fine, screw it. I’ll hire private lessons for you on the first day. I’m not dealing with this.” Whatever level that is.

We took the family to Dick’s Sporting Goods to get snow skiing gear.

Kate: I know how to spell dicks! D-I-C-K-S! Dicks.

Emma: Kate, you’re just copying the Dicks sign.

It was Scott’s last laugh.

I don’t know, the words just came spewing out of my mouth and now Scott isn’t talking to me anymore:

Scott, I’ve never seen a mountain. I went to Denver once but it was cloudy.

I told you. I don’t believe in cold vacations. All of my beliefs are traced back to my parents. Don’t blame me on how I was raised.

What do you expect? My mom is Mexican.

I was raised normal, Scott.

What happens if I don’t want to get off the ski lift? Can I ride back down?

What happens if I don’t want to go down once I’m pushed off the lift?

Can I ride on someone’s back and close my eyes?

Can you pull me on a sled and I’ll close my eyes?

All I’m saying is I’d much rather be three quarters naked on a boat.

Yeah, well fighting a 200 pound fish is a workout too.

How many layers of clothes? How is this even considered a vacation? Vacations are meant for as little clothing as possible.

I swear, if you take off with your friends and leave me on top of a mountain by myself, I will click off those skis and walk sideways down the mountain. I will find you and strangle you.

Given the choice of looking crazy or rolling down a mountain in a ball of snow, I’ll take crazy.

Oh, I can’t wear those ski pants. I’m only shopping for Burton apparel.

Yes, I plan on telling people that my last name is Burton so yes, people will know.

How is that embarrassing?

Hell no, I won’t try snowboarding! I’d rather walk sideways.

What are the ski stick thingies for? Is it a brake?

Why would I need zippers on my pockets? Oh, so you do take your phone with you when you ski. I don’t like that idea at all. I wouldn’t want my death put on YouTube.

I went skiing once in 5th grade on a hill in Kansas or maybe Missouri. It’s called Snow Creek. My friend’s parents took me with their family. All I remember is cold and where’s my mommy.

Is Keystone like the cheap-y economy style skiing resort? You know, like, the beer?

How am I acting like a child? Oh, worse than a child? Because I’m arguing about scenarios that haven’t even happened. That makes complete sense.

Avalanches are a real thing.

Frost bite is a real thing.

Mountain lions are a real thing.

Me getting my tongue stuck on the bar lift on purpose so I don’t have to go down a mountain is a real thing.

Uh, can totally see you sneaking off the side of the mountain to go shoot a mountain lion.

I’m not dumb. I’m just realistic.

Well, maybe I can hang with you and your friends on the double black diamond. You don’t know. Maybe I’ll be a natural.

Don’t tell me I’m not allowed on the double black diamond, Scott. You’re not my father.

Then send a helicopter.

Yeah, I’ve seen pictures of people smiling during their skiing trip. I feel sorry for them. They look cold. Teeth chattering makes a natural smile.

How is preferring warm weather being judgy?

So it’s going to be the exact same temperature as here? Great. I’m frozen.

No, I didn’t bring a coat. I don’t need it running in and out of a store.

Yes, I still want to go.

Why would you cancel it?

I promise, Scott. I won’t be the crazy wife.

 

Have you ever been snow skiing? Do you prefer skiing over a warm vacation? Has your spouse quit talking to you because of your hard-headedness? Am I the only person to never see a mountain? Any advice is welcome! I’ll listen to you, just not Scott.

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