I admit it: I am a prude. I use the word loosely here, not in a sexual sense. I simply mean I've become straight-laced. And I didn't used to be. I've done and said and been all kinds of things in the past that were not very prude and straight-laced at all. Some actually not so far in the past and some still presently going on.

For one, I've always considered myself a pretty rocking grandma. Hard rock is my music of choice more often than not. And I only recently quit going to rock concerts—because of economics, not age.

Plus, while I've never been a cigarette smoker, I sure as heck still enjoy alcohol on a fairly regular basis. I'm talking 7&7s, too, not some girly umbrella drink.

And swearing? I don't say the F-word myself—except when I poke myself in the eye with the mascara wand—but I have no qualms about others saying it. Well, unless, of course, it's mothers saying it in front of children, regardless of their children's age, or people who utter it only when they've downed two or ten too many margaritas, mojitos or Miller Lites. Same goes for GD when anyone says it, regardless of reason.

Yes, I admit that unless I'm around my grandkids, I show little restraint when it comes to spewing bad words, especially those that begin with S, H, D, B, or A. When writing blog posts I typically write <cuss> instead of writing the cuss word I have in mind, but in real life I can be a real potty mouth.

I'm not proud of that potty mouth nor of any other non-grandmotherly things I do. But there was always some twisted sense of pride in being able to say I'm not a prude.

Well, not anymore. Alas, I am indeed a prude.

I lately felt prudeness creeping up on me as I noticed more and more of my friends and family apologizing to me when they uttered certain utterances that typically make grandmas cringe—even if I hadn't cringed, hadn't even noticed the offense. Now, though, I know for a fact that I'm in full-blown prude status. At least when I'm in charge of my grandsons.

I realized I'd officially crossed over to Prudeville when I took Bubby to see The Adventures of TinTin. It's rated PG, so I figured it would be safe to see with my nearly four-year-old grandson. He had no problem with it but within the first five minutes, I did. I had a huge problem with it and actually considered leaving the theater. There were guns and fisticuffs and unsavory behavior from the moment the title sequence flashed across the stage. Guns, I tell you! Shooting! All being deliciously savored by my grandson, who is not allowed to have guns, not allowed to watch violence beyond what takes place in nature, like in, say, The Lion King and Jungle Book.

As Bubby smiled and swayed and reeled from gunfire and leaned over to me to say, "This is a great day and the movie is the best part, Gramma!" I sat there worrying that I was warping the sweet little boy beside me, that the gentle soul who had accompanied me into the theater would transform into the town bully when we walked out. Because of the violence I let him witness on screen.

And the drinking. Of alcohol. Oh my! One of the main characters in the movie was a drunk. A sweet drunk, but a drunk nonetheless.

I think there were actually a few swear words in the film, too. I don't remember for certain, though, as I was just too consumed watching for blood to spurt during the swashbuckling scenes (it didn't) or death to come to one or another of the bad guys who stood in TinTin's way (which it didn't). Or to the drunk, or, heaven forbid, to TinTin himself and his little dog, too. (Again, it didn't. Luckily.)

Bubby loved the movie, talked about it at length on the way home. And he didn't take aim at Baby Mac with imaginary guns or pretend to slice up Mom, Dad, or the dog with a fake sword. And he didn't chug his drink then slam down his glass as if a tankard and tell Mom "Hit me up again!" at dinner. Luckily.

Still, I felt bad, as if I'd tainted my grandchild. Which is ridiculous, I know. It was a PG movie, for heaven's sake. Megan and Preston drink alcohol. They watch violent shows on TV (after Bubby has gone to bed). They use swear words. I'd venture to say they've even let the F-word fly when little pitchers were unknowingly nearby.

It's their taste in music, though, that proved my ultimate saving grace, saved me from being the one who tainted Bubby. It also solidified for me my self-label of prude.

To wit: As Bubby and I drove home from the movie that fateful day, he shouted from the back seat "Turn it up, Gramma" when LMFAO (whom I later learned was the artist) came on the radio. He then proceeded to sing along.

And it was that very moment, as I watched Bubby in the rearview mirror popping about and singing, "Girl, look at that body...I work out!" then "Wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle, yeah!" that I knew I had crossed over. I had become a prude.

Bubby's wiggle dance was truly hilarious as <cuss>, but golly gee, it just seemed so wrong.

That right there, my bristling at a song that clearly made Bubby so happy, was the last straw, the final bit of proof that I've entered Prudeville.

And there's no turning back. Forget the Sexy and I Know It song. The only song this grandma will be doing the wiggle dance to is one a little more tame.

Well, at least in title. My song: I'm Prude and I Know It.

C'mon, fellow grandmas, join in! Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, yeah! Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, yeah! We're prude and we know it.

Maybe?

(One small confession: I'm not that much of a prude because I've actually had a weird affection for the LMFAO song ever since Bubby introduced it to me with his back-seat wiggle dance. Just don't tell anyone. And I won't tell anyone if you click on that link above and listen to it over and over and develop a wiggle song all of your very own.)

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Today's question:

How much of a straight-laced prude are you?