Wednesday, March 17, 2010

Boyz - I Just Don't Get'em

I know I should be an expert.

I have two.  I'm married to one.  I've kissed.........more than one.  I spent countless hours obsessing over them with girlfriends (relax, the kissing and obsessing happend PRE-MoTH).

Yet, they remain a mystery to me.

This is where I insert a disclaimer warning those that are faint of heart to turn away.  Really.  Go.  Now.

Rather than starting with what I do not know, I will make a short list of the things I DO know:

1 - cars
2 - action figures
3 - dirt
4 - constantly seeking validation that yes, indeed, he is the fastest nine year old I've ever seen

However, the one thing I do NOT understand overshadows everything else.

What is it?

It's

the

penis.

I heard that gasp.  Yes, that's right.  I do NOT understand the ceaseless fascination with the penis.

I've heard it said that when you are the mother of a boy, you only have to worry about one penis (compared to the mother of a girl that has to worry about all the penises).

What that cute little saying FAILS to mention is that a boy's relationship with his little willy starts WAY earlier than most girls notice their tender vittles.

For example:  NR has become nearly impossible to change.  The minute you take the diaper off, it's GAME. ON.  He turns into Al Bundy, stuffing his hand down his pants.  Laughing.  Giggling.

It is an endless source of fascination and I have to be honest.  It makes me a triffle uncomfortable.

I mean I don't even LIKE the word "penis".

And, judging by any major sporting event and all the "adjusting" that goes on (yes, it's still there.......but it's a good thing you check EVERY FIVE MINUTES ON LIVE TV), the obsession doesn't end during childhood. 

Nothing bonds a group of men together, young and old, faster than seeing someone take it in the junk and double over.  The collective moans will rumble through the room, some men even break into a cold sweat.

Do these same men mutter nary a peep when their women folk squeeze live humans from their tender vittles?  No, they do not.

I'm getting off track.

Anyway, so I don't understand the obsession.   I also don't understand the total resistance to bathing.  Does AM WANT to be the smelly kid in class?  You'd think he'd LOVE the shower.

So, yeah.  That's my confession today.  I don't understand boys.  And, also, I need to stock up on antibacterial soap.

Tuesday, January 26, 2010

No use crying over crap. Unless, of course, there is a reason.

I just realized that I started a post way back in December that I never put on the blog. So I just added it. It's a rather incomplete post. Such is life.

Riddle me this: where did all this crap come from? No, really. Where? Despite my repeated threats to a: burn the storage unit down (vetoed because I look quite wretched in prison orange) or b: open it up and sell everything for whatever someone is willing to pay, all of my possessions are now in the "new" house.

Currently, my preferred method of dealing with Mt. Boxes is to ignore them. Since they are in my garage, right next to the car, this is more impressive than it sounds. I'm a regular artist in the Art of Denial.

On to other topics, because it's hard to deny the fortress of cardboard if I keep talking about it.....

MotH has turned into the Septic Tank Nazi. Oh, I know you're saying to yourself "I hate how everyone throws around the word 'Nazi' to describe an overbearing/tyrannical person". Trust me, I feel you. But here me out (and if you are still offended, take it out on Seinfield. He mainstreamed the word when he introduced us to the Soup Nazi.).

First, a little background. The house we bought failed it's septic inspection. This created a bit of a problem (10 DAYS BEFORE CLOSING), but we ended up with a new, fancy, box-that-holds-our-poop.

Jealous, right?

Anyway, MotH has been known, in the past, to be a little passionate about things. That is to say that he gets a wee obsessed when he's on a mission.

His mission: to reduce the flow of water into our septic to let the laterals/drainfield (you can figure out what that means) "heal".

I'll sum it up this way: if it's yellow, let it mellow. If it's brown, flush it down. I. Am. So. Not. Kidding. Thankfully we will soon own new, low-volume toilets and we can flush at will.

That is only ONE example of his septic tyranny. I rest my case.

There's more, but I'm tired and it will have to wait.