Penis Envy? I'm Confused.

I was in a football stadium. The bleachers were empty.  I stood there, rather bewildered as to why I was there. I don’t even like football.  I had on shoulder pads, jersey, and cleats-- the whole nine yards.  I looked down, saw that I had three penises and was mortified.

It was the gasp that woke me up and I sat straight up in bed.  It was one of those dreams you just can’t shake. It was evident the pervasive exposure to men had slid into my sub conscious mind.

For a time, I was the only female living with my husband and two teenage sons. I had yet to adjust from an equal balance of Venus and Mars to being around three men all the time. The lifejacket I had called my daughter moved on to her new life, despite my desperate pleas. I swam in a murky sea of rotten gym socks every day--football this, car engine that, belching, farting, rating farts, drinking directly out of the milk carton, wrestling and for the love of God, hearing “Dude” every three words. It was enough to make me grow my own set.  My husband was stuck in the middle, waging war with his own primal maleness by engaging in the chronic testicle centric behavior and trying to be the supportive to his wife who needed to talk about shoes.  It might have been worse for him.

I learned this much. In man cub communications, a fart, belch or grunt is a punctuation mark. It is a colloquial man courtesy that says, “I have completed my thought. Therefore, you may proceed with any commentary you may have on what I just said.”

Here is a fused version of a typical dinner conversation, to the best of my recollection through my feminine filter.

Son 1: I get to play interceptor defensive guard and right tackle the offensive forward pass at the first down with a punt returner (fart).

Son 2:  Cool (fart). 

Husband:  Well, why aren’t you going to mousetrap the line of scrimmage and intercept the offensive pass with a chop block? (too old to fart on command without adult diapers…grunts).

Son 2: “Dude, Chris blew a killer snot rocket today. You should have seen it.  It. Was. Awesome.” (fart)

(approving laughter)

Son 1: Yea?  Well, I saw this hot chick at school. Dude,  I mean HOT (belch)

Me:  What. The. Hell?  Can we at least make an effort to engage in conversation that makes sense?  Perhaps a series of fluid thoughts that somehow interconnect? Can we stay on one topic and complete that interaction before proceeding? (no fart)

(perplexed looks because there is no real clarity if I just finished my thought)

Husband:  Anyway, something is wrong with my truck.  I think the flank spinner is messing with the air filter manifold injector belt (grunt, guttural squeak)

Son 2: Dude. How hot was she? (fart, belch)

Son 1:  Dude, SMOKIN’ (cracks knuckles)

Me: Could……….

Son 2:  Are you sure it’s the not the manifold hemi 230xp spark valve radiator piston belt? (belch).

Husband:  No.  It’s not that. But, Jim is going to hook it up to the neutron desensitizer prolapse antenna mast diagnostic machine tomorrow (leans…nothing…squawks)

Son 1: (farts, says nothing)

Son 2: Dude, you didn’t even say anything, I’m confused (series of firecracker farts. Is this the grand finale?)

Me: Tampons are really good when you’re traveling…..and when I gave birth….they…….

(mass exodus from the table)

My best advice?  Have at least one gay son.  It'll keep you sane.

Have a good weekend, folks  XOXO