Sorry for the mess, John’s been gone since Sunday and it’s been pretty hectic.
I know I only have one kid at home right now, but it has still been absolutely nutty.
Do you want coffee?
So… actually, it’s been a bit hectic because we are not as ‘nutty’ as we once were.
Marshal Dillon Dingle’s jewels are … uh …
Marshal’s Dillon Dingle’s jewels are gone.
And I am stuck by myself with a fifteen-year-old boy. And what are fifteen-year-old boys obsessed with?
Jewels and poo.
Yes, I’m serious. And it doesn’t end after fifteen.
Last year Gabe, Number One Son Sam, and my nearly perfect husband (Number Three son, Jack was in on this too, probably!) bought a ‘man cave’ sign and they claim that, when they display it in the TV room, everything from flatulence to poo comparisons are ‘legal’ (not kidding).
And they took their sign out and displayed it proudly, and often. And they discussed these things so openly (and loudly) that it was hard for me to focus on the latest episode of something requiring lots of concentration. Like Revenge.
And more recently I noticed a strange reality that, when a dog is neutered, the entire male population of a household seems to suddenly overly identify with said dog, and there is much sympathizing and empathizing even before the dog goes to the vet. This time my nearly perfect husband was going to drop Marshal off for the procedure, but at the last minute he asked me to come with him (John, not Marshal) just in case.
I’m not sure what the ‘just in case’ was.
Initially, I thought it might be ‘Hey, why don’t you come with me just in case there is a weird mix up in the handing over of the leash and Marshal makes a break for it’, or ‘…just in case I ‘push’ the door the vet’s office, when it is clearly labeled ‘pull”. But then I realized that, really, it was ‘just in case I, the nearly perfect husband who also happens to be a man, chickens out and brings Marshal Dillon Dingle out to breakfast at the Dream Diner rather than leave him to,’ – and these are John’s words – ‘loose his manhood.’
Firstly, Dream Diner wouldn’t have allowed Marshal Dillon Dingle to come in for breakfast and hang out eating eggs and corned beef hash in a comfy booth. They would have had to sit at the counter. And since John doesn’t like to sit at the counter, they wouldn’t have gone.
Secondly, this had become a really big deal in our house. I am telling you, any and every time I brought up the subject of Marshal’s impending appointment, I swear Gabe and John both walked around a little more gingerly and slipped Marshal Dillon Dingle a few extra hits of puppy crack. And they tried, many times, to talk me out of it – or to put it off – as if they were pleading to the courts for clemency (and a possible presidential pardon).
And, as an aside (shocking, I know), spaying a female dog is a lot more involved than neutering a male. It requires major abdominal surgery. When Blaze was spayed, we invoked the twelfth amendment while she was under, then she came home and was pretty tired for the rest of the night, had a quiet day the next day, and then assumed her regular schedule and duties. Marshal came home and proceeded to whine pitifully and require many belly rubs and snuggles for days on end (and, no, nothing was the matter – we even double checked with the vet!). Blaze could, literally (if she was not spayed), have twelve puppies in a field, finish, feed them, home school them and keep on working. If Marshal had a single puppy – one that made the Guinness Book of World Records for smallest puppy ever born… seriously, if Marshal Dillon Dingle had to give birth to a pea, he’d be out of work for months.
Plus he would talk about what a superhero he was for having that single, puny pea-puppy for the rest of his dang life!
Okay, where were we? Ah yes:
Tertiarily (nope not a real word, but I’m going to submit it because it’s dang cool and sounds so much better than ‘thirdly’), how many freakin’ words can men come up with for their boy parts?
Let’s see, thus far I have heard pleas – from my 15 year old son, followed by my nearly 48 year old husband’s giggles – for Marshal’s ‘pebbles’, ‘acorns’, ‘chicken nuggets’, ‘meat and vegetables’, ‘cash and prizes’, and – a new favorite – ‘boys in the basement’.
Boys in the basement.
You’ve got to wonder… is there a boy king (not a King Tutt-like ‘boy king’, a King of all Boys) who sits somewhere, down in a dank basement, with and Xbox, surrounded by multiple flat screens and copies of Shawn of the Dead, Star Wars (A New Hope, The Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi…you know, the real ones), and Die Hard? And does this King of Boys spend all day, when he isn’t watching movies or playing Battlefield, making up Urban Dictionary terms for man parts and poop?
Seriously, my kid left the kitchen recently, just before dinner. When I asked him where he was going, he said – and I am not lying – “I’m going to drop the kids off at the pool.” and I didn’t understand.
Until my nearly perfect husband almost fell off his chair because he was laughing so hard and couldn’t catch his breath. Then I understood and rolled my eyes and attempted to look exasperated.
Then he turned to me, as if this were perfectly normal, and said, “He also ‘Takes the Browns to the Super Bowl.”
And I just shook my head and turned away.
But I did smile. Because it was sort of funny.
Because the Browns have never been to the Superbowl, and they ain’t goin’ to the Superbowl any time soon. And then I thought that saying should really be slang for constipation, as in “I’m going to try to take the Browns to the Superbowl”.
Oh my Gawd that’s so funny! I am laughing out loud right now, people! That’s so….
Oh my Gawd.
Oh my Gawd how am I supposed to feign outrage effectively if I, too, find that sort of humor funny?
And I didn’t just find their humor funny, I just contributed to it right there on the page! It’s there!
How am I going to be able to deny it now?
And don’t tell me to just go back and erase it, because you know how I am working to make sure my writing is authentic (and you were just going to have me participate in a cover up…some friend you are.)
And I actually like all those movies I mentioned above. I mean, I can’t even listen to Queen’s Don’t Stop Me Now, without thinking of whacking zombies at the Winchester. And I even certified Die Hard an acceptable Dingle family Christmas movie because John McClane sends dead terrorist in a Santa Cap down the elevator with the sign that says, “Now I have a machine gun. Ho. Ho. Ho.” (and Alan Rickman, as Hans, reads it in his accent so well!). And, okay, I don’t play Battlefield, but I do ask Jack (number three son) how it’s going when he plays.
My nearly perfect husband is right.
I’m practically a guy.
Oh poor, de-jeweled Marshal Dillon Dingle!!!
I have to go. My little Meeshy needs some extra snuggles.
And maybe a steak.
Thanks for readin’
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