Sunday, September 18, 2011

A Sea of Testosterone

I am not exactly what you'd call a girly girl and have not been accused of such by anyone who knows me.  My poor mother thought when she had a daughter that I might be interested in princess-y accoutrements but found out otherwise very shortly after setting up the canopy bed she and my father bought for me as my first "big girl bed" when I was three.  Within a month I had bent and twisted the actual canopy into a mangled mess.  Yes, I was thrilled to receive this bed, but I viewed the canopy not as a lovely decoration, rather as a personal jungle gym from which to swing and flip and dismount the bed.

My lack of extremely overt estrogen driven behavior continues to manifest in such things as disliking shoe and clothing shopping, not even owning make-up, willingness to fly from ziplines, and wearing the ensuing scars with pride.  That said, I am a little concerned about now being the only female still dwelling in Casa de Lime.  The air hangs a bit heavier with erm....masculine aromas.  In my absence, foodstuffs that Diana or Calypso might have helped defend seem to disappear with great rapidity.  The television spends a lot more time on ESPN.  And then there is what passes for jovial conversation...

Mr. Lime: (struggling as he stepped over Isaac in the bean bag chair) You're in my way, doofus.


Isaac:  It's not my fault you're an old man who's lost all his moves.  By the way, you're blocking the TV.  Get out of my way, jerkwad.

Mr. Lime:  I can still take you out, ya little twit.

Isaac: Ha! I'm taller than you and I could take you from this bean bag chair, ya jackwagon.

Mr. Lime: You try and there's going to be two hits.  My hitting you.  You hitting the floor.

Isaac: Ok, I see senility has started too now.  Mom, get him some pudding, will ya?


I rolled my eyes at the taste of post-dinner conversation for the next three years.

Later in the evening when Isaac was supposed to be typing a paper for History class according to the Chicago style of format he had some questions.  I sorted him out then he was typing and started to chuckle.  I asked what was so funny.  He showed me how he could simulate boobs by typing (.)(.).  I informed him he used the wrong format and had to type them like this ( . Y . ). He was completely impressed.

I'm not helping myself any am I?   Ah, but it was a tender mother/son moment.

9 comments:

Beach Bum said...

All I can say is that my son and I have had similar verbal exchanges over who was controlling the Chips Ahoy cookies supply.

KFarmer said...

My son is 30 and we continue to this day to have candid open conversations... the love continues : )

haphazardlife said...

Look at the brigth side, it'll make for some great blog fodder!

Craig said...

(*sniff*)

My mom never told boob jokes with me. . .

But then, I never called my dad a 'jerkwad', either (which, all things considered, probably worked toward the fact that I'm alive today to tell you about it. . .)

Suldog said...

Any Mom who would show her son how to make internet boobs bigger and better deserves... something. Personally, I think it's something good you deserve, and I hope you get it.

silly rabbit said...

Ha! Sounds great to me!

~Tim said...

I'm nominating you for Mom of the "Y"ear.

Rob said...

Personally, I think you should "round out" Isaac's education in this area by explaining that, when the day inevitably comes that he makes the rite of passage of visiting a strip club, he will most likely encounter extra-perky, surgically-enhanced, pastie-obscured boobies that look more like: (+Y+) and firm female backsides along the lines of: (_!_)

You rock as a mom in any case!

Jocelyn said...

This is actually a HUGE change, inn't? I hadn't really thought before about the shift of dynamics in your house. You make it funny, but, wow, that's a THING.