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.