Wednesday, September 29, 2010
BOYS IN THE HOUSE
I did not grow up with males in the house. This may explain why some of the testosterone-induced behaviors I now experience at home as an adult seem like such a novelty to me. Those to whom male-minded manners are customary, may find the following merely a reaction to my under-exposure to masculine “charms” during development. Regardless, I still say men are fascinating creatures.
My friend’s clever and insightful comment, “Your son must be older than we are by now.” struck a strong chord with me. She’s right, he’s so old that if he keeps up this pace he’s going to beat me to the nursing home. It seems that way for most adolescents these days; they suffer from a disease whereby their perceived maturity goes far afield of their capacity to handle it. Their bend toward adult activities goes well beyond what I can recall being comfortable with at that age.
For example: I picked my son up from a school dance last Friday, a thirteen year old eighth grader—so worldly you know—and was glad to hear he had a good time at the dance. In fact, he actually danced at the dance. This, to me, was mildly shocking news. Ages ago, when I was attending eighth grade dances, most of the boys didn’t actually dance, they sort of milled around and deliberately tried not to notice the girls. Point of fact, my son not only danced but freak danced at the dance. For those of you not in the know, freak dancing involves direct contract between the dancers, particularly at the pelvic region and the gyrations that accompany the contact could easily elicit blushes from the more genteel and outrage from the more puritanical.
I think, “Hey—whatever works—they like to freak dance, let ‘em do it.” But I clearly recall being an eighth grade girl and know without a doubt that one of the last things I would have wanted was some horny, sweaty eighth grade boy grinding his unpredictable, easily excitable paraphernalia against my ass as we pounded the gym floor together to “Smoke On the Water” by Deep Purple. No, no. That would not be for me.
And as a thirteen to fourteen year old boy I cannot imagine what it would be like to meld my underused and likely over-abused privates into the nicely formed, budding buttocks of a female peer. I mean…what exactly is going on? No one’s sprouting wood? Seriously? OK, allright. Yes, I am middle-aged and times have changed but to my knowledge young boys are still getting unwanted and inconvenient stiffies from inopportune time to time. As a female of any age all I can say is, “Eek! Dude, keep your trouser snake to yourself.”
Of course, this is not a conversation I could have with my son. I would be soundly rebuffed with, “Oh Mom! You just don’t understand.” And you know—he’d be right—and that would be the end of that conversation. But I’m really, really trying to understand. However, I have three things working against me: 1) I’m a female 2) I’m a mom and 3) I’m his mom.
This last thing might be the deal breaker.
Tim's been objectifying our neighbor, Natasha, for a couple of years now. He goes on and on about her fake boobs. Before we got to know her, he porn-named her "Lusty McBusty" when he first spied her in the neighborhood. The quintessential MILF, she's barely five foot two, super cute, mid-forties, white-blonde hair, in phenomenal shape and has the aforementioned implants that seem a bit—shall we say—overblown for her body type. You know what I’m talking about. Basically, you take one look and immediately wonder how much she paid for them.
I invited Natasha to dinner the other night. She and I are planning a get-together for our group of neighbors and I thought it'd be easier to prepare if she joined us for dinner. I told my husband he would need to watch himself, no open gaping at her cleavage and if he must ogle, try to keep his glances as surreptitious as possible. You never know how much people are paying attention and I really don’t want our neighbor to know how obsessed my husband is with her chest. I mean, I understand they’re there to be looked at but the hope is for the retention of at least some dignity for all parties involved in spite of the desperate plea for attention.
To his credit, he did not slip up and mold a mammary out of the mound of mashed potatoes on his plate. Nor did he spill anything on our well-endowed guest in order to allow an emergency frontal mop up. Neither did not knock over his wine glass or drop food down his shirt as he tried to eat, drink and not ponder her paired protuberances. He seemed to manage it just fine.
Jack Kerouac once said, “My fault, my failure is not in the passions I have but in my lack of control of them.” You, my darling, are no Jack Kerouac. You did yourself proud.
Tim recently informed me with the excitement of a seven-year-old boy reporting the carnival just hit town, that another neighbor lady also added a lovely new set of twins to her perambulator. In the hopes of insulting neither man nor beast, I liken it to a scenario wherein you strap two shapely, alluring squeaky toys to your upper thorax and give them an occasional tweak. What’s a poor puppy to do? The panting, drooling, and foaming at the mouth is all to be expected. There’s only so much squeaky toy temptation a hankering hound can take.
Or perhaps a better analogy is mountain climbing. Why does anyone climb a mountain? Because it’s there. The bigger the mountain, the more challenging the goal, and the more satisfying the vista from the top. And there you have it: So many mountains to climb and not enough time or freedom to get it done. Ah, the poor dear—he’ll just have to enjoy the view from a distance.
The Grand Tetons. Makes you want to climb right on top—doesn’t it?