Why is it that whenever impending doom perches on your shoulder like Cinderella’s bluebird, the man of the house will say, “Trust me. I got this.”
Is that a Man Term for, “Flying monkeys are on the horizon! We’re all going to die!”
Other languages have masculine or feminine nouns. English has entire phrases. If you happen to overhear a conversation beginning with, “Hey man, look what I can do!” not only is it masculine, the country’s defense code has just moved up to Defcon Four. On the other hand, if you hear, “We really need to talk,” the phrase is feminine and there’s imminent nuclear war on the horizon.
If I had a daughter, I would teach her that the hearing the words “Trust Me” is an indication she should take the little poison pill in her secret spy ring because the game’s up.
Don’t get me wrong. I love men. I married two of them and only threw one back. I raised two boys without calling 911 once unless you count the time Son One threatened to notify Emergency Services after the broccoli incident.
But if the roof is leaking and I hear one of my guys say, “Don’t worry, I got this,” I pull out the lifejackets and cover the couch in plastic because there’s going to be a flood through the living room shag that Noah would be proud of.
Yesterday, as I was peeling the potatoes for dinner, the ice maker in the refrigerator began to leak, the dishwasher pitched in with a Ka-Thunk noise, and the microwave produced an array of pops and sparks. I didn’t bother to wait for the guys to spring into action.
“I got this!” I screeched, drove a For Sale Sign in the front yard, and went out to dinner.
Laugh
Showing posts with label DefCon. Show all posts
Showing posts with label DefCon. Show all posts
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Earth Day Dilemma
Last night Sons One and Two were piled up on each end of the recliner couch, conserving energy in preparation for Earth Day.
I headed toward their room with a bucket and a broom, an activity that generally raises their alertness level to at least DefCon 1.
Son One peered suspiciously at me over his elevated Reeboks, an alarming feat considering the size of the feet. “What are you doing?”
“I thought I’d liberate some earth in preparation for tomorrow. You guys have enough free range topsoil in there to grow an acre of organic asparagus.”
He made the icky face. “I don’t like asparagus. Can you grow cake?”
I took a peek through their doorway. “Maybe Devil’s Food.”
“Funny, Mom. What’s with the bucket?”
Not wanting to compromise the integrity of my mission, I shot a wary glance at Son Two. He was staring intently at a tiny screen in front of him that he appeared to be massaging with his thumbs. Wires sprouted from the pockets of his hoodie and disappeared into his hair in the vicinity of where ears should be located. We haven’t seen his ears since 2003, so I’m a little apprehensive about confirming their whereabouts.
“Shhhh. I’m going to return his rock collection to the wild.”
The recliner at the end of the couch popped open like a mouse trap with reverse action. Music disappeared down flying headphones like water down a drain. The only thing dearer to Son Two than his rock collection is whatever he happens to have in the six million pockets of his camo jacket. Or a pizza. Or a six pack of YooHoos. This kid rotates his priorities like a farmer rotates crops.
“It took all my life to collect that highly specialized representation of rock types. Throw out your own stuff.”
Who says there's no communication between generations?
“I can’t. The only stuff you guys haven’t commandeered for personal use is my makeup and my dangly earrings. I’ll give up my CoverGirl complexion before I part with my highly specialized collection of bright and shinies. Besides, my stuff isn’t environmentally friendly.”
“What about those silver earrings with your birthstone?”
“Sorry. Ashes to ashes. Amethysts to earlobes.”
I was blazing a trail across the carpet in their room when I was stopped in my tracks by a line of crusty laundry that would resemble that long wall in China if seen from space.
I went back, popped some popcorn, and joined the boys on the couch.
I know when I’m beaten. I can shovel my way through shag, but I can’t fight the Great Wall of Chinos.
I headed toward their room with a bucket and a broom, an activity that generally raises their alertness level to at least DefCon 1.
Son One peered suspiciously at me over his elevated Reeboks, an alarming feat considering the size of the feet. “What are you doing?”
“I thought I’d liberate some earth in preparation for tomorrow. You guys have enough free range topsoil in there to grow an acre of organic asparagus.”
He made the icky face. “I don’t like asparagus. Can you grow cake?”
I took a peek through their doorway. “Maybe Devil’s Food.”
“Funny, Mom. What’s with the bucket?”
Not wanting to compromise the integrity of my mission, I shot a wary glance at Son Two. He was staring intently at a tiny screen in front of him that he appeared to be massaging with his thumbs. Wires sprouted from the pockets of his hoodie and disappeared into his hair in the vicinity of where ears should be located. We haven’t seen his ears since 2003, so I’m a little apprehensive about confirming their whereabouts.
“Shhhh. I’m going to return his rock collection to the wild.”
The recliner at the end of the couch popped open like a mouse trap with reverse action. Music disappeared down flying headphones like water down a drain. The only thing dearer to Son Two than his rock collection is whatever he happens to have in the six million pockets of his camo jacket. Or a pizza. Or a six pack of YooHoos. This kid rotates his priorities like a farmer rotates crops.
“It took all my life to collect that highly specialized representation of rock types. Throw out your own stuff.”
Who says there's no communication between generations?
“I can’t. The only stuff you guys haven’t commandeered for personal use is my makeup and my dangly earrings. I’ll give up my CoverGirl complexion before I part with my highly specialized collection of bright and shinies. Besides, my stuff isn’t environmentally friendly.”
“What about those silver earrings with your birthstone?”
“Sorry. Ashes to ashes. Amethysts to earlobes.”
I was blazing a trail across the carpet in their room when I was stopped in my tracks by a line of crusty laundry that would resemble that long wall in China if seen from space.
I went back, popped some popcorn, and joined the boys on the couch.
I know when I’m beaten. I can shovel my way through shag, but I can’t fight the Great Wall of Chinos.
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