Men, Mars and mayonnaise make Patty go batty
Life with boys is not for the faint of heart … or psyche … or nose. #seriouslycanthitthetarget
Men may be from Mars — this I accepted many moons ago and for the most part, can handle. But do they really have to keep leaving the mayonnaise jar sitting out on the counter all day?
I mean, even the Martians with their double dose of moons know egg-based condiments spoil quickly at room temperature in this atmosphere.
I know that I’ve waxed philosophical about living with the testosterone twins (Kerry and Kyle) in the past, but it seems time for a reboot. Make that a manly, dirty, filthy cowboy boot, yo.
So today I give you: Domesticating Dudes = Making Patty Batty
I am going to describe for you certain scenarios which, if are not daily, certainly are regular occurrences at Casa Kimerer. I won’t tell you which of the two gentlemen with whom I reside is the guilty party for each said description. You decide for yourselves which boy did what.
Let’s start with the phone. These alone are enough to make me dial 0 for the operator … and pray that she’s a female, yo.
Take, for example, the phone messages fiasco. It’s not that I don’t appreciate when K erases my voicemail messages before I’ve had a chance to listen to them — many times remotely from his cell so that there’s actually no evidence that a call for me ever actually occurred. It’s just that when the note left behind for me is written in hieroglyphics, well it makes it a darned fun challenge to try to decipher. #worstmessagetakerever
Here’s what I find scrawled on a pad next to the phone: “RSVP = 2 Hankers (sp?)”
“Um, what is this note? Who called for me? Was it a man or a woman? Is this for the swim team get-together or the athlete meeting? What is a Hanker?” I rattle off faster than Ralphie from “A Christmas Story” can describe all the bells and whistles on a Red Rider BB gun.
K’s silent shoulder shrug response definitely pushes my buttons.
As does K’s propensity for ignoring my very existence whenever he is scrolling through his phone. “Hi, how was your day? What would you like for dinner? Want to do pizza since the Cavs are playing later? Hello? McFly? Is anybody in there?”
“So, I’ve been called for jury duty … in Antarctica … for 17 months. I left sauce and meatballs in the freezer. You should be good for a while,” I toss out there, fishing for any type of reply.
“OK, sounds good,” he says, never once taking his eyes off his iPhone.
Ah, and it’s just a matter of time before I call in in a bio-hazard emergency regarding K’s less-than-sanitary cook prep methods.
“Um, the blood from the, you know, dead cow you’re flinging around, um, it’s sort of, well, dripping all over the counter and floor and … please do not touch anything with your hands full of raw meat juice!” I finally scream when my germ-meter busts right through its bubble top. BLECH!
“Oh, please. It’s fine!” says K — at least I think that’s what he said from the muffled sounds he was making as I Clorox-wiped him from head to toe. That was right before I retraced his every step, silently and methodically calculating the possible trajectory and destination of every single raw meat blood spatter. #shudder
Trust me, people, CSI with their fancy dusters and blue lights have got nothing on a germphobic mom armed with bleach. Nobody’s getting an E. coli infection on my watch, capisce?
Hey, and who wouldn’t love the hyper-affectionate way a boy will pay super-duper close attention to you — but only at certain times, right?
I mean, all I have to do is leave a set of lights on and put one toe out of a room or have the refrigerator door open for three milliseconds or head in the general direction of the thermostat and BAM! Suddenly a boy materializes out of thin air, darkening rooms, slamming fridge doors and lowering the indoor temperatures.
So there I sit, in the pitch black, my stomach growling louder than the MGM lion and with 47 layers of clothes on, groping around for the stash of rice cakes I bought on my secret trip to the grocery store when BAM! From down the block in the neighbors’ driveway and through closed double-doors, I hear K’s inquisition begin: “Hey, what’s that crinkling I hear? Did you buy more groceries? Weren’t you just at the store in August? Where’s the bill?”
Then there’s that other K who brushes off my hugs as a rule but makes a beeline for me quite warmly anytime he’s in need of some moola for (fill in the blank). Could be gas or a new hoodie or, oh, I don’t know, Chipotle?
No prob, I’ll just head back into the vault and grab you a few dozen stacks of bills, ‘kay? Ooh; don’t let the other K know about this little Bank of Mom transaction. Yeah, I gave that one away on purpose.
Clearly there are days when the only being in my home who understands me is my boxer, Monica. She is, of course, a girl. Hmpf.
Then again, Kerry is the same boy who went to all that trouble of buying me a bracelet with the “Our Father” engraved in Italian for Christmas last year. And Kyle is the kid who got me the “Faith Makes All Things Possible” necklace for Mother’s Day.
But it doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten how they murdered my Irish linen hand towel by allowing her to be used to sop up grease in the garage this past summer. Cut down before her prime. Forgive them, Thomas Ferguson!
Boycotting Boys Soon
P.S. Not really. Love those two knuckleheads to the moon and back.
Kimerer is a Tribune Chronicle columnist whose son, husband and pup are the light of her life … even though two of them are icky boys. Read about the four of them and their hijinks at patriciakimerer.com.