Monday, September 18, 2006

Men: Can't Live with 'Em, Can't Afford a Luxury Condo in an Undisclosed Location

On Saturday afternoon I walked out of the bathroom after having dried my hair and wandered into the living room. There, on my couch, was the commissioner of basketball, eating McDonald's food. He was there watching the Ohio State football game with my son. "Hey," he said briefly, looking up.

"Commissioner," I responded, nodding. He merely reached into the bag for another sandwich. My husband was in his recliner with his laptop, frowning at the screen. "What's with all these emails from the Hornets and the Trailblazers?" he complained. "I don't want to get sent all this trash talk if it doesn't concern me! Why do they send this shit to everyone?" The Commissioner turned his attention ever so slightly from the football game. "I don't know," he said, a slight edge to his voice. "They're just idiots. I delete 'em."

I sighed and walked out of the room. This is what it is like to live in a houseful of males. It's Fantasy Sports Season. Right now, all three of them own fantasy football franchises and are busily drafting basketball teams for when that season begins. It never stops. And I mean never. It is the topic of dinner conversation, after-dinner conversation, cell phone conversations, Sunday morning over-the-newspaper conversations, and any other time they can possibly manage it. Oh, sure, they try to include me: "Mom, I need a shooter and I'm stuck between Iguadala and Prince. Who should I take?" But really, I'm so sick of it all. IT'S NOT REAL! THEY DON'T EVEN GET A PRIZE IF THEY WIN! WHAT THE HECK IS THE POINT, THEN? I just don't get it. It's "A Guy Thing." I can't even think of anything in the Female Experience that is analagous to Fantasy Sports Leagues. All this constant fantasy junk is making me want my own apartment.

Listen, that's not all. If you live in my house, you get to hear these as well:
--"It's as hot as crotch in here!"
--"Come ON! Don't sit there and tell me you've never, in your WHOLE life, ever had swamp ass."
--after whiffing own armpit, "Man, do I stink! Seriously, I need a shower."
--"Mom, my head is bigger than your whole torso!"
--"Mom, please. You're so weak you can't even drink from a big-girl glass."
--the word "piss" as noun, verb, and adjective
--farts and burps at the dinner table every night, sometimes simultaneously
--quotes from "Office Space" and "Napoleon Dynamite" and "Rain Man" every single day
--actual meltdowns over poor players' performances in Madden 2007, which is A GAME

And, apparently, if you are male and live in my house, these things are optional:
--hanging up the hand towel
--scraping food off the dishes before stacking them or loading them
--bringing used dishes or drinking vessels back to the kitchen
--putting the cordless phone back on its charger
--hanging up your car keys
--turning off or putting your laptop away or at least off the floor
--bringing up any clean, dry clothing from the laundry, even your own
--putting clean, dry clothing in a drawer
--recycling aluminum cans
--cleaning the catbox
--picking up your change
--noticing and then cleaning up cat yak

Oh, boo hoo, some of my male readers are saying. Or, big effing deal, some of my mommies of toddlers or newborns might be saying. THAT'S RIGHT, I say! I have the right to boo hoo over this big effing deal! After carping after sophomores and juniors all day about the sanctity of the English language and the stature of American literature, the last thing I need is all of that crap!

Wow. I feel tons better now.


  1. LOL! That is hilarious! All the guys where I work are doing the fantasy football thing. Some of the women too, but I'm just not into it. I have joined our celebrity death pool though...

  2. Despite the obvious morbid aspect, I have always been fascinated with the Celebrity Dead Pool. There are tons of them online, and each one works a bit differently. I think I'd join the one where you pick someone who keeps defying the odds, and I'd lay money on Keith Richards.

  3. I'd have to move out--and send them an effing e-mail telling them I love them.

    Wordgirl at Half of the Sky has three teenage sons. I know she feels your pain.


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