Category: dat man o’ mine

(I first posted this about 5 years ago. Five years ago?? Seriously??)

(Li’l MB, age 3, a broad-shouldered bruiser.)

A story.

Li’l MB was about 4 or 5. His mom, a nurse, was called into the hospital on an emergency and dad was at work, too, so Li’l MB and his brother were dashed off to the nearest babysitter: Cecilia Stone, reluctant wife of Rocky Stone.

Li’l MB and brother spent the afternoon playing nicely with each other; they were good little boys, well brought up, having a good little day. Cecilia Stone, however, was apparently not having a good little day. She was getting drunk.

Now, every good little boy, even in the midst of the most riveting afternoon of play, will need a potty break. Some little boys just go behind a bush, barely missing a beat. Other, better boys will stop, go in the house, and do their business. But the very best boys, finding themselves at, oh, say, someone else’s home, will ask permission to go in the house and relieve themselves.

MB, as I have established, was one of the very best boys. And when the need for a potty break became pressing, he respectfully approached the boozy Cecilia Stone, reluctant wife of Rocky Stone.

As the son of a nurse, MB had learned all the medically correct terms for the body’s vital excretory functions. In MB’s childhood home, there were no such words as “pee” or “poop” or “tinkle” or “wee wee.” And there were ABSOLUTELY no such words as “yellow potty” or “dirty potty,” the descriptive phrases used by Ritchie and Brian, Li’l MB’s troglodytic, melon-headed friends.

No. He and brother were taught to say “urinate” and “defecate.”

So L’il MB approached the sotted Cecilia Stone.

” ‘Scuse me. I have to defecate.”

“What!?” Cecilia Stone slurred.

“I have to defecate!”

“What?!? You’re suffocatin’!?”

“NOO-HO! I have to DEFECATE!” Li’l MB’s voice became urgent with need.

“SUFFOCATE!??”

“NOOOO-HO!! I HAVE TO DEFECATE!!!”

Poor Li’l MB. He rocked on his heels, desperate, but Cecilia Stone was soused, pie-eyed … sloshed. She could NOT understand him, no matter how hard he tried. Maybe he should have said “dirty potty.”

Moments later, mom came to pick up her boys and found Li’l MB crying in frustration and in dire defecatin’ straits. A groggy Cecilia Stone blurted:

“What the HELL is wrong with this kid?? HE KEEPS SAYIN’ HE’S SUFFOCATIN’!!”

Mom narrowed her eyes at silly Cecilia Stone and looked down at her frantic, dancing boy.

“He is NOT suffocating,” she replied, matter-of-factly. “He has to defecate!”

“Defecate?!”

Cecilia Stone wheezed.

“What’s that?!?”

The question trailed in the air behind MB’s indignant mom as she marched her little pooper home to his long-awaited destiny.

Well, My Beloved is visiting his parents this weekend up in the deep dark middle of nowhere. He’s having some much-needed mountain man time with his dad and The Devious Twins. So that’s why the girlie girl is here.

(Although, truthfully …. uhm ….. MB’s aunt, my mil’s older sister, is also visiting from the East Coast … and, well …… I can only take so much, okay? I am not Jesus.)

Now The Devious Twins are identical twin brothers whom MB has known since childhood. One of them — do not ask me which one — was also, along with MB, a member of that primary cause of swooning and naughty thoughts in the minds of high school girls all over town, the The Bitchen Rock Combo. He’s on the far left in the photo with the white blonde hair blending into the background, next to, oh, that superstar of hotness, My Beloved. Although, admittedly, at that time in my life MB was basically Total Stranger I’ve Neither Seen Nor Met Nor Even Know Exists. Funny how things work out, ain’t it?

So The Devious Twins were your basic clowns, your average pranksters, your neighborhood nightmares, and there were TWO OF THEM, exact replicas of one another, so whatever they did involved mayhem multiplied. They are hilarious — do not misunderstand me — but they are dangerous rubes and should not be trusted with human life in any way, shape, or form. Perhaps this weekend they will do something like drink a bunch of beers with MB and then lie down in the middle of Main Street to see if they get run over by any hapless drivers just trying to get the heck outta that loco town. Who knows? And yes, these are grown men, pippa. With wives and children and giant millstones of responsibilities around their necks.

I tell you true: whenever my phone rings this weekend and it’s MB, I will pick it up with at least a half measure of dread, wondering if this is the phone call where he’ll say, “Okay. So one of The Devious Twins was driving his truck on the shore so we could waterski in the canal which — yes, babe, it’s only five feet deep — and, well, he hit a tree — yes, it’s only five feet wide; you know, it’s the canal! — and I was on the skis being pulled but I slammed into the shore when he hit that tree and I can’t move my arms or legs so I think I might be a quadriplegic now, etc.”

And I will sigh with great wifely concern, “Okay. Well, what do you want me to do about it from here?”

To be fair, The Devious Twins did repeatedly ask MB, “Is Tracey coming with you? Are you bringing Tracey?” You know, which is nice. So they were at least willing to have a girlie girl interrupt their mountain man shenanigans. Plus, I get along well with the menfolk. I LIKE men. I even like men like The Devious Twins. No. I especially like men like The Devious Twins. Even when one of them — again, do not ask me which one — a little tipsy last Christmas, regaled me with a half-hour epic tale of his long-ago horrifying penis injury. It was told with great glee and graphic descriptions. What is it about me that causes this to happen?? I have no idea, truly. But it was hilarious. (I love being the only sober person at a party.) From the first word out of his mouth, I was howling with laughter. The next day, this same Devious Twin called MB, all remorseful and said, “Hey, dude. I’m sorry. I think I talked to Tracey about my penis last night.” Hahahaha. Yes, you did. And, God help me, I found it oddly charming. I mean, I wouldn’t want anyone to feel uncomfortable on my account, you know?

So heaven only knows what might happen this weekend with The Devious Twins in the deep dark middle of nowhere.

And heaven only knows what stupid thing I’ll end up doing out of sheer boredom around here.

Uhm, live-blog of “Frogs” anyone?