gross misunderstanding

I love men. They look good. They smell good...well, most of the time. They are fun to watch when they lift heavy stuff.

But there are things that I don't quite understand about men. Like why are they so gross? And why is gross funny? And when we women are aghast (and I do mean "gassed") at their being gross, why is that even more funny? I just don't get it.

I grew up in a house of mostly female persons. My poor dad. He had three daughters. And a wife, of course...but not in that order. Lucky for him probably, none of us were what you'd call girly girls. But we were not gross. And except for his occasional bouts of belching and flatulence, my dad wasn't terribly gross either.

Now I live with three male persons. It has come to my attention that guys are gross. Guys are gross, and it is not funny. They toot and say, "Oops." Not funny. They stink up the bathroom, and the stench wafts down the hall. Gross, not funny. They scratch and spit and sniff and snort, and it is not funny. Hawk a loogie? Not funny. They monologue about digestive upset and bathroom trauma. Incredibly gross, not funny. Not even a little. Diarrhea exposition becomes a love soliloquy. So not funny. Belching is an esophageal art form. Pathetically gross, not funny.

I love men. The Bible even says I would. But guys are gross, and it is not funny. It isn't called a curse for nothing.

Most women agree with me that guys are gross, and it's not funny. But we do have one traitor. I'm guessing she's in the If-You-Can't-Beat-'Em-Join-'Em camp. But then again, I saw an interview with her once, and let's just say she has a short attention span. And she's blond. Real blond. Like the roots go all the way through, honey. Well anyway, to prove my point, I give you Smart Beep's Blind Date. If I can sympathize with anybody on this commercial, it is the guy in the back seat. Somehow even though he's a guy, he knows it is gross, and it is not funny.



And there is one other lady--and I promise I'll stop here--who is NOT gross and who IS funny. Well, maybe she is a little bit gross, but she is pointing out how gross guys can be, so I am giving her a get-out-of-jail-free card. At any rate, if you yourself are gross or if you are one of the ones who loves said gross person, this should be worth a chuckle.



Until next time, just remember: Guys are gross, and it is not funny. Well, maybe a little. ;)

link: faith hill

burn, baby, burn

I love to burn things. It is incredibly therapeutic. I stand outside in the back 40 reveling in the peace, watching planes fly by, hearing birds and frogs and critters chatter, getting distracted by shiny things.

As sun sets, the mesmerizing flames lick 'round and higher. My mind flits through scenes of ancient Babylon when Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego took what could have been a fatal stand. As my face stings from the ambient heat, I cringe at the thought of the flames of hell. I thank the One who rescued me for the privelege of never having to experience that inferno, mourning for those who will. Having been emotionally exhausted, I let my mind go blank. Drinking in the flames.

On the eve of trash day, I dumpster dive in search of things to burn: pizza boxes, wood scraps, junk mail, my bra. Whatever. Tonight was no different. But I couldn't stop there. I dug up dead weeds around the burn pile trying to pretty up the place. It is a burn pile after all. A thinking place. It must be revered.

I burnt viney things and bright green things and stickery things. Knowing nothing of what I was touching with my gloved hands because that would require a knowledge of plant life. And since I don't know much about botany, my poison ivy-prone skin and I fear every little plant that isn't actively blooming.

I had no idea how long I'd been clearing the hill. Knowing it was a race to cleanse my person lest the pustulant plague begin to ravage my body, I hurried inside to freshen up. I stuffed my garments in the washer. Left with nothing other than a couple of freshly laundered throw rugs, I fashioned a garment with coverage suitable to shuffle past my two small boys who were lounging in the living room.

And I am happy to report, oddly enough, that it only took one throw rug, one 31 inch throw rug at that, to reach completely around this forty-something year old waist that has borne two children. The second throw rug was used, of course, to cover my caboose. (Sorry. I know. TMI.)

My husband--charming man that he is--in his amused alarm told me, "It kind of works for you." Ecstatic I am to know I can make even a throw rug...or two look good.

For those ladies in the audience, I leave you now so you can scurry to the secrecy of your bathroom to see how many throw rugs it takes to cover your shapely physique. Hush now. Don't worry, baby, dem's love handles.

link: malachi 4, the beach boys, sam cooke, the trammps