Boys and Their Toys

A man and his motorcycle are much like a boy and his dog. When man decides he wants to purchase 650 cc’s of rumbling power, he’ll come up with a laundry list of brilliant reasons why this is the most logical use of a couple’s expendable income. “But baby, if I ride it to work every day and park the truck, we’ll save over $200 a month in gas” he says, sporting a broad smile, mentally patting himself on the back at having quite nattily appealed to his wife’s frugal side, confident there’s no way she’ll say no to “the face”.

When boy opts to break out the big guns with which to ask his parents for a dog, it’s not entirely different from when man broached the motorcycle subject with his spouse. “I swear Mom, I’ll feed it, and train it, and clean up after it, and I’ve already picked out a name and EVERYTHING!” This adorable child stands with hands clenched in front of him, bouncing side to side, with a wide grin, thinking “Ha! There is no way she can say no to ‘the face’!”

Man, having obtained the prize, will spend hours pouring through motorcycle magazines and parts books; seemingly as if overnight he’s become an expert in all things two-wheeled. He’ll purchase exhaust systems and hand grips, easily spending each month what he assured his wife they would save by “parking the truck”. It’s the driving force of all conversations with pals while beer in hand, they gather round the shiny new love of his life. They’ll designate entire weekends for installing new parts and pondering the next “bike run” while making Tim Allen-esque grunting noises.

Boy will spend hours romping about with his puppy, and even more hours being reminded to feed, water, and perform poopy duty. He’ll spend entire evenings and whole weekends playing ball and wrestling with the love of his life. Countless days will be spent on such nuances as dog’s ability to stop on a dime when careening across hardwood floors chasing favorite toys, but fails to remember that just because he can see through it doesn’t mean the sliding glass door is open. Boy will plan backyard camping events with his friends in which they will tell dog related stories, one upping each other as to whose dog is the best fetcher/chaser/licker ever!

Take a guy poll regarding motorcycles and dogs and I’m wagering the response will be something akin to our witty quip of the day: “If that don’t light your fire, your wood’s gotta be wet!”

The Case of the Exploding Spider

Moving up the walkway just after dark one evening, I saw something fairly sizable scurry under the front door. Unable to see what it was, I opened the door and bent down to get a glimpse at what just gained entry to our home. Peering at what appeared to be a spider, I got as close as I dared, which amounted to about 4 feet away, and tried to get a better look. Why, you might ask, did I care to look closer at one of Earth's most disturbing and horrifying creatures? Primarily because it strongly resembled a quarter sized brain attached to eight legs. I called my husband over to “come check out this crazy looking spider!” Of course that was wife-speak for “KILL IT, KILL IT NOW!!!” So my daring husband closes in and crouches down on one knee in order to examine his prey. Our two teenagers and our 8 year old have also wandered over to lend their investigative skills. Crouched down on one knee, having gotten a closer look, hubby declares “huh!”. Astonishingly, this is where it all goes terribly wrong. He reaches around, yanks the flip flop off of my foot, and in slow motion I watch hubby smack the spider with my shoe, whereby it literally explodes and hundreds, yes HUNDREDS, of baby spiders shoot out in all directions all around the kids and him. At the exact moment the spider explodes, hubby falls backward onto his seat and my big, burly man proceeds to backwards army-crawl several feet in hyper-speed while emitting a howl that scared the dog and sent the cats into hiding! In retrospect I will concede that perhaps what panicked the animals might have been the shrill, ear-piercing shrieks of my daughter, sons, and me as we all sprinted across the room away from the baby spiders swarming my entry. Our youngest was the only one who possessed the wherewithal to run to the kitchen, procure a can of bug spray, dart back to the entry, and proceed to bathe the area in a dense fog of poison, thus completing his first, and dear Lord we hope last, act of genocide. We are so unbelievably proud.

Twenty four hours and one Google search later, I discovered that what invaded our home that night was not in fact some bizarre, mutant, never before seen species of alien spider, but instead was nothing more than the common Wolf spider. Common. Right. Because I’m confident that most of my neighbors had experience in dealing with brain-like, exploding spiders and simply opted to keep this information to themselves. Oh, as a side note, the Wolf spider carries it young around on its back during its travels. Just thought this bit of trivia might help you sleep better at night.

Witty quip of the day: Say it with me - BUG SPRAY. Seriously.

Apryl :)

Romance Novels

Guilty pleasures: we all indulge once in a while don’t we? Come on, admit it. You risk ridicule by treating yourself to the occasional romance novel don’t you? It’s just us girls here; no condemnation, no judgment… well maybe just a little judgment. I am only slightly ashamed to admit that in my early 20's I used to read them nearly exclusively, and while in recent years I’ve moved on to more thought provoking fare, I gleaned some simply magnificent ways to depict anatomy that I might never have learned otherwise! I mean if one doesn’t refer to a man’s penis as his “quivering manhood”, well then what on earth would one call it? Or perhaps the word vagina is just too crass and without romance novels, we would never have learned to describe a vagina as her “blossoming flower”, right? One can also pick up some fine tidbits about the path one’s relationships should take. Such tomes almost always start with one boy, one girl, and one castle in some far away land. Boy is a swashbuckling hero if a bit of a rake. Girl is always gorgeous with long, flowing hair, and a heaving bosom. (How does one’s bosom “heave” by the way?) Boy woos girl with dreadfully daring deeds, and a shocking repertoire. Girl hates boy, well maybe she loves him. No, she definitely hates him. Next he beds her, and then she REALLY hates him. Of course he’ll run off to perform more swashbuckling deeds and have hearty adventures while she stays behind at the castle simultaneously hating him/loving him. They always wind up together in the end. Sometimes he tricks her into marrying him. Other times, she tricks him into marrying her. Nonetheless, they marry, love and hate each other some more what with the heaving bosom and quivering manhood and all. Then in the end they are desperately in love and generally with child. Oh shoot, I’ve ruined the plot line of the book you’re currently reading haven’t I? Please accept my humble apologies, really.

Today’s Witty Quip: “Blossoming Flower”. Find a way to use it in your daily commentary. Only we’ll know that it means vagina. To the uninformed it will sound as if you’re speaking of the flora and fauna in your neighbor’s yard instead. No need to thank me, I’m a helper and a giver…

Apryl :)

Witty Quips For Everyday Use

As I lounge here sipping my morning coffee and contemplating such important topics as whether or not to treat myself to a pedicure versus tackling the vast mountain of laundry currently calling my name, I find myself wondering whether in fact the laundry literally just SPOKE! I'm going out on a limb here and presuming it didn't. I'm certain however it wasn't the dog or even my conniving cats who managed to pull one over on my daughter and me this morning and got themselves fed not once but twice, and assuming rather that it was my conscience whispering words of disdain designed to instigate the guilt necessary to get me to finish doing the laundry. Oh and my cats? They are the former leaders of the evil cat cult my children were certain lived beneath the deck at our old house. But I digress... Today's "witty quip for everyday use" is: "What now, quippy?!?". For those of you unfamiliar with this catchy phrase I should in all fairness cite my source. The erroneously cancelled TV series, The Gilmore Girls, provided today's witty quip. Setting the scene: Rory Gilmore has just been turned away from taking an important test by arriving late to class due to a deer hitting her Jeep on her way to school. Rory lost her normally well kept cool and launched into a diatribe, directing the final portion of said diatribe to Paris, an extremely narcissistic young woman whose constant verbal haranguing has culminated in Rory leaning down to Paris and shouting, "what now, quippy?". For those of us requiring a definition, allow me to offer an example: when frustrated or perhaps even agitated, instead of shouting "how do you like them apples?!?", one could instead change it up and shout "what now, quippy?!?". Try it out for yourself. Don't worry, I'll wait. (cue the Jeopardy music here) Now, don't you feel better? Wasn't that refreshing? A dear friend and I use this particular quip on a fairly regular basis as we love the confused looks upon the faces of the befuddled souls for whom we've chosen to bestow our newest riposte upon.

I leave you with a recently discovered anonymous quote: "If you can't be kind, at least have the decency to be vague."

Ciao for now!
Apryl :)