Betty Duffy


Friday, June 19, 2009

Quick Takes: Rated PG-13

Hosted at Conversion Diary

Now that it’s warm outside, a certain portion of the population (males between the ages of 17-21) seems to be taking out some sort of frustration by yelling obscenities out their window at me when I’m walking after dinner. They yell unintelligible things and laugh with whomever accompanies them, as though the stinky hormonal world inside their rusty sedan could somehow be more desirable than my evening autonomy.

When our three-year-old was a baby my husband called him A-hole, because his name began with the letter A and he thought it was funny. The name went over the other kids’ heads, and it seemed like a harmless daddy joke between the two of us. To my chagrin, as time has worn on, the kids have overheard the term of endearment, and have taken to calling him A-hole as well. They still don’t know what it means, but it’s not uncommon to hear dialogue in our house that goes like this:

“Hey A-Hole, wanna play Bionicles?”

“Come here, A-Hole!”

Now that the baby is responding to the kids with smiles and coos, they feel obliged to find a pet name for him too. Since “-Hole” is the only suffix they know for nicknames, and since the baby’s name begins with the letter P, he’s slowly taking his place in our loving hearts as baby P-Hole.

My daughter, let me know that she had given her doll to my oldest son. When asked why she’d make such an unwise concession, she answered, “He said I could be in his club if I gave him my doll.”

I am the head of the Duffy securities and exchange commission, and I did not approve this transaction, so I said, “You don’t want to be in his club anyway. You’re in my club because you’re a girl.” And I supply a bailout. “My girl, he’s taking advantage of you, so Son, you must give the doll back.”

Do I teach a kid not to be stupid, not to let her brother manipulate her? Take the hit, lose the doll, and be a part of his worthless club?

I am here to protect the weak—to prevent exploitation and manipulation by predatory business people like my oldest son. Where would he learn to do such a thing?

I recently bought a copy of the book “His needs, Her Needs,” brought it home to my husband and said, “Why don’t we read this book? It comes highly recommended by many of my relatives.”

He crinkles his nose, “Like who?”

“Like my mom. And like many psychotherapists. See, they say on the back it will make your marriage sizzle.”

“I know how to make our marriage sizzle,” he says.

“We could read a chapter a night,” I say.

“I’ve got an idea—why don’t you read a chapter a night out loud to me—naked.”

I have a feeling I would get the raw end of his stick (raw deal/ short end?). This is how the CEO of the SEC gets snookered.

My husband put a new throne in our laundry room—a beautiful king-size, elongated, tall toilet. Problem: the bowl is low flow, using less water, so it doesn’t fill all the way. Hence, someone’s stuff had trouble going down the drain this morning, and rather than work at getting it down, I went about my day.

Oldest son came down to wee, discovered stubborn turd, and invited everyone in to see it. “Hey A-Hole! Look at this turd. It won’t go down the drain! It’s stuck to the wall!”

“Like the Gravitron?”

A-Hole comes to have a look. They all lean over the bowl to inspect. I considered the curiosity for a moment, then realized that I could put an end to turd inspection by using something to unstick the suction from the side of the bowl. I got a stick, covered it with TP and pushed it into the drain.

“There it goes! The turd is leaving us! But he left streaks so we can remember him!”

Very exciting.

The only thing worse than sitting down to write when I have nothing new to report but fatigue, aggravation with kids, and spousal discord, is sitting down to realize that I have no conflicts in my life at all, for the moment. There’s a lull in the storm, it’s peaceful, and thank God. But for anyone who tires of potty humor, there’s nothing I can do for you. It’s all I’ve got when things are going well. No worries. It will pass soon.


Creative Camille said...

I like the way your husband thinks!

Otepoti said...

And if it doesn't pass soon, try kiwifruit.

Pentimento said...

Otepoti already knows this story, but I feel compelled to add to the toilet compendium by letting you know that I came upon my three-year-old son, who's still in diapers, playing with a turd (extracted from said diapers) on the couch yesterday by crashing his Thomas the Tank Engine trains into it. He was narrating a story about the engines crashing into a big pile of poop. I would have thought this hilarious if it had happened in the house next door.

Otepoti said...

"hilarious if it had happened in the house next door."

I second the motion.

Betty Duffy said...

Come to think of it, might be nice if the kids lived next door. And I could yell, "Get off my lawn!" every time they have a stinky diaper.

Darwin said...

It is reported to me that I once, at a tender age, announced in a voice of great carrying quality, "Look, Dad, my poop looks like grandpa!"

But I deny all first hand knowledge of this event.

It strikes me this plan of your husband's would only work if the book has short chapters, or if you have great powers of concentration. (Is this like the self-help literature version of the violin playing in Red Violin?)

Betty Duffy said...

Darwin, lucky the turd gene seems to have bypased you.

Enbrethiliel said...


LOL! This has got to be the funniest "Seven Quick Takes" I've ever read!