The Naked Truth About Boys
(A Classic ZippityZern Essay
Dateline: New Smyrna Beach; A Summer Gone By; A Mexican Restaurant:
Adam, the youngest boy chick in my nest, ate one full cup of raw, jalapeno peppers in one sitting, on a fine Saturday, while the folksinger at the restaurant sang “Copacabana.” We watched. It was a bet.
You know the kind of bet I mean. The one that goes like this, “I’ll bet you one hundred dollars you won’t eat that massive pile of jalapeno peppers that you’ve just picked off your nacho’s, because you despise them, and they will probably make you throw up.”
You know! A boy bet. Adam won the bet. The other boy involved? His father, of course.
Items that do NOT work to alleviate jalapeno pepper tongue burn include: water, soda (diet or regular), licking the restaurant’s checkered table cloth, sugar, salt, tongue scraping with (fork, knife, spoon, nacho chip, napkins—cloth or paper—bread,) air drying, or sucking the waitress’ apron.
Boys are so weird; I said it when I was nine, and I stand by it. Watching Adam chew, snot, and cry his way through the entire heap of toxic peppers was revolting boarding on disgusting with a dash of horrific, but worse was the four hours of male speculation on what a full cup of jalapeno peppers was going to do to Adam’s gastrointestinal track and when. Boys are so weird.
My son-in-law was happy to add to the discussion by relating a charming collegiate “Taco Bell – Hot Sauce Packet” story. The bet was for the consumption of one hundred packets, but the guy “melted down” (i.e. vomited) at fifty hot sauce packets. Disgusting but highly amusing was his official commentary.
It’s a wonder to me that any members of their sex survive to reproduce. My boys thundered out of my uterus counting the days until they could hurl sharp sticks, tie up the cat, kidnap the Barbie dolls, skewer themselves with homemade arrows, and ride the pony naked (true story—don’t ask.)
I knew that I was dealing with a new brand of barbarian when I heard myself saying, “There is no playing of computer games in this house, NAKED, mister—or pony riding!) I tried to think of all the ways they could break the rules while naked. I couldn’t.
Please don’t misunderstand. I love boys. They are fun. They are game. They are always ready to go hiking through the mud of the The Little Big Econ State Park knocking down the giant Banana spider’s webs that block the trail with big sticks.
Boys are exciting and unpredictable, and you absolutely never know when they’re going to show up at your baby shower in a yellow convertible Volkswagen Beetle without their pants on—for a lark. It happened to a good friend of mine, and it wasn’t a problem until my friend trotted all her girlfriend’s attending the party out to meet her husband, the proud pop to be. True story. She had a boy.
I love boys, but sometimes I don’t feel sorry for them. As we left the restaurant, my husband (a boy) whispered, “Where am I going to get a hundred bucks to pay Adam?”
“Not my girl purse,” I said, while batting my long eyelashes.
Gentlemen, I salute you and all those like you. You make life interesting, but honestly, put your pants on!
Linda (Barbarian Mother and Overlord) Zern
