Dateline:
New Smyrna Beach; A Summer Gone By; A Mexican Restaurant:
Adam,
the youngest boy chick in my nest, once ate **a heaping pile of raw jalapeno
peppers in a single sitting—in public, in front of witnesses, for cash and
prizes.
It was
on a Saturday night, and the folksinger at the restaurant sang “Copacabana.”
The family watched. It was a bet.
You
know the kind of bet I mean. The one that goes like, “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 because they’ll 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 and three quarters of jalapeno peppers was going to do to Adam’s
gastrointestinal track and when.
Boys are so weird
and gross.
My son-in-law was
happy to add to the discussion by relating a charming collegiate Taco Bell –
hot sauce packet story. They bet some guy fool in their college dorm that he
couldn’t choke down one hundred packets of Taco Bell hot sauce. He couldn’t.
Seems the guy “melted down” (i.e. vomited) at fifty hot sauce packets. Disgusting
but highly amusing was Phillip’s official conclusion.
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 brand new kind of barbarian when I heard myself saying, “There
is no playing of computer games in this house NAKED, mister—or pony riding! Put
your pants on!)
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 Little-Big Econ State Park knocking down
the giant Banana spider webs that block the trail. They use big sticks—the
boys—not the spiders.
Boys are exciting
and unpredictable, and you absolutely never know when the father-to-be is going
to show up at your baby shower in a yellow convertible Volkswagen Beetle without
his pants on—for a joke. It happened to a good friend of mine, and it wasn’t a
problem until my friend trotted all her girlfriends out to meet her husband,
the beloved father of her child. 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 out of my
girly girl purse,” I said, while batting my long eyelashes.
Gentlemen, I
salute you and all those like you. You make life interesting, colorful, and
fun, but honestly, put on some pants!
Linda (Barbarian
Queen Mother) Zern
**It really was approximately and easily one and three
quarters cup worth of peppers, should anyone wish to replicate the manly
challenge of it all.
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