I’ve told Tate many times that he should be a blogger, as I think he’s rather funny. He usually gives me a look that says something like, “And what? Be a giant dork like you.” I let it roll off my back. I don’t hold a grudge. Whatever, Tate, I’m cool.
So lately, I’ve been whining
incessantly a tiny bit about being pregnant. Tate has tried to be sympathetic, but I think I’m wearing on his last nerve. I complain about not sleeping. I complain about the alien limb that’s been jabbing my lung. His new response to my complaints is, “I blame my testicles.” Thank you for acknowledging your involvement my discomfort.
It has now become a running joke for all mishaps and complaints in the house. When Peanut is acting like a wacky 17 month old, I say, “I blame your testicles.” Actually, his wacky behavior certainly could not be a result of the DNA that I provided, that’s all Tate’s contribution.
If we forget to start the dishwasher before bed, it’s Tate’s testicles fault. When we forget to record his favorite show, Modern Marvels, his testicles get blamed again. Last month when we went over budget on “home improvement”, we blamed his testicles.
Really, though, aren’t many of life’s irritations caused by testicles? Just a thought. Please don’t hunt me down, my two male readers!
Speaking of testicles, we saw a pair of these (in all their silver glory) on a car just the other day. The word “classy” just doesn’t convey my feelings.