Zits and Pits

[Editor's Note: The following post contains material that is accurately depicted by its title. If you are pregnant, nursing, may become pregnant or have a hyperactive gag reflex, please consult your doctor before reading.]

Tyler has a monster zit. ON HIS NOSE. And it's been there for ALMOST A MONTH.

We all know that zits are just one of many horrible rites of passage into adolesence:

"Hello, and welcome to Adolesence. After you fill out these forms, please proceed to the next station where you'll up your Acne Pack... then move forward to the the Body Hair Kiosk. After that, you'll continue down a long hallway to the Body Odor Wing (it's a separate wing for obvious reasons). Your last stop is the Hormone Supercenter, where you'll get juiced up with our special cocktail that includes: Foul-Temperedness, Awkward Bumbling with Adults, General Apathy and Disinterest, Self-consciousness and, every mother's favorite, Mouthiness. Enjoy your stay!"

Apparently T's Acne Pack included one of those big, red numbers that glows in the dark and lives underground for days on end, and only seems to get bigger and redder. Most of us know what the life cycle of a zit should be, even these beauties... but I'm telling you, this one has transcended FAR beyond that cycle.

After many days with no whitehead in sight, we sterilized a needle and I made him take a couple of stabs at it, just to see if we could stir things up a bit. He didn't want to, but I didn't care—by then it was in such a state of crimson bloatedness that Rudolph himself would've laughed and called him names! So against his will, and under my close supervision, a pokin' we did go.

It semed to help—a day or two later he managed to pop it—but the red blister, while definitely more deflated, remains to this very day. At this point I don't know whether I should call a dermatologist or a priest... but the exorcism looks more promising with each passing day. (BTW, if you're wondering if he was sporting it for school pictures... of course, my friends, of course. Could it happen any other way?)

And while we're on the subject of the joys of puberty...

Last weekend I was in my room reading—minding my own business, not bothering anyone— when T appeared and proudly announced that he has armpit hair. He had just taken a shower, so he had a towel wrapped around his waist... and just in case his declaration wasn't scary enough, he threw his arms up in the air and leaned in so I, too, could behold the tender sprouts—all nine of them.

I tried to be enthusiastic, but I think I came off as mortified. Even Dave cried TMI on that one, which was Tyler's cue to start cracking jokes about combing and braiding it.

Seriously, people... there's only so much testosterone-laden puberty humor a mother can take.



I live with mumblers. I don't know how or why that happened to me, of all people, but I do.

"Ty, do you have your homework done?"


"Dave, what time will you be back from your meeting?"


D and T insist they don't mumble—at least, I think that's what they're saying to me when I accuse them of it 17 times a day—but THEY DO, and their vocal gobbedlygook drives me full-tilt bonkers sometimes.

Last night we went to the first U of U football game of the season... which was fun (we won!), but kind of annoying. Try attending a sporting event, featuring marching bands and commentators and a gazillion Ute fans screaming their guts out, with my two mumblers.

"What was that call, hon? I didn't see the end of the play, what was the call?"






What. A. Night. Mare.

At one point last night D looked me in the eye, leaned in (I guess he wanted to make sure I heard this particular statement), and said: "I'm not going to speak louder just so you can hear me... you're just going to have to listen better."

Um... Excuse me? What was that?

COULD YOU REPEAT THAT? (I dare you, in fact, to repeat it.)

I was tempted to explain that just because dolphins and owls and his own mind can hear him doesn't mean that I can. I also wanted to remind him that my hearing is severely compromised, thanks to 40 years of listening to my own clamorous, resounding,
"someone-please-tell-Kareen-that-she's-in-a-restaurant-not-a-windtunnel" vociferations. (Do you people honestly think I'm not self-aware?)

Instead of doing all that, I did what any good wife does: Rolled my eyes and went back to watching the game.

It's not any easier to get T to speak up. He's not comprehensible until I say "What did you say?" five times. Yep, it takes five repeats before he's coherent enough for me to understand. FIVE.


If living with mumblers is Karma's idea of a practical joke on someone whose "indoor voice" got left behind in the vaginal canal at birth... well, you can suck it, Karma. You are NOT funny, not one little bit. DO YOU HEAR ME?!?!?!



Yes, friends, our saga that is The Athletic Cup continues. Hard to believe, isn't it?

So, you'll recall my post from a few weeks ago (read it here) regarding our search for the proper athletic protection for Tyler... and how heee-larious the guys thought they were as they snapped pictures of the WALL O' CUPS at the sporting goods store.

Well, if they wouldn't have been so busy creating that Kodak moment, perhaps one of them would have noticed the absolute GINORMITY of the cup they purchased.

The first time I got a good look at the cup was the first time Ty wore it to practice; he came home and said that it was like wearing a frying pan in his pants. I told him to bust it out, so I could see what we were dealing with.

Sha-ZAM! Out it came from his pants to the table… and immediately I thought of Hercules, Samson and The Incredible Hulk.

It was WAY. TOO. BIG. I couldn't decide if they had picked up the wrong one by accident, or they had just not paid attention... or if I had somehow instilled in Tyler a positive body image so powerful that it extended far beyond reality...

Forget the frying pan. If it were heat-resistant I could boil a pot of spaghetti for 12 in that thing.

The next day I purchased and brought home a slightly smaller, considerably narrower model. Ty says the new version is much better, although it's still not the most comfortable accessory in the world (which is now more of a getting-used-to situation).

As for the Team Goliath protection: We can’t return it, because Ty already used it. Dave says he’s going to wear it to the Utah games in case Coach Whit calls him down and has him run a few plays. (The dreams of middle-aged men are precious.) Most likely it will just sit in Ty’s drawers—meaning his dresser—for a few years until he… uh… grows into it.

In the meantime, perhaps we can find some other uses for it—like when we have company over for dinner. Hope you like pasta!