I live in a house full of men. A Pappy, a Daddy, two Hooligans and a male weiner dog named Frank. I am swimming in a sea of testosterone fueled nuttiness. At times I feel as if I am in a scene from the Animal House movie.
Here's the conversation between my Dad and my six year old last night while watching the Pirates baseball game.
"Why do dey do dat?" asks my inquisitive and observant six year old.
"What?" Pap responds, around a mouthful of ice cream sammich (he doesn't know I traded them out for 100 calorie pseudo-healthy ones...shhh...don't tell him).
"Grab der pee pee."
"Oh, grabbing your weiner and spitting are okay in baseball. Everyone does it."
"Weally?"
"Yup. You are almost expected to be a good weiner adjuster and spitter. Look, the pitcher just spit."
"Ewwwww! He spitted a big black fing."
"Yup," munch, munch, munch.
"Wook Pap!" -spitttttt-, "I can spit too!"
It was then I heard him call my name. To get some wipes. For the couch. From the spitting.
Fortunately there was no 'weiner adjusting' going on. At least not from my dad.
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