Oh, balls.

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My little boy just got snipped.  My dog, that is.  While it might be helpful with pubescent children, I don’t suggest it.  Of course, I don’t have one so maybe I’m wrong.  I have preteen nephews.  I’ll ask their mom for a verdict.  But in the meantime, my little man reached four months old and I did not need a dog humping my cat, my blanket, my pillow…

Puberty sucks all the way around, boy or dog.  Or girl.  Of course, I always state that women have it worse.  We we go through it, sure we get boobs.  (hurray boobies!)  But we also have a monthly visit for the next FORTY YEARS.  And eventually those boobs will turn into long flapjacks, hoisted into over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders, so even once we get through those forty years, the joy of boobies is taken away as some awful cosmic joke.  I once saw a cartoon in Playboy (I didn’t read the articles.  I read the comics) where a teen boy had a tshirt on that said “show me your tits” and then a grandma lifted her skirt and there they were…at her knees.  The whole idea traumatized me.

Guys?  Maybe a few months of warbling voices.  And wet dreams.  This is always stated to me as some horrible thing.  But the kind of fantasies that women pay good money in book and movie form to see you get in techno color and that’s a BAD thing?  Puleeeez.

I remember in sixth grade a boy from my class called me up one day to tell me he’d had that sort of dream about me.  But before his happy ending his mom opened up his closet door and told him to stop.  In his dream, that is.  I was not boinking anyone at the age of eleven.  I remember sitting on the other end of the line, thinking how awkward his confession was, and how it was nothing like the declarations of love I’d read in my grandmother’s Harlequin Romance book over the summer.

And this, men, is why you cannot live up to our expectations.  We are always a step ahead of what you can deliver.  Blame it on Harlequin, Cosmo, Greys Anatomy…  Now, we could do some kind of role playing, but that would require that you know the right lines.  I mean, if you’re playing pirate, you’re supposed to boldly stand with windblown hair, demand as hostages we be tied to the mast before you passionately declare that you must have your way with us then and there.  No where in this fantasy do you say “arrrgh.  Booty.  hee hee.  Get it?  BOOTIE.”  It kinda ruins the moment, dude.

Of course, I do know that unless you have some freakishly perfect moment, the majority of romance (via dating) in this world ends in indigestion, uncomfortable shoes and possibly blue balls.  It’s almost impossible to pick a girl up.  Good lines, though well rehearsed, come off as insincere.  Frank sincerity comes off as lack of tact.  The chase can be fun, but the miasma of facebook, web dating, sex-text rehearsals and overpriced cocktails must be exhausting after a while.  And then what if lightning does strike?  Even if you are perfect, we’ll doubt that we are perfect for you. You cannot win.  Not without a lot of luck.

So maybe I should feel a little bad for guys.  Just not quite as much as little boy doggies in e-collars who cannot scratch their stitched balls, no matter how much they scoot on their dog beds.

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