Sock? Meet Mr. Doorknob…

When not slaving away in school, The Boy (now 20) spends a lot of time in the Barbie Party Cave.  And usually, he brings a pesky sk8r boy infestation along with him.  We pretty much do our own thing, and he’s learned how to stay out from underfoot*, but there have been recent incidents that highlight our changing circumstances…

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Incident 1:  The Boy has been reliable about getting the trash collected and out to the curb on Sunday nights.  This is a good thing, as most of the trash is generated by his troop as they wear down the felt of my pool table, fart on my couch and assure that my downstairs theater room reeks of “Eau de Sk8r Punk”.

One recent Sunday, he arrived home around 10pm to take care of this duty – accompanied by one of his female friends.  Unfortunately, he’d failed to follow our recently established protocol and call/text to let me know he’d be returning.  And i failed to remember it was Sunday night…

As he came in through the garage door, i was sitting on the couch with a friend.  We were debating the merits of rearranging the living room furniture – arguing about life, the universe and tapestry placement while swilling beer.  i was wearing my jammies, and my friend was clad in his boxers.  My legs were draped across his lap, and his long legs perched on the coffee table. 

To someone entering the house from the garage – as The Boy just had – it certainly would appear as though my friend was naked.  Heading down the stairs, frantically averting his eyes, The Boy mentioned that it might be nice for me to have sent a text, letting him know i was ‘entertaining’… He kept mumbling as he went down the stairs. 

His admonishment continued as he came back upstairs, hauling trash – while facing the wall.  He proceeded to remind me once again that i could have shown the courtesy of sending a text… keeping his back to us from the kitchen the entire time.

Later that evening, i sent a text.

daisyfae:  He was wearing boxers!  Sorry about that.  He offered to stand up to show you – thought better of that.

The Boy:  That’s ok.  Don’t really expect to come home and find a naked Irishman on the couch.  Text msg works.

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Incident 2:  Returning late from a business trip, i found The Boy and his friends playing pool and drinking beer downstairs.  After recovering from my shock**, i was introduced to a new member of the tribe, Amber.  i excused myself for bed, reminding The Boy that the party needed to get quiet, since i have this pesky “job thing” to deal with starting at 0600 every morning… They got quiet.  i passed out.

The next morning, i went downstairs to reboot the home electronics system.  i noticed an extra pair of  shoes outside the door of the downstairs bedroom.  Girl shoes.  Next to a pair belonging to The Boy.  When we crossed paths later that evening, i casually commented about Amber staying over…

The Boy:  It wasn’t Amber

daisyfae:  Who was it?

The Boy:  Nunia…

daisyfae: Nunia?  Who’s Nunia?

The Boy:  Nunia Business…

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i suppose we could revert to the ol’ “sock on the door”.  Or something much less subtle, like this.  Thinking i gotta get me one of those gizmos…

Sock it to me, baby...
Sock it to me, baby…

* Survival skills are strong in both of my sprogs… Reading my mood has saved lives.  Namely theirs….

** Stunned, shocked and amazed to find a pack of young ‘uns playing pool when i came home at 11:30 pm.  Never, ever happens… Unh uh… No way!  Alert the media…