Little was right. “My” girls were in Ohio, and my boys were not.
While Mama spent the weekend in a sea of estrogen, an unheard-of phenomenon, there was no such thing back home. Where Mama was, there was laughing (a lot) and crying (a little). A horde of girls sipped all manner of beverages from matching pink glasses, thoughtfully personalized with each one’s name, and shared their feelings.
But in No Estrogen Village, there was no crying (at all) or sharing of feelings. Judging by the way the cash we’d left had evaporated, there’d been significant purchasing of pizza, subs and snacks. And judging by the state of the pantry, a team of highly-organized termites had blown through. The bare studs and empty shelves hinted at that, along with the mound of chip bags in the trash. No one here had succumbed to starvation, that was sure.
All this talk of males reminds me of a tidbit I heard recently. A friend had been listening, she said, to the authors of a popular book on the differences between the sexes. They’d done the research and determined that when you ask a man what he’s thinking about and he says, “Nothing,” he really is. Thinking about nothing, I mean.
Flabbergasted, I’d turned to her husband and said, “Is that true?”
“Yup. Nothing.” That’s what he said.
Claiming column research, I took it to Mr. Schrock who confirmed it as well. Whereupon I promptly moved from the State of Flabbergastedness to a state called Envy. As one whose brain rarely sleeps, I could scarcely fathom a condition of nothingness for even five minutes. It was worth a try, I thought, and gave it a whirl.
Closing my eyes, I focused hard on clearing my mind of all thoughts. For about 1.2 seconds, nothing. Then, coughing from someone upstairs. My eyes flew open. Was that Little? Was he getting sick? Come to think of it, he’d sounded snuffly last night at dinner. Now, where was that cough syrup the doctor had—wait. Rats. I was having thoughts.