The testosterone fairy has been here again. He has absolutely no compassion in that winged little body of his, because he forgets that aside from the black lab, we have only one female representing around here. It’s lonely at the boys club sometimes.
Anyway, the testosterone fairy feels the need to remind my guys in their sleep that clothing strewn around on the floor is much more manly than in the hamper. And that it is perfectly ok to make whatever bodily noises and smells you feel like as long as no one gets hurt.
He convinces my hubby that the more revolting the joke, the more opportune it is for the dinner table. And if ANY of my guys forget, the testosterone fairy makes sure that the milk jug gets put back in the refrigerator completely empty. Every time.
Thanks to the testosterone fairy, the toilet paper holder is perpetually empty, there is shaving cream decorating every part of the bathroom sink, the laundry room smells like a marine latrine, and we are ALWAYS out of potato chips!!!
Even more significantly, the he-fairy felt it apropos to convince my youngest son that he should ask for an air rifle for his 13th birthday. And if that weren’t enough, he whispered in the ear of one of our close friends that a hydrogen-powered rocket would be another perfect gift.
So here I am, the lone voice of reason, in a house full of stinky, sloppy, greasy-fingered boys armed with air rifles and hydrogen rockets. Anyone know the number of a good testosterone fairy exorcist?