Tag Archives: words

Word-Up: Show Me Your Weenus

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My summer has been as crazier than a redneck at an opera (my husband should know).   And while I continue to chuck back lemons at life , the little suckers appear to be getting smaller and easier to manage.  Anyway, all that means is that I have had less time to hang here on Sweet Spot.  So, I thought I would share one of my favorite moments from last spring.  Some things just never get old…especially boy humor, at least in my world.

I knew it!  I feared the day would come – the moment when I would finally be presented with undeniable proof I was failing as a parent.  I wanted to deny it, but the evidence was right there staring me in the face.  Clearly, I was raising a depraved sociopath.

You know the age old story, in the aftermath of a sociopath’s identification, when the neighbors wax poetic for the press?  Statements of disbelief such as:  “But, they were such a nice family”…  “Never heard a peep out of them”…”mostly kept to themselves”…”They had a lot of garden gnomes.”

Right, well, I could just see the entire future unfolding. How had it come to this?

You see, last weekend as we drove endlessly in the car from one activity to another, the irrefutable proof of my impending catastrophe occurred. I don’t know, maybe my kids were bored.  And what is it ‘they’ say?  Boredom is the devil’s playground?  Boredom is the Mother of Invention?  Either way, from the depths of the backseat, my son called out,

“Mom, I scraped my weenus, could you put a band aide on it?”

What?!

Before I could even process his statement, the situation deteriorated further. Apparently, my parental fiasco was farther reaching than just one dissolute sociopath as both boys continued in a flourish of depravity.

“Mom, my weenus is exposed”.

“I need some sunscreen for my weenus”.

“Hey, get your weenus out of my face”.

“Look, my weenus is all wrinkled”.

“I am going to touch you with my weenus”.

“I have the weirdest weenus, want to see?”.

The situation seemed dire at best.

But then, just as I was getting ready to take preventative action (you can google for a psychotherapist, right?), I was saved.  In the nick of time, I was informed by my little backseat degenerates their particular word “weenus” came with its own specific definition. However, just to be sure (and to have proof for possible future penal encounters – ha, get it?), I googled it myself- lo and behold:

According to Urban Dictionary:Weenus is the flap of skin on your elbow”.

Sigh of relief.  Apparently I am not raising a couple of depraved sociopaths, just a couple of depraved smart alecks.

But that I can live with, proudly.

For more word abuse, check out these earlier posts!

Word-Up:  Poop

Word-Up: We’ve Got Big Balls

Word-Up: Opus Anyone?

Word-Up: Get a Yob!

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Word-Up: Show Me Your Weenus

Standard

I knew it!  I feared the day would come – the moment when I would finally be presented with undeniable proof I was failing as a parent.  I wanted to deny it, but the evidence was right there staring me in the face.  Clearly, I was raising a depraved sociopath.

You know the age old story, in the aftermath of a sociopath’s identification, when the neighbors wax poetic for the press?  Statements of disbelief such as:  “But, they were such a nice family”…  “Never heard a peep out of them”…”mostly kept to themselves”…”They had a lot of garden gnomes.”

Right, well, I could just see the entire future unfolding. How had it come to this?

You see, last weekend as we drove endlessly in the car from one activity to another, the irrefutable proof of my impending catastrophe occurred. I don’t know, maybe my kids were bored.  And what is it ‘they’ say?  Boredom is the devil’s playground?  Boredom is the Mother of Invention?  Either way, from the depths of the backseat, my son called out,

“Mom, I scraped my weenus, could you put a band aide on it?”

What?!

Before I could even process his statement, the situation deteriorated further. Apparently, my parental fiasco was farther reaching than just one dissolute sociopath as both boys continued in a flourish of depravity.

“Mom, my weenus is exposed”.

“I need some sunscreen for my weenus”.

“Hey, get your weenus out of my face”.

“Look, my weenus is all wrinkled”.

“I am going to touch you with my weenus”.

“I have the weirdest weenus, want to see?”.

The situation seemed dire at best.

But then, just as I was getting ready to take preventative action (you can google for a psychotherapist, right?), I was saved.  In the nick of time, I was informed by my little backseat degenerates their particular word “weenus” came with its own specific definition. However, just to be sure (and to have proof for possible future penal encounters – ha, get it?), I googled it myself- lo and behold:

According to Urban Dictionary:Weenus is the flap of skin on your elbow”.

Sigh of relief.  Apparently I am not raising a couple of depraved sociopaths, just a couple of depraved smart alecks.

But that I can live with, proudly.

For more word abuse, check out these earlier posts!

Word-Up:  Poop

Word-Up: Opus Anyone?

Word-Up: Get a Yob!

Word-Up: Get a Yob!

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Yob: I did it!  I created a word.  At least I thought I had.  Until I discovered some slippery, sly English peops (I can say that because some of my best friends are English) had beat me to it.  However, when my son won at scrabble using “Yob”– which according to Merriam-Webster is b-o-y spelled backward (really?), and meaning: a young man who is rowdy, rude, noisy, and aggressive (I live with Yobs and didn’t even know it), and rhymes with Gob (Ha! Didn’t see that one coming did ya’) – I was forced to face the disappointment or lobby M-W for inclusion.

You see, for some time, Yob has been a Homonym of sorts in my household. Allow me to illustrate.

“Get a Yob”:  In this context, Yob is most effective in answer to the frequently asked question from minors in household: “Mom, can I have…(fill in blank with overpriced electronic of choice)”.  Used in this form, Yob means: If you want particular time sucking device, you will have to work, earn money, save, spend it all on desired item and realize you are flat broke…again.

Positive attributes of usage being, minors are proud purchasers of mind emptying electronics and my Botox emergency fund remains intact…oh, and they like, learned some kind of valuable life lesson or something.

“Not my Yob”: The usage of the word in this context is a clear indication that a “pass the buck” scenario from one adult to another is about to take place (from myself to hubs if you must know). At this crucial moment, husband is forced to revisit the possibility he failed to examine the fine print in the marriage contract explaining his Yob description included:  all things gross (puke clean up), all things that make you simultaneously sweaty & dirty (summer yard work), and all things smelly ( taking out all trash).

Sadly for him, the misplacement or loss of said document has relegated husband to taking wife’s word on the subject.

Do your Yob”:  The bellow of the word in this context is music to the ears of one occupant of the household…my dog. At moment of utterance, the word ringing in dog’s ears causes her thought process to go something like this…The Mom is cooking…dropping food on the floor…all over the floor…like always…I must away…to the kitchen…no time to waste…to clean the floor…I love my Yob,…no, I REALLY, REALLY love my Yob. (Which in this context means – That thing one does when not sleeping, eating or urinating on the tires of cars in the driveway…preferably you are a dog if you are using the word in this context).

Disclaimer:  For those of you getting the ole undies in a bundle over the use of this questionably politically correct pronunciation, please keep one thing in mind.  As a person from San Hose, who has endured a lifetime of “You really do know the way to San Hose, don’t you!” and “Are you from San HosA or San HosB?”– I think I have paid my dues and deserve to take a few liberties.  No Yoke.

Only a few words were maimed in the writing of this blog.

Word-Up: Poop

Word-Up: Opus Anyone?