It's not Rocket Science...(it's harder!)

I've been wondering: if Men are supposed to be from Mars, and Women from Venus, then where do Boys belong? (In the New Era of Terrible Derek Puns, I already know what his answer would be...think about it for a second...that's right: Uranus. I sincerely apologize on his behalf, since I know he'd be too busy cracking himself up and admiring his own wit to do so.) If I had to decide--at least for my own sons--I think I'd have to choose Mercury. Let's see: a small, bright ball of flaming energy, hurtling quickly through its orbit, exhibiting a sometimes tempestuous nature...yep, that's the one! Now if only someone could write a book about how we...Venusians...can best communicate with the...Mercurials, I'd pay Big Bucks for it. (Side note: I do like the way "Venusian" sounds as if I should be a Crew Member on the Starship Enterprise...speaking of which, maybe they were onto something, with their handheld Communicators that seemed to be able to bail them out of any sticky situation. If all else fails when trying to negotiate with the Aliens--I mean Males--you could flip it open and frantically plead..."Beam me up, Scotty!" Hmm, do you think Best Buy carries those?)

Anyway, in my universe, the most basic daily conversations often require either Expansion of the Intended Message ("what do you mean by that?") or outright Translation from Malespeak to Standard Dialect ("what the heck are you babbling about?") I offer the following (completely unimbellished or exaggerated in any way) recent exchanges as evidence of what I'm dealing with around here:

--It should have been a simple, straightforward question about what color quilt almost-11-year-old Derek would prefer for his bed this Spring. But it quickly degenerated into him batting his eyelashes, folding his hands daintily under his chin, tilting his head coyly to one side, and proclaiming in an unnaturally-high, girlish voice that he would like a "pink, polka-dotted blanket." I rolled my eyes and declared him to be a "Dorkus Maximus". There was about a second of silence, and then he indignantly demanded, "Hey, did you just call me a BUTT?"
--From the kitchen, I heard 7-year-old Riley's lilting, little-boy voice calling, "Mom?" I came upstairs to see what he wanted. He gazed at me with utmost gravity and inquired, "Do you think I have a hygiene problem?"  (What the...? He couldn't tell me why he was asking--so maybe I should start eavesdropping on those wild and crazy 2nd graders more often, and find out what they're up to!) "Do you even know what that means?" He assured me he hadn't a clue. I explained about showering, brushing teeth, etc. "Oh!" he exclaimed, "I do that all the time!" Oh...kay...I guess that clears it right up, then! (Of course, this is also the one who informed me with great enthusiasm one day recently that he was busy "savoring his grapes" by sucking on them slowly. Who knows what goes on in that brain of his...)
--I was tucking Derek in one night (yes, he still permits me to do this, for the time being) when he drowsily asked, "Why do you call me 'sweetheart'?" (What I replied in my head: "um, because so far I can get away with it, without you making faces or forbidding me to do it.") What I actually responded out loud: "Because I love you, and it's a term of affection...would you like me to say it in front of your friends?" (Ooh, that last part--along with the accompanying Evil Mom Snicker--was supposed to be silent...oops!) With quiet confidence, he answered, "No, you're not THAT kind of Mom." (Drat! But I could be! Just you wait!) He continued musingly, "When I grow up, I'm not gonna call my kids honey...I'll call them (slight pause for reflection) Biff! or Joe Bob!

So you see, I sometimes feel like I should carry one of those pocket Electronic Dictionaries around with me, to facilitate my understanding of Boy Talk. But somehow I doubt if I typed in: "what is this 5th grader trying to tell me?" it would give me a great deal of insight. Oh well. Until someone invents such a magical device, I guess I'll just have to go with the traditional method of figuring it out: quizzical expression, hands thrown in the air in confusion, and a hearty, "WHAT in the world are you saying to me?" (And someone get to work on that Federation Translator, right away please!)