Warning: This article is part of “The Edge” series and may not appeal to those without a sense of humor or those who are completely opposed to any and all swear words. 🙂
I’m pretty sure I live in a frat house. You might ask how I know this. Let’s just say I might have visited a frat house or two in college (ahem) and I’m aware of how disgusting boys can be. Now before you go making assumptions, I was only there to study. I never touched a keg, danced on a couch, or got thrown out by the RA at 3am. Those are all vicious lies told by those who missed out on the fun. At any rate, I feel the need to give a shout out to the Pikes and KA’s at Georgetown College circa 1996. We studied soooooo hard, y’all.
I now live with 3 frat boys, one of which was a bona fide frat boy in college, and then a house dad frat boy. I think this means I married Van Wilder. If that’s true, his drinking skills are very disappointing because I can beat him in a game of quarters any day of the week. Yes, ODogg, that’s a challenge.
I’m not sure of the Greek letters for this particular frat, but the credo is clear: peeing on the toilet seat is perfectly okay, dishes can live anywhere, underwear is optional, and farts are sophisticated humor.
The evidence of said frat has been compiled below:
- House parties. There are 5 families in my neighborhood who all hang out together. It sounds like the grandest idea until we’re all under one roof with 12 wild offspring. It mostly becomes Lord of the Flies at this point while the adults drink and try not to notice the guerilla warfare going on in the back yard. I’ve had this group of angels in my basement a few times. It looks like John Belushi went down there with the Hulk and smoked crack. There are popsicle sticks, 20,000 plastic cups, socks, boogers, mystery stains and unrecognizable piles of sh*t. Everywhere.
- Penis, penis everywhere. There is always a free-flying penis somewhere in the house. I wear clothes and my husband wears clothes, but both my kids are naked every chance they get. The youngest, Landon, likes to take off his underwear, come to the dinner table and stand in his chair. Which means we all have to look at penis during dinner. He’s fine with this. I would even say proud, actually.
- Stink. All my bathrooms smell like a NYC taxi. Or just pee. On any given day, I will probably say “What’s that smell?” And no one has an explanation.
- Ass humor. Farts are the fabric of HI-larious banter. And again, the entire house smells like one. If there is mention of a butt anywhere in earshot, everyone in the house convulses with giggles. Which just causes more farts. I have to admit, farts are funny. Boys are rubbing off on me.
- Testosterone and grunting. If the TV is on, there is always an explosion or some type or sportsing going on. Transformers, race cars, basketball, ninjas, etc… I might grow a penis if we don’t get something else on the yak box.
- Pranks. These are sacred. I’ve been the victim of more plastic spiders, dirty socks, and palm bombs in my face than I care to admit. My oldest son, Isaac, has even pulled down my pants while I’m standing in the kitchen minding my own business. Sometimes I want to say, “I had stitches in my vagina for you, kid!”
- Dog pile. On mom. At 6am.
- Hazing. “Landon, smell my butt. It smells like candy.” I’m mostly spared from this one, but the two little gremlins are always kicking their dad in the nuts, punching him in the face, or jumping on his back with no warning whatsoever. I’ve made it clear that while you can get away with pulling my pants down, you will die if you punch Mom. Or at least get in big f-ing trouble.
- Sex. Just kidding. The buzz-kill-cock-block-brothers roam around in the night. I usually end up with an elbow in the face and no covers.
- Drinking. At least on my part.
If you’d like tips on keeping your own frat house clean and smelling fresh, you can follow me on Pinterest at….just kidding. I clean everything with Windex and Febreeze.