Hi "T" Zone

I live in a testosterone-laden house as it is, but this weekend was especially so. In addition to Doug, Frank, and Beckett, Jaziel was at our house for the last few days. Oh, and Ballou—yes, the dog is male as well.

I’ve managed okay being the only estrogen-producer in the house for several years, but it requires I spend time with female friends on a regular basis. Or adopting female cadets as sponsor daughters. This weekend though, the imbalance was particularly evident. 

I was working Saturday night, and since the other two televisions in the house were otherwise occupied . . . Doug came in to watch tv. I’m not a tv watcher, and I’m usually able to tune it out when it’s on. 

“Do you mind if I watch my shows?” he asked politely.
“Of course I don’t mind,” I answered. 
“They’re guy shows,” he warned.
“Really, it isn’t a problem,” I assured him. Famous last words.

Banshee was my first treat. And while I can usually tune it out, as I said, in this case it was impossible. A full hour of non-stop automatic weapons, curse words, blood, guts, and screaming later, my anxiety level was through the ceiling.

“Doesn’t it stress you out?” I asked.
“What?” 
“Uh . . . watching stuff like this?”
Head nod and confusion. Finally he answers, “these shows are written for men.”
Oh. Okay. I still don’t get it, but I decide to drop it.

As Doug scrolled through the list of saved programs on the PVR, I heard the sound of gun shots coming from the family room. If whoever was out there was watching the same thing Doug was, I was going to suggest they enjoy their guy shows together.

Nope. I found Beck and Jaziel playing a PS3 game . . . no idea which one, but there was a lot of killing involved. What happened to the soccer game they’d been playing earlier? 

The timer went off on the oven, alerting me that my lemon-dijon chicken was ready. I stood in the kitchen, which overlooks the family room; I made rice, threw a salad together, and when Ballou barked at a squirrel walking through the backyard, I nearly jumped out of my skin. 

“What’s wrong?” Doug asked, as he peeled me off the ceiling.
“I need to declare a ceasefire until we finish dinner.”
“Okay guys, we need a moratorium on killing for the next hour.” 
When Beck and Jaziel turned and looked at him questioningly, he pointed in my direction. That and a glass of wine helped a little.

After dinner, the boys returned to their mayhem, and Doug suggested we watch a comedy.  Sounded okay, although I had no intention of actually watching. A few minutes and several f-bombs later, he sheepishly asked if I wanted him to turn it off. I gave a non-committal response, but didn’t complain when I saw him delete whatever it was.

Next: a pirate show. I don’t remember the name of it, but it was produced by a cable network, so there was no shortage of killing (via sword rather than gun, as Doug so kindly pointed out to me). There was lots of sex (and I mean lots), and an abundance of curse words—I was considering earplugs at this point. 

“This isn’t so good either,” I heard him mumble. 
Truthfully, I was so close to falling asleep, it really didn’t matter what he watched. I think when I finally dozed off he was watching an old episode of Saturday Night Live. 

When I came out to the family room this morning, Beck was loading up the killing games.
“Nope,” I said, confiscating the remote. “If it’s going to be on, we're watching CBS Sunday Morning.” I didn’t miss the groan, although I pretended I did. 

Estrogen trumps testosterone on Sunday mornings. At least ten to one.