I didn't mention, but G and I had a huge fight a couple of nights ago.

It was about morals and ethics.

I'm sad to say he has no logical reasoning behind his (rather shaky) set of morals beyond "It feels good so it must be okay".

He poured excuses into my ear for two hours -- two hours! -- and I called him on his bullshit.

After hanging up, I was so angry. I didn't cry, but I felt like it. I was just so angry.

All the next day I was angry at him, and ranted at poor Russel about what idiots men are. Russel nodded and made appropriate noises at the appropriate places. It was a little hard to have a conversation while he was inside the Lego race ramp we were fixing. (It's fixed now.)

I didn't think G would call that night, but he did, making cheerful conversation, despite my terse answers.

The fact he was pretending nothing happened made me even more angry, and when he finally said: "Are you mad at me?" I felt no guilt or embarrassment in blurting out: "Why yes, yes I am."

The boy had the cheek to follow it up with: "But why?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe it had something to do with our conversation yesterday?"

He huffed, sulking. "You're still mad about that?"

"Do you realize we fought for two hours?"

A short pause. "Yeah."

We talked over the conversation a little. He was frustrated, unhappy. I was, too, but for different reasons.

"I know what will settle this," he said, and pulled out his cell phone. (He was talking to me on his land line.)

He called his Don (the rapier equivalent of a knight in the SCA).

From what I could gather from G's half of the conversation, his Don was agreeing with me. Finally, it hit upon G to put his cell on speakerphone so I could listen in, and my suspicions were confirmed. His Don was giving him the exact same dress down I'd been giving him the night before.

I laughed. I couldn't help it. I told G I would very much like to shake his Don's hand. G seemed to think it was all less funny than I did and I felt a little bad for laughing, but only a little bit.

Finally his Don had to go, and ended the conversation with: "You know, G, I've been trying to get all this through your head for three years. The fact that you're actually paying attention now must mean there's a woman involved."

That also amused me, but I didn't laugh. I was still angry at G. I AM still angry at G. He needs to buck up and learn how to be a man. He's twenty eight for crying out loud.

Being a man is not about having a house or a wife. It's not about how many women you've slept with, or how you dress. It's about respecting those around you, and respecting yourself. It's about knowing when it's appropriate to be immature. It's about being self-sufficient, about being able to take care of yourself.

It's about not taking anything that is not freely given, but not taking everything that is offered to you.

I'm still angry. He didn't call last night. I half expected him to.

"Are you still mad at me?" he asked.

"I'm less angry," I admitted. It was nice to know I wasn't alone in my frustrations. "And I'll be less angry the more you think about this stuff."

We'll see what happens. I want to shake that man, see if I can get something lodged into that thick head of his.

Preferably some empathy.

Ugh. Boys.

.

Rosie.

Before&After