Yes, I realize that I am too old, too motherly, and too Mormon to title my blog with such a coarse expression, but please read on before you judge.  As with everything else I do wrong, it's really not my fault.

Yesterday I was dressing Ethan in my favorite shirt of his, which, of course, means he hates it.  Yet I insist on him wearing it at least twice a month so that I feel better about having bought it.  I got both arms in his sleeves when he looked down and noticed what I was putting on him. 

"I don't like this shirt!  I don't wanna wear this shirt!"  The standard howls and shrieks ensued.  

"But why not?  You look so handsome in it."  My voice automatically kicked into soothing mother gear, calm and gentle enough to annoy even myself. 

"I don't wanna be handsome!"

"Come on, honey..."

"No!  I don't wanna be handsome!  I wanna be AWESOME!!"

Good grief.

"I WANT MY SPIDERMAN SHIRT!!" (I know all caps is annoying, but Ethan's entire personality is all caps, and there's just no way around it.)

From this statement, I can only assume he was requesting the ketchup-red atrocity that has been lurking in a quiet drawer where I attempt to hide a regrettable pile of hand-me downs (thank you, Julie) that I keep around only for painting and playing in the mud.  This shirt has an enormous blue, crackly, off-centered iron-on of Spidey that hits Ethan about three inches above his belly button, because the shirt itself is short enough on him to qualify as a crop top (there's a term I haven't used since '89.)  Furthermore, I have never been able to successfully determine whether this sad and wilted occurrence is an actual shirt or, in fact, a pajama top.  It fails either way.

Which brings me to the story of another young man who obstinately refused the title of Handsome when it was generously offered him.  When Derrick and I were engaged, several people in our glittering social circle came out of the woodwork and started telling me how "handsome" my fiancée was.  Not "cute" or "attractive" or "good-looking," but always, "handsome."  I started hearing things like, "Got yourself a handsome fellow there," or "That fiancée of yours is a handsome man, very handsome."  I would have accepted these compliments with the pleasure of a young girl in love were it not for one curious fact: they all came from gray-haired men in their mid-sixties.  My bishop, some old family friends, and my creepy Uncle Louis.  Never heard a peep about my husband's studliness from a single woman, only men. Still not sure what that was all about.  But I digress.

Upon relating this well-deserved praise to my espoused, his reaction was less flattered than I would have expected. (I mean, give me a second-hand compliment about my looks and I'm yours for life.)  He simply frowned and said, "Handsome sucks."

"What?"

"Handsome sucks."

"What do you mean, handsome sucks?  Everybody wants to be handsome.  Clark Gable's handsome.  Brad Pitt's handsome.  Tom Cruise is handsome."

"No, those guys aren't handsome.  Handsome sucks."

" Well, what do you want to be?"

"Hot."

Good grief.  Did they make spiderman crop tops in mens' sizes back in '95?  Derrick could have used one, although the over-sixty set may have found it a bit puzzling on their new young darling.  As the years have gone by, however, we've both decided that Derrick's geriatric fan base was, in fact, alot younger, cooler, and more observant than we once gave them credit for.  In fact, if anyone knows who's handsome and who's not, it's retired grandpas.  Just ask my handsome husband.