Hunk with Junk in His Trunks

In yesterday's post, I used this picture of a sexy almost-naked guy who's obviously an underwear model. Mr. Hunk-with-Junk-in-His-Trunks is also Swedish soccer player Freddie Ljungberg, but he may be better suited for his Calvin Klein gig, right? I mean, is there a woman in the Milky Way galaxy who disagrees with me? Hmm? Anyone?

So sitting beside me on the couch when I pull up my blog on my laptop, Miss America's eyes catch on Mr. HWJIHT. She points to his picture with her tiny finger. "What's in his pants?" she asks.

My first reaction is to giggle. I admit, that's because a vivid mental image of what we can't see pops up in my mind. Come on, did you see his package? My second reaction is to remember I'm talking to a five-year-old. My third reaction is terror. I don't want to tell her what's in his pants. But what else am I going to say? A bunny rabbit? A sack of marbles? A Lunchable?

I was always honest with her mama and my other three daughters, and they're sort of normal. So I fall back on the ancient cliche: honesty is the best policy and if her mom didn't hear me say it, then I didn't say it. Besides, Miss America does know that boys have different waterworks than girls by virtue of seeing her little brother's weenis during diaper changings.

"Um, that's his penis in there," I say.

Miss America does a doubletake. (Didn't you?) I get the strong vibe she's making a size comparison equivalent to measuring Plankton's girth to Spongebob's. Her eyes reveal that she would be stunned if that was the only thing in there. She says with her face scrunched up, "You mean a box?"

I'm really thinking Lunchables now. "A box?"

"No, blocks."

"Blocks?"

She stands up and kicks her leg out forcefully. "Like when I kick the boys in the blocks."

I can't speak for a moment, wondering where she learned that and what boy is singing soprano now.

My daughter is in the kitchen futzing around and says suspiciously over the bar counter, "What are you guys looking at?"

I say -- nay, plead, "Come over here and look." Surely TG will translate for us, and I will understand where Miss America gets the "block-kicking" and she will understand what the hell is in this guy's underwear.

TG comes over, takes one look at Mr. Hunk-with-Junk-in-His-Trunks, rolls her eyes, and returns to the kitchen. Miss America and I look at each other and shrug.

"Really," I say. "It's his penis, and there's nothing blocking it, so you never wanna go for the field goal."

She nods and I nod, and we have successfully communicated. Sometimes, not even speaking in a foreign language can prevent the message from getting through.
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