Throwing in the towel

I quit. I don't think I'm cut out for this mom thing. I've got two kids who practically refuse to do their homework and are failing a few classes. Not because they are struggling. NOPE. Because they just don't want to I guess. Even the kid in Honors classes. Here's the catch...if he's NOT in Honors, he fails out because he's too smart for regular classes and becomes a behavior issue because he's bored. But in Honors, he just chooses not to do it. Go figure.

So I blow my top on both big kids (17 & 12) and turn into psycho mom ripping them a new one. Yet I continue to work on essays, which are now late. This is painful. How much easier would it have been to just DO YOUR DANG WORK when it was due. Then, no trouble. Ever. I would really have nothing to get mad at.

But then there's my 8 year old, who only accepts perfection. The teacher's pet. He brings home his diorama project, which he and daddy worked so hard on together and says "I got a 3" and then starts pouting. In elementary school, they give out numbers instead of letter grades, 1-4. 3 is basically as good as it gets. This specific teacher says she doesn't give 4's unless the child is doing work equal to that of a 3rd grader. So 3 means A.

And Mr. Sensitive decides that "everyone else's was better than mine." Of course, I know that no one said a word to him at school. It was a good project and they did a great job on it. But somehow, in his mind, it's not good enough. WTH? So I try, and try, and try to convince him his whole life that no one is perfect and we do not expect perfection out of him. He did his best and got a great grade. Why stress? He stresses over everything. Which makes him cry. If I haven't told you before, I LOVE watching him cry and throw a fit over stupid stuff. I do....NOT. It's the worst thing I've ever seen and I want to pull my hair out.

So I say, "Guess what? You're not perfect. Guess what else? You'll never be perfect. And guess what else? No one else is either."

It's true. But did he hear any of that? NOPE. He screams, and bursts into tears, "AND THAT'S SUPPOSED TO MAKE ME FEEL BETTER?"

Ummm...yes. Actually it was supposed to make him feel better. Instead, as he recounted to hubby later, "She called me a dummy." Wait, what? That was your interpretation? Oh my gosh. I quit. There is no winning with these kids. I have two that don't care and one that cares too much.

So, there. Where do I file for unemployment?

Get them stitches out!

**Semi-Graphic Pics included of my stitched foot. View with caution.**

Today I got to get my stitches out. WOOHOO. I've been LONGING for this day because I could take that stupid cast off. It was so heavy and hot. And the medications were no longer working anyway, so it made it that much more uncomfortable. So I arrange that my sister (who had the day off) come and pick me up. We find a spot, miraculously, in the parking garage at the Kaiser hospital and I hop on my scooter and she loads up my almost 6 month old niece in the baby backpack thing. Naturally, we end up coming out of the garage at the top of a hill. Take a minute to soak that in. Lady with one good leg, on a scooter, having to go down a hill. And my assistant? A 100 pound woman carrying a baby on the front of her in a pack. Imagine the possibilities...

So, as carefully as possible, I use the brake to start descending down the hill. Then I notice a little walkway area that goes down behind some potted plants and it looks closer and less steep. **LIGHT BULB** I suggest we cut through, and wrangle my scooter through the plants. Seemed like a great idea, honestly. And the hill itself wasn't so bad. The whole while, my sister, who has been witness to many BAD IDEAS of similar situations, suggests that I be very careful so we don't have another, what we refer to it as, "Wagon Incident" (I'll detail that incident at the end of this blog, just in case you want to laugh at me more).

I assure her that I have everything under control. I begin to coast down the hill, its maybe 10-20 feet. I didn't use the brake properly, unfortunately. So I may or may not have raced down the hill on my scooter. I didn't fall or anything, but once I applied the break fully, I came to a full stop. My natural instinct was to plant my feet down on the ground to steady myself. Big mistake. My cast foot landed flat on the ground and I felt my calf muscle tighten and a weird sensation run through my foot. My sister's eyes are HUGE and I turn and tell her, "Well, that probably wasn't the best idea!" But it didn't hurt too bad. I assumed I was fine and in the clear. No one saw but us. Phew.

So I get inside, and Nurse Rana greets me and gets me prepped and begins cutting off the cast. Just then, a friend from HS, who is also a nurse, Jeni-Bean (HS nickname), comes in to say hi. So the 5 of us (2 nurses, my sister, my niece and I) are all laughing and watching the cast come off. Just then, Dr. Soulier comes in. In case I haven't mentioned before, he's SUPER nice and reminds me of Ricky Schroeder. I say, "This is the party room, WOOT, WOOT!"

Without missing a beat, he says, "Yeah, I saw your little party outside!" My heart sank in my chest! How did he see that?! He then tells me how he watched the whole scene outside because apparently, I came roaring down the hill, right towards his office. Of course I did. LOL. How was I supposed to know that was his office? We were all laughing so hard. Well, he was nervous laughing and was ready to take me to the ER if warranted. So, he cleans me, takes out stitches, sends me for x-rays and I get a new boot. Still no weight for about 2 more weeks.  Pictures below.

Nurse Rana removing the cast

Right before trying to clean me up

My mummy wrap

New boot. Way more comfy than the cast!!!      

The Wagon Incident

We, my siblings and I, used to always walk the March of Dimes 5K marathon in Downtown Sacramento. I borrowed a wagon from my cousin because my youngest was too old for a stroller, but I knew he'd struggle to make it the full 3 miles. 

We got to the underpass of the bridge between Downtown and Old Town and I remembered that, when we were children, we would ride my metal red Radio Flyer Wagon down our driveway and I would use the handle to steer us. I would take my sisters and brothers on rides down the driveway. We would have hours of fun. And I wanted to recreate that fun for my youngest (who was maybe 4 years old at the time).

The hill is steep but no one was around. What could possibly go wrong? So, my sister Sarah, my brother-in-law Ethan, my daughter and her BFF, went ahead of us and my son, Raul, and I got in the wagon. I sat in front to steer, as I always had as a child. I don't know why, but he stood behind me in the wagon (look, I never said I was a good mom. Obviously this was about as irresponsible as one could be!) Nonetheless, we start sailing down the hill. I was having a blast. Then I felt like we were going too fast, and instead of dragging my feet, I planted them square on the ground. Raul and I both went flying through the air.

I landed on my hands and knees directly in front of the wagon. Raul flew over the top of me, kicked me in the head, and started rolling. He didn't have a scratch on him, but turns to me and yells, "This is all your fault!". Both my knees were torn out of my capri pants, my knees and hands were skinned and bloody. It smarted. It smarted BADLY. But I couldn't let anyone else know how badly it hurt. They all came rushing at us. They were all laughing hysterically. Then my daughter's BFF says, "Poor Raul! He looked like a hot dog rolling away!" To this day, I still don't understand that part. I think my brother-in-law laughed the hardest. At least my sister tried to see if I was OK, and attempted to stifle her laugh. LOL. 

We walked down the street to Starbucks where I went to the bathroom and washed up my knees. Boy did they hurt. And they scabbed so badly that I couldn't even lean on my knees for over a month without a LOT of pain. 4-5 years later, I still have scars. But at least we all have a hilarious story. I can laugh now. And clearly, when it comes to me and free rolling objects, we don't mix!!!

Bionic Toes are boring!

So, one week and two days ago, I underwent a bunionectomy, which included reconstructing my big toe bone, complete with hardware. In addition to the fun noted above, they also went in and sewed up my torn tendons in the pad of my foot, did something (not quite sure what) to straighten my second toe, and made an incision in my calf to go in and extend my achilles tendon. So, now that I'm off the Norco and no longer living in a drug induced fog, I will share my experience with you.

The surgery itself took just around 4 hours. It came complete with a 3/4 cast which encompasses everything but my calf, but is wrapped snugly with ace bandages. It's quite the fashion accessory! The humdinger is that I can't put weight on it for 4-6 weeks. So, in lieu of a functional foot/leg, I have a handy little medical leg scooter, borrowed from a friend. It even has a basket in the front. WHEEEE.

I remember waking up from the surgery and my mom coming in. She's awesome. I vaguely remember coming in (via scooter) and being tucked in to bed by my hubby. The next few days are fuzzy. Hubby was kind enough to set an alarm and wake me every four hours, on the dot, to make sure I take my Norco. Man. That stuff is potent. I didn't even feel one ounce of pain for about 24 hours after surgery. Then I started to feel some pangs and burning feelings. But the Norco helped, a lot. Unfortunately, it made me feel like someone ruffied me. WHOA. I'm talking, head lolling, eyes drooping, no focus, sick to your stomach spins. This is what "drugged" felt like. I had to double up a couple of times because my foot was really hurting. That was not smart. I felt like I was breathing too shallowly.

So I email the doctor and he sends in a prescription for Tramadol. Cool. Hubby takes that. So my amazing BFF picks up my new prescription...oh yeah, no driving for at least 6 weeks either! But, after several doses of Tramadol, even coupled with ibuprofen, I don't notice one difference. So I email him again, worried he will think that I am some sort of weird junkie trying to get her hands on all the narcotics she can. So he calls in a prescription for Tylenol with Codine. Guess what, NOTHING. Apparently with my weird body, it's all or nothing! There is no in between, contrary to what the doctor seems to think is an "in between" drug.

So I sit, day in and day out, with my leg elevated because if it swells too badly...and you're going to love this...it will explode. Not like cease to exist, but the skin will burst open. That doesn't sound pleasurable AT ALL. So, I sit. Elevated. But with a slight bend in my knee so as not to do...God knows what to it. Yeah, it throbs and sometimes I get a few sharp pains, but the worst part is that it feels overheated and suffocated. I hate that feeling. I wear open toe shoes and tank tops because I hate being covered up. This sucks. And we're only at day 9.

On the plus side, I spent 8 of those days in ONLY night gowns. I felt that shorts, pants and/or underwear would be a hindrance to me. No thank you. Because going to the bathroom? Ha! That's my adventures for the day. Imagine this if you will, you roll out of bed, put your knee on the scooter and adjust yourself so that you are comfortable. Then you wheel yourself around the side of the bed, open the door carefully so as not to hit the scooter, and wheel out into the hall, round the corner of the bathroom, pull up to the tub, push the door closed behind you (if you're feeling frisky), swivel around and carefully lower yourself onto the toilet, while propping your leg up on the scooter. Deep breath. Then you adjust so you are sitting as comfortably as possible on the toilet in this weird position.

So, business is done. Somehow it takes longer in this position with your leg up. Don't ask me why. Then you carefully grab the handle of the scooter with one hand, and push yourself up with the other, on the counter, and swing yourself around so that you are once again kneeling. Then you flush and wheel back slightly to reach the sink and wash. Then forward again so the door will open. Then you back out and go back to bed, or the living room. All the while, you are balancing yourself on one leg periodically while turning corners or trying to sit. It isn't exactly a workout, but it's the most I get to do. And if you know me, you know how often I make that trek.

My foot is heavy and hot. My toes don't wiggle. There are pins/screws inside my foot. I'm practically a cyborg. Well, a pre-cyborg since I can't DO anything yet. And I'm as bored as can be. There's only so much Facebook, Netflix and Basic Cable one girl can take. As my dear friend at work said to me today via text, "You think, oh man I'd love to lay around and lounge all day. But then when you get to do it you're like...This s**t sucks!" I couldn't have said it better myself.

That's just the recap. Stick around for more fun adventures of Bionic Toes!!!

Have you ever tried reasoning with a Vulcan?

There are many types of people in this world. Some are kind, and some are smart, and some are expressive, and some are quiet, and some are outgoing, and some are rough around the edges, and some are downright literal. They seem like they’re being rude or snarky, but really, they are being 100% factual and literal. Their version of common sense differs from most because to them, it must compute to their own understanding. For example, a literal person will ask you what time it is, and the majority of the populus will reply an answer that is rounded up or down such as 6:00. But to the literal person, they do not want to know the approximate time. They will look at a clock and say, “No, it is actually 5:57.”

Factual people tend to be drawn towards math or science because those subjects revolve around the facts and absolutes. People who enjoy fantasy of the written word and what it means and interpretation, well, those types like English or Literature. These people do not communicate on the same plane of existence. They can both be saying the exact same thing, but when the English mind says something to the factual mind, it is being heard by completely different ears. Vulcan ears. Pointy, literal, factual, incomputable Vulcan ears.

My middle child is definitely a Vulcan. He cannot compute a world where he is forced to endure such things as complying with a social norm simply because everyone else is. In his mind, he is an avid reader and could tell you anything you want to know about the subject matter at hand (especially if it is something that interests him). But it is unnecessary for him to have to write it out. It does not compute. To him it is unneccessary. Instead, he choses to NOT do the work at all, and has no guilt about that decision. Because this makes sense to him. 

To his mother, however, this is cause for epic concern and distress. This results in numerous emails to and from the teacher trying to come up with a course of action so that this miniature intelligent human being, who is making stupid choices, can pass his 6^th grade Honors Classes. So, English teacher and English-minded mother come up with a plan to get this student back on track. The teacher and I exchange jokes about how frustrating it is, and at least have each other to lean on for support.

Fast forward to last week. My son tells me that he has the missing packets he needs to do but, “the teacher never gave me the book” to complete them. So I think fine. I email the teacher who first laughs at the idea, and then informs me that the books are readily available for the students, and many students take them as needed, and that it is common practice for the class to take a book on a daily basis. Frustration level: Code Red. The teacher and I continue to come up with a game plan, which includes letting my son know that we’re on to him.

 Then I get an email from the teacher:

“Should have been a fly on the wall when I walked into his fifth period (I have prep) and handed him the book AND took away his Mtn. Dew hat which was on, backwards, and what we told our son “looks like a thug look”. There is a sub in that room and he was trying to get away with it--Miss Cox is worse than I am about sticking to the rules…he knows that. The hat is in my locked closet, where it will stay until June, unless you pick it up or write me a note to have it returned.”

I tell the teacher that I will not write a note to her unless he actually shows some promise in trying to get the past due work done. Naturally, Mr. Logical doesn’t seem to understand this idea. Ideas and concepts are lost on him. He lives in the here and now. Naturally, when I got home, he on his bed doing homework, but ina  VERY bad mood. His bed is his place of solitude. He refused to speak with me.

Then, we had dinner without incident, but at bed time, he is fuming angry, his face is red and tears are streaking down his face. Admittedly, I have long since forgotten about the hat incident and am just ready for bed. But, there he sits, hot tears running down his face, eyes focused and staring forward, lips closed very tightly and arms folded over his chest. Now begins the 20 questions process: What’s wrong? Son, why are you upset? Are you hurt? Are you mad? (I get a slight nod of yes).

I tell him I cannot help him if he doesn’t tell me what’s wrong or speak to me. Who are you mad at? Are you mad at your siblings? Did they do something to upset you? Did they break something? (Slight shake of the head, no.) Are you mad at me? (One nod downward for yes.) Why are you mad at me? What did I do?

I realize now that he’s not answering questions other than the yes or no options, even though they are barely visible movements on his part. So I finally ask the question, “Is this about the hat?” Finally a real nod. All of this is because of his hat. Because, in his mind, what does his hat and homework have in common? Nothing! They are not connected and having the hat taken away is irrelevant to his learning. How dare we! So I tell him, “Son, I didn’t get your hat taken away from you.”

Finally, words, “You made it worse!” Ok, so maybe he’s got a little of my dramatics in him. But still, he genuinely believes that because I did not email the teacher immediately to ask her to return his hat, that I am now a conspirator to the hat hostage situation. Guilt by association. And still, he’s basically refusing to speak to me. So I have to lecture him about how every action has consequences and he did the wrong thing, therefore he has a consequence, blah, blah, blah.

But finally, a tiny ray of information comes out that Ms. Jehns (unrelated to this story) allows them to wear hats in class. Mind you, he was NOT in Ms. Jehn’s class, but remember, and according to logic, what possible reason could any teacher have for not allowing this? I tell him that it is rude and disrespectful if he knows the rules that teachers have and then choses to disrespect them. He says that the teacher in question should not have taken his hat away because it wasn’t her class. I see where he’s coming from, but he’s focusing on the wrong problem.

So I tell him, “If I’m speeding down the road, and a cop pulls me over, I have no right to be mad at the cop. I was speeding. I broke the law. It’s his job to enforcet the laws and keep people safe. Regardless of why I was speeding, I broke the law. Even if I had a good reason.” I told him also that the only law he has to follow is to try his hardest and actually do his work. It seems so simple to me. But that’s the problem with communication and understanding: perception.

So, after much toil and trouble, we discover that he reports to be struggling in the class. It’s the writing. I love writing assignments. To him, they are tortuous and unnecessary. So I ask him if he read the book and he says that he has read it three times. Wait. What? THREE times? WHY? His answer, “Because the rest of the class is too slow.” I bursted out into laughter. He is staring at me with a confused look on his face. I explain to him that, at this point, he should be considered an expert on the material, and possibly be able to teach the class himself.

But why hasn't he done the work, I wonder! And his logic? "I didn't lie. She didn't give me the book." My head tries very hard NOT to explode and I tell him that he didn't ask for it either. So he repeats, "She didn't give it to me." So I sigh loudly and inform him that it is his responsibility to get his work done. The teacher's job is to teach and guide, not to hold his hand and do everything for him. And I mentioned that now that I know his issue is the writing, we can work on it together.
 

I know he’s having a hard time trying to rationalize why he has to do the work. I can see why it’s frustrating for teachers to tell you to read a story and then tell them about it “in your own words.” The fact minded people are thinking, “Why do I have to put it in my own words? I can receit to you exactly what it said!” They aren’t open for interpretation. They are of the belief that the author said what was meant to be said the way it was meant to be read. It’s absolute.

I am, in no way, making an excuse for my son. However, he is not hardwired to be a sheep being lead by a shepherd. His way of being does not involve tedious hours behind a desk doing repetitive work that he understood the first time he did it. It’s literally torture for him to have to sit still. Yes, he has ADHD, but not to point where he is suffering an unable to keep up with academics. His brain is moving so fast that the world just can’t simply keep up. They are stagnant and boring and he needs stimuli.

But I tell him again that accepting to fail or giving up because he is struggling is never an option. I told him that it’s ok to struggle with something but that chosing to avoid it will never work. I begged him to remember that my job is to help him succeed. It was one of those “broke through a wall” moments where I think he understood me just a little bit more and I realized where our break down started: Communication and speaking his language. He has always marched to a beat of his own drum, and that is my favorite quality about him. It’s also my least favorite, as far as finding parenting methods that work.

I went to bed feeling like I had just gone 9 rounds with George Foreman. I was exhausted. Mentally drained! It's like we're each speaking a different language when I am trying to communicate with him. He is so closed up and reserved and I am an open book. Every day I try to find a new tactic to try and understand him or make him understand me. There is no right way, I've learned. He's not broken, so I cannot fix him. He's just complicated. I have to try and pick my battles and remember that his way of doing things doesn't have to make sense to me, even if I would kill to understand it, and pray that something I'm doing or saying eventually is logical in his mind.

 Have you ever tried reasoning with a Vulcan?

 

 

How do I politely say "DUH"?

I just was given the opportunity to take a class/training, through work, on Introduction to Analytical Skills. It was an interesting class for sure. During much of the class, I kept thinking that I knew a few people who might benefit from a class that tries to encourage thinking outside the box.

But today, I get a task from a Supervisor in our unit noting that an item hadn't been properly updated.

OK, here's the thing...I'm no genius and no one is perfect, but I am good at my job...dare I say, GREAT. I can say this with confidence, because everyone I work with compliments me. I take pride in my work. So to see that something wasn't done was shocking. At first I questioned myself, wondering what could have gone wrong. Perhaps I entered the wrong date?

Then I go into the system. I look, and sure enough, it's not updated for the date in question. Weird!!! But then I look again at the original paperwork. The dates originally requested were February 1, 2012 through April 1, 2012. She highlighted that April 1, 2012 through April 30, 2012, noting that they were not also updated. Then my eye catches it. Um, DUH. I can't updated "April" because the original request only goes through April 1st, not through the entire month. So, no, it did not get updated, because that is not the way the paperwork is set up.

So now I find myself having to sit back and reflect on a) Why do these people make 3x more money than me, but can't figure out this work?; and b) How do I nicely say "DUH" to a Supervisor?

I shall defer to MY Supervisor for direction. LOL. Yes, that was a work rant. It's irrelevant and changes nothing in life. It doesn't even actually affect me AT ALL. Yet, I felt the need to vent. Thanks for listening my friends!

Being an auntie...

...it's pretty much exactly like being a parent, except that you don't keep them. And usually they get away with a wee bit more than your own kids. Well, that's true for me anyway. At any given time, on any given day, we can have anywhere from 1-6 extra children coming and going from our house. Since I'm the "bread winner", Uncle gets the brunt of the duties after the kids get off school. He has to do all the lame stuff like homework. Yawn!

But then I have my babies on the weekends. This weekend, I had four extra babies total. Aden (7) & Abby (5) (my bff/cousin's kids) spent the night so they could have a date night. Believe me, it was must deserved. A&A get along with my kids so well. It's not even like having extra children, honestly! They disappear into the bedroom and play so nicely together. It's very little work on my part. You never realize how amazing having a best friend is, until your kids are also best friends!

So I'm prepping some lunch for Abby after church and I show her the Tupperware cup and earrings I bought her mother as a birthday present. She takes one look at the earrings and says, "My mom actually doesn't wear earrings, so she won't want these." I laughed internally. Her attitude is second to none. So I tell her that her mom actually told me she wanted those specific earrings. To that she replied, "Um...she's probably not going to wear them." hahaha! She is too funny.

Then, the kids and husband are all on video games in the back rooms playing together so I think I'm going to sneak away to the living room and watch Netflix on my laptop. I just stared watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer, from the beginning. So shoot me, I loved that show! Anyway, Abby comes in about half way through one episode, and sweet, talkative, inquisitive Abby sits down next to me, promising that vampires don't scare her.  Then the non-stop questions begin: "Why does her face look that way?" "Is that a vampire?" "I can't see her teeth." "I almost have vampire teeth....SEE?" "OOOOOH, I saw her teeth!" "What is she asking him about?" "She can't kiss him or she'll turn into a vampire!" "She kissed a vampire?"... I can't even be mad...first of all, she's a girl after my own heart, and second of all, she's interested in MY shows. One more bonding experience we got to have!

 

Then she goes home, Aden stays to entertain Raul and my two little nephews come over. Maxxamillion, who is almost 2, with no desire to speak whatsoever, is literally an extension of my own children. He spent most of his life coming over on weekends while his parents (my brother and his fiance) were working. I bought special baby equipment and chairs for him so he could be comfortable. So having him over is so natural. But now he has a baby brother, who is 3 months old.

Baby Gunnar is so adorable, but man, is he a cranky pants. Poor guy has tummy issues already and is very gassy (my middle son was the SAME way, so I have understanding and patience that my brother lacked in the beginning). Unfortunately, Gunnar was not ready for mommy to go back to work. He refused to take a bottle for a few days. I ended up buying him a $10 bottle that he found suitable to his specifications I guess. Now that he's eating and accepted that mommy works, he tends to be much happier! Unfortunately, when daddy dropped him off last night, he was asleep, and then Uncle laughed too loudly at the TV, and he woke up on the WRONG side of the car seat! Poor guy.

All the while, Maxx is trying to give me the bottles of breast milk. What a helpful brother. Except, baby didn't want food. He just wanted to yell and tell me how upset he was that he was woken up prematurely. So, Maxx decides to be a curious little monkey and I see him walk past with a 2 foot screw driver. And, if you know anything about children, you don't panic in these situations. So I calmly said, "What are you doing with that?" And he smiled his ornery smile. Raul is in love with his cousin, and very patient as well. He calmly took it away and continued on playing. Kids are too funny and random with the things they want to play with!

Out of my 4 siblings, I have: Hunter (would have been 12), Leighna (10), Ella (8), Grayson (6), RyLeigh (almost 5), Brawn (3 1/2), Maxxamillion (almost 2), Paloma (4 months) & Gunnar (3 months). My brother-in-laws blessed me with: Eileena (14), Selena (13), Lokelani (6) & Ailani (almost 6). This does not include my cousins' kids who I'm honored to be autie of, those names and ages are too numerous to count (today anyway).

Who ever knew that so many heart strings could exist for these little people who you get to watch be born, swaddle as infants, help up as toddlers, encourage as preschoolers, enthralled as they are school aged, laugh at the ridiculousness of teenagers, and yet you love them at every stage in life. And you want to hold and hug them all the time, at the same time. And some of them will let you and some will be too cool, and eventually they will outgrow your lap, but they are each pieces of me. I just hope they always lean on me as they continue to grow and experience new things in life! I don't want to miss one minute!

Just an example of the randomness of this house.

Tonight my 12 year old son asks my husband (his step-dad) a question. The craziness ensues as follows:

Remy: Mar, what's your favorite Assassin's Creed?
Mario: {{Insert geeky video game answer here}}...except I don't like that he becomes a Templar.
Me: What's a Templar?
Mario: It's got two different [we heard] sex.
Me & Remy: O.o  {shocked glances}
Me: A hermaphrodite?
Mario: {Eye Roll and sounds out...} SECTS. Se-c-t-s. 

Much laughter. Then Mario proceeds to explain the Templar's, but I'm completely not listening because I'm so busy laughing.

Me:  Sorry. I have no idea what you're saying. I checked out at "sex". 

At least I'm not alone. Remy heard it too!